My mom pulls into the driveway, and we both get out. We say nothing to each other on our way to the house, or after we get inside. We just walk upstairs to our separate bedrooms and shut our separate doors.
I sit at my desk for a long time, trying to study. After a fruitless hour or so, my cell phone rings. My stomach jumps. I let it ring once, twice, part of a third time before I answer. “Hello?”
“Josie?”
“Yeah?” I say, like I can’t quite place the voice.
“It’s, uh, Matt. . . . Rigby.”
“Oh,” I say. “Hey.”
“Hey. What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Studying.”
“Oh. Do you want to go?”
“Definitely not,” I say.
And he laughs. It’s the best sound I’ve heard all day.
“How was your game?” he asks.
“We won. Three-two. You guys?”
“Us too. One-zip.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah. It came down to penalty kicks. Pretty intense.”
“I love those kind of games.”
“Yeah. Me too.” There’s a pause. Then he says, “So . . .”
“So . . .”
“So, what else about your day?”
“What else about my day?”
“Yeah. Tell me something about the great Josie Gardner.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something deep and revealing . . . like . . . what did you have for lunch?”
I smile. “PB and J.”
“A classic. White or wheat?”
“Neither. English muffin.”
“Real-ly.”
“Yup.”
“Interesting. OK. . . . Something that made you laugh.”
“Liv’s outfit.”
“Right. The top hat. Very nice. . . . Something that pissed you off.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
I hesitate, then say, “My mother.”
“Your mother,” he repeats.
“Yeah. It’s . . . kind of a long story.”
“Well,” he says. “I’ve got time.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me. . . . I mean, if you want.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“That’s cool. No pressure.”
“OK,” I say.
And then I spill.
Nine
SOMETIMES, NOT OFTEN, a miracle occurs. Like every morning for the past week, Riggs has been waiting at my locker. How is this happening? I ask myself each time I see him. There must be some mistake—some glitch in the system. Maybe Cupid got drunk and shot the wrong two people with his arrow. One of these days he’ll show up in the cafeteria with his wings askew and brandy on his breath, saying, “Oops! Sorry about that,” and snap us out of it.
So far that hasn’t happened. So far, things have been . . . well . . . very cool. We talk on the phone almost every night. Not just chat, but really talk. About real things, like my mother, who continues to act like someone I don’t know; and Jazzy Jonathan, who continues to bug me; and Matt’s parents’ divorce; and his psycho stepsister; and the fact that Paul Tucci’s father keeps showing upat Fiorello’s. Not that my mother would know. Because she hasn’t asked. Because ever since I told her about the Tuccis moving back, she has been completely mute on the subject. So I haven’t said a word. Don’t ask, don’t tell.
“I have to meet him,” Liv announces one day after practice. “The famous Big Nick. It’s time.”
“No, it’s not,” I say.
“Yes, it is. When are you working tonight?”
“Six to nine.”
“You have wireless, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Good. I’ll bring my laptop.”
“Please don’t come,” I say, even though I know it’s pointless. You can’t tell Liv not to do something, because she’ll just laugh and do it anyway. Take College Boy Finn and this booty-call arrangement they have going. A few days ago I raised my concerns—you know, as a friend—and what did Liv do? She laughed. She laughed and dismissed it with a flick of her wrist. “He’s not using me, Jose. It’s mutual. We’re using each other.”
Well, what do I know? The furthest Riggs and I have gone is second base, in the backseat of his car. (Listen to me, still using the base system, like I’m twelve.) But truthfully, I’m glad we’re taking it slow.
Slow is good.
Slow keeps a person’s head on straight, which is exactly what I need to do where Riggs is concerned: hold on to my head.
“Wow,” Liv says. “This place looks amazing.”
It’s her first time in Fiorello’s. She’s lounging on one of the fluffiest chairs, feet propped up on an ottoman, and I have brought her my specialty: the Joseaccino, which is basically a cappuccino with every conceivable topping, including cookie crumbs.
“It does look good, doesn’t it?” I say, glancing around, feeling pride in everything Bob has accomplished. The glass tables are so clean you can see yourself, and the air smells sweet and buttery. Piano music wafts out of the speakers on the ceiling—the opposite of that Top-40 crap they play at the Pizza Palace, or any of the other places people our age hang out.
“So,” Liv says, placing her mug on a coaster and lowering her voice. “Where is he?”
“How should I know?” I say.
It’s not like Big Nick comes in every day. More like every three. He does have a routine, though, when he arrives. He walks right up to the counter and says hello, always with a smile and a wink, like the two of us share a secret. Which is pretty ironic, when you think about it. Sometimes a question will bubble up my throat and into my mouth: So, how’s your son Paul?But I make myself swallow it, say, “What can I get you tonight?”
Then he’ll ask which pastries are good, and I’ll tell him. He always orders the same amount: three if they’re big; six if they’re mini. Plus a hot cocoa. And he always sits at the same table—the little round one in the back, next to the trio of ferns—and he works on the New York Times crossword puzzle. He wears glasses when he does this. They’re slightly dorky, black and horn-rimmed, and they slide down his nose. He keeps them in the breast pocket of his shirt, the same place he keeps his pen.
Don’t ask me why I’ve noticed these things.
“Well,” Liv says. “I might as well do some homework while I’m waiting.”
“You do that,” I say.
She pulls out her laptop.
I go back behind the counter, not because there are customers, but because I need to be doing something. Something mindless, like . . . filling the sugar shakers. Yes. This is what I will do. I will collect all the sugar shakers, and I will fill them.
Done.
I ask Bob for another task, and he hands me a bucket of cookie dough. Could I ball the dough and put it on trays to bake at 350? Yes, I could. I could also make the chai tea and scrub down the coffeemaker and replace the hot-drink lids at the milk station. Anyone watching me would say, Wow, what a little worker bee. Does she ever stop?
And the answer would be yes. I stop every time the front door tinkles. I stop, and I look, and then, once I see who it is, I breathe.
Lady in red hat. Phew.
Man in Patriots jersey. Phew.
Couple in matching earmuffs. Phew.
I take orders, smile, make drinks. Think: He’s not coming in tonight, pressure’s off, good.Liv can’t pull one of her crazy moves. I know what she’s capable of. I once listened to her argue with my English teacher for fifteen minutes about the B-minus he gave me on a paper about Tom Sawyer. I have also spent an entire afternoon with her in a store called Womanly Pleasures, where she made the saleslady describe for me, in graphic detail, the virtues of various vibrators.
This is what I’m up against.
I grab a sponge, because Liv is such a slob she can’t drink without spilling. I will sponge down her table. Also, tell her she’s welcome to leave now.
“
Finish your homework?” I say.
“Oh. Yeah.” Liv looks up from her laptop, yawns. “You should see Finn’s MyPage. He pasted, like, a million album covers together, all different colors, to form this mosaic of Bob Marley’s face. Check it out. . . .”
I check it out. Not that I don’t already have the picture. Mr. Uber-Cool, Funky-Retro-College Dude. Mr. Sideburns and John Lennon Glasses. Mr. I-Sleep-with-Sixteen-Year-Old-High-School-Babes, Aren’t-I-Rad? I still don’t get what Liv is doing with him, but at least she seems to know.
“Cool, huh?” Liv says, still gazing at the mosaic thingy.
“Uh-huh,” I say. I go to work, sponging her table.
“He’s going away this weekend. Some concert. . . . I guess I won’t see him until—”
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle.
“—next week, which is—”
I freeze, midsponge . . .
“—such a bummer.”
And the door swings open.
“Josie?”
I turn to Liv, look her hard in the eyes, and say nothing.
Liv glances at the door, then back at me. She raises her eyebrows.
I nod.
Liv and I have been friends for so long, we’ve developed our own telepathic shorthand.
“Go,” she whispers. “Take his order.”
“I will,” I say. Then, I hold up a finger of warning. “Not a word. You understand? Not a peep.”
Liv gives me her Mona Lisa smile.
“I mean it,” I tell her.
My instinct, based on years of experience, is to shove her out the door onto the street. That’s the only guarantee that she will mind her own business. But then she’d probably just come back another night.
I can’t win. So I walk over to the counter.
Big Nick is wearing a scarf, red and black, the homemade variety, and I wonder briefly if Mrs. Tucci knit it for him.
“Evening, Josie.” Smile, wink. “What’s good tonight?”
“These,” I say, pointing to the top tray of cookies. “I just took them out of the oven.”
“Ahh,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Great. I’ll take half a dozen.”
Bob swoops up behind me with a bakery box and starts loading cookies into it. I turn around to make the cocoa.
This is my tragic mistake: turning around. With my back to Liv, I can’t see her coming.
“Hi, there. . . .”
But I can hear her.
“Olivia Weiss-Longo. I’m Josie’s best friend.”
I whip back around to see them shaking hands.
“Nico Tucci. . . . Big Nick.”
“Big Nick. I like it.”
My death stare is no match for Liv’s charming smile. By the time I hand Big Nick his mug, he’s a goner—completely under her spell.
Later, I am lying on the pullout couch in the Weiss-Longos’ den, which Dodd has made up for me. The mattress is lumpy with a metal bar underneath that digs into the middle of your back all night. Liv is sitting next to me, giving me puppy-dog eyes.
“You’re a piece of work,” I say.
Her mouth forms a tiny “O” of innocence.
“I can’t believe you sat with him. I can’t believe you even talkedto him!”
“Well, I couldn’t very well sit with him and not make conversation,” she says, one hand on her chest. “That would be rude.”
I don’t know what to say, so I grab a pillow and whack her in the head. Once, twice, half of a third time before she rips it out of my hands. “OK, OK! . . . I deserve to be beaten.”
“Yes,” I tell her. “You do.”
“I know.” She nods solemnly. Then she picks up the pillow and smacks herself in the face, hard. “Bad Liv.”
I start to smile, then stop myself. “No. You are not getting off the hook this time.”
“OK.”
“I’m mad at you.”
“I know.”
“Because you deliberately ignored my request—”
“Yes.”
“Showing no regard whatsoever for my feelings.”
“Right,” Liv says, nodding. Then, “No! I didn’t ‘show no regard for your feelings.’ You’re the one I did it for.”
“Oh my God!” I laugh-snort, feeling a tiny spark of anger flicker in my chest. “You’re so . . . do you really think I need you to do things for me? Do you not think I can make decisions on my own? I mean . . . come on, Liv! It’s insulting!”
“OK.” Her cheeks are pink suddenly, like she gets it.
“You know?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“OK, then,” I say. “Good.”
She’s quiet for a second, reaching down to play with a tassel on the edge of the blanket.
“So . . .” I say.
She looks up. “So?”
“So, what did you talk about?”
She shrugs. “Oh, things.”
“What things?”
“Just things. About your dad and your grandmother and stuff. . . . You wouldn’t be interested.”
“Liv.”
“What? You said you didn’t want anything to do with them. . . .”
I grab the pillow, hold it over her head.
“OK!” She’s smiling now. She scoots her body in closer, places both hands on her knees, leans in. “OK, so Mrs. Tucci? Christina? She doesn’t let him have any sugar, so—”
“I know.” From that night at Shop-Co, the Peppermint Pattie exchange. “I told you that.”
Liv heaves a sigh. “Do you want me to keep going, Josie? Or not. Because it’s no skin off my nose—”
“Yes,” I say. “Go.”
“So he tells her he’s going bowling.”
“What?”
Liv laughs. “Yeah! He used to be in this bowling league, back in Arizona? So that’s what he tells her he’s doing, whenever he comes to Fiorello’s. . . . Bowling at Elmherst Lanes.”
“Great,” I say. “So he’s a liar.”
“He’s not a liar.”
I give her a look.
“OK, so he tells his wife a little fib so he can have a cookie or two. Is that so bad? I tell Pops and Dodd I’m going to the library when I’m really going to see Finn, and you don’t call me a liar.”
I shrug. “That’s different.”
“How? How is that different?”
“I don’t know. It just is. Just . . . keep going. What about . . . you know . . . ?”
“Your dad?”
I shake my head. “Paul.”
Liv nods. “OK, Paul. Paul is living in North Carolina. Raleigh. He runs one of those outdoor-ed programs for . . . you know, troubled youth. With, like, climbing walls and zip lines and stuff.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. His older brothers are down there too. The Outer Banks, though, where they spent all their summers. Big Nick and Christina still have their beach house, so they visit all the time. . . . Patrick’s the oldest, a pilot, and . . . another ‘P’ name. . . . Peter, I think . . . does . . . something financial. Investment banking?”
“Huh,” I say.
“Yeah,” Liv says. Then, “Think about it, Jose. You have uncles.”
“Well . . .”
“And cousins.”
“I have cousins?”
She nods. “Three. Big Nick whipped out the wallet photos. The moms are really pretty, in a Southern belle-ish sort of way. You know, lots of hair and lipstick—” Liv stops. She must have seen something in my face because her hand moves gently to my arm. “Do you want me to shut up?”
“I don’t know.” My voice sounds small.
“It’s a lot to take in.”
I nod.
“That grandfather of yours is a real chatterbox.”
I nod again. It’s all I can do.
Liv is silent for a moment, and so am I. But the question I need to ask is swelling in my chest, too big to hold in. “Does he . . . Paul . . . have kids?”
Liv looks at me, smiles.
Oh, G
od. He does.
“Yeah. A sixteen-year-old daughter named Josie.”
“Oh.” I feel myself sigh a little.
“Jose?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“He’s not even married.”
“What?”
“He has a girlfriend. But he’s not married.”
“Oh,” I say.
There is so much in my head right now. I need to lie down, cover my face with a pillow, let it all soak in.
Later, Pops comes into the den, where Liv and I are sprawled on the pullout couch in our pajamas. “It’s Kate,” he says, holding out the cordless phone to me. I have no choice but to take it.
“What’s up?” I say as Pops walks out, clicking the door shut behind him.
“What’s up?” There’s an edge to my mother’s voice. “Why aren’t you answering your cell?”
“I didn’t hear it ring,” I tell her, which isn’t a lie. The battery’s dead and my charger’s at home.
“Well, when exactly were you planning on calling me? I had no idea where you were.”
“I left a note,” I say, keeping my tone cool.
“Where?”
“Right there, on the kitchen counter. Next to the fruit bowl.”
There’s a pause. The sound of footsteps. Then she says, “Well . . . you still should have called.”
“Right. The way you always call when you’re out with Jonathan, to let me know exactly when you’ll be coming home.”
If this were a sarcasm contest, I’d be kicking ass.
“This isn’t about Jonathan. This is about you and me, and the fact that I am still your mother, and because I am your mother, I need to know where you are.”
“Right,” I say. “As I indicated. With the note.”
“Besides which,” she continues, like she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said, “it’s a school night. And I don’t think you should be having sleepovers on school nights. You need your rest.”
I love how she’s trying to sound all parental right now. How many school nights have I spent sitting next to her on the couch, watching 90210 until midnight?
“Is Jonathan there?” I ask.
“No. He just dropped me off.”
Of course he did, I want to say. Because you can’t go a single day without seeing him, can you?
For Keeps Page 9