“No,” Audrey said truthfully. She never had—she’d never felt like she had any reason to. Nothing felt like it was missing from her; there was no glaring reason for their reconciliation. And Audrey had her mom—the mom who, when Audrey was little, scoured bookstores for picture books featuring kids who looked like her. Who educated herself on Audrey’s black heritage, learned how to do her hair. Who still tried to hold her hand when they crossed the road. Who was everything she needed. “Is that weird? It would be weirder to meet her, I think. I mean, what if she wouldn’t even want to see me again?”
“That is weird,” Julian said. “To even have to think about that.”
“Yeah. That’s why I don’t.” Audrey paused, looking back at the night sky. “I think the most about what she looks like. I know she was white, and my mom says she was pretty, but that’s all I know. I wonder how much of me is her and how much my biological father, and then how much of me is just me. Is that weird? It’s just I so obviously don’t look like my mom that I wonder, sometimes,” she said. “That’s all.” Her copper-burnished-brown skin, the wide fullness of her mouth—those things were obvious. Pieces of that biological father who was even more of a mystery than her birth mother. But the tiny gap between her front teeth, the shape of her ears? Who they belonged to, Audrey wasn’t sure.
“That’s not weird at all,” Julian said. “I’d think about it.”
Audrey kicked her feet. “Maybe she doesn’t ever think about me at all. Huh. It’s like . . . I don’t know if she went on and did everything she wanted with her life, or if she never did any of them, the things she gave me up for so she could have a chance at them,” she said. “I guess she could be perfectly happy, too. She could be one of those people who did something good and hard and is perfectly pleased with her decisions. Who knows?”
“You don’t think you could be one of those people?” Julian asked. “You’re good. And you can be selfless. You could do all that, if you wanted to.”
Audrey flicked her gaze to him. “What do you want?”
He was silent for a minute and then shrugged. “It’s your body—”
“Don’t give me that,” Audrey said. “Yeah, it’s my body, but it’s your decision, too. I’m not doing this on my own. Am I?”
“No,” Julian said immediately. He ran a hand over his face and blew out a gusty sigh. “I guess—the idea of adoption feels a little weird to me. That somewhere out there someday would be a kid who might look like me, or love music and not know why, or be allergic to shellfish because of me? That’s kind of bizarre.”
“It doesn’t always feel like that,” Audrey said. “For the kid. Not for me anyway. I don’t wonder all the time if the reason I like something is because my birth mother did. I hardly think about her at all, usually.”
“I know that,” he said. “It’s like I know these things, but what I’m feeling is . . . I think it seems weird to me right now, is all. A few months down the line? If we did go that way, and we had picked people we like and knew them a little and it wasn’t so . . . abstract? I think I could feel differently about it.”
“Could you feel good about it?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Audrey said. “And after?”
Julian took longer to answer that time. “Maybe,” he said eventually. “Yeah.”
“That fills me with reassurance,” Audrey said drily, and Julian gave her a small laugh.
“That’s the thing,” he said. “We won’t know.”
“Exactly,” Audrey said. “So what if you can’t, don’t feel good about it afterward? What if I don’t? What if I can’t do what she did, and I don’t figure it out until after it’s too late?”
Julian opened his mouth, but then his face screwed up and he shook his head. “I don’t know, Audrey. I wish I had an answer for you but I don’t.”
Audrey pressed her hands into the chains. “It’s weird. I never worried about any of this before, not knowing my birth mother or every little thing about myself,” she said. “But when I think about a baby, though . . . a baby would be all me. You and me, I mean. I’d know everything about it. It’d be, like, the one thing that’s all mine.”
“I guess so.”
“That seems so wild,” Audrey said. “Having a baby?”
“I know.” Julian said. “But we . . . y’know, there are other options.”
“Right,” Audrey said softly. “So. We can think about that. And we can think about the other things, too.”
“Sure.”
She pulled in a breath of clean, cold air and scuffed her feet in the rust-colored leaves layered on the ground. “We’re only seventeen,” she said. “Can you believe it?”
“We’ll be seventeen whether we give it up or have it or not,” Julian said now. “You know?”
“Yeah, I know,” Audrey said. Yeah, seventeen was always the age she was going to remember, she already knew that. The age she got pregnant, and the age she either had a baby or didn’t. That’s not something Future Me is ever going to forget.
Julian cleared his throat. “We don’t have to decide right this second.”
His voice sounded strange, tight, and when Audrey glanced at him, she saw that he was watching her. Not her face—lower.
She looked down to see one hand turning circles on her stomach. Oh, Christ. What the fuck am I doing?
“No, of course not.” She said this loudly, taking her hand away from her body and back to the chains of the swing. Shit, shit. Stupid, betraying body and hormones making her do strange things. “It has to be right. What we decide.”
“I know,” Julian said. “It will be.”
He had this look in his eyes, sad and quiet. Sad thinking about not having it, or about having it? Audrey scuffed her feet on the worn patch of dirt beneath her. Saying “it” felt weird, but saying “baby” felt even weirder. Besides, it wasn’t a baby, not yet. Only a few cells taking up residence inside her.
A loud ringing cut into the silence between them, and Audrey fumbled her phone out of her pocket to see María’s name on the screen. She silenced it—whatever Ree wanted could wait.
“It’s cold,” Julian said. “We should go somewhere. Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”
Audrey nodded, recognizing the slight change in his voice, like the way he sounded when he failed a test or missed too many baskets or couldn’t master the bridge of his favorite song. It wasn’t an “I’m done” voice, more an “I can’t talk about it right now” thing. Which Audrey was more than okay with—all this talk was making her already-pounding head hurt even more.
“I could eat,” she said lightly. “I guess.”
She got off the swing and came to stand in front of Julian. A cutting wind was picking up, blowing her curls into her face, and she put up a hand so she could hold her hair back and look at him properly. Those geek glasses framing his pretty eyes. “Okay,” she said. “I give up. Who are you supposed to be?”
Julian threw his hands up. “Are you kidding me?”
“What?”
“I’m Peter Parker!”
As soon as he said it, everything clicked into place for Audrey. “Oh, duh,” she said. “Of course. Good Peter Parker, too, from the Gwen Stacy years.”
“Of course,” Julian said. “The best years.”
Audrey moved her hand to his shoulder, her other hand to his knee, bending to kiss him, hard. A piece of her hair got caught between their mouths, and the chain pressed into her shoulder as he pulled her in, but it didn’t matter. She was so unbelievably grateful that this boy who liked comic books and hard-core punk, who played bass guitar and the cello, who was right there with her in the pregnancy problem, was the one she’d fallen in love with.
When they parted, breathing heavily, Julian looked up at her with the slightest smile. “What was that for?”
Audrey smiled back, tipping her head forward so she could feel his breath against her cold cheeks. “For being you. Because I love you.” Because she did.
&
nbsp; THIRTEEN
The corner of the newspaper had been taken over by Audrey’s sketching: a balloon swelling to bursting, a tall, loose-limbed tree, a pair of ballerina feet in perfect pointe shoes. She was tired from last night, from the playground and then eating chocolate-cream pie and fries at the café on Smith Street (well, watching Julian eat; she drank plain ice water so she wouldn’t throw up everywhere).
“Hey. Kiddo.” Adam’s hand waved over the paper. “Are you with us today?”
Audrey dropped the pen and sat up straight, smiling at Adam across the kitchen table. “Yup. Totally.”
Her mom frowned over her coffee. “You’re not still feeling sick, are you? Maybe you need to go to the doctor.”
Shaking her head, Audrey said, “Nope. Not feeling sick at all.” Which wasn’t a lie, because she’d already had her routine upchuck, right in time to come down for Saturday-morning breakfast. Saturday breakfast was sacred in their house—well, ever since Adam had come around. Before that Audrey had usually eaten cereal on the couch, while Laura had always skipped breakfast in favor of coffee.
But then Adam had started staying over, started cooking bacon and eggs, pancakes, sausage, breakfast burritos. Audrey remembered waking up to the syrup-sweet smell floating through the house, and how she’d wandered downstairs in a zombie state to find this new boyfriend, all messy blond hair and pale skin summer tan, wearing her mom’s striped apron and flipping pancakes. That was when she’d decided he was a keeper.
She picked up her fork and pushed the remains of her omelet around her plate. “Do you guys have plans today?”
“Nope.” Her mom twisted her long red hair on top of her head, sticking Audrey’s doodling pen through it. “I thought we might go to the park, take a nice long walk. Maybe go see a movie—they’re showing À Bout de Souffle at the Fremont.”
“My favorite,” Adam said drily.
Audrey laughed. “C’mon, you can pretend like you’re smart and actually know what they’re talking about.” She flicked a chunk of green pepper at him. “Oui?”
Adam batted the pepper missile away and narrowed his eyes at her. “Someone could very easily stop liking you, kiddo.”
“Both of you, shush,” Laura said. “What about you, Audrey? Seeing the girls today?”
“I’m going shopping with Rose.” That was what they needed, Audrey had decided, to make Rose get over Audrey bailing on last night’s party and for Audrey to remember that there were other things to focus on. They’d lust over pretty shoes and try on clothes they couldn’t afford (well, that Audrey couldn’t afford; Rose’s allowance was right at the “let me buy your love” amount), and it would feel like always. Telling her could wait. She’d decide when.
Audrey took her plate over to the sink and then opened the refrigerator, taking out a bottle of water. “Okay, I gotta run. See you guys later. Don’t have too much fun on your—” She shut the fridge only to see her mom perched on Adam’s lap, the two of them smiling sappily as they stared into each other’s eyes. “Oh, get a room, would you?”
“If you’d hurry up and leave, we’d have a whole house,” Adam said without looking at her.
“Ew! Stop!” But she was laughing, as was her mom, and Audrey grabbed her coat from where she’d left it hanging over the back of her chair last night.
Today she would pretend like everything was normal. She had a boyfriend, a best friend, a best mom, and a not-quite-stepdad who made her laugh. Pregnant? I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Audrey tossed her half-empty paper cup in the trash can, her body warmed from the bit of extrasugary hot chocolate she’d managed to drink. She and Rose had tried on dresses in the thrift store, taffeta numbers with huge, puffy sleeves and sixties shifts, Rose dancing for Audrey’s camera. The only thing Audrey had actually bought, besides her hot chocolate, was a pretty shirt, long sleeved with a jeweled collar and pearly buttons to match its ivory color. It cost a little more than she would normally spend on a top, but it was superpretty, and Rose had said it made her eyes look darker than usual. Maybe she and Julian could go on a date soon—a real date, not their usual grunge band, smuggled beer, and pizza dates. Somewhere nice.
Rose linked her arm through Audrey’s, bumping her hip into the paper-ribbon-tied bag that held the beautiful blouse. “I want to buy something cute, too,” she said. “I’m glad you came out today.”
“Me, too,” Audrey said. “I’m sorry if I’ve been acting weird. It’s . . . extreme PMS or something.” The excuse tripped off Audrey’s tongue, and she relaxed a little more.
“It’s fine,” Rose said, although Audrey could tell she didn’t completely mean it. “Just don’t keep acting weird. Oh!” She veered to the left, so suddenly that Audrey almost tripped over her own feet. “Let’s go in here. They always have cute bras.”
Audrey followed, trying not to think of how tender her breasts felt, how she had to glide her hands over them in the shower. She wasn’t even wearing a bra today, but an old bikini top she’d dug out that didn’t have any stupid wire to poke into her. But she should probably buy a sports bra or something so she didn’t have to live in beachwear in winter. Or maybe she could find something nice for after.
After what?
Rose let go of her arm once they were in the store and heading for the escalators. She looked around, a blissful expression on her face, and Audrey softened. No thinking about the Situation right now, she reminded herself. Fun times only.
“I haven’t even asked how last night was,” she said, stepping onto the escalator after Rose. “What did you go as in the end? Anything go down that I need to know about?”
Rose half turned her body so she was looking down at Audrey, and a flicker of something passed over her face, enough to pique Audrey’s interest. Scandal?
But then Rose smiled and shook her head. “Not really. María made out with that mathlete she hates from Saint Jude’s all night. I think half the basketball team got into a fight with each other. And I went with the Clueless thing again. Couldn’t think of anything else.”
They spilled off the moving stairs into the lingerie department, all pastel-pink underthings hanging around, tables overflowing with brightly colored stockings. Rose picked up a neon-green thong and flicked it at Audrey. “Just your color.”
Audrey caught the scrap of lace and tossed it back on the table. “Thanks, but I’m more of a neon-orange kind of girl, don’t you think?”
She trailed along as Rose busied herself picking up armfuls of bras: padded and not, strapless and not, practical and decidedly not. The only thing Audrey grabbed was a two-pack of soft, nonwired, wide-strap cotton bras, which, as a plus, came in a pale-blue and dark-purple color. At least she could wrap her tits up in something nice while they were killing her.
As Rose flipped through the racks, Audrey spotted an unmistakable black-and-aqua head bobbing through the store. “Hey—isn’t that Olivia?”
Before Rose could respond, Audrey stuck up her hand in the air, waving. “Olivia!”
Olivia turned, her face breaking into a grin when she saw Audrey. Next to her was a woman who Audrey immediately recognized as Olivia’s mom—she was shorter, curvier, with her hair a few shades lighter than Olivia’s (no blue, either) and pulled into a high ponytail; but their faces were identical.
Now it was Audrey’s turn to drag Rose along, darting around other shoppers to get to Olivia. “Hey!”
“Hi,” Olivia said back, a happy note in her voice. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Avoiding homework,” Audrey said. “With retail therapy.”
Olivia laughed. “Right. Oh—hey, this is my mom. Mom, this is—”
“Audrey and Rose,” the woman said, giving them a shiny smile. “It must be.” Yep—there were the dimples. She didn’t actually look that much older than Olivia, and she definitely wasn’t dressed like most of the moms around town who favored neat cardigans and dark jeans. Audrey remembered when she and her mom had first moved to town, how L
aura had stuck out like that, too. (It hadn’t taken long for them to be put on Kennedy’s officially unofficial Not One of Us list.) (Coincidence that most of that list was made up of nonwhite and nonhetero and non-upper-middle-class people? Another thing Audrey violently disliked about her town.) Laura back then always wore knee-high boots with skintight leather pants and band shirts, proclaiming her Sleater-Kinney/Misfits/Joy Division love to the other parents at the playground. Nowadays she dressed much the same, except the leather pants were black jeans and there were fewer holes in her shirts, but the vibrant-red hair remained the only point of color.
Olivia’s mom was less punk holdover and more hip-hop cool, with gold hoops in her ears, spike-heeled pumps, and a Knicks jacket over her plain white tee. “I know this is clichéd, but I honestly have heard so much about both of you, and I’m so glad we’re running into each other.” She put a hand on Olivia’s arm, squeezing tight. “I want to thank you for making my girl’s first couple of weeks here so good. You know, she was so nervous to come here—”
“Ma!” Olivia squirmed in her mom’s grip, looking embarrassed. “Stop. Please.”
Audrey smiled. “Well, I’ve been the new girl before. I remember what it was like. And if I hadn’t had Rose here”—she elbowed Rose in the ribs, eliciting a surprised gasp from her—“I don’t know what I would have done.”
She expected Rose to say something then, jump in with some funny anecdote from their early days together, but she didn’t. When Audrey glanced at her, she saw that Rose’s gaze was flitting all around: down at the floor, up at the ceiling, at the rail of clothes next to them. Anywhere other than at Olivia and her mom.
Audrey understood that it was part of Rose to throw up this wall, but sometimes it came off as . . . plain rude. Times like this she wished telepathy existed, so Rose would hear exactly what she was thinking: Get it together, Rose. Confidence.
Luckily Olivia’s mom didn’t seem to notice Rose’s lack of manners. “You girls should come over sometime,” she said, her smile widening even more. “For dinner, maybe—I make the best beef rolls, don’t I, Liv?”
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