by Sarah Dessen
I felt a sudden bolt of nervousness, realizing this was actually happening. I’d be with my mom, and Peter, at the game in less than two hours. And despite my dad’s confidence that this was a good thing, it suddenly felt like anything but. Which was why I panicked, and did the last thing I ever would have expected.
“Do you . . . Do you want to come?” I asked Dave.
“To the game?” he asked. I nodded. “What, do you have an extra ticket?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “But I think I can get you in.”
Seven
I saw my mother before she saw me. And even though we were already late, and I could see her anxiously scanning the crowd, I took one last moment to study her, unaware, before she spotted my face and everything changed.
My mom had always been pretty. I look a lot like she did at my age, with the same blonde hair, blue eyes, and a frame both tall and thin enough to have slightly knobby knees and elbows. Unlike me, though, my mom had never wavered from her chosen path in high school, hitting all the marks that were expected of her as a popular southern girl: cheer team captain, homecoming queen, debutante. She dated the son of a congressman all the way from sophomore year to graduation—wearing a promise ring on a gold chain around her neck—volunteered in service league, and sang in the church choir every Sunday. In her high-school yearbook, she appears on page after page: group shots, candids, club photos. That girl in your class you can’t help but feel like you knew well, even if she never learned your name.
College, however, was not as easy for her. During her second week as a freshman at Defriese, Mr. Promise Ring dumped her over the phone, claiming their long-distance relationship just wasn’t working. She was devastated, and spent the next month holed up in her dorm room crying, leaving only to go to class and eat. It was at the cafeteria, red-eyed and pushing a tray down the food line, that she met my dad, who was doing work-study there to subsidize his tuition. He’d noticed her, of course, and always made a point of giving her a bit extra of mac and cheese or Salisbury steak, whatever he was doling out. One day he asked her if she was okay, and she burst into tears. He handed her a napkin; she took it and wiped her eyes. They were married five years later.
I loved this story, and as a kid I insisted on hearing it over and over again. I could see my dad in his hairnet (my mom called it cute), hear the hum of the bad Muzak the cafeteria always played, feel the steam from the broccoli cuts drifting up between them. I adored every image, every detail, as much as I loved the fact that my parents were so different and yet perfect for each other. Rich, popular girl meets working-class scholarship kid, who steals her heart and whisks her away to the ramshackle charm and chaos of the restaurant world. It was the best kind of love story . . . until there was an ending to it.
With my dad, my mom was different. Growing up, she’d had years of manicures and blow-outs, heels with everything, dressing not just for dinner but for breakfast and lunches as well. But when I was a kid, she was Katie Sweet, who wore jeans and clogs, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her only regular makeup a slick of clear lip gloss. At the restaurant, she could just as easily be found up to her elbows in Clorox water, scrubbing the walk-in, as at her desk in the office, where she tracked every dime that came in and out. Occasionally, when she went to charity events or weddings, Ihisd see flashes of the person I’d seen in her yearbooks or old photo albums—makeup, hair, diamonds—but it was like she was wearing a costume, playing dress-up. In her real life, she wore rain boots, had dirt under her nails, and squelched around in the garden in the mud, picking aphids off the tomato plants one by one.
Now, though, my mom looked exactly like Katherine Hamilton, high-profile coach’s wife. She wore her hair long and layered, got blonde highlights every other month, and sported TV-ready outfits that were selected by a personal shopper at Esther Prine, the upscale department store. Today, she had a black skirt, shiny boots, and leather jacket over a crisp white shirt. She looked gorgeous, even though she didn’t resemble my mom, or Katie Sweet, one bit. But then she said my name.
“Mclean? ”
Despite everything, I felt my heart jump at the sound of her voice. Some things are primal, unshakable. I’d long ago realized my mother had a pull over me, and me her. All the angry words in the world couldn’t change that, even when sometimes I wanted them to.
“Hi,” I said as she came toward me, arms already outstretched, and pulled me into a hug.
“Thank you for meeting me,” she said. “It means so much. You have no idea.”
I nodded as she held me tightly and entirely too long, which was nothing new, but it felt more awkward than usual because we had an audience. “Um, Mom,” I finally said over her shoulder, “this is Dave.”
She released me, although she still slid one hand down to take mine as if she was afraid I’d bolt off otherwise. “Oh, hello!” she said, looking at me, then back at him. “It’s nice to meet you!”
“You, too,” Dave said. Then he glanced around at the crowd of fans streaming past us to the Will Call window and through the main doors of the arena, nodding at the multiple people trying to buy tickets, to no avail. “Look,” he said to me, under his breath. “Like I said, I really appreciate this invite. But I don’t think you understand—”
“Just relax,” I said again. He’d spent most of the walk explaining to me that because I just moved here, I didn’t understand how hard it was to get tickets to a game like this. You couldn’t just buy them. There was no way he’d get in. I knew I could have explained the entire situation, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do so. I was stressed enough about seeing my mom; rehashing the divorce, in detail, would not help matters.
“Did you find your way okay? ” my mom asked me now, squeezing my hand. “This place is a madhouse.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Dave’s been here before.”
“Which is why I’ve been trying to tell Mclean that,” Dave said, glancing at someone to our left holding a sign that said NEED TWO PLEASE!!!!!!, “you really can’t just get in at the last minute.”
My mom looked at Dave, then back at me. “I’m sorry?”
I swallowed, then took a breath. “Dave’s just a bit concerned about whether we can actually get him in.”
“In?” my mom repeated.
“To the game.”
She looked confused. “I don’t think it should be a problem,” she said, glancing around. “Let me just see what the situation is.”
“It’s not going to happen,” Dave told her. “But it’s fine, really. You guys just—”
“Robert?” my mom called, waving at a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a suit, who was standing nearby. He had several laminated passes around his neck and a walkie-talkie in one hand, and when he came over she said, “I think we’re ready to go in.”
“Great,” he replied, nodding. “Right this way.”
He started walking and my mom, still holding my hand, followed. When I glanced back at Dave, he looked confused. “Wait,” he said. “What’s—”
“I’ll explain later,” I said.
Robert led us past the main doors, where masses of people were waiting in line, around the arena to a side door. He showed one of his passes to a woman there in a uniform and she opened it up, waving us through.
“Would you like to go to the suite or straight to your seats? ” Robert asked my mom.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, looking at me. “What do you think, Mclean? We’ve got about twenty minutes before tip-off.”
“I’m fine to go sit down,” I said.
“Perfect.” She squeezed my hand again. “The twins are already down there with their sitters. They’ll be so excited to see you!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dave shoot me another surprised glance, but I kept my gaze straight ahead as we crossed the corridor, then started down into the arena itself. It was already more than half full, with the pep band playing and the video screens ablaze with a cartoon of a dancing Eagle, the U’s mascot
, and instantly the noise surrounded us, filling my ears. I thought of my dad, all the games I’d gone to see as a kid with him, the two of us in our upper-upper-level seats, screaming our lungs out.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned around to see Dave looking around him, incredulous. We were still going down the stairs, closer and closer to the court. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked.
“Um, sort of,” I replied as we passed a row of reporters and cameramen.
“Sort of?” he said.
“Here she is!” my mom said as we reached the third row of seats, which were marked by a RESERVED sign. She held up my hand as proof, waving it at the twins, who were sitting on the laps of two college-aged girls, one with red hair and a row of rings in her ear, the other a tall brunette. “Look, Maddie and Connor! It’s your big sister!”
The twins, chubby and wearing matching Defriese T-shirts, both brightened at the sight of my mom, ignoring me altogether. Not that I blamed them. Despite my mom’s attempts to behave otherwise, they had no idea who I was.
“This is Virginia and Krysta,” my mom continued, gesturing to the sitters, who smiled hellos as we moved past them down the row of seats. “This is my daughter, Mclean, and her friend David.”
“Dave,” I said.
“Oh, sorry!” My mom turned slightly, putting rriand not still clutching mine on Dave’s shoulder. He was just standing there, half in the aisle, half out, looking down at the court with a flabbergasted expression on his face. “Dave. This is Dave. Here, let’s sit down.”
My mom sat down next to Krysta, reached for Maddie, who was sputtering a bit, and settled her in her lap. I took the seat beside her, then waited for Dave, who looked stunned as he moved down the aisle, easing himself into the seat next to mine.
“Isn’t this fun?” my mom said, bouncing Maddie. She leaned into my shoulder, pressing against me. “It’s so wonderful to all be together.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed over the speaker system. The crowd around us cheered, the sound like a wave passing from top to bottom, then up again. “Please welcome your University Eagles!”
Dave was still just looking around, eyes wide, as the team began to run out from a tunnel to our right. The band was playing, the floor beneath us shaking from everyone stomping around and above us. Despite my mixed feelings, I had that same rush that had been ingrained in me since childhood, the love of the game. Like the connection I had with my mom, despite everything, it was undeniable.
“Okay,” Dave said, or rather yelled, in my ear as the crowd thundered around us, applauding and cheering, “who are you, exactly? ”
It wasn’t the first time I didn’t know how to answer this. In fact, I’d taken pains over the last few years to have a different response every time. Eliza, Lizbet, Beth . . . so many girls. In this huge crowd, with my mom on one side and this boy I hardly knew on the other, I was all and none of them. Luckily, before I had to say anything, everyone around us jumped to their feet, cheering as the players ran in front of us. I knew anything I said would be drowned out. And maybe it was because no one could hear that I answered anyway. “I don’t know,” I said. I don’t know.
Defriese lost, 79–68, not that I was really able to pay attention. I was too busy running my own defense.
“So,” my mom said, squeezing my hand. “Tell me about Dave.”
It was after the game, and we were in the private back room of a local restaurant where she and Peter had made a reservation for dinner. It was called Boeuf, and was a big, incredibly dark place with heavy velvet drapes and a roaring, stone fireplace. The walls were lined with various implements of destruction: shiny scythes, swords of varying sizes, even what looked like a small battering ram. It made me uneasy, as if we might find ourselves under attack at any moment and have to seize the décor to defend ourselves.
“We’re neighbors,” I told my mom as the waiter slid thick, leather-bound menus in front of us. Dave, who had been invited to come along, had gone to the restroom; Peter was on his cell phone, fielding calls. The twins were at the other end of the table, strapped into matching high chairs and giggling as their sitters fed them, not that I could really see them that well. It was so dark, it was like the restaurant wasn’t going for ambiance as much as blackout conditions.
“Just neighbors?” she asked.
Her continued emphasis of particular words was beyond annoying, but I bit my tongue. I’d decided early on inthe first half, when she still hadn’t let go of my hand and kept peppering me with questions about everything from school to my friends, rapid-fire style, to just endure as best I could. The only other option was to snap at her, and considering we were two rows behind Peter and his assistant coaches and thus squarely on the live TV feed, any tension would be broadcast to sports fans across the country. All of this had already been public enough. It would not kill me to keep up a calm face for two hours. I hoped.
I might have forgotten about the TV thing if not for the fact that Dave’s phone was buzzing about every ten seconds as his friends spotted him on the screen. Not that he noticed, as he was completely absorbed in the game, which he was watching with his mouth half open, still in awe about his incredible vantage point.
As he watched, his eyes still glued to the action, I glanced down at his phone’s screen. WHAT THE HELL! said the first message listed, from Ellis, followed by DUDE! and a few others in the same vein from names I didn’t recognize. Then, with another buzz, one more came in. YOU CHARMER. It was from Riley.
“Your phone is ringing,” I pointed out to him.
He glanced at me, then at it, before quickly turning back to the court. “It can wait,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re not watching this.”
“I’m watching it,” I said. “It’s a good game.”
“It’s an amazing game from, like, the best freaking vantage point ever,” he corrected me. “I can’t believe you’re basketball royalty and were so secretive about it.”
“I’m not basketball royalty,” I said. “And what is that, exactly?”
“Peter Hamilton is your stepfather.”
“Stepfather,” I repeated, a bit louder than I probably should have. I cleared my throat. “Stepfather,” I said again.
This got his attention. He looked at me, then down at my mom and the twins. “Right,” he said slowly. Then he gave me a look that made me feel sort of weird, vulnerable. Like I’d said more than I had. “Well, thanks for the invite. Seriously.”
“You’re welcome.” He was still looking at me, though, so I pointed at the court. “Hello? I can’t believe you’re not watching this.”
Dave smiled, then turned back to the game, just as his phone buzzed again. This time, I didn’t look at it, instead focusing on the players running past in a blur, the ball whizzing between them.
Now, at Boeuf, I told myself to be patient. I showed up with a boy—of course my mother would make assumptions. “Just neighbors,” I told her. “He lives next door.”
“He seems very nice,” she said. “Smart, too.”
“He only said, like, two words to you,” I pointed out, just as one of the twins let loose with a holler, protesting something.
“What?” she said, leaning in closer and cupping her ear.
“Nothing.”
Dave was now returning to the table, where he promptly crashed into the back of my chair, knocking me sideways. “Sorry,” he said as he groped for his chair and sat down“It’s just so freaking dark in here. I walked into another room and joined some other table.”
“Whoops.”
“Tell me about it. I don’t think they could see me, though.” He picked up the menu, and my mom, watching him, smiled at me as if I had in fact admitted something to her in his absence. To her he said, “Thanks again for the ticket. The game was incredible.”
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” she replied. She looked at Peter, who was still talking, his phone pressed to his ear, then said to me, “He should be don
e with all this press in a second. Then you can tell us everything that’s going on with you.”
“Not much to tell,” I said as I flipped through page after page of wines by the bottle, trying to get to the food options. I could hear my dad in my head, critiquing this as well. Spend enough time with a restaurant troubleshooter and you start thinking like one yourself. “Just school, mostly.”
“And your father is well?” she asked, her voice cheerful, polite.
I nodded, equally civil. “He’s fine.”
My mom smiled at Dave, for some reason, then took a sip of her wine. “So what else? You must be doing something besides going to school.”
A silence fell across us, during which all we could hear was Peter, talking about a strong offense. I could feel my mom watching me, waiting for something else she could seize and keep. But I had nothing else to share, no more to say. I felt like I’d already given her my time, and my friend. It was enough.
As I thought this, though, Dave cleared his throat, then said, “Well, there’s the model we’re working on.”
My mom blinked, then looked at me. “A model?” she said. “Of what?”
I thought about kicking Dave, but wasn’t sure I could see him well enough to make contact. Instead, I just glared in his general direction, not that he noticed. “It’s of the downtown and surrounding areas,” he told my mom, as the waiter glided past, filling our water glasses. “For the centennial. They’re doing it above Luna Blu.”
I felt my mom glance at me. I said, “Dad’s restaurant.”
“Really,” my mom said. She was still looking at me, as if expecting me to pick this up and run with it. When I didn’t, she said, “That sounds interesting. How did you get involved in it?”
I was pretty sure this comment was directed at me, but I didn’t respond. So Dave, after helping himself to a roll and a pat of butter, said, “Well, to be honest, in my case it was kind of required.”
“Required,” my mom repeated.