Moxie: A Novel

by Jennifer Mathieu

  “Well, people aren’t chill about football here,” I answer. “Those players are the reason this town and this school exist. I mean, they’re what people get excited about around here. They’re what makes East Rockport worth living in for some people. The chance that this year we’ll make it to the playoffs, you know? The hope. You watch. Starting next week the talk will already be about the next season and how that will be the year we take state.”

  “Damn,” Seth says, taking a long drink from his soda.

  We talk for a while in the parking lot—I tell him how my dad died when I was a baby and how it’s just me and my mom with my grandparents next door. He tells me that his parents are nice enough, just occupied with their art, and that in addition to playing football he wrote a music column for his old high school newspaper. It’s an easy conversation, each of us stepping on the ends of the other’s sentences, wanting to chime in or add something or agree with something. My body hums with the sure sense that I’m the coolest girl in the world. Sitting there in the front seat, the fluorescent lights of the Jack in the Box parking lot shining on us like the moon on steroids, it’s weird to remember that this afternoon in the hallway when Seth asked me to hang out I could barely make eye contact with him because I was so anxious.

  After a while, Seth takes my wrappers and empty cup and gets out of the car to throw them away. I lick the salty tips of my fingers as he walks back toward the car, and I realize that the night is coming to a close. It’s 9:30.

  Seth suggests we head back, and as he drives toward my neighborhood, the Jack in the Box parking lot disasppearing behind us, my breathing starts to tighten up and my heart begins to hammer.

  Seth Acosta is going to kiss me. I know it.

  As he pulls onto my street, I glance into the rearview mirror, pretending I’m checking for something in my eye. My lipstick is still holding steady. Is that a good thing or a bad thing when you kiss someone?

  Seth slides into the driveway. Here, in the inky darkness of his car, he’s going to kiss me. Remember this, Vivian. Remember everything about this.

  I wait for him to shift the car into park. How can you kiss with the car in drive?

  But he doesn’t shift the car into park. He only turns to me and says, “I had a lot of fun hanging out with you tonight, Vivian.”

  It’s definitive, the way he says it. There’s no question that this is The End of the night.

  “I had fun, too,” I say, forcing a smile while dying inside. “Thanks for asking me to hang out.”

  “Honestly,” he continues, “I haven’t really, you know, made a lot of friends since I got here, so, you know … this was really cool. I’m going to check out some of those bands you told me about. Especially more of that Bikini Kill one.” He sort of looks over my shoulder when he says it. Like maybe he can’t wait for me to leave.

  “Cool,” I say, my hand on the door handle and my hammering heart twisting hard.

  I haven’t really made a lot of friends since I got here.

  Friends.

  FRIENDS.

  “See you Monday?” he asks.

  “Yeah, see you then,” I answer, itching to get out of the Honda and into the safety of my bedroom.

  “And I promise I won’t say a word about Moxie. I mean it.”

  “Thanks,” I answer, “I really appreciate it.” I get out, slam the car door, and race up the front steps, grateful my mom is still at the game and the house is empty. Seth waits until I’ve let myself in and then drives away, and as I step into the living room and shut the front door behind me, I can’t help it. I start crying. Not heaving sobs or anything like that. Just a few warm tears peek out of my eyes and slip down my cheeks.

  “Don’t be stupid, Viv,” I say out loud. “You still had a great time tonight, right?” Joan Jett saunters in at the sound of my voice, purring as she loops herself around my legs. I pick her up and bury my face into her fur. Then I put her down and get ready for bed, eagerly sliding under my covers, wrapping self-pity around myself with the blankets.

  The truth is I did have a great time with Seth. And maybe we will hang out again. But I don’t want to just hang out with Seth. I want to know what it feels like to have a boy’s lips on mine. I want to press my entire body up against his and kiss him. I want a hot, cool, smart boyfriend, not a hot, cool, smart boy friend.

  As I climb into bed, my phone buzzes from my nightstand. I reach for it, hoping for the tiniest second that it’s Seth.

  It’s Claudia.

  We got our ASSES KICKED tonight—lost 42–7 … but who cares HOW WAS YOUR DATE?!?!?!?

  I know Claudia will hate me for not responding, but I toss my phone onto the carpet and slide deeper under the covers, hoping I’m asleep before my mom gets home. I don’t think I could stand one more person asking me how the night went.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Claudia and I are in Claudia’s bed staring up at the ceiling. It’s the morning after one of our Saturday night sleepovers, and she’s listening to me talk over my “date” with Seth for the ten millionth time. It’s been a few weeks since I was left kissless in his car, but that hasn’t stopped me from analyzing the night over and over. At least Claudia humors me. A little.

  “Maybe he was just intimidated by you,” she says, stretching her arms out and yawning.

  “I feel like that’s what you’re supposed to say so I don’t feel bad for being rejected.”

  “Vivian, come on.”

  “Well, I’m serious. I was sending him signals. I was alerting him to my lips. So what the hell happened?”

  Claudia rolls her eyes and yawns again. A buzz interrupts us.

  “Hey,” she says, nudging me. “Your phone.”

  I reach toward Claudia’s nightstand. It’s my mom.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, sweetie,” she says. Something in her voice sounds weird. Off.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Oh yeah, everything’s okay.”

  “Good,” I say. I peer over at Claudia, who is picking at her cuticles.

  “The reason I’m calling … well, this is awkward, but I know I can be up front with you, Viv,” my mom begins, sort of clearing her throat.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “Well, John is here.”

  Nothing else really needs to be said. My mother knows I’m old enough to understand that John didn’t just show up at our house at nine in the morning to catch up on old times. And I know she knows I know. I squeeze my eyes shut as the idea of my mother and John having Sexual Intercourse invades my brain.

  “Uh, okay?” I say, my voice flat. What else is there to say?

  “Anyway, we’re getting ready to go out to get a bite to eat, but I wasn’t sure when you were coming home and I didn’t want you to be … surprised. I’m sorry, Vivvy, I didn’t know if you would still be sleeping or walking home when I called or what.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say. “We’re not sleeping, we’re awake. I’ll see you when I get home.”

  And then I do something I’ve never done in my life. I hang up on my mom without waiting for a response.

  As I fill Claudia in, she squirms appropriately at the idea of my mother and John Doing It. “It’s just so gross,” I say. “And I think she could do a lot better.”

  “Is this guy that bad?” Claudia asks.

  I don’t want to have to make my case to Claudia. She should be on my side automatically. So I just sigh dramatically and say, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay,” she says, her voice quiet. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say, offering up an exaggerated sad face so she gets how fine it is—even if it isn’t. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”

  “No, it’s no big deal,” she says, throwing back her bedspread and jumping out of bed, signaling the end of the conversation. “But I’m hungry. Let’s go make pancakes, okay?”

  “Do you have chocolate chips?” I ask, quickly falling into our familiar script
.

  “Duh,” says Claudia.

  I eat breakfast at Claudia’s house, dawdle a little, and then head home, walking at the pace of a snail. By the time I get there, there’s no sign of John. Just my mom reading in the den.

  “Hey,” she says, when I walk in. A little too eager.

  “Hey,” I say, wandering over to the refrigerator even though I just ate.

  “Viv, can we talk?” she says.

  Her simple question seems strange to me. My mother and I have always talked without having to say “Can we talk?” first. We just talk. There’s never any prologue.

  “What’s up?” I say, shutting the fridge and leaning up against it.

  “Well, come over here. You’re too far away.” She pats the couch next to her.

  I give in and slide in next to her, trying to ignore the mental picture of her and John that keeps threatening my mind.

  “Viv, I’m sorry about this morning,” she says, quietly. “I shouldn’t have sprung that on you like that. It just … the situation was … unexpected.” She reaches out to touch my arm, but I shrink back a bit.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I say. “It’s fine.”

  “But is it really fine?” she asks, her voice soft, her mouth a small frown.

  “I mean … it’s…” I hesitate. What is there to say? How disgusting? What do you see in him? How could you do it in our house? But she’s looking at me with such sincere concern—I can’t be the brat who makes my mom miserable. “It’s weird, a little. But if he makes you happy…”

  “He’s a really nice guy, Viv,” my mom says. “I wish you’d give him more of a chance.”

  I can be nice, but I can’t be her BFF who acts all giddy over John. “I am giving him a chance,” I say.

  “Yeah?” she asks. Her voice is hopeful but her eyes seem skeptical.

  “Yes,” I say. “Now I’m super tired because Claudia and I stayed up too late, so I’m going to lie down, okay?”

  My mom nods, but she doesn’t smile. Just shifts a bit in her seat as I get up off the couch and walk toward my room.

  “Hey,” she says when I reach my bedroom door, “we never even talked about that Seth guy. He came around a few weeks ago and I never saw him again.”

  Oh God, now? Really?

  “We’re just friends, Mom,” I say, my hand on my doorknob. “It’s nothing.”

  My mom’s eyes go wide. I know my voice sounds harsher than necessary, but I don’t care. She doesn’t say anything else. I try to block out her hurt expression as I fling myself on my bed and pull out my phone.

  Without really deciding to, I find myself texting Lucy.

  I’m in a crap mood

  She writes back immediately.

  Why?

  My mom had her boyfriend spend the night last night—I wasn’t here or anything … but she told me about it and it’s just gross.

  Is this that super conservative dude you told us about at lunch? Who basically like told your mom what book to read that one time?

  Yeah

  Grooooooosssssss

  I knoooooow

  I smile and keep going.

  Then she asked me about seth … like two weeks after our “date” or whatever …

  Damn … knife in the heart

  Seriously

  I’m sorry that didn’t work out …

  I kick my shoes off and settle in for a nice long back and forth with Lucy.

  I mean … he hasn’t been an ass to me or anything … since we hung out that one time he says hi to me in the hallway and we talk about music sometimes in English …

  Ugh. Cold comfort.

  Seriously. I didn’t want a study buddy … I wanted more.

  The heart wants what it fucking wants

  I almost think it would have been better if he’d ignored me from the start …

  After more back and forth about Seth, Lucy texts me, I can cheer you up … I have a secret

  My eyebrows pop up.

  What??? Is it about a boy?

  Blerg no. No dude at East Rockport has caught my eye … but it’s something pretty kick ass

  I’m finally genuinely smiling for the first time all morning.

  WHAT IS IT?

  WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW AND YOU’LL FIND OUT

  I try wheedling it out of her for a few more minutes, but Lucy resists and finally says she has to go. After our last text, I toss my phone aside and grin at the ceiling. For the first time in ages, I find myself wishing for Monday to come.

  * * *

  When Monday does arrive, it arrives cold and wet. I’m simultaneously thinking about Lucy’s secret and counting the days until winter break when I spot it. Taped to one of the side door entrances.

  I read it once. Then read it again. First I’m confused—for a split second I wonder if I’ve had some sort of short-term memory loss and I actually made and taped Moxie flyers up while I was in a trance or something—but as I peer at it, reading the words over and over, a sense of glee settles over me.

  Because I’m pretty sure I know what’s really going on.

  Inside, I spot more flyers on lockers and by water fountains, pinned up on message boards with brightly colored pushpins. When I get to my locker, I find one taped to the door.

  Just then my phone buzzes.

  I look down. It’s a text from Lucy.

  Okay I was going to wait till English to tell you but what do you think of the flyers?!

  My hands jump, ready to text right back, but then I have the foresight to use the situation to provide myself with some cover.

  WAIT—YOU started Moxie?!?!?

  I grin as I hit send.

  No! I still don’t know who did the newsletters … but I figured whoever it was wouldn’t care if I added to the ranks … like adopted the brand, right?

  Students push past me, heading to first period. Shoes squeak on wet, tiled floors and voices holler from one end of the hallway to the next, demanding answers to last night’s homework or securing a promise to meet somewhere after class. Standing there, staring at Lucy’s message, I realize Moxie doesn’t belong to me anymore. It belongs to every girl at East Rockport High who wants to be part of it. I text Lucy back.

  I totally love it and I know whoever started Moxie is going to love it too

  But if Lucy is aiming for anonymity with this soccer team fund-raising bake sale, she’s going about it all wrong. In English class she tells me about making the flyer last night at home and then coming to school early to copy it in the library, but she whispers so loudly she might as well be talking at normal volume, and I’m pretty sure people around her hear. Then at lunch in the cafeteria, she goes ahead and dishes when the topic comes up.

  “Okay, so, Viv already knows, but … I did it!” She squeals a little and covers her face with her hands, then peeks through her fingers. “I really did.”

  “Wait,” Sara starts, her eyes wide, “you mean you made the newsletters? You organized the bathrobe thing?”

  “No, I swear I didn’t do that,” Lucy insists. “But I just wanted to, I don’t know, like, take on the whole vibe.”

  Claudia sips on her Diet Coke and eyes Lucy like she’s not sure she believes her. But she doesn’t say anything.

  “So why the soccer team?” Meg asks. “You’re not on it.”

  “No, but they’re supposed to be so good, right? And they get, like, zero attention. Their uniforms are practically falling apart from what I’ve heard.”

  I nod. “Kiera Daniels was telling me they’re the same uniforms her mom wore in the ’90s.”

  “That can’t be possible,” Kaitlyn argues.

  “Well, maybe they’re not the exact same uniforms, but they are really old,” I continue. “And we never do a single thing for them even though they’re so great. Marisela Perez made all-state last year and the only reason I even heard about it was because my mom saw some tiny little article in the paper.”

  “Yeah, it is pretty ridiculous,” Sara chimes in.

&nbs
p; Claudia shrugs. “I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer or whatever, but how much money can one bake sale raise?” She shakes her Diet Coke can as if she’s trying to measure how much is left. No one says anything for a second, and an awkward silence settles over us. Lucy’s visible glow of excitement fades just a bit.

  “Well, I was thinking we could keep doing fund-raisers for them,” she says, not making eye contact with Claudia. “We wouldn’t have just one bake sale. I mean, we could keep supporting them all season long. Kind of like what the rally girls and cheerleaders do for the football team.”

  Claudia nods, her expression still uncertain. But just as I’m about to get really pissed at her, she says, “Well, I can make some lemon bars. They’re really good. Viv knows.”

  I nod enthusiastically. “They are good. Super good. We could charge at least fifty cents per bar. Maybe even a dollar.” Geez, I sound spastically psyched about these damn lemon bars.

  “Okay, don’t oversell the lemon bars, Viv,” Claudia says, giving me a look. But she’s smiling.

  * * *

  Right after school on Thursday I pull out Meemaw’s recipe for Magic Squares. It’s a struggle to read her slanty, old-fashioned cursive. When I call her to ask exactly how many cups of butter I need, she practically shouts into the phone with excitement.

  “How perfectly ladylike of you, Vivvy! Your mother never liked to bake, you know.” Meemaw may be queen of the Stouffer’s frozen dinner, but give that woman a pie recipe and she’ll make something so good you’ll want to slap someone.

  “Well, it’s for a fund-raiser at school,” I tell her. “For the girls’ soccer team.”

  Meemaw pauses. “Well, that’s … nice. I didn’t know there was a girls’ soccer team.”

  “They almost took state last year,” I say. I’m kind of enjoying blowing Meemaw’s mind.

  “Well, bully for them,” she says. “Do you want to come over for dinner later? Or do you want me to come over and help with the squares?”

  “It’s okay, Meemaw,” I say, pulling open a bag of chocolate chips and sneaking a few into my mouth. “But thanks.”