Ten
IN THE MORNING, when I get out of the shower, Liv is sitting at her desk in her pajamas, staring at the computer.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She shrugs.
I lean in to look.
“Pregnant Teen Help dot org?”
She nods.
I swallow. “Please tell me you’re researching something for school . . . some health project, or . . .”
Silence.
“Liv.”
More silence.
“Oh my God, are you serious?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“You think you’re . . .”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I just yakked.” She points to the trash can. “I couldn’t even make it to the bathroom.”
“Well,” I say briskly, “you probably just have that stomach bug. The one Schuyler had. She was out all last week.”
“Did Schuyler’s boobs hurt?”
“Your boobs hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, do they or don’t they?”
She shakes her head again. “Maybe. A little. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But my period’s late. I know that.”
“How late?”
“Three days.”
I breathe out. “Well,” I say. I grab the other desk chair, sit down next to her. “Three days is nothing.”
“You think?” she says, looking at me with eyes that are suddenly too big for her face.
“Listen to me,” I say. “I’ve been three days late before. I’ve been a whole week late. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“Well, not if you’re a virgin.”
“Well, yeah. Obviously. But even if you’re not a virgin. . . . Wait. You and Finn have been using protection, right?”
“Of course.”
“Every time?”
Liv gives me a look. “Josie, do you think I’m an idiot?”
“No. No, of course I don’t. Just . . . Liv, you cannot freak out over three days. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”
“I know. I am.”
“It could be stress, hormones, diet. . . . All sorts of things can affect your cycle.”
“I know.”
I hesitate, then ask, “Do you want to take a . . . you know . . . test?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet. I don’t want to know yet. I just want to . . . not know for a few more days.”
“OK, so we’ll wait, then. And stay calm.”
“Right.” Liv nods. “OK. You do the calm part, though, because I don’t know if I can.”
“I will,” I tell her.
“Thanks.”
We hug. I hold on tight, too, because something just dawned on me. This is where Liv was coming from last night. This is why she went off on me. Her whole “you’re so lucky to have Kate, you shouldn’t take Kate for granted” spiel now makes perfect sense. Liv really needs a real mom to talk to. Not just an egg-donor surrogate from Minnesota who doesn’t know squat.
All day, I try to make her laugh. “Hey, Liv,” I say as we’re changing for gym, “I have a joke for you. Knock-knock.”
“Josie. I’m really not in the mood.”
“Come on,” I say. “Knock-knock.”
She heaves a sigh. “Who’s there?”
“Norma Lee.”
“Norma Lee who?”
“Normalee I don’t go around knocking on doors, but would you like to buy a set of encyclopedias?”
Liv doesn’t exactly laugh, but her lips twitch a little, which is good enough for me.
When we’re on the bus to our game against Palmer Regional, I try again. “So there are these two muffins in the oven, right?”
“If you say so,” Liv says.
“They’re both sitting there, just chilling and getting baked. After a while, one muffin yells, ‘God damn, it’s hot in here!’ and the other muffin replies, ‘Holy crap, a talking muffin!’”
“I’m surprised at you, Josephine,” Liv says dryly. “Druggie humor.”
“Baking humor,” I say. “And anyway, don’t blame me. Blame Big Nick. He’s the one who told it to me.”
“Ah.” She nods. “You’ve been bonding.”
“We have not been bonding.”
“It sounds like you’ve been bonding.”
“Let’s get one thing straight, OK? Big Nick is a customer. And I’m just serving up pastries and laughing at his jokes like I would with anyone else. That is all. But if you feel the need to read something Dr. Steveian into every little interaction, you go right ahead. . . .”
“Wow, are you defensive.”
“I am not defensive! I’m just trying to act normal around the guy! OK? Can you let me do that?”
“OK,” Liv says. “I won’t bring it up again.”
“Yes, you will.”
Now Kara and Lindsey are leaning over the back of our seat, wanting to talk about the game. We discuss strategy. We tell each other how awesome we’ve been playing lately. We agree there’s no way we’re losing today.
Ten minutes later, we’re pulling into the Palmer Regional parking lot.
“Ready to kick some ass?” I ask Liv.
She nods.
“What’s that? I didn’t hear you. . . . I said, Are you ready to—”
“Josie?” Her voice is barely audible.
“What?” I notice how pale her face is. Pale and pinched. “Liv . . .”
She closes her eyes.
“Are you going to—”
She nods, grabs her duffel bag, and barfs into it.
“It’s OK,” I tell her. “You’re OK.”
I rub her back and say a silent prayer, to whatever celestial being might be listening right now. Please. Pleaselet this be a stomach bug.