Eleven
THE NEXT MORNING, in front of my locker, Matt Rigby kisses me sweet and slow. Then he pulls back and grins.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“Your hat trick.” He means the three goals I scored yesterday while Liv was on the bench, turning various shades of green. “Congrats.”
“Thanks,” I say, even though we already had this conversation last night on the phone. It’s way better having it in person.
“My parents want to meet you,” he says.
“Because of the hat trick?”
“Because I won’t shut up about you. . . . Next Saturday, after our games. Can you come for dinner? Becky’s making lasagna.”
Becky, the stepmother. Matt’s real mom, Darlene, split from his dad when Matt was a baby and moved to some hippie colony in Vermont. Matt only sees her a few times a year. Becky pretty much raised him.
“Lasagna,” I say. “Yum.”
“Yeah. Becky’s a great cook. . . . My dad, he’s kind of old-school about . . . you know . . . meeting the people I hang out with.”
“The people you hang out with. . . . And just how many people are you hanging out with, currently?”
He leans in, kisses the tip of my nose. “Just one.”
“You sure about that?”
Another kiss. This time on the lips. “Absolutely.”
“Good.”
“So you’ll come?” he says, kissing me again, softly, on the side of my neck, just below my left ear.
“Yes.” I have goose bumps now, running all the way down the left side of my body. “I will.”
I was planning to tell my mom about dinner at the Rigbys’. I was also planning to tell her about Liv, to ask her advice. But both of those plans just got derailed.
“Jonathan has tickets for the B.B. King Jazz Festival,” she tells me as we’re driving home from work. “This weekend, in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He asked me to go with him.”
“Wow,” I say. “You’ve really embraced the jazz.”
She ignores my sarcasm. “I told him I needed to check with you, before I said yes. It would only be the one night. We’d leave Saturday morning.”
“You don’t need to check with me. You’re the adult.”
“I’m trying to be respectful of your feelings, Josie. OK? I’m trying to do this right.”
“Right,” I say. “You and Jonathan want my blessing to go away for the weekend? Fine. Consider yourselves blessed.”
“I really appreciate the smart-ass routine, Josie. Thanks.”
“Anytime, Kate. Anytime.”
Later, I hear her on the phone with Jonathan. Her voice is muffled, but I know she’s talking about me. And I hate it. Because she never would have talked behind my back before. She would have done it to my face.
We’ve forgotten how to talk to each other. And it hurts. More than I would have thought.
Liv stays home from school on Tuesday.
And Wednesday.
On Thursday, she’s back on the bus, but she still hasn’t gotten her period. And no, she hasn’t taken a test. And no, she doesn’t want to talk about it. She doesn’t even want to think about it. My job, therefore, is to distract.
“I’m staying at your house this weekend,” I say. “My mom’s going to New Hampshire. With Jonathan.”
“I know,” she says.
“How?”
“Kate called. She talked to Dodd.”
Right.
“So,” Liv says. “This Jonathan thing is serious.”
I make a noise, like a grunt.
“Are you OK?”
I shrug.
“Well?” Liv says. Her brown eyes are wide and lined with green pencil. “Are you, or aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “No.”
“Have you talked to Kate about it?”
“No.”
“Josie. Come on. You have to talk to her.”
“I can’t,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Have you talked to Pops and Dodd about your ‘situation’?”
“No, but that’s—”
“See?”
“But—”
“No buts,” I say. “I’m not talking to her.”
“Fine,” Liv says. “Tell me, then. I’m curious. What’s wrong with Jonathan?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bad breath?”
“No.”
“Verbal abuse?”
“No.”
“Does he pick his nose and wipe it on his pants?”
“No. It’s . . . OK. Here’s what it is. I look at the two of them together and . . . I don’t see it. You know? I don’t get it. I don’t feel the love connection. I’ve tried. But it’s just not there.”
“Maybe you don’t want to see it,” Liv says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe, deep down, you don’t actually want Kate to have someone. No matter how great he is.”
“Of course I want her to have someone! I just want him to be . . .”
“What,” Liv says.
“I don’t know.”
“Paul Tucci?”
“What?” I stare at her.
“You heard me.”
“Are you high?”
“No.”
“You think I want my mom and Paul Tucci to get back together.”
“Maybe. Yeah.”
“Well. That’s ridiculous.”
Liv shakes her head. “I don’t mean consciously.”
“Oh,” I say. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s your subconscious desire.”
“Right.”
“It is. You just can’t see it because it’s buried.”
“Whatever, Dr. Steve,” I say. And I say “whatever” a bunch more times too as we’re getting off the bus.