For Keeps (7 page)

Seven

SIX THIRTY A.M.
and my mother is MIA. All I see is a yellow Post-it, stuck next to a carton of juice on the counter.

J-Bear,

Jonathan and I went for a run.

He made granola!

Help yourself!

Love, Mom

Which means one of two things: either he woke up at the crack of dawn to get here, or he slept over.

Well.

OK, this is none of my business. They’re consenting adults. And anyway, it’s kind of a relief not to be having the Big Debriefing about last night’s dinner and how great it was. In fact, I don’t have to talk at all. Not like every other morning when my mom is firing questions at me about school or soccer or “the boy” or Liv or my deepest, most intimate feelings or any of that other crap that mothers love to bond over with their daughters right when they wake up.

For the first time in my life, I can eat breakfast in peace. Which is actually kind of nice. Yes, it is.

“Who
makes
granola, anyway?” I ask Liv on the bus.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Nature lovers?”

I snort.

“Why does it bother you?”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“I thought you liked Jonathan.”

“I do. Jonathan is . . . fine.”

“OK,” she says slowly. “So, what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know! It’s just . . . happening too fast.”

“In what way? Wait—” She pushes my arm. “Did he stay over last night?”

I shake my head. Then I nod. “I think so.”

“Go, Kate!”

“Don’t say that!”

“Why? He’s hot.”

“This is my
mother
we’re talking about.”

“So? Your mother doesn’t deserve a sex life?”

I take a quick breath in, then say, “We are not talking about this.”

Liv shrugs, rustles around in her bag for her cell phone, and starts punching buttons.

“I mean, just because you’re all gung-ho casual sex—”

She stops. “I am not all
gung-ho casual sex
.”

“No? So you’re not texting your boy toy right now?”

“His name is Finn,” she says, a bit sharply.

Finn.
What kind of name is that, anyway? Whatever happened to normal names like Mike and Joe?

We sit in silence while she turns away, pressing buttons like mad. Then, just as we’re pulling up to school, she clicks her phone shut and looks at me. “Do you want your mom to be happy?”

“Of course.”

“Does she seem happy with Jonathan?”

“Well . . . so far.”

“Then give the guy a chance, Josie!”

“I’m trying!” I say.

I walk off the bus with a sick taste in my mouth. I think it’s the granola, trying to get out.

There’s a lot of whispering in homeroom. Some snickering. Also, high fives and thumps on the back for Peter Hersh, who, according to the Saturday night rumor mill, spent some quality time in the shower with a freshman field hockey player named Amber.

“Oh my God,” Kimmy Gustofson says, leaning forward and breathing hot bubble-gum breath in my face. “Josie. How
was
it?”

I unzip my backpack, pull out my binder. “What?”

“The
party
,” Lorelei Hill says, pulling her chair in close. “On Saturday. We heard it was
out
of control.”

Kimmy lowers her voice an octave. “Did Jamie Mann really give Kyle Longbreak a . . .
you
know . . . in the hot tub?”

“What?”
I say.

“A blow—”

“No!”

Truthfully, I have no idea what Jamie did or didn’t do this weekend, but I’m not about to add heat to the hot tub. And anyway, Wendy Geruntino, who sits in front of Kimmy, has turned around and is giving us the most distressed look. “I’m sad, listening to you.”

“Then don’t,” Lorelei says.

“I’m sorry,” Wendy says. “It’s just, hearing about all these casual, meaningless physical encounters—it makes me think, where’s the respect? Where’s the honor? The—”

“This is
homeroom
,” Kimmy says with a snort, “not Bible study.”

“Ladies! Earth to the ladies in the back. . . .”

I turn my attention to Mr. Catenzaro, glad that the conversation is over. It would only be a matter of time before the subject turned from Jamie Mann and Kyle Longbreak to me and—

Oh. Kimmy has passed me a note.

You and Matt Rigby???

Suddenly, my tongue feels like sandpaper. Suddenly, my Saturday night feels just as casual and meaningless as all the other grist for the rumor mill.

I shake my head, write back:
False.
And wait for the bell to ring, so I can be three minutes closer to the end of this day.

First period is no better. I have chemistry, and for me chemistry is already a nightmare. Those formulas that Ms. Monty writes on the board might as well be Japanese for all the sense they make. Then there are the labs. Today it’s something with hydrogen sulfide, which would be nauseating enough because it smells like rotten eggs, but then add this: My lab partner is Ron Mullaney, one of the guys who was playing soccer at the party.

I am waiting—just waiting—for a comment.

“We need safety goggles for this one,” Ron says, reading from the lab manual. “And gloves. H
₂
S is, like, extremely toxic. . . . Josie?”

He’s looking at me. Great. Well, let him say whatever he needs to say about Saturday night. I can take it.

“Josie.”

“What?”

He points to the box in front of me. “Goggles.”

“Oh,” I say. “Right.”

I put on my safety gear, and we start the experiment. Ron mutters to himself the whole time, making little notes on our lab card as he goes. The smell is horrendous. I have to cover my face with my sweatshirt just to breathe.

At one point, Ron turns to me. “You don’t like chemistry, do you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just a sense.”

“Sorry,” I say. Then, “Do you want me to write the lab report?”

He shrugs. “I’m basically done.”

“Sorry,” I say again. I meant
sorry
for slacking, but now something else flies out of my mouth—the kind of thing you wish you could hold back, but you can’t: “I know I made an ass of myself at the party.”

Ron blinks, confused.

“On the deck,” I say. “Dancing? And . . . you know . . .”

“Right.” Something flashes across Ron’s face, like a grimace. “Well, don’t worry about it. We all do stupid stuff at parties.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, closing my binder and shoving it in my backpack. “It was stupid.”

“Seriously,” Ron says firmly. “Don’t even think about it. A lot of girls do a lot crazier things at parties. . . . Anyway, you know Riggs. . . .”

I wait for some elaboration. Any elaboration.

But it doesn’t come.

I know Riggs what? I know Riggs: He’s always making out on decks? I know Riggs: He likes crazy girls? I know Riggs . . . I
don’t
know Riggs. That much is perfectly clear. I don’t know Riggs at all.

Between fourth and fifth periods, I’m winding my way through the junior corridor. As usual, it’s mayhem, full of shouts and banging metal. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but today it seems louder than ever. Also oppressively hot. In gym class, Mrs. Blackburn made us jump rope for half an hour, and I am still sweating. I stop and lean my cheek against the tile wall for a moment. Because it’s cool, soothing.
Ahhhh
. I could stay here for the rest of the day.

But then Bob’s voice pops into my head. Mr. Germ-a-phobe:
Do you know how many billions of bacteria infest the average surface of a public building? Do you know how many billions of microorganisms enter the pores of your skin through contact alone?

No, Bob, I don’t. But, hey, thanks for the paranoia.

The crowd is thinning out. Luckily my next class is only two doors down from my locker. My locker, which is right—

Oh.

Blue polo shirt.

Blond hair curling over the collar.

Jeans.

Matt Rigby is standing in front of my locker, looking straight at me. For a moment I’m not sure what to do, but I need my French binder because I’m on my way to French. I have no choice but to stop.

“Hey, Josie.”

“Hey.”

I don’t trust myself to say anything else, so I leave it at that.

“What do you have now?”

“French.”

We stand there. Just looking at each other, not moving.

“I’ll walk you. I have Spanish, so we’re heading the same way. . . .”

“OK.”

He steps aside to let me open my locker, and I have to will my hand not to shake as I turn the lock.

I’m racking my brains for something clever to say. He’s standing so close, I can smell his gum. Juicy Fruit.

“You don’t have to walk me,” I tell him, shoving my French binder into my backpack.

“I want to.”

“Why?”

He pretends to think for a moment. Then, a little smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “You can’t ignore me if I’m walking next to you.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know . . . people are saying stuff. I thought you might be regretting our little . . . dance-off.”

I shrug. “Everyone says stuff after parties.”

I can’t believe how calm I sound.

As we walk down the hall, a million tiny lightning bugs flicker around my stomach. When we make it to the French room, we stop. Matt Rigby turns to me, and his face is serious, and I know he’s about to say something devastating. He’s going to say that Saturday night was fun, but he doesn’t want me to get the wrong idea. He doesn’t want to lead me on.

We are directly in front of the door, blocking it, and we have to move for Peter Hersh to get through.

“ ’ Sup, Riggs.”

“ ’ Sup, Hershy.”

It’s weird how guys do that—call each other by their last names. But I kind of like the fact that Riggs is
Riggs
, and not just
Matt
like all the other Matts in this school. Matt Dineen. Matt Leone. Matt—

“Josie.”

“Yeah.” I focus on his chin, not his eyes.

“I had a great time on Saturday.”

I look up. “What?”

“I had a great time. With you. At the party.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He’s smiling, and I can feel a ridiculous grin spreading across my face too. We must look like a couple of idiots.

The final bell rings, and I don’t know why, but we’re not moving.

“And just so you know,” Matt Rigby says, “I’ve been practicing my dance moves.”

“Oh,
really
.”

“Yes, really.”

“That’s funny,” I say, “because I have too. In fact, I’ve been getting
really
good. I’ve been reading
Dancing for Dummies
, you know, for technique. . . .”

He laughs. I can see the Juicy Fruit on his tongue, a tiny gray wad, and I have the strange desire to reach out and touch it.

“So, maybe we’ll have a rematch sometime,” he says.

“Maybe we will.”

Before we can say anything else, there’s a sound at the door. It’s Madame Plouchette, tapping the glass with her pointer and frowning.

Matt reaches out, squeezes my hand. “You are so busted.”

I squeeze back. “Yup.”

Madame will probably humiliate me in front of everyone. She’ll make me conjugate some embarrassing verb.

But right now, I don’t even care. All I can do is smile.

I’m in the cafeteria, eating mac and cheese with the girls, when Riggs walks by on his way to the guys’ soccer table. He doesn’t stop so much as brush his fingers against my neck as he goes.

Now I have goose bumps.

Liv yanks me up and pulls me over to the water fountain, away from Jamie and Kara and Schuyler, who are too busy gossiping to notice. “What was
that
?” Liv asks.

And I tell her about my morning.

“So, it’s happening,” she says. “You and Riggs.”

“I guess,” I say quietly. “I don’t know.”

“
I
know,” Liv says. Not quietly.

I shrug.

Liv heaves a sigh. “Finally.”

“OK. What about you? And Finn?”

“We’re having a good time. It’s, like, somewhat casual, but it’s only been a few weeks, you know? And college guys operate differently. So, we’ll see. . . . I’m taking it day by day.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

Liv smiles. I smile. For a second I feel hope for us. Her and Finn; me and Riggs. The details of how we will all live happily ever after I’m not too clear about, but the hope part is there.

Right before soccer I check my cell and there’s a message from my mom. She wants me to call her. I go into one of the bathroom stalls and dial Twilight Books.

“Mom,” I say low. “I have to tell you something. . . . I kissed Matt Rigby.”

“You did?”

“Yes! At the party. It was really weird, how it happened. At first, I thought he was with this girl Tessa, this cheerleader, but it turns out—”

“I’m sorry, honey,” my mom says, cutting me off. “Hold on a sec.” Things get muffled in the background. “It’s Josie,” I hear her say. There’s a lot of murmuring. Then she says to me, “I’m sorry, what were you saying? Tessa, the cheerleader? ”

“Who were you talking to?” I say.

“Jonathan.”

“Doesn’t he have to work? I thought he was a music teacher.”

“He is. He took the day off. . . . Tell me about Matt—”

“He took the day
off
, to hang out at the
bookstore
?”

“Yes. . . . So—”

“Huh,” I say.

In an instant, she seems to forget what we were talking about and launches into how Jonathan asked her to go to the movies with him tonight—some German film playing at the arts cinema in town. They thought they’d grab a bite at that new bistro on Broad Street—