I TEXT MOM, WHO SAYS she’ll pick me up at Waffle House on her way home. Soon, everyone’s gone but Bram, who scoots in beside me on the curb.
I smile at him. “You don’t have to wait with me.”
“Oh, I’m not. My dad’s in town, so he’s picking me up.”
Bram’s parents are divorced, which I find weirdly comforting. I don’t mean that in a bitchy way. I don’t want Bram to have a shitty home life or anything. It’s just that most of my friends have these storybook-perfect families. Sitcom families—married parents in giant houses, with framed family portraits lining the staircases. I guess it’s nice not being the only one missing that.
“Just for a visit?”
Bram nods. “He and my stepmom came up for the week with Caleb. We’re getting ice cream after this.”
“I can’t believe Caleb’s big enough for ice cream. Wasn’t he just born?”
“I know, right? He’ll be one in June.”
“Unreal.”
Bram smiles. “Want to see him? He’s my lock screen.”
He hands me his phone, and I tap the screen on. “Okay, this is too adorable.”
It’s a selfie of Bram and Caleb, smiling with their faces smooshed together, and it’s the cutest photo ever taken. Bram’s dad is white, and I guess his stepmom must be, too, because Caleb’s the palest little white baby I’ve ever seen. Somehow, it surprises me every time I see a picture of him. He’s totally bald, too, with giant brown eyes. But it’s funny, because Bram and Caleb look weirdly alike. Even though Bram’s skin is brown and he has hair and doesn’t drool. It’s kind of wild.
Bram sticks his phone in his pocket and leans back on his hands, and I feel this wave of unexpected shyness. It occurs to me, suddenly, that this may actually be the first time Bram and I have hung out one-on-one, even though he moved here after freshman year. He was always in the background for me until he started dating Simon. To be honest, I kind of lumped him together with Garrett.
I try to beat back the awkwardness. “Want to see something?” I ask.
“Sure.” He sits up.
“Okay. Brace yourself.” I tap into my photos and scroll back through my albums. Then, I pass Bram the phone.
His hand flies to his mouth.
“Amazing, right?”
Bram nods slowly. “Oh my God.”
“So, this is seventh grade.”
“I’m just.”
“I know. Simon was too cute, right?”
Bram stares at the photo, eyes crinkling around the edges, and something about his expression makes my heart twist.
I mean, he’s so far gone. This kid is in it with his whole entire heart.
The picture is actually of all three of us—Simon, Nick, and me. I think we were at Morgan’s bat mitzvah. I’m wearing this light blue dress, kind of an Eliza Hamilton vibe. I’m holding an inflatable saxophone, smiling, and Nick’s wearing oversized sunglasses. But the star of the picture is Simon. My God.
For one thing, there’s that glow-in-the-dark tie Simon used to wear to every bar mitzvah and dance. But this time, he’s wearing it around his head like Rambo, cheesing for the camera. Also, he’s fucking tiny. I don’t know how I forgot that. He grew a few inches in eighth grade, and that’s about when he started listening to good music and not wearing those giant wolf face T-shirts. Like, I’m pretty sure he stripped off that final wolf shirt one day, and then Bram moved to Shady Creek two hours later.
“You’ve never seen his baby pictures?” I ask.
“I’ve seen the little kid ones, but he’s got middle school locked down.”
“What you’re telling me is that Simon should never have left us alone together.”
“Exactly.” He grins, tapping into his text messages.
Moments later, our phones buzz simultaneously. You showed him the tie? LEAH, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
It was a dapper tie, Bram writes.
Well I was a dapper young man, BUT STILL
Should I tell Bram about the night-light? I type.
Bram smiles. “The night-light?”
IT WAS AN ALARM CLOCK. It just happened to have a light.
“It was a night-light.” I grin at Bram. “It had a little crescent moon and a mouse on it. He probably still has it.”
“That is really cute and not at all surprising.”
“Right? He kept it by his bed until eighth grade.”
Bram laughs. Then he types something, taps send, and scoots his feet back to the curb.
Except the message never appears. So, it’s a private text to Simon. To his boyfriend. Totally allowed. And I probably shouldn’t feel like I’ve been voted off some island.
Mom pulls up to the curb a few minutes later, rolling down the window and waving.
“That’s your mom?” Bram asks. “Wow. She’s really pretty.”
“Yeah, I hear that a lot.” No joke: Simon once called her the quintessential sexy mom. “Are you sure you don’t want us to wait with you?” I ask.
“Oh no. My dad will be here any second.”
My mom leans out the window. “Hi! You’re Bram, right? The soccer player?”
Bram looks taken aback. “Oh. Yes.”
“And you’re going to Columbia.”
God. She always does this. She whips out these little snippets of random information, just to show off what an Involved Mom she is. My friends probably think I go home and quiz her about them with flash cards.
I mean, I do sort of tell my mom everything, to a degree that’s almost pathological. I keep her posted on all the Tumblr gossip, and I tell her about most of my crushes. And of course I told my mom I’m bisexual, even though none of my friends know. I came out to her when I was eleven, during a commercial break for Celebrity Rehab.
Anyway, either Bram is a saint, or he’s hardcore sucking up to Mom. He calls her Ms. Keane, which is actually pretty impressive. No one ever remembers that my mom and I have different last names.
My mom laughs. “You are so sweet. Seriously, call me Jessica.” I can already predict our conversation for the ride home. Oh God, Lee! He’s totally adorable. Simon must be head over heels. What a cutie pie. Blah blah blah.
I know I’m lucky. You always hear about parents who disapprove of their kids’ friends, and my mom’s the exact opposite. She adores every single friend I’ve ever introduced. She even loved Martin Addison the few times she met him. And, of course, my friends are totally charmed by her. Case in point: by the time I click my seat belt, Bram’s already invited Mom to opening night of the play. Because that’s not weird.
“I still think you should have auditioned, Lee,” Mom says as we pull onto the main road. “Joseph is the bomb.”
“Don’t say the bomb.”
“Joseph is the blizz.”
I won’t even dignify it with a response.