Mom and I are getting ready to start a game of Scrabble. It was her idea, I suspect because she’s feeling guilty about forbidding me to move in with Dad next year. I got turned down for financial aid at all of my New York college choices, but I thought we could still swing it if I lived with him. But Mom says his apartment is small and the neighborhood is sketchy. When I talked to Dad about it, he said he would love to have me, but he wouldn’t do it against Mom’s wishes. Thus—since Mom has been putting money into Michigan’s prepaid tuition program for a while now—it looks like I’m heading to U of M next year.
It’s not my first choice, but I guess it won’t be terrible. Darbs is going to Eastern, so I’ll still be able to hang with her, and Shaun will be only three hours away at Ohio State. He claims that we will be locked in a heated football rivalry that may break our friendship.
Oliver hasn’t made a final decision yet, and I’m kind of glad about that. Ever since Valentine’s Day, I’ve found myself being just a little more careful around him, taking extra caution not to cross any lines.
And caring what he does with himself next year—that kind of feels like crossing a line.
For Mother-Daughter Bonding Night, Mom is making hot apple cider. She adds spices to the steaming pot while I set a bag of popcorn in the microwave. I’ve just pressed the start button when the home phone rings. “I got it,” says Mom, so I assume she’s expecting a call from Cash.
As she heads into the living room, I watch the digital numbers on the microwave count down and I wonder if Shaun is talking to Kirk yet. Shaun said he wanted to discuss the “quality of the relationship” tonight, whatever that means. As I’m rewarded with the first pops from the bag, Mom answers the phone in the other room. “Hello?” she says in that questioning way that you do when you honestly don’t know who is on the other end.
Landlines.
I still assume it’s Cash until Mom says, “What?” and I hear something heavy slam down, like maybe she dropped a book. My stomach dips and I have a sudden terrible image of my father dead in New York, either run over by a taxi or shot with a wayward bullet. If it happened, this is absolutely the way I’d find out.
I step away from the microwave so I can hear better. Mom’s voice has scaled up an octave and she’s saying things like “Are you freaking kidding me?” and “Calm down, I’ll be right there!”…so at least it doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with Dad.
The microwave beeps as Mom rushes back into the kitchen. She turns off the burner under the apple cider and looks at me. “Honey, I’m so sorry but I have to cancel on our game.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Friend drama.” She comes close and gives me a hard kiss on the forehead before scooping her keys off the counter. “Back soon,” she says, and flies out.
I hear the front door open and close and then the sound of her car driving away into the night.
So that’s weird.
I clean up the kitchen and head upstairs. After I shower, I huddle in my bed, lights off and phone on. I’ve just finished a turn against Oliver with my “Marauding Medusa” when I hear faint sounds from outside. I jump up and go to my bedroom window. I can see my mother’s car in the snowy driveway. She’s getting out of the driver’s side as someone else exits from the other door. It takes me a moment to realize it’s Marley.
Oliver’s mother.
I hurry back to bed and listen to the sounds below. The front door opens and closes. There are whispers as two sets of feet plod up the wooden stairs. They go past my room to my mother’s, and then one turns back. A second later, the knob twists and my door opens a crack. Mom’s face appears. “Honey?”
I raise my head as if I’m not completely awake. “Hi,” I say in my sleepiest voice.
“Just wanted to tell you good night. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I murmur, and settle back into my pillows long enough for Mom to close the door. The second she’s gone, I hop up and crack it so I can eavesdrop.
Down the hallway, Marley is weeping. Mom is saying she’s going to be okay and she’s going to sleep here tonight. “I didn’t win after all,” Marley says between sobs. “I got the booby prize. It’s worse than losing.”
“Shhh,” my mother says. “It’s going to be okay.”
And then Mom’s door closes, so I can’t hear anything else.
I’m perched on a kitchen stool, eating an orange-rhubarb muffin, when Marley shuffles in. She’s wearing my mom’s robe and her messy topknot is secured with the tortoise-shell clip I gave Mom for Christmas a few years ago. Her shadowed, bloodshot eyes meet mine and immediately water up. “Hannah said I could hide upstairs until you left, too, but I need coffee.” I point to the coffeemaker—which Mom thoughtfully left on—and Marley pours some into the mug waiting for her on the counter.
“Your mom is the best.”
“She’s not bad,” I agree.
“I need a favor.” I know what it will be before she says it. “Don’t tell Oliver I’m here.”
It rubs me the wrong way. Oliver and I made that honesty pledge, and especially given the Itch-pocalypse, I don’t want to betray it. “He might notice that you’re not at home,” I tell his mom.
“I’ve already worked that out with Bryant,” she says. “This isn’t Oliver’s business—”
But it’s mine?
“—and I don’t want to worry him.”
Okay, that actually makes sense. I can imagine Oliver’s freak-out if he knew his mom had a weeping sleepover—a weepover, if you will—with my mom. Besides, she’s a parent, which means she outranks me in a significant way.
“I won’t tell him.”
“Thanks,” says Marley.
Oliver has just taken a bite of toast when I clamber aboard, so he only waves at me with the crust before cranking up our playlist and pulling onto the road. The Ramones beat harsh and fast, and it’s the perfect thing to propel us toward school, toward Regular Life, to let the triviality of here and now fade away, trampled by the drums.
When Oliver finishes eating, he turns down the music so we can hear each other. It’s the way things are these days. The music means less, and talking to Oliver means more.
“In case you’re wondering, my mom has a headache,” he tells me. I have a flash of panic—does he know she’s at my house?—before making the connection. It helps that he’s brandishing his crumpled napkin at me. “She didn’t come down to make breakfast, so I had to fend for myself.”
“You have the worst life.”
“I know, champagne problems. That’s what my dad would say. Speaking of which, guess what.”
“What?” I say on autopilot.
“I talked to my dad. He at least acted like it was okay.”
Wait. Oliver does know what’s going on with his parents?
Oliver stuffs his napkin between his seat and the center console. “Although he says it’s squandering my legacy, to not take the internship.”
I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I let it out in a whoosh of air. “Oh yeah?” My attempt to speak casually is laughable. “He’s not trying to make you do it?”
“Not yet,” says Oliver. “But he might be pretending now so he can spring his disapproval on me later.”
“Lovely.” So Oliver’s dad is lying to him: about Marley’s whereabouts, about his own feelings, about everything.
Kinda like me, except my lie is by omission. Again.
Dammit.
I’m pretty sure Mom specifically told Cash not to come over, because usually he’d be hanging around, but right now it’s just the two of us with TV trays in the living room. Normally we’re a little more civilized, but tonight we’re having what Mom calls “retro dinner.” It means we have a layered salad with mayonnaise dressing, and chicken casserole with crackers baked into the top. For dessert, there will be blue Jell-O with Goldfish crackers “swimming” in it.
Apparently this is the food of my mother’s youth.
A few bites into the cracker chicken (shockingly delicious, BTW), Mom says she appreciates my discretion. I knew this would be coming, but still, it’s nice to hear. “Oliver’s parents are having some problems,” she tells me. (Duh.) “You should stay out of it.”
I’ve been turning this over and over in my head all day and I’ve come to a decision. Yes, Oliver and I made a pact about honesty, but telling him this truth would only hurt and confuse him, and I don’t want to do that. I know it’s risking our friendship and the rare trust we’ve somehow found between us, but this is one of those times when I’m going to choose what’s good for another person instead of what offers the most safety for me.
Besides, it’s not my story to tell.
“Okay,” I say to my mom. “I’ll stay out of it.”