is still one of the kindest, most decent people I know. I just can’t imagine a situation where I would slam her like that.
When the movie is over, we polish off a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips, and we talk. We talk about Jonathan, who came back into the store last week and, as I’d predicted, asked my mom out for tomorrow night. We talk about school and soccer and Matt Rigby and mud and cappuccinos and books and celebrity gossip and the genocide in Darfur and everything under the sun.
That’s how it is with us.
After work the next day, I go to Liv’s house. I always go to Liv’s on Saturdays because it’s my mom’s busiest day at the store. In the morning she has story hour with the little kids; afternoon is book-of-the-week club; Saturday night is the poetry slam. Whenever I have a soccer game, my mom will get one of her assistant managers to cover for her, but today I don’t.
“You smell weird,” Liv says. We’re sitting on the parquet floor of her orange bedroom, painting our toenails.
“Thanks a lot,” I say, leaning back against one of Liv’s many vintage beanbag chairs. She finds them at tag sales. The more hideous the color, the better.
“Well, you do,” she says. “You smell burnt.”
“I know . It’s the cappuccinos. Bob’s obsessed with this café opening. He made me practice making espresso drinks all morning. They get into my pores.”
“It’ll wash off in the shower,” she says. “You are planning to take a shower . . .”
I give her arm a little shove.
“Good. Because this is going to be a big night, I can feel it. We’re going to dress you up. Dodd will do your hair. You’ll be like Cinderella! Riggs will take one look at you and—”
“What are you talking about?” I shove her again, harder.
“What? I saw you two at the scrimmage. Everyone did. It’s so obvious, Josie.”
“Well . . . OK, but that doesn’t mean . . . I mean, Peter Hersh could have been talking about someone else wanting me to come tonight. I don’t know, that little sophomore winger who’s always saying hi to me in the hall. What’s his name—Garth? Garrett?”
“Please.” Liv laughs. She hands me a bottle of top coat.
“Thanks.”
We sit in silence for a minute, finishing our toes. Then I say it. “What if he’s an asshole?”
Liv shrugs. “What if he’s the love of your life?”
“He cheated . On Missy.”
“They had an agreement.”
“Well,” I say. “Maybe.”
Liv unweaves the strip of toilet paper from between her toes, holds it to her upper lip. “Hey, who am I? . . . ‘Pee and flee, ladies. Pee and flee . ’ ”
I sigh. “Mr. Charney.” Mr. Charney, the hall monitor with the bushy mustache, who likes to stand outside the girls’ bathroom between class periods, holding a stopwatch. “Could we focus on me? Please?”
“Yes.” Liv uses the toilet paper to wipe a smudge of polish off my big toe. “Now you’re perfect.”
Suddenly, I have a stroke of genius. “Why don’t we go to the movies tonight? There’s that new Drew Barrymore playing at—”
“No.”
“But you love Drew Barrymore.” Fact. There’s a poster of Drew Barrymore next to Liv’s mirror. Liv blots her lipstick on it. She thinks Drew has great lips.
“Absolutely not,” Liv says.
“But—”
“Josie,” she says firmly. “We are going to the party, and you are going to face your fears.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re scared of getting hurt, and that’s holding you back from doing what you really want to do.”
“No, it’s not!” (Yes, it is.)
“You can’t change what you won’t admit.”
“OK, Dr. Steve.”
“Mock if you must,” Liv says, “but Dr. Steve happens to be a very wise person. He’s changed a lot of lives for the better.”
“I’m sure he has.”
“Josie.” Liv sighs. “You may not want to hear this, but I’m your best friend, and that means brutal truth, right?”
I nod.
“OK. . . . Matt Rigby is not your
When the movie is over, we polish off a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips, and we talk. We talk about Jonathan, who came back into the store last week and, as I’d predicted, asked my mom out for tomorrow night. We talk about school and soccer and Matt Rigby and mud and cappuccinos and books and celebrity gossip and the genocide in Darfur and everything under the sun.
That’s how it is with us.
After work the next day, I go to Liv’s house. I always go to Liv’s on Saturdays because it’s my mom’s busiest day at the store. In the morning she has story hour with the little kids; afternoon is book-of-the-week club; Saturday night is the poetry slam. Whenever I have a soccer game, my mom will get one of her assistant managers to cover for her, but today I don’t.
“You smell weird,” Liv says. We’re sitting on the parquet floor of her orange bedroom, painting our toenails.
“Thanks a lot,” I say, leaning back against one of Liv’s many vintage beanbag chairs. She finds them at tag sales. The more hideous the color, the better.
“Well, you do,” she says. “You smell burnt.”
“I know . It’s the cappuccinos. Bob’s obsessed with this café opening. He made me practice making espresso drinks all morning. They get into my pores.”
“It’ll wash off in the shower,” she says. “You are planning to take a shower . . .”
I give her arm a little shove.
“Good. Because this is going to be a big night, I can feel it. We’re going to dress you up. Dodd will do your hair. You’ll be like Cinderella! Riggs will take one look at you and—”
“What are you talking about?” I shove her again, harder.
“What? I saw you two at the scrimmage. Everyone did. It’s so obvious, Josie.”
“Well . . . OK, but that doesn’t mean . . . I mean, Peter Hersh could have been talking about someone else wanting me to come tonight. I don’t know, that little sophomore winger who’s always saying hi to me in the hall. What’s his name—Garth? Garrett?”
“Please.” Liv laughs. She hands me a bottle of top coat.
“Thanks.”
We sit in silence for a minute, finishing our toes. Then I say it. “What if he’s an asshole?”
Liv shrugs. “What if he’s the love of your life?”
“He cheated . On Missy.”
“They had an agreement.”
“Well,” I say. “Maybe.”
Liv unweaves the strip of toilet paper from between her toes, holds it to her upper lip. “Hey, who am I? . . . ‘Pee and flee, ladies. Pee and flee . ’ ”
I sigh. “Mr. Charney.” Mr. Charney, the hall monitor with the bushy mustache, who likes to stand outside the girls’ bathroom between class periods, holding a stopwatch. “Could we focus on me? Please?”
“Yes.” Liv uses the toilet paper to wipe a smudge of polish off my big toe. “Now you’re perfect.”
Suddenly, I have a stroke of genius. “Why don’t we go to the movies tonight? There’s that new Drew Barrymore playing at—”
“No.”
“But you love Drew Barrymore.” Fact. There’s a poster of Drew Barrymore next to Liv’s mirror. Liv blots her lipstick on it. She thinks Drew has great lips.
“Absolutely not,” Liv says.
“But—”
“Josie,” she says firmly. “We are going to the party, and you are going to face your fears.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re scared of getting hurt, and that’s holding you back from doing what you really want to do.”
“No, it’s not!” (Yes, it is.)
“You can’t change what you won’t admit.”
“OK, Dr. Steve.”
“Mock if you must,” Liv says, “but Dr. Steve happens to be a very wise person. He’s changed a lot of lives for the better.”
“I’m sure he has.”
“Josie.” Liv sighs. “You may not want to hear this, but I’m your best friend, and that means brutal truth, right?”
I nod.
“OK. . . . Matt Rigby is not your
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