Be the Girl

“Uneventful is good, from what I remember of high school.” Fetching a spray bottle from the edge of the porch, he spritzes the leaves.

The storm door creaks open and Mom steps out, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Aria, you’re home! Come on.” She nods, beckoning me inside.

The house smells of warm cinnamon. I inhale deeply. “What is that?”

“Muffins!” she exclaims, holding up a plate that’s sitting on the kitchen table. A streak of flour coats her forehead, and the apron covering her capris and T-shirt is dusted with more. “There are so many apples on the trees in the backyard, I don’t know what to do with them. I’m going to make a few batches of applesauce tomorrow.”

Gardening, baking … I stare at her with mock concern. “Who are you and what have you done to Debra Wiser? I mean, Jones,” I quickly correct.

“Ha. Funny. I’m actually enjoying domestic life.” She pulls a chair out. “Come, sit. Tell me three things that happened today.”

I groan. “Mom, I’m tired.”

“You heard Dr. C. We’re doing this, Aria,” she says in that firm voice that promises I’m not going to win this battle. I’ve often wondered if there was a course in law school on bending people to your will simply through tone of voice. She certainly didn’t learn it being an involved parent. “If there’s one thing I’ve realized, it’s that we don’t talk. So talk.” She slides forward a plate with a muffin. “And eat. But talk.”

“Fine.” I slump into the chair, slowly peeling away at the paper cup. “Number one: I had my meeting with Ms. Moretti. She seemed nice. She wants me to try out for cross-country.”

“That’s good news! And you said you would, right?”

“Number two: I’m going to think about going to the first cross-country practice next week. But I have to train a bit first. I’m so out of shape, I’m not showing up there to embarrass myself.” Especially not in front of a certain hot neighbor.

“You know, Heather mentioned that Emmett runs every morning,” Mom murmurs through a sip of tea, as if plucking his name from my mind. “Maybe you can go with him?”

I shrug, feigning indifference. “Number three: Emmett’s in my first-period class, so at least I know someone. Two people, actually. This girl named Jen is my ‘buddy.’” I air quote that word.

“That’s fantastic, Aria.” Mom’s shoulders seem to sag with relief.

“Mrs. Jones?” a male voice calls out, and the stairs creak.

“That’s the plumber,” Mom whispers, yanking off her apron and heading for the foyer, tucking her hair behind her ears and smoothing her shirt over her hips on the way. “It’s Ms. And Debra. Please,” she says, smiling. She hates being called Mrs. anything, especially since Dad cheated on her with a woman ten years younger.

“Right. Sorry. I’ve been warned once already, haven’t I?” the deep, smooth voice says with a chuckle, a moment before a lean man steps onto the landing and into my line of sight, his thumbs hooked on his tool belt.

I’d put him in his midforties, with crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and gray at his temples of otherwise light brown hair. “Something smells good in this house.”

“Oh! Here!” She rushes over to collect a napkin and a muffin. “They’re still warm from the oven.”

“I couldn’t,” he says, in the way that means he totally could. His gaze drifts to me, his blue eyes crinkling with a smile.

“I insist.” Mom thrusts a muffin into his hands. “Any news?”

“So, the washing machine and toilet are hooked up. I can change the shower faucet and valve upstairs to help with the temperature regulation, but that means cutting into the back bedroom closet to get to the pipes.”

“That’s fine. We can get someone in to patch it up. I was going to paint my room anyway.”

“I can do that for you, no problem. I do more than just plumbing.”

“That’s great!” She grins up at him as if that’s the best news she’s heard all day. “And what about the water pressure?”

The man’s cringe doesn’t bode well. “This house was built in the 50s, so all your pipes are galvanized. There’s decades of buildup. It’s only gonna get worse. You need to think about repiping the whole house.”

Mom groans. “I was afraid of that.”

“Sorry, I wish I had better news for you. I’d be happy to give you a quote if that’s something you want to look at doing. Going with PEX will save you a few thousand …”

I tune them out, gathering my backpack and muffin and ducking past to head to my bedroom.





6





Dear Julia,

So, I did it. I survived my first week at Eastmonte and it wasn’t that bad. Though, if I’m being honest—that’s what I’m supposed to be doing here, right?—it has more to do with Emmett. Between the ride to school and first period, my heartbeat doesn’t settle down to a normal, healthy rate until Math.

McNair doesn’t believe in assigned seating, but Jen and I sit together every day. I’ve managed to drag her away from the front of the class the last three days and we’ve sat behind Emmett. I’m beginning to think that’s a bad idea. I tend to zone out and miss notes. I can’t help it, though. He has a hot neck. I didn’t think that was a thing, but it is definitely a thing.

Of course, this also means I’m stuck watching Holly twirl his hair and paw his thigh every morning, too. She can’t seem to keep her hands off him. It’s annoying. But if I had free rein to paw Emmett Hartford, I’d be just as bad.

And, again, full honesty here, right? No judgment? I’m insanely jealous of her. Like, prays-she-says-something-dumb-hopes-she-bombs-a-test-crosses-my-fingers-that-she-accidentally-farts-in-front-of-everyone jealous. Something—anything—to make her a touch less perfect.

I know it’s wrong to wish that kind of stuff upon someone. But it’s how I feel. Don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone besides you.

At least she’s nice. She says hi to me and Jen every morning (though she keeps calling her Jennifer, emphasizing the FER, even after I made a point of saying JEN, emphasizing the JEN, within Holly’s earshot). Still, it would suck a hundred times over if she was a bitch.

Still … it sucks.

Talk later,

~AJ (Emmett’s been calling me that all week. I love it. I think I love him. Whoa! WAY too soon, right?)





“I like to eat early and in a quiet environment. That way I have time to digest before bed.” Uncle Merv hobbles up the path ahead of us, his usual green khaki pants swapped for black ones. Mom says he only has two pairs of pants that fit his waist, so she bought a few more and sent them to a seamstress to be tailored.

“Heather promised dinner for six.” Mom juggles the wine bottles in her grasp to free up a hand so she can fix the foil cover of the apple pie I’m holding, still warm from the oven. “Emmett had hockey this afternoon so they couldn’t do it earlier. And apparently, it’s rare to have a Saturday night without a game, so they wanted to take advantage while he’s available.”

“That kid and hockey,” he grumbles. “I guess it’s going to pay for his college, so there’s that. You reminded Heather that I can’t eat cauliflower, right? It gives me terrible gas.”

“I mentioned it.” Mom shares a look with me before turning away, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing.

Mark Hartford answers the door with a grin and dimples that match Emmett’s. There’s no doubt Emmett took after his father; they have the same brown eyes, olive skin, and chestnut brown hair—though Mark’s is peppered with gray and beginning to thin on top.

“Wine for the hosts. One red, one white.” Mom practically thrusts the bottles into his hands before collecting the dish from mine. “And a homemade apple pie that I hope isn’t too runny, for dessert.”