I spy my mom way down at the front of the bleachers, behind the team bench, watching the game but not clapping or shouting or anything. She doesn’t see me. I purposely ignore looking too carefully at the mass of men and boys on the East Rockport sideline. I don’t want to spot John.
The Pirates win, so we don’t have to kill ourselves, and even though I’ve had a lot of fun with Lucy, once Claudia and I drop her off and she waves and thanks us for inviting her, like, five times as she gets out of the car, I’m grateful it’s just me and my best friend since forever.
“Wanna spend the night?” I ask Claudia. I’m not crazy about going home to an empty house, the emptiness forcing me to imagine my mom and Republican John at the Cozy Corner.
“Sure, why not,” Claudia answers, and the fact that she doesn’t have anything with her doesn’t matter, because we spend the night at each other’s houses so often that we keep toothbrushes and extra sets of pajamas there.
Later, after we’ve changed and spent some time catching up with stuff on our phones and eating pretzels dipped in peanut butter and talking about how John is all wrong for my mom, we collapse into my double bed. The glow-in-the-dark star stickers light up for a little while before the room slips into darkness.
“I like Lucy,” I say, staring at the fading stars.
“Yeah,” Claudia agrees, yawning. “She’s cool.”
“I think that game was, like, culture shock.”
Claudia rolls toward me. “Yeah, she hasn’t been indoctrinated since birth.” We both laugh.
In the dark I can’t see if the hearts and stars on my hands have faded. It seems like so long ago that I tried to wash them off in the bathroom sink at school. “You know,” I say, “I think it’s kind of cool that she calls herself a feminist.”
Claudia doesn’t answer right away. For a second I think she’s already fallen asleep.
“Yeah, I guess,” she says, and I can tell she’s being really careful about what words she uses.
“You mean you’re not sure it’s cool?” I ask, choosing my words carefully, too.
“I mean, I just think you don’t have to label it,” Claudia says. “Like the word feminist is a really scary, weird word to people. It makes people think you hate men. I’d rather just say I’m for, you know, equality.”
“But isn’t that what feminism is?” I say. “Equality? I don’t think it means you can’t want to go out with guys. I mean, I’m not trying to be difficult or whatever.” The truth is, I hate disagreements. Especially with Claudia. Which is why we’ve literally never had a single fight in all our years of being friends.
“No, no, I get it,” Claudia says, and I know she wants this conversation to end. “I mean, I think you can call it humanism or equalism or peopleism or whatever.” She yawns again, louder this time. “I just think girls and guys should be treated the same.”
“Me, too,” I say.
“So we agree,” Claudia says.
“Of course,” I say, even though I don’t actually think we do.
Claudia yawns one last time, and, after we wish each other good night, I hear the gentle, even breathing of my best friend, signaling to me that she’s drifted off. All of a sudden, my mind is wide awake even though I thought I was tired. It replays through the day, and I find myself thinking of the hearts and stars on Lucy’s hands. On Kiera’s hands. On Seth’s.
Lying there, staring at the ceiling, listening to Claudia breathe, I realize I’m waiting. Waiting for what, I’m not sure. Maybe for the sound of my mother’s keys in the front door. Or maybe for something important to start for real.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As October stretches on, Lucy Hernandez starts eating lunch with Claudia, me, and our other friends. Sometimes when she gets to the lunch table first, she pats the empty chair next to her and says, “Viv, sit here!” Once I catch Claudia rolling her eyes at this, but she does it so slightly I think I’m the only one who notices. With her sincere, bubbly personality, Lucy fits in pretty easily. And I make sure I sit next to Claudia as often as I sit next to Lucy.
Just as Lucy has joined us at lunch, it seems like Republican John is joining my mom’s life, whether I like it or not. One evening, a few weeks after my mom goes to the Pirates game with him, they have dinner plans, and my mom gives me a heads up that he’s coming over to meet me officially. (“He’s nice, Vivvy, and I think you’ll really like him!”) My mom’s in her room getting ready when he rings the doorbell, so I have to let him in. He’s dressed in some dumb button-down shirt and khakis. At least his scruffy, red beard is trimmed for the occasion.
“Hey, Viv,” he says, smiling way too big.
“Hey,” I answer back. I smile, too, to be polite. Then I lead him into the kitchen as my mom hollers, “Just a sec!” from down the hallway. Standing there, John examines the refrigerator and the dishwasher like they’re the most interesting appliances he’s ever seen. I lean against the kitchen counter, my face neutral. Maybe the polite thing would be to offer him a glass of water. But I’ve already smiled at him, so I figure I’m okay.
“So how’s school treating you, Viv?” John asks, finally cracking the awkward silence.
“Oh,” I say, pushing out another smile, “you know. The usual.”
“Yeah,” he says, crossing his arms and immediately uncrossing them. “I’ll bet.” What can John know about my school anyway? He grew up in Clayton, not East Rockport, but if he’s the kind of doctor who wants to work with the football team, I’m willing to bet his high school experience was nothing like mine. He was probably president of the Young Conservatives and sat at the jock table.
Just then my mom walks out wearing this gorgeous green dress and strappy sandals. This is no casual dinner.
“Hey!” she says, her eyes bright. John grins back at her, and I wish I could disappear.
“Hey!” he says. Then he slips a paperback out of the pocket of his pants. “Before I forget, I have that Faulkner novel I was telling you about. I mean, if you were serious about wanting to borrow it.” I guess he’s trying to wow her with his intellectual prowess, but my mom just thanks him in that high, tinkly voice and says, “We’ll see if this is the one that gets me to change my mind about his work.”
“I promise, you’ll love it,” John says. Gag. Why is he trying to get my mom to like an author she told him she didn’t like?