Lucy smiles again. Then her eyes grow big with excitement. “Hey, I was just thinking. Do you want to come over to my house for dinner tonight? We could hang out after. I mean, if you’re up for it.”
It’s the first time Lucy has asked me to hang out just the two of us. My initial thought is Claudia and what she might say. But then I remember that my mom and I are supposed to have dinner at Meemaw and Grandpa’s.
“I wish I could, but we’re going to my grandparents’ for dinner,” I say, halfway grateful for the out, halfway disappointed.
Lucy’s shoulders sink. “Okay, I understand.”
“But I’d love to come over sometime,” I add. Maybe Claudia wouldn’t even have to know.
“Cool,” Lucy says, brightening.
“Cool,” I offer in agreement.
During class I find myself glancing at Lucy’s hands. By the time the bell rings, I’ve filled my notebook with hearts and stars, and my mind is churning with ideas.
*
That evening, just before we’re supposed to head over to Meemaw and Grandpa’s, my mom finds me in my bedroom, spread out on my bed doing homework.
“Hey, Vivvy,” she says, her voice soft, “I wanted to let you know that I’m planning on meeting John for a drink at the Cozy Corner later tonight. Is that okay?”
“On a weeknight?” I ask, shoving my math book aside.
My mom tucks some of her long, dark hair behind her ear and offers me a shy grin. “Well, our shifts are really different this weekend, and we won’t be able to hang out. I mean, you know, to go out. So we thought it might be nice to get together this evening.”
“You must really like him, huh?” I ask. “I mean, if you’re seeing him on a weeknight.” My mom’s face falls a little bit. Maybe my words sound more accusatory than I intend them to be.
Or did I mean it?
My mother stands there for a moment, looking at me like she’s trying to figure out a math problem. I know I should say something, reassure her that I’m cool with everything, but I can’t. Even though I know I should be, I’m not cool with everything. I just don’t know what she sees in him.
At last she shrugs and says, “I like him, Viv. He’s a really good person. And a hard worker. He’s one of ten kids, and his parents didn’t help him at all. He put himself through college and med school.” Her tone is blunt—irritated even.
“I never said he wasn’t a good person or a hard worker,” I answer, rolling over onto my back and talking to the ceiling. “I’m glad he’s nice.” A little rock forms in my stomach.
Silence.
Finally my mom says, “We can talk about it more when I get home tonight, if you want to.”
“Okay, but there’s nothing really to talk about,” I say, wishing this conversation wasn’t happening. “It’s really totally fine.”
I hear my mom take a breath. I stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars above me, dull and plastic under my bright bedroom lights. I can tell without looking that my mother is trying to figure out what to say next. Finally, she tells me, “We should make a move.”
“Yeah, we should,” I say, and I slide off the bed and walk toward the front door of our house like everything’s normal and fine even though everything feels strange and off-kilter between me and my mom, and it’s probably my fault but I have no idea how to fix it.
*
As we sit down for dinner at Meemaw and Grandpa’s, Meemaw asks Mom how late we can stay, and Mom answers not for too long because she’s going out with John. My grandparents don’t seem too surprised, so I guess my mom has filled them in on John’s existence.
“I hope we can meet this young man at some point,” Meemaw says, carefully setting down a Stouffer’s meat loaf in the middle of the dining room table. She slips off her rooster-decorated oven mitts and we pause for a minute while Grandpa says the blessing.
“Oh, you’ll meet him at some point,” my mother says, passing her plate toward Meemaw. “And Mom, we’re both in our forties. I wouldn’t exactly refer to him or me as young.”
“As long as your knees don’t sound like popping popcorn when you stand up, you’re still young,” Grandpa dictates, and Mom gives me a knowing look and grins. I smile back. Some things between my mom and me—like getting a kick out of Grandpa—are so habitual that it’s impossible to fight. The weirdness between us fades a bit.
“So how’s school, Vivvy?” Meemaw asks, dishing out my serving.
I frown. “They’re going crazy cracking down on the dress code. But only the girls.”
My mom takes a bite of meat loaf and looks confused. “What do you mean ‘only the girls’?”
“Like pulling girls out of class because their pants are too tight or they’re showing too much skin. Then the girls have to wear ugly gym shirts over their clothes for the rest of the day as, like, a punishment.” I hear Lucy’s words from Monday’s lunch in my ears. “It’s ridiculous. Why should girls be responsible for what boys think and do? Like the boys aren’t able to control themselves?”
Grandpa and Meemaw are silent, looking at me with careful eyes. I guess they’re not used to their dutiful Viv getting so upset.
My mother’s brow is furrowed, and she pauses before saying, “I think you’re exactly right, Vivvy. It sounds ridiculous to me. It also sounds like classic East Rockport High.”
I tingle with validation. “It really is,” I mutter. The conversation about John slips further out of my mind.
“Well,” Grandpa says, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin, “as the only person sitting here who was once a teenage boy, I can tell you, they only have one thing on their minds.”
Meemaw slaps Grandpa on the shoulder with her napkin in this good-natured way, but my mom sighs loudly and throws down her own napkin in protest.
“Dad, that’s ridiculous,” she starts. “It’s just contributing to the narrative that girls have to monitor their bodies and behaviors, and boys have the license and freedom to act like animals. Don’t you think that’s unfair to girls? Don’t you think that’s shortchanging boys? The whole thing is just toxic.” She finishes her little speech with a huff, and I feel like I’ve caught a glimpse of her looking like the girl in the Polaroid in her MY MISSPENT YOUTH shoe box. The one with the dyed hair and the friend with the piercing and the RIOTS NOT DIETS slogan scribbled down one arm. That girl still exists, I know it. Even if I can’t quite figure out how that girl is the same woman who is hanging out on a weeknight with Republican John.
“Oh, Lisa, let’s not start,” Meemaw says, her hands hovering over the dinner table. “Your dad was just trying to be funny.”
My mom takes a deep breath. I haven’t seen her this frustrated with Meemaw and Grandpa in a long time. It’s quiet for a moment. I wait, wondering how much she’ll push back. Kind of wanting her to do it, too, even if Grandpa doesn’t mean any harm.