“You’re home early,” I say, setting down my backpack on the kitchen table. I thought I’d have at least an hour or two of getting-ready time in which to practice expressions and witty repartee in the bathroom mirror with my music blaring in the background.
“Hey, sweetie,” my mom says, coming over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Power went out at work. Something about a screwed-up electrical box. So I get a free afternoon off.” She walks back to the kitchen counter and spreads mustard on a piece of whole wheat.
“So,” I start, my heart thumping. I’m actually kind of embarrassed to talk about Seth with my mom. I mean, don’t get me wrong. My mom has always been 100 percent straight-up amazingly honest about sex and puberty and all that hormone shit, but it’s a lot easier to have those conversations when it’s all just theory, not practice. I mean, not that I’m going to be doing it with Seth tonight or anything. I’m not even sure he likes me Like That. Even though I totally pray that he does.
“So … what?” my mom asks. She stops making her sandwich as she listens to my plans for the night. When I finish talking she gives me a small smile, but her eyes are wide with surprise.
“So, I can go, right?” I can’t believe she’ll say no, but I realize I’m holding my breath.
My mom presses her lips together, thinking for a second. “Oh … sure. Yes, of course you can go. I mean, I’d like to meet this guy first, of course.” She pauses, then laughs and shakes her head a bit. “Listen to me. I sound like a mom in a John Hughes movie.”
I exhale. “Well, he’s picking me up around 7.”
“So you’re not going to the game?”
“No … we’re just going to get something to eat, I think. You’re going to the game, right?”
“I was going to go with John, but I can meet him there later.” She glances down at her half-made sandwich, like she’s just remembering it’s there. I stand in the middle of the kitchen. We’re in uncharted territory, and everything feels a little off-kilter.
“You don’t have to wait or anything,” I say.
“No, I want to,” she insists. “And as far as what time you should be home … have I ever even given you a curfew, my obedient, well-behaved daughter?” She laughs again, but it’s almost a nervous laugh.
I shake my head no and bristle a bit at her description of me. It’s true the only places I go are my girlfriends’ houses for sleepovers. Or sometimes to cruise the Sonic or the DQ on Saturday nights. My mother has never had to give her duitiful Viv a curfew. It makes me feel like a dork.
“Let’s say 10-ish, okay? I’ll be home from the game by then.”
I nod. Anyway, I’m not sure I’ll even be able to find enough to talk about with Seth for three hours without passing out from anxiety.
“Well, I hope you have a great time,” my mom says, and this time her cheer seems more sincere. I head to my room to contemplate outfits, trying to shake off the awkwardness between us.
Butterflies is too small a word to describe what’s going on in my stomach when Seth pulls up to my house at five minutes after seven. I peer through my bedroom window, my heart hammering. I see him get out of the car, slam the door to the red Honda he’s driving, and head up the front steps. I blink and swallow. How can he be showing up to my house? To see me?
“Viv!” my mom calls out from the kitchen. “Your friend is here!”
Your friend? You’re making this sound like a playdate, Mom.
I walk out, hoping my black jeans and my mom’s old Houston Oilers T-shirt are cool but not trying too hard.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” Seth says back, nodding.
“Mom, this is Seth from school.” What kind of a ridiculous introduction is that? Where else would he be from? The bus station downtown? The meth house?
“Hi,” Seth says to my mom, who’s stretching out a hand. She and Seth shake and she’s pretty normal, actually, only asking how long it’s been since his family moved to town. He gives sentence-long responses, but not kiss-ass answers, which is good because my mom could see through that in a heartbeat.
“Well,” my mom says as Seth and I start to scoot toward the door, “have fun then, and I’ll see you by 10.” As she walks us out, she presses something into my hand. Once we head outside I peek down and see it’s a twenty. I slide it into my jeans pocket and catch my mother’s eye. She gives me a smile, and I smile back.
“So, I get the sense the town’s going to be dead, huh?” Seth says, pulling out onto the street. “Because of the game? I didn’t think about that before.”
“Yeah,” I say. “All the fast-food places are closed. Most of the restaurants, too.” Seth is driving out of my neighborhood, heading up Broadway toward town. He can’t have had his license for too long, but he drives cool somehow, his head back and his hands casually resting at the bottom of the steering wheel. After we get going, he adjusts the volume. The tinny sound of some band I don’t recognize but that sounds pretty catchy starts to spill out of the speakers.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Not really,” I say. The truth is I’m too nervous to eat, but I forced myself to down a granola bar before he came so my stomach wouldn’t start grumbling. “Maybe later after it opens we can cruise the Sonic.”
“Wait,” Seth says, pulling up to a stop light and turning to look at me. “What’s ‘cruise the Sonic’?”
I grin, and my eyebrows pop up.
“Cruising the Sonic and the DQ is, like, what we do here on weekends. It just means driving aimlessly around those places to see who’s hanging out there and who you can talk to or whatever.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “You didn’t cruise the Sonic in Austin I’m guessing.”
Seth laughs. “No. Definitely not.” His eyes glance out the driver’s side window at the empty strip malls and storefront churches and resale shops. “I’m still getting used to this place.”
It feels easier, somehow, to talk when we’re in a moving car. I don’t have to look Seth in the eyes. I can glance out my own window instead.
“You must miss it, I guess?” I ask. “Austin, I mean.”
“That’s an understatement,” Seth says. He twists his mouth a bit like he’s considering what to say next. “The things is, my parents are artists. I mean, honestly, they can call themselves that because my mom comes from a shitload of money, if I can speak frankly. My grandparents are loaded and she lives off this trust. So she and my dad spend all their time prepping their art for different gallery shows. They do stuff with, like, textiles. My mom said she wanted to get away from Austin since it’s growing so fast and it’s not like it used to be in the ’80s or whatever. Like she needed some authentic small-town experience to be a real artist.”
“So they picked here?” I ask, incredulous. “Of all the small towns in America?”
“Yeah,” Seth says, his voice heavy. “I don’t think it occurred to them that it wouldn’t have killed them to wait two more years until I was done with high school. But whatever.” A tiny frown crosses his face.