Claudia looks up at me and gives me a soft smile. The first one she’s had since she walked into my bedroom.
“Just tell me if he kissed you. And if he was nice.”
I grin. “Yes,” I say. “And yes.”
Claudia smiles a little bigger now. “Good,” she says. “That helps.”
I crawl off my bed so I can play a song for Claudia. It’s another one by Bikini Kill, but it’s one of their few slow ones. It’s called “Feels Blind” and something about the way Kathleen Hanna’s voice cries out—demanding to be heard as she sings about women and hurting and hunger and pain—makes me want to cry each time I hear it. But cry in a way that makes me feel good, like I’m confessing a scary secret. Or abandoning the heaviest load.
As the song plays, I can feel the drums thud in my chest, and I slide back into my bed and lie down next to Claudia. She’s still staring at my bedroom ceiling, but I can tell she’s listening.
“This song,” she says, “it’s pretty great.”
“Yeah, it is,” I say, and I scoot closer and loop my fingers through hers, and I squeeze her hand hard and I hope she feels in her heart that the squeeze means I’ll be there for her. Always.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I smooth out the pages of Moxie’s next issue on the couch. The glow of the Christmas tree in the corner of our den casts a soft golden light over the pages.
“Looks cool,” Seth says.
“Did I show you what I’m putting inside each one?” I ask, handing him a stack of round, palm-sized stickers.
“Badass,” Seth answers, flipping one around in his hands. “As long as one doesn’t end up on my locker.”
I raise an eyebrow, and my heart starts to race. “Definitely not.”
“Like definitely not? Or…?” At this Seth leans in toward me, his grin growing. He kisses my neck, just under my ear, and I catch my breath because it feels so good. Then he’s kissing my mouth, pressing into me, the warmth of his chest against mine. He smells like spearmint. I can feel our bodies start to shift down into the soft couch cushions.
“Wait,” I say, pushing him back a little, “don’t squish Moxie.” I take the issue and toss it on the coffee table. “It’s my favorite issue so far.”
“Mine, too,” says Seth.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he answers, grinning. “Now where were we?” Seth says, like a guy in a cheesy movie, and we both start laughing before we start kissing, letting ourselves melt into the couch.
But soon the hoot, hoot of our owl-shaped kitchen clock reminds us that Seth has to leave. My mom will be home from work soon, and even though she knows that Seth and I have been hanging out almost every day over break, I don’t think she’d be too jazzed to see us kissing on the couch.
Or does what we were doing constitute making out?
Either way, it would be best if my mother didn’t see it.
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” I say. My lips sting, but in a good way.
“Me, too, but I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” Seth says, and somehow we stand up and make it to the back door. Seth kisses me one more time before ducking out and walking down the block to where his car is parked, out of sight and sound of Meemaw and Grandpa next door. I touch my fingers to my mouth as he walks off, like by pressing my lips I can make what just happened even more real in my mind.
I have a boyfriend. An actual boyfriend.
Grinning to myself, I head back to the den and scoop up all the copies of Moxie and the stickers I ordered online using the Visa gift card Meemaw and Grandpa gave me for Christmas (along with new socks, a set of fancy pens, and a book of recipes for cakes and cookies—Meemaw is pinning a lot on that Magic Squares incident). I tuck the zines and stickers into my backpack as my mom walks in.
“Hey, sweets,” she says.
“Hey,” I say, kissing her on the cheek.
“You okay? Ready to venture back to school tomorrow?”
I roll my eyes. “As ready as I’ll ever be. You okay?”
My mom sighs and drags her hands through her hair. As she pulls it up off her face, she looks younger for the tiniest second. Then she lets her hair drop, and she’s Mom again.
“I just had a little, I don’t know … argument, I guess … with John. He just worked my nerves a little is all.” She pulls a pint of ice cream out of the freezer and my heart flutters a little. I shouldn’t be glad that my mom is upset with John, but I can’t help it.
“What happened?” I ask, hoping that my voice is full of enough real-sounding concern.
She shrugs and carefully peels back the lid of some Rocky Road. “Just this argument about politics. He said he didn’t think Ann Richards was that great of a governor.”
I stare at her, confused.
“Ann Richards, sweetie. I’ve told you about her. She was the governor of Texas back in the ’90s and she was super tough and super smart.” She taps her finger on the bright pink refrigerator magnet that reads, “Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did—just backward and in high heels.”
“Ann loved quoting that line,” my mother tells me, smiling faintly.
“Oh yeah,” I say. I like hearing about tough ladies, but I’m anxious to make my mother relive something negative about John. “So what did John say?”
“Just that she wasn’t the most fiscally responsible governor, which is bullshit, really.” She takes another bite of ice cream and puts the pint back in the freezer, dumping the spoon in the kitchen sink without rinsing it. Then she looks up at the ceiling and sighs.
“Well, whatever, he’s wrong,” I say. “Ann Richards was awesome.”
“She most certainly was, baby,” my mother agrees.
“So what does that mean for you and John?” There’s a hopeful catch in my voice, and I wonder if my mom picks up on it.
But my mother just laughs at me like I’m some kid, which rankles me a little. “Oh, sweetie, John and I are fine,” she says. “Adults can disagree about politics sometimes. I mean, he didn’t say she belonged in the kitchen barefoot and pregnant or anything.”
I shrug. “I guess. But doesn’t someone’s politics reveal, like, a lot about them?”
My mother grins. “Sure, yes. I taught you that. But reasonable adults can disagree about certain things. John grew up in a very conservative home. He didn’t even go to public school until he was a teenager, so he’s had different life experiences and that’s influenced his views in some ways. Not liking Ann Richards’s financial policies doesn’t make John evil.”
“Okay,” I say. “As long as you don’t forget you’re right and he’s wrong.”
My mother smiles. “I won’t forget. Now get to bed. It’s late.”
As I slide under the sheets, I think about the copies of Moxie sitting in my backpack and Seth’s mouth on mine and how cool Seth is about Moxie. I’m sure if Seth knows who Ann Richards is, he loves her. And if he doesn’t know who she is, I’m convinced he would love her the minute I told him all about her.