“No, some girls in England are talking about you,” I say.
“Oh, shut up,” she says. But I hear pride in her voice. And amazement. “I’ll see you later.”
“Can’t wait.”
After Lucy and I hang up, Claudia stops studying her phone and tosses it aside. She takes a few more mouthfuls of chocolate ice cream and asks, “So what is going to happen next? With Wilson, I mean. I don’t think he’s going to expel us, but do you think he’s going to pretend this never happened?”
“I don’t think he can,” I say, checking my phone. “Hey, look. It’s starting to get picked up by local news stations.” I catch a glimpse of Seth in one of the shots on a local news site, and I scroll through my texts, hoping for one from him. But there’s nothing.
Claudia and I venture into the den with Joan Jett following, and that’s where my mom finds us not much later, sitting on the couch and flipping through the local channels, listening to the big-haired news anchors talk about what they’re referring to as “a major protest” at East Rockport High.
“I just heard something about this on the radio,” my mom says, her eyes focusing on the television screen. “Vivvy,” she says, her mouth opening, her eyes widening. “Sweetheart, is that you on TV?”
*
Mom sets her phone down on the kitchen counter and rubs at her ear.
“Well, I think I finally convinced Meemaw and Grandpa that you’re not going to prison,” she says. Curled up in a corner on the couch, I eye my mom, who’s been very quiet since I admitted to starting Moxie by making the zines—something that sparked Claudia’s urgent need to go home.
“Are they mad?” I ask, my voice small. Mom doesn’t answer, just walks over to the cabinet where she keeps a small bottle of bourbon. She drops two ice cubes into a juice glass—plink, plunk—and then pours a decent amount of amber liquid over them. Only after she takes a generous swallow does she answer.
“I don’t think they’re mad, Vivvy. Just shocked.” She heads into the den and curls up next to me on the couch. “The Vivian they know wouldn’t do something like this.”
“Are you mad?” I ask.
Sip. Another sip. My heart pounds.
“I think,” she says, her voice soft, her words carefully chosen, “that I’m finally realizing that you’re more my daughter than I ever realized. And that the Vivian I know is … growing up.”
I hug my knees to my chest. “Is that … a bad thing?” My voice cracks a bit, surprising me.
At this, my mom’s eyes turn glassy almost immediately. She presses her fingertips up to her eyes, then gives up. A few tears snake their way down her face.
“Mom, please don’t be mad,” I say, scooting toward her. I guess I didn’t expect my mom to be thrilled. But I didn’t expect her to be acting like whatever this is.
“Oh, Vivian, I’m not mad,” she says. “I mean, maybe, like, 10 percent mad. That you kept it all such a secret.” She pauses, her voice a little wounded. “You didn’t feel like you could tell me?”
“Mom, I’m sorry,” I say, shifting with guilt. “It’s not that I didn’t think I could. It’s just … something I wanted to do on my own. But it’s not because I didn’t think I could trust you with it.”
“Okay,” she whispers. “Just so long as you always feel you can tell me anything.”
“I know I can, Mom,” I say. And then, maybe to make her feel like she was involved all along, I tell her, “I got the idea from your box of Riot Grrrl stuff, you know.”
“I knew I should have hidden that box in the attic,” she says, rolling her red-rimmed eyes.
“So you’re not crying because you’re mad?” I ask.
My mom shakes her head. “No, I’m crying because … because … hell, I don’t know why I’m crying. Because I’m proud and surprised. And because I’m old and you’re young—but not so young anymore, it seems. Because life is weird sometimes, and just when I think I have it figured out something weird happens again.”
“So you’re really … proud?” I ask, twisting my mouth into a hopeful smile.
She eyes me over the glass of bourbon.
“Truthfully?” she says. “Yeah.”
My hopeful smile grows bigger.
She nods and takes another swallow from her glass. “Honestly,” she says, “I almost want Principal Wilson to try and expel you and all the other girls.” She laughs out loud all of a sudden, so loud she sends Joan Jett running out of the den. “If that asshole thinks he’s going to get half the girls in the school kicked out because he tried to cover up an attempted rape, he’s going to have to deal with me!” She punches an arm in the air, giddy.
“Okay, Mom, settle down,” I say.
My mother is about to answer me when the doorbell rings. It’s almost 9 o’clock at night.
“Is it John?” I ask, peering over my shoulder toward the front of the house.
“No, he’s still at work,” my mother says, heading toward the door. A few moments later she walks back into the den.
Seth is with her.
This fucking day.
“I’m sorry it’s late,” he says, glancing first at my mom, then at me. “I just really wanted to talk to Viv. In person.”
My mouth is dry. My arms have goose bumps. And Seth is standing there, looking at me with his dark eyes. I remember his thumbs-up from the walkout earlier today.
“Hey,” I say.
My mother’s eyes ping-pong between us until she finally speaks.
“Look, I might be a semi-cool mom or whatever, but you’re staying here in the den and I’m going to my bedroom,” she says. “I’ll have my door open halfway, by the way.” She gives me a knowing look and starts heading down the hallway before running back to grab the bottle of bourbon.
“So, hey,” Seth says after my mom leaves at last. He slides his hands into his jeans pockets.
“You want to sit down?” I ask him, and it hits me that I want him to sit down next to me so much. Like, I want him to sit down next to me for a really long time.
So Seth takes a seat on the couch, but he leaves a good foot or two of distance between us. He’s wearing the Black Flag T-shirt I like so much. He jiggles his knee. He gazes at our television even though it’s turned off.
I think he’s nervous.
“So…,” he says. “Some walkout, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was pretty crazy.”
“Really crazy. But really cool, too.”
I scoot a little closer to him. I nudge him gently with my shoulder. He manages to look at me.
“Thanks for walking out with us,” I say.
He nods slowly, slides his mouth into a soft grin, remembering.
“You should have seen Mitchell after you followed Emma out and other girls got up to join you,” he says. “He looked like someone had just puked up rotten eggs right in the middle of his lap.”
“I really wish I could have seen that,” I tell him. I inch the teeniest bit closer.
“If I had to describe it, I would say it was the look of someone who’s always been told he’s untouchable finally fucking realizing that he isn’t,” says Seth. “It was pretty glorious. And after that I just got up and walked out.”
I slide my hand toward Seth’s. I graze his knuckles with my fingertips.
“Is this okay?” I ask.