I look down at my sneakers and count to ten, focusing on the frayed edges of my shoelaces. When I look back up, Claire’s accusatory stare has wilted. “Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to escalate.”
I sigh, my anger still simmering. Every time this happens, it gets a little harder to grin and bear it. Claire was never entirely aboard the Let Olivia make her own sexual decisions! train, but she’s gotten a million times worse since May, when Lucas—her boyfriend of over a year—dumped her in a random and arbitrary fashion. Which was weird, since Lucas ostensibly is a nice person, but . . . well. There are secret assholes in the world. Big shocker.
She’s been single for six months now, and her offhand comments about my hookups have about exhausted my patience, which, God knows, is a nonrenewable resource. Opening my mouth takes herculean effort. “I’m sorry, too,” I manage. “I’ve had a not-excellent day.”
“Same.” After a long second, Claire tugs her bag from the desk. “Okay, I can’t wait around for this kid. I’m going to be late for practice. I’ll email you guys the info later.” She sneaks a cautious glance at me. “If you . . .”
I sigh, and a grudging compromise falls out with it: “I’ll run if you want me to.”
“Thanks.” Avoiding my eyes, she strides out of the classroom in her usual military fashion. We didn’t fix things—not even close.
Juniper leans against Mr. Gunnar’s desk, looking weary. “You two. What is happening these days?”
“I don’t know. Look, I’m sorry—it’s not your job to babysit us.”
She shrugs. “No, it’s okay. Is something up, though?”
“Not really. It’s just . . . I’m used to her worrying. That’s how she . . .”
“Of course. Works.”
“Yeah, how she works, yeah. But these days it feels like—I don’t know. She’s tightening in, or clamping down, and I’m like, please, will you back the fuck off? I swear to God, sometimes she thinks she’s my mom.”
The last word fades too slowly from the air.
“That’s a lot,” Juniper says, tilting her head. Her blond hair, loose again, sways in two thin curtains, framing her eyes. Those chips of wintry gray are as perceptive as always.
“Well, I mean it.” I cross my arms, feeling mutinous. “I don’t need Claire to replace anyone. And it sure as hell feels like she’s trying.”
“Have you told her that?”
“Nah. She’d do the whole ‘who, moi?’ thing, and I don’t know. I wouldn’t be able to take it seriously.”
“I can talk to her, if you’d like.”
I consider it for a second, but how childish would that be, sending Juniper as my ambassador? “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”
Juniper swings her legs, looking pensive. “Do you mind if I ask something?”
“Go for it.”
“I’m not questioning your judgment, but I’m curious: you could sleep with just one guy, so why go for more than one?”
I shrug. “Because my body belongs to me, and I get to make my own decisions?”
Juniper raises an eyebrow. “I mean beyond Feminist Theory 101, Olivia.”
I give her a sheepish grin. “Well, I’m not looking for anything serious. Somehow I doubt I’m gonna find the love of my life in high school, so . . . might as well have fun, right? Low stress, low commitment.” It falls off my tongue a little too fast. I give my head a quick shake. “Ready to go?”
Juni doesn’t push. She slides off the desk and follows me. She’s a reassuring silence at my shoulder as we hurry downstairs, past the lockers, and out the door.
Her question turns over and over in my head. I do like sex, and I do like making my own decisions, and I do like Feminist Theory 101. But something else about sleeping with people keeps me at it. Winding up beside someone, resting my head on his shoulder, relaxes me. That part outperforms the sex most of the time—no offense to the dudes involved.
But thinking about it too hard feels like second-guessing myself, and I already get so much shit for “whoring around,” as so many people have kindly put it—I don’t want to give my critics the tiniest hint of validation.
As we head across the green, I fold my arms tight against the chill. I try to forget Claire’s hurt expression and try to shake off thoughts of my mom. I shouldn’t have mentioned her to Juniper. Now she’s at the front of my mind, and she won’t go.
I always miss Mom more at this time of year. With Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas all in a row, thoughts of her are packed tight on the road to winter. Keeping everything locked away takes more energy than usual. Sometimes I take the memories out, dust them off, and look at them hard, and they glow a little around the edges. I still have the image of Mom’s delicate hands scooping pumpkin seeds into a bowl. “Oooh, pumpkin innards,” she’d say in a ghostly moan. “Katrina, Olivia, young mortals, assist me with the pumpkin intestines.”
These days, the house stays bare. Dad doesn’t say anything about it, but I get the feeling the empty space is easier for him. And Kat doesn’t say anything about it, but then again, Kat never says anything.
Juniper unlocks her car. I slip into the passenger seat, sliding it back to stretch my legs.
Juni presses a button. The engine purrs to life. “Kat doesn’t need a ride, does she?”
“Nah, Drama Club today,” I say. “I think she’s getting a ride after or something.” My twin sister must have occupied the “talented” half of the womb. Though I’ve developed quite the talent for sitting in audiences and applauding.
“Oh, hey. Our competition.” As she pulls the car forward, Juni nods to one side of the junior lot, where a tall boy sprawls on top of a black Camry. “Over there.”
I straighten up and almost whack my head on the ceiling. Peering out my window, I spy Matt Jackson, who lies back, texting. I’ve never looked hard at the guy before. He looks foxlike, with the forward set of his facial features and the fringe of fire-red dye at the tips of his rusty hair.
Juniper’s car dips over a speed bump. From his car roof, Matt Jackson turns toward us, and I look away. Not fast enough.
“Ah, shitshitshit,” I say. “He’s totally looking at me. He totally saw me creeping.”
“Don’t worry,” Juniper says. “He’ll never guess we’re planning his political assassination.” She lets out a maniacal laugh.
I grin. “Yeah, you’ve always struck me as a John Wilkes Booth sort of girl.”
“June Wilkes Booth, even.”
I groan, sinking low in my seat. Juniper, looking pleased with herself, turns the radio on. The sound system emits a deep, start-up hum, and one of Paganini’s Caprices sings out of the speakers. Juni’s left hand, her nails cut short, plays along on the steering wheel.
By the time we pull out of the parking lot and down the street, the day’s problems have faded in the distance, left back at Paloma High School with its waxed hallways, defaced bathroom stalls, and all the students who think it’s their job to judge me.