Luke drops by every night after school for the next week.
We sit on the couch for hours and talk about everything and nothing all at once. Like on Wednesday, we start chatting about French, I quiz him on some Spanish homework, and then, I’m not sure how we make the leap, but we’re talking about cheese. Cheese. We spend the next hour discussing Cheddar as if the survival of humanity was at stake. He tells me his favourite kind is cashew nut cream cheese. I’ve never tried that. Shocker. Maybe I will start making a list of things I’d like to try . . . on second thoughts, that might do more harm than good. I’m not even sure we have enough paper in the house to cover it.
The space on the couch between us stays the same, lingering like a chaperone at junior prom, forever ensuring we don’t get too close. Not that there’s any chance of that. He doesn’t mention the handholding. Neither do I.
It’s Friday morning, and, as per usual, Mom is reading the paper. Not the real paper; they’re still not allowed in the house. This thing is a broadsheet called You and Your Garden Monthly. The scariest thing in there is an article about a successful aphid massacre in Minnesota. I checked. With bated breath, I stir the oatmeal in my bowl. It’s thick and creamy and smells amazing, but I can’t swallow it down yet because something is on my mind.
‘Mom.’
‘Hmm?’ She replies from miles away in her planter’s paradise.
Deepest of breaths. ‘When Luke comes over later, would it be okay if we watched a movie in my bedroom?’
The paper goes down and she eyeballs me from over the top of her wire reading glasses.
‘Should I be worried?’
‘No.’ I shake my head, whip my hair into a frenzy.
‘Have you gotten comfortable with him touching you yet?’
‘Sort of . . .’ In retrospect, I could have probably said no.
‘What does that mean? Exactly?’ She folds You and Your Garden Monthly in half, sets it down beside her empty bowl.
‘It means we take all our clothes off, and he turns into a koala, clings to me like a tree while we watch TV.’
Mom chokes on the sip of tea she’s just taken. ‘Norah Jane Dean.’
‘It was a joke.’
‘Obviously,’ she says. ‘I’m just a little shocked you made it.’
Her shock would be less, I’m sure, if she knew how hard I was working to keep a mental image of the aforementioned out of my mind. I take half a second to wonder if Luke would find my quip amusing. It’s a joke at his expense, after all, having an abnormal girlfriend, one he can’t touch.
‘So what is “sort of” comfortable?’ Mom prods.
‘I touched his hand last week, you know, before the fear kicked in.’
Mom pushes her glasses back on top of her head. I foresee a disaster when it comes to pulling them free from her hair later.
‘Does he get it?’
‘Get what?’
‘Your limitations?’
I’m not really sure what she’s asking. ‘I mean, we’ve talked about it a lot.’
‘But does he understand?’ Mom says, her Dr Reeves impression almost perfect. I load my mouth with a spoonful of porridge and nod. Nope. I still don’t have a clue what she wants to know, but a serious note in her voice suggests another ill-timed intervention, and I’m not sure I can handle two of those in one week. I’m still considering the scratching issue. ‘It’s nice to see you smiling,’ she says and I have a sneaking suspicion she’s decided it’s not worth pursuing this line of questioning. At least not yet.
‘So . . . is that a yes?’ I flap my lashes, throw my best grin in her face.
‘Sure,’ she says.
I’m sitting at the top of the stairs, using my teeth to file down the corner of my thumbnail, when Luke knocks.
‘I’ll get it!’ I yell, sprinting down the stairs, excitement level off the charts as I bunny-hop back up the last step before heading to the door. Mom laughs at me from the living room. She’s been swallowed. All that’s left of her is a pair of feet in penguin slippers hanging over the arm of the couch.
‘Hi.’ I’m a little out of breath when I answer the door. Worse when I’m done soaking up his smile.
‘You like vanilla ice cream, right?’ he says, holding up a brown paper bag. ‘Not the vanilla pod stuff. I remembered that thing you said about not liking black bits in your food. Assumed you were being literal.’ See. He does understand.
‘Aww,’ Mom coos from inside the mouth of the couch.
Luke winces like he just coughed too loud in church. ‘I didn’t know your mom was home,’ he whispers. Lately, she’s been doing a great job of making herself scarce.
‘That’s okay. We’re going upstairs,’ I tell him and lead the way.