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“So, what’s going on?” I ask her when I join her in the rec room. She’s squinting at the TV, because even though the front of our house is shrouded in pine trees, the back overlooks the valley below and the setting sun is casting such a harsh glare on the screen that you can hardly make out the images.
“Just suffering,” Betsey says. She has a heating pad on her midsection and a bowl of ice cream in her hands. My period started this morning, too, like I’m sure Ella’s did. The difference is that to us, it’s nothing.
“I’m sorry, Bet,” I sympathize. “Do you want anything?”
“I want the stupid sun to go away,” she says. “Can you make that happen?”
I stand up and pull closed the heaviest drapes in the world: the kind you see in hotel rooms that start at the tip-top of the room and refuse to let in the tiniest smidgen of light. We stayed in two hotels on the drive from Florida to California and loved the room service and indoor swimming pools.
“Done,” I say as I flop back onto the couch opposite Betsey’s. “What are we watching?”
“You pick,” she says, tossing me the remote. “I don’t have the energy to flip.”
I start changing channels but don’t find anything, so I end up back where we started. When the half hour turns, a rerun of Friends begins. It’s extremely funny to the point that my side hurts I’m laughing so hard. At the first commercial break, I begin the chatter again.
“So, are there any cute guys at night class?” I ask. Betsey shrugs from her sickbed.
“Not really,” she says. “They’re all nerds trying to get ahead.”
“Like us.”
“I guess,” Betsey says. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it… there might be better things to do with our Monday and Wednesday nights.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Skydiving. Miniature golfing. Things that are fun.”
“You want to go skydiving at night?” I ask, laughing.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I wonder what Mom would say if we asked to go skydiving.”
Betsey looks at me and we both burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of the idea. When we’ve recovered, she says quietly, “I think Mom overreacted about the whole quiz thing.” I look back at the TV; the commercials are on mute. “Switching our schedules and all.”
“Me, too,” I say, not really wanting to talk about Mom. Thankfully, the show comes back on. But then it’s hard for me to pay attention; I’m distracted by memories.
“How about in second half?” Bet interrupts my thoughts. I focus and realize that we’re already at another commercial break. I look at her quizzically. “Guys?” she explains. And then thoughts of Mom are gone, replaced by Sean. My face must give it away, because she sets down her ice-cream bowl and sits up excitedly.
“Tell me!” she says. I’m grinning so hard I have to take a deep breath to relax my face so the words can come out.
“His name is Sean and I sit behind him in creative writing,” I report. Bet’s eyes are wide and sparkling like a little girl’s. “He’s adorable, but in an unexpected way. And tall, but he doesn’t hunch over or anything. And he’s super nice and funny and he waited for me after class to walk me to cheer.”
“Ohmygod, what else?”
“Let’s see… he’s a little obsessed with his iPhone, but he’s into creative stuff like obviously writing but photography, too, and did I mention he looks like a superhero?”
“Like Superman?”
“More like a less nerdy Clark Kent,” I say. “No, wait, he’s like Clark Kent’s less nerdy son who fronts an indie rock band.”
“Is he in a band?” Betsey asks, her voice high-pitched.
“No, I don’t think so,” I say. “But he’s super cool.”
“And you like him,” Betsey says in a dreamlike voice, as if she’s caught up in a particularly great movie love scene instead of talking about my life.
