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“Of course I am,” I joke. “But about what specifically?”
She laughs. “You’re growing up. You’re practically a woman.” She reaches over and brushes a piece of lint off my hoodie.
“Ew, Mom, don’t talk about me being a woman in public,” I say, which makes her chuckle again.
“Sorry, Elizabeth.” She only calls me Elizabeth when we’re out of the house together. “I’m just sentimental.”
“It’s okay. I get what you’re saying.”
I nod toward the door and Mom follows. As we walk into the bright sun, I’m happy to be spending time with her, and I even start to feel a little nostalgic. I think of the lime-green playhouse in Florida that she bought used and decorated with scrap wallpaper and carpeting. She’d fold herself in with all three of us so we could snuggle and read bedtime stories. She’d sing us this made-up song called “Three Little Birdies”; I always loved it.
On one of the walls, she hung labeled pictures, cut out of magazines and books, of far-off people and places—I think she wanted us to be worldly even though we never went anywhere. The thought of how hard Mom worked to make ours a happy home squeezes my heart. In this moment, I feel close to her again, just like we used to be.
Two hours later, I hate my mother with all the fiery passion I possess.
At dinner, she drops the bomb: We’re approved to date David Chancellor. Apparently, she has a friend in the counselor’s office at school and—Who really cares why or how? The bottom line is that on paper at least, David’s better than Sean.
As Ella and Betsey ask logistical questions, like “Are we really going to split dating him or can Ella go out at night if there’s a nighttime date?” I think of nothing but how Mom probably knew what her decision was going to be when she made me go to the bookstore today. Why did she even bother to ask about Sean if she was planning to nix my chances with him later?
>“You pick the guy,” Betsey blurts out. Ella and I both look at her, eyes wide with surprise.
“You can’t be serious,” I say to her.
“Actually, it’s a good idea,” Mom says. “Who you date matters. We don’t want anyone you’re associated with drawing attention to our situation. I think Betsey’s suggestion is a great one.”
“But how would that even work?” Ella says. She looks as sick as I feel. Secrets or not, it seems wrong not to be able to just date who I want.
“Hmm… I guess you three can each pick a boy, and tell me a little about him, and then I’ll take a day or two to decide,” she says, smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Fair?”
Not at all.
No one answers, so Mom continues. “Let me know when you’ve all figured out who you’d like to submit.”
“David Chancellor,” Ella blurts out.
Mom stifles a laugh. “Well, then,” she says, walking back to the table and grabbing the pencil she’d probably been using for the crossword. She writes David’s name on a corner of the newspaper.
“Lizzie?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Sean Kelly,” I say, and despite the ridiculousness of the situation, I smile at just the sound of his name. She narrows her eyes and smiles a little, too, then writes. When she’s finished, she looks up at Betsey.
“And you?”
Betsey shakes her head. “I forfeit,” she says with a satisfied smirk on her face. “Better chances for the ones who actually like someone.” She doesn’t meet my gaze.
“Sometimes I don’t understand you at all,” Mom mutters to Betsey. She starts cleaning again with purpose.
Ella sits down to eat, but before I join her, I look at Betsey. I know that all of it, from bringing up dating in the first place to the “you pick” thing to keep Mom from throwing out the idea altogether, was all for me.
Thanks, I think at her. She smiles like she heard me.
seven
Sunday, Mom decides that she wants to go to the bookstore with her daughter, and it happens to be afternoon, so I’m the one dragged along. Normally, I’m all for leaving the house, and bookstores are among my favorite places to be. But my mind’s on Sean, and frankly, all I really want to do is listen to sappy songs and think about him.
“How are you, Lizzie?” Mom asks in that fully loaded way of hers as we drive through the gate in the luxury sedan she bought when we moved here.
“This car smells like Band-Aids,” I say. “It always has.”
