If We Kiss (12 page)

Suzie knocked on my door. “Cocoa’s ready,” she whispered. “Oh, Charlotte. Your socks, oops! Don’t match.” She winked.

I winked back. “Yes, they do.” One was orange, the other black-and-red striped. They matched perfectly. “I’m on the phone,” I added. She left then and I whispered into my phone, “Tell me exactly what Kevin said.”

“You canNOT tell him you know. And you can definitely not tell your mother! It would ruin everything. Do you think she’ll say yes?”

“I don’t think . . . What did Kevin say exactly?” I asked. And then, unable to stop myself, asked, “He mentioned me?”

“Yeah,” Tess said.

“While he was . . . What did he say?”

“He said you and he . . .”

“What?” I jumped up and started pacing. “He said he and I what?”

“Maybe I won’t tell you,” she said. “Maybe I’ll keep it to myself, just as revenge.”

“No!” I yelled. “No. Come on, Tess. Tell me what he said.”

“Maybe sometime.” I could almost hear her smiling.

“You stink.”

“You love me,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “You know I do.”

“What’s your mom doing this weekend?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Catching up on work and stuff.”

“Oh,” Tess said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Why did you say ‘oh’ like that?” I asked her. “Come on, Tess. What? Do you know something about my mom that I don’t know? Something else?”

twenty-four

“HOW WAS YOUR Turkey Day?” I asked Mom in the car, driving home Sunday afternoon. No ring on her finger. It was the first thing I checked when she picked me up at Dad’s.

“Fine,” she said. “How was yours?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Did Aunt Eileen and Uncle Moose come?”

“Yeah,” I said. “All the usual suspects.”

We drove along a while longer, listening to NPR. When the music finally came back on, replacing the talk, talk, talk, I asked, “Where did you spend the actual, you know, meal?”

She didn’t answer right away, then asked, “What do you mean?”

“By what? Meal?”

She took a breath. “Why does this feel like the Inquisition?”

“I called you Thursday to say Happy Thanksgiving.”

“No,” Mom said. “I called you. Remember?”

“I had called earlier.”

“But . . .”

“I didn’t leave a message. Check caller ID if you don’t believe me.”

Mom turned down the music. “Let’s take a step back, okay, baby?”

I looked out the window. Apparently Tess was right.

“Let’s find a way to make this neutral,” Mom said.

I didn’t answer. What was there to say?

We listened to the music until it ended. When the guy came back on to talk about how much he had enjoyed the song he’d just played, Mom clicked the radio off.

“I went out with Joe,” Mom said. “His ex-wife was in town over the weekend so she stayed with the kids.”

“The kids,” I muttered under my breath.

“She doesn’t have a house here because she lives in Idaho. Apparently she’s a masseuse, or in school to become a masseuse, I’m not sure.”

“Whatever.”

“Well, anyway, Joe wanted to give them time together, so he stayed in a hotel, and . . .”

“And you stayed with him.”

“Actually,” Mom said, “I stayed at home. As you know, this is a very busy time of year for me, and I . . . you know what? That’s not your business, Charlie.”

I looked out the window at the bare trees, watching the lampposts zoom by backward. Mom drives fast, so we passed a lot of cars. I looked into each one, all those families sealed up separately in their cars, going home. I wondered what was going on with them—if their families were just fine or splitting apart, if they were happy all singing and bopping their heads like in one red Subaru, or if there were tensions and secrets even in that one.

I wondered for a few minutes what it would be like if I could tell Mom about Kevin and about Tess. When I used to be friends with Felicity, who is now a Pop-Tart, she used to tell her mother everything. We’d be playing together in Felicity’s room and her mother would come in and actually play with us—dress up and be Drosselmeyer in our Nutcracker game, stuff like that. The first day Tess showed up at our school, in third grade, Felicity and I sat at their kitchen table with Felicity’s mom and told her all about Tess—her long blond hair and light blue sweater and strong Southern accent, which, it turns out, was totally fake—and discussed whether or not we thought we’d like to be friends with her. Felicity’s mom tucked her foot under her butt and chatted with us about it for an hour. When I got home that afternoon and told my mother a new kid came to school, she said, “That’s nice. Do you have homework?”

At the time, I was a little disappointed. And maybe jealous. But I guess because that’s what I’m used to, it would feel seriously odd to tell my mother every detail of my life.
Mom, you know your boyfriend’s son? Yeah, well, he’s going out with my best friend, and he’s actually the one I got caught kissing, and I’d kiss him again in a heartbeat.
I don’t think so. I don’t even like to tell myself that much.

None of your business
, Mom said. It stung, hearing that, but at the same time, I would have to say I felt relieved. As much as I wanted to know everything, knowing everything about somebody else’s secrets is kind of icky. And likewise with having to reveal all your own.

ABC had taught me, after he finished his time-out, his favorite song from preschool. Here’s how it goes:

Personal space,

Personal space,

Everybody needs some personal space,

Especially around their face.

I took off my jacket and flipped on the seat warmer, humming ABC’s song. I should send him a package, I decided, some candy and stickers. The seat warmer was fast: My butt was already starting to sweat. I didn’t mind. Toast your buns, mom and I call it. It’s what made us decide to buy this car—the toast-your-buns feature.

Personal space, personal space . . .

If she marries him, it occurred to me, I’d get demoted to the backseat. My personal space would be back there with two other kids and no toast-your-buns feature. Screw personal space and none of your business—I did the research on this car.

“Are you going to marry him?” I asked Mom, without turning to her.

“Oh, Charlie,” she said. “I don’t know. I like him. I love him. I really do. He’s terrific. And even more important, I feel terrific when I’m with him. But I don’t spend my time dreaming of wedding gowns and receptions, kiddo. I did that, I had that—I’m enjoying this time of my life more than I had expected to, which is great. That’s all it’s about for me right now.”

I let that sit in the space between us.
Maybe that’s what I need to do,
I thought. Maybe I need to just enjoy this time of my life as much as possible and not spend all this energy thinking about sistering Kevin or Mom marrying, or even whether or not I will ever kiss again. I could just enjoy the car ride home, being with Mom, and toasty buns on a gray Sunday afternoon.

“Otay,” I said.

“Otay,” Mom said.

We rode along thinking our own private thoughts until we hit the Boston traffic jam. The Mass Pike looked like a parking lot. So we put in Mom’s Pat Benatar CD and sang along to “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” at the top of our voices.

We were that car, the car full of a family singing and bopping our heads around. And if the people in the other cars looked at us in horror or envy, well, let ’em.

twenty-five

I WENT BACK to school feeling more on top of things. The time I’d spent at my father’s was perhaps not ONLY horrible and boring and enlightening in terms of my continued shortcomings as a person with no athletic interests or good old American work ethic. Maybe, in addition to all that, it was helpful. Maybe it was actually an enforced time-out to get a hold of myself, like ABC.

I said hello to George and to Kevin with equally disinterested cheer. I even said hello to Felicity—or I think it was Felicity. It might have been one of her four or five best friends. It is hard to tell with them. But anyway I said hello nicely and got a very friendly hello and arm-touch in return.

I didn’t hesitate in the doorway to bio, site of the original hair-twirl and falling feelings. Just sailed right in. No problem.

On Saturday, I went to the mall with Tess, Jennifer, and Darlene to shop for Christmas presents. We wandered from store to store, picking up some scented candles here, some CDs there, and red fuzzy gloves as a surprise for each of us, in big boxes with fancy bows on top. We decided we’d all open them up together that evening in Tess’s sister’s car on the way home. We kept saying stuff to one another like, “Come on, you guys, tell me what you got me” and “Don’t tell Jennifer what we chose for her—she’ll never guess!”

I was almost completely relaxed, just my regular self, out having regular fun with my regular friends, until we sat down to eat in the food court.

“Do you think I should buy something for Kevin?” Tess asked us.

I choked a little on a nacho chip.

“Isn’t he Jewish?” Darlene asked, thumping me on the back.

“Yeah,” Tess said. “But he could still get a present.”

“True,” said Jennifer. “I’m Hindu and you’re buying me something.”

“If you’re lucky,” I said. “What makes you think we are?”

She stuck out her tongue at me. I stuck mine out, back.

“Are you buying him something?” Tess asked me.

“Me?” I casually shoved a whole handful of chips into my mouth.

“Well, your families are going to be together, right?”

I could feel my face getting hot. “We’re going on the twenty-sixth,” I said. A few chips sputtered out as I talked. Very cool.

“Lovely,” Tess said. “Do you think I should get him a CD?”

Jennifer groaned. We had just left the totally mobbed music store. “How about shoelaces?”

We all laughed. “Shoelaces? Shoelaces?”

“What?” asked Jennifer. “Boys like shoelaces. That’s what I’m getting my brother. Hey, Charlie—maybe
you
should get him shoelaces.”

I rolled my eyes and didn’t buy him—or anybody in his family—anything.

twenty-six

CHRISTMAS MORNING, Mom and I sat on the living room floor tearing open wrapping paper and eating candy from our stockings for breakfast. We are completely non-religious (well, actually Mom is antireligious; I am just apathetic) but, as Mom has always said, Santa doesn’t mind. We each got a stack of books, some new socks (crazy colors for me, black for her) and long underwear, a new sweater, two CDs, a DVD and, to share, a new, really nice chess set. She also bought me a pair of Ugg shearling slip-on slippers, just like the ones she always wears. I put them on right away. “I love them,” I said.

Mom kissed my head.

I wiggled my toes, digging them into the soft fuzz to begin wearing my own foot’s shape into the slippers, just like Mom’s have worn into hers. In the past I’ve always gotten cheaper slippers, ordinary ones because my feet were still growing so fast, and Uggs are expensive, special. I splayed my legs out and lined them up with Mom’s: four feet in a bobbling row, all in beautiful, ugly brown Uggs, all the same size.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

After Mom opened the new deck of cards I’d chosen for her—she is a killer gin rummy player—she reached for her special present, the one with the silver bow. She gasped when she opened it and slipped it right onto her wrist. It was a spiral wire bracelet with lots of beads in tones of blue laced onto it. She kept touching it and glancing at it, I noticed. It cost a lot but I decided Dad and Suzie could wait for their gift, and Mom paid for the set of blocks I sent to ABC, so I really didn’t have any other biggies to splurge on.

Mom was my one and only.

We put on some new music (it was not as good as I’d thought it would be when I put it on my wish list) and leaned back against the furniture. The great thing about Christmas Day is the lounging, I think. Candy for breakfast is second. Gifts are third. Though my Uggs were pretty special.

I was feeling really happy to be home instead of at Dad’s, even despite the upcoming trip. That’s for tomorrow, I decided; I’m not thinking about it today. At Dad’s I would be dressed already (he can’t stand to see people in their pajamas after dawn) and Suzie would have bagged up all the trash and vacuumed the room by now. I’d probably be hauling in firewood or shoveling the walk if I were there.

I picked up the cards I’d bought Mom. “Up for a challenge?” I asked. I have never beaten her at gin. She makes up new rules as we go along, I think. There’s one thing she does when I have a good hand sometimes; she says, “I knock,” and she knocks on the pile of cards and lays down her almost—but not quite—winning hand, and says she wins. How that works I still do not understand. But I was feeling generous.

Mom smiled. She put out her hand for the cards, but glanced at her watch on the way. A look of slight tension crossed her face.

“What?” I asked.

“What what?” she said.

“You look—are you going someplace?” In spite of myself I felt anger boiling up. She better not be going out. It’s Christmas Day. I don’t care if it has anything or nothing to do with religion—Christmas Day is Family Day, and I am her family.

“No,” she said, but the tension lingered at the corners of her mouth. She opened the pack and slid the cards out. “I was just thinking maybe we should, after I slaughter you at gin, you know, clean up, get dressed, take a shower.”

“After we get dressed?”

“What?” She started shuffling. She’s great at that, too.

“Nothing. Why would we do that? It’s Christmas Day. Let’s stay gross all day. It’s a . . .” I wanted to say
tradition
, but the word turned into a Ping-Pong ball and lodged in my throat.

She made a bridge out of the cards and they all fell together in a fluttering neat pile. Then she did it again, and again. She dealt the cards fast and sure, until we each had ten. It is a beautiful thing to watch, my mother with a deck of cards.

I didn’t pick mine up until she did. As we sorted them out, she said, “Well, I just feel like a shower. In a little while.”

“Is someone coming over later?” I asked quietly, calmly. Sort of like when my father is furious at me—that kind of whispering, with a warning in it.

“Do you want the card?” She pointed to the queen of hearts, lying in the discard pile.

“No.”

“Yes,” she said, sighing. “Joe and Kevin and Samantha are coming over around two. I invited them for cookies and to talk about the trip, and stuff. Pick a card.”

I looked at the cards in my hand, in disarray. How could she do this to me? “I knock,” I said, and dropped my cards in a heap on the floor.

By the time Kevin and family arrived, the living room was clean and so were we. I had put on my baggy old jeans and my dad’s old Georgetown sweatshirt. Nothing new, nothing from her. Well, except my new Uggs.

Samantha had a card for each of us that she had made herself. Mine was a picture called “Chicken at Sunset” and it had a carefully drawn chicken in front of a blend of watercolors. I had to smile at the randomness. “Thanks,” I said. “Did you know that I collect pictures of livestock at sunset?”

“Really?” she asked, and then I felt terrible. She looked so hopeful.

“She’s kidding,” Kevin said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You have to get used to Charlie.”

Samantha blushed. I felt myself do the same.

Mom came back with a tray of hot chocolates. At least she hadn’t said “cocoa.” I would have thrown up.

“Have some cookies,” she said to the Lazarus family, which was bad enough. Mr. Lazarus took one, bit in, and said, “Mmm.”

“They are Milanos,” I felt I had to say. “You can buy a bag yourself if you want for, like, two and a half bucks.”

He nodded at me. “Thanks for the tip,” he said. Then he and my mother smiled dopily at each other for an unconscionably long time, until my mother came to her senses and turned away. “I have some little presents,” she said. She handed a big box to Samantha and a small box to Kevin.

“Go ahead,” Kevin said to his sister.

She unwrapped the paper without ripping it. Inside was a small pair of Uggs. Just like the ones on my own feet, the ones that were suddenly too hot, and not as special anymore.

“Thank you so much,” Samantha said, and politely put them right on. She had no idea even what they were. And she’s only eight—her feet are nowhere near done growing. I was ready for the Lazarus family to go away.

Kevin was opening his gift, but I didn’t look up. I heard him say, “Thank you,” and my mother explain that his father had told her he liked drawing, so these pencils were supposed to be special in some way. “They are,” he said quietly. “Thanks. Really.”

I didn’t know Kevin liked to draw.

Mr. Lazarus reached into the bag beside him and pulled out a gift, which he handed to Mom. I was relieved to see it was not small enough to be a ring box. Mom tore open the wrapping. A bottle of olive oil was inside. She went over to Mr. Lazarus and, without a word, kissed him, then sat down beside him on the couch with his arm around her.

A box landed in my lap. I mumbled a thank-you and opened it. My stomach was in knots. It was the worst Christmas of my life. Inside the box was a pair of ski socks: one purple with yellow polka dots, one red-and-white striped.

I don’t even know if I managed to say thanks. I was too caught up in wondering: Did Mom tell him I like mismatched socks, or had Kevin himself noticed another thing about me, besides that I am a good writer? And if he did, what did that mean?