parents had it easy. My biggest indiscretion was hiding a failed math quiz or watching TV past my bedtime. Once, when I was really acting up, I told my mom I was going to my dad’s house after school, so I could go to the library and read Judy Blume books. Maybe that’s what this is, I thought. Maybe pretending to be Jessie is my blatant rebellion. I missed that stage when I was younger and now I’m playing with fire to make up for lost time. Maybe everyone needs to rebel.
“Oh man, it wasn’t even you at your best,” Myra said, taking a big bite of tuna. “Mmm. Not even close. But your dad just had to swallow it and move on. You had him wrapped around your little finger.”
“I can’t believe I got away with that.”
“Well, I mean, since you knew about his affair and all, and your mom didn’t . . . ,” Myra said. “We all wished for that kind of leverage. I mean, not for the affair part, because that was awful. To walk in on them . . .” She shuddered. “It’s not like you’ll ever be able to un-see that. But to get away with everything you did . . . I was always in awe.”
She grabbed a piece of cheese. “Oh my God,” she said, with her mouth full. “Try this. What is this?” She shoved the rest of the piece into my mouth.
“I think it’s Gruyère,” I said awkwardly, covering my mouth while I chewed.
She was so at ease with me. I felt like an alien, and it wasn’t even because of the whole Jessie Morgan thing. I didn’t quite know what to say or how to act or how to just be in the moment the way Myra did. I wanted sleepover-party, hair-braiding, trying-on-clothes-together girlfriends so desperately when I was in high school. But I didn’t know how to be that kind of friend. Those girls were a different breed of people. Those kinds of girls, the ones who called each other girlfriends and talked on the phone to plan outfits, they had a different lineage, like they were created and raised to be friends with other girls. Their moms had girlfriends too, and knew how to raise them to be that way.
I almost had girlfriends the summer before high school. We could all walk to each other’s houses. We stopped over unannounced, helped ourselves to food from each other’s fridges without asking, and told silly secrets, like which boy we thought was cute, or where we were when we got our first period.
My mom was doing well then. There weren’t wine bottles around. She played happy mom when they came over and served teenager food like ridged potato chips and onion dip. When I told her that Rachel K. had a nut allergy, she called her mother to make sure we didn’t have any unsafe foods in our house. And my mom and I made a special batch of Toll House cookies minus the walnuts, just for Rachel K., singing along to Carly Simon while we baked.
When it was my turn to have everyone over, me and Shelia and the Rachels camped out in the living room, poring over issues of
US Weekly
,
Teen
, and
Seventeen
that I’d saved my allowance to buy because Sheila’s mother wouldn’t let her read “trash.” My mother brought us snacks on the fancy serving dishes from her wedding registry that had never really been used. We had soda in cans—diet and regular—and we each got our own, even though Regular Rachel never finished hers. My mother acted like it was nothing for us to have food in the house. Like it wasn’t strange that she was playing the perfect mom all of a sudden. And by August I had finally let my guard down. I believed that this was our new normal. I was happy.
But then a week before school started, my mom called my dad when his alimony check was late, and a woman picked up the phone. My mom stopped grocery shopping. She ran to the store every couple of days but came back with paper bags that clinked when she carried them up the stairs to her bedroom.
She left money on the counter and expected me to order dinner every night. I ate cold Chinese food for breakfast. I tried to rotate our
“Oh man, it wasn’t even you at your best,” Myra said, taking a big bite of tuna. “Mmm. Not even close. But your dad just had to swallow it and move on. You had him wrapped around your little finger.”
“I can’t believe I got away with that.”
“Well, I mean, since you knew about his affair and all, and your mom didn’t . . . ,” Myra said. “We all wished for that kind of leverage. I mean, not for the affair part, because that was awful. To walk in on them . . .” She shuddered. “It’s not like you’ll ever be able to un-see that. But to get away with everything you did . . . I was always in awe.”
She grabbed a piece of cheese. “Oh my God,” she said, with her mouth full. “Try this. What is this?” She shoved the rest of the piece into my mouth.
“I think it’s Gruyère,” I said awkwardly, covering my mouth while I chewed.
She was so at ease with me. I felt like an alien, and it wasn’t even because of the whole Jessie Morgan thing. I didn’t quite know what to say or how to act or how to just be in the moment the way Myra did. I wanted sleepover-party, hair-braiding, trying-on-clothes-together girlfriends so desperately when I was in high school. But I didn’t know how to be that kind of friend. Those girls were a different breed of people. Those kinds of girls, the ones who called each other girlfriends and talked on the phone to plan outfits, they had a different lineage, like they were created and raised to be friends with other girls. Their moms had girlfriends too, and knew how to raise them to be that way.
I almost had girlfriends the summer before high school. We could all walk to each other’s houses. We stopped over unannounced, helped ourselves to food from each other’s fridges without asking, and told silly secrets, like which boy we thought was cute, or where we were when we got our first period.
My mom was doing well then. There weren’t wine bottles around. She played happy mom when they came over and served teenager food like ridged potato chips and onion dip. When I told her that Rachel K. had a nut allergy, she called her mother to make sure we didn’t have any unsafe foods in our house. And my mom and I made a special batch of Toll House cookies minus the walnuts, just for Rachel K., singing along to Carly Simon while we baked.
When it was my turn to have everyone over, me and Shelia and the Rachels camped out in the living room, poring over issues of
US Weekly
,
Teen
, and
Seventeen
that I’d saved my allowance to buy because Sheila’s mother wouldn’t let her read “trash.” My mother brought us snacks on the fancy serving dishes from her wedding registry that had never really been used. We had soda in cans—diet and regular—and we each got our own, even though Regular Rachel never finished hers. My mother acted like it was nothing for us to have food in the house. Like it wasn’t strange that she was playing the perfect mom all of a sudden. And by August I had finally let my guard down. I believed that this was our new normal. I was happy.
But then a week before school started, my mom called my dad when his alimony check was late, and a woman picked up the phone. My mom stopped grocery shopping. She ran to the store every couple of days but came back with paper bags that clinked when she carried them up the stairs to her bedroom.
She left money on the counter and expected me to order dinner every night. I ate cold Chinese food for breakfast. I tried to rotate our
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