For Keeps

by Natasha Friend

  We’ve been up here for more than an hour. It’s surreal, looking at this stuff—everything my grandparents held on to. Some things I vaguely remember: my grandfather’s catcher’s mitt, a clock with birds on it, the brown-and-purple afghan that used to lie at the foot of their bed.

  My mom tears up a little when I hand it to her. She tells us about the Christmas she was seven, when she ate an entire bowl of maraschino cherries and threw up on that afghan. She tells us about the games her father used to play with her when she was sick—Tiddlywinks, Blockhead, Spit—and how he would always play left-handed, so she would win.

  Now my mom is crouched under the glow of a lamp in one corner of the room, leafing through a stack of papers.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Your great-grandfather’s autobiography. Grandpa Gardner’s father, my grandfather Julian.”

  “He wrote an autobiography?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Cool!” Liv says, glancing over from the trunk she’s been yanking stuff out of and flinging onto the floor. “I want to read it.”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” my mother says suddenly. “This is ridiculous.”

  “What is?” I say.

  “This!” She gestures wildly around the room. “What we’re doing, pulling out all this crap! We’re not going to find anything!”

  “OK, but . . . what if we did?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. . . . Maybe it doesn’t even matter.”

  “OK,” I say, shrugging. “I’m freezing, anyway.”

  “Well, let’s just do two more boxes. Since we’re already up here.”

  From across the room we hear a huff of breath, then a holy shite. Then Liv says softly, “You guys?”

  We look over, see the expression on her face.

  There is a moment of quiet, an eternity of quiet, as my mom and I get up and walk across the room.

  It’s an ordinary box. Brown cardboard, unremarkable in every way. But here is Liv, holding it out to my mom. “Katie Gardner?”

  And here is my mom, with a gentleness I’ve only seen her use once in my life—the time we found a hummingbird in the backyard that had flown into our kitchen window and cracked its beak—lifting up an envelope.

  Eighteen

  I HEAR THE rustling of paper and realize I’m lying in my mother’s bed, a stream of sunlight from the window above her dresser hitting me square in the eyes. Using one hand as a visor, I squint at Liv’s bobbing head.

  “Josie,” she whispers. She’s holding a sheet of pale blue stationery. “Listen to this.”

  I scramble to a sitting position. I can feel a trickle of drool in the corner of my mouth. I am still wearing last night’s sweater.

  “Dear Katie. Tell me what to do. Tell me what to say. I’ll do anything to make this right between us. . . .

  “I know,” I tell her. “I read that one.”

  “OK, but it bears rereading. . . .”

  A voice floats up from beneath the covers—my mom’s voice. “Read the one about the horse,” she says, peeling a sheet back from her face. Her hair is sticking up at odd angles against the pillow. There’s mascara smudged under her eyes. She shed a few tears last night, my mom, reading Paul Tucci’s letters. She cried for a while, then something snapped inside her and she hurled the box of letters across the attic, sending paper flying every which way. How could her parents have done this to her?!She wanted to know. Who were they to play God?! Who were they to screw with her life like that, and Paul’s life, and mine?!

  I had no idea how to answer her, but Liv did. “I don’t think they meant to hurt you, Kate.”

  “Well, they did,” my mom said. Then her indignation boiled into fury and she shouted at the roof, “You hear that, assholes?! You hurt me!”

  Thinking about it now, I can’t believe my mom was mad enough to drop A-bombs on her dead parents. It makes me feel tender toward her this morning—protective. Which is ironic when I think about how we’ve been treating each other lately. Maybe, in some twisted way, finding these letters was actually a good thing.

  “Read the one about the horse,” my mom says again.

  “What one about the horse?” Liv asks.

  I explain. “The one where he threatens to steal his neighbor’s horse and gallop across the country to kidnap her if she doesn’t write back.”

  I consider the image of a teenage Paul Tucci on a stallion, baseball hat on backward, Walkman clipped to his ears. It’s a ridiculous vision, but Liv nods, as though she can seriously picture it happening. “Boy had it bad for you, Kate,” she says.

  And my mom says, “I know.”

  “And these . . .” Liv scrambles across the bed to dig something out of the box. It is the world’s tiniest pair of baby socks—white with green frogs. “These kill me.”

  My mom closes her eyes. “I know.”

  “I mean, think about it,” Liv continues. “He actually walked into a store and picked these out.”

  Liv tosses the froggy socks to me and I catch them. They are so small. It’s crazy to think that these were meant for me—that, once upon a time, my size-9 feet would have fit into them.

  “So, what are you going to do, Kate?” Liv asks. “Are you going to call him?”

  “I don’t know yet,” my mom says, shaking her head. “I need to let things . . . marinate for a bit.”

  “Alternatively . . .” Liv reaches into the box and pulls out a stack of bills. Fives, tens, twenties; a couple of fifties—all money Paul Tucci earned at his summer job as a busboy—all money he tucked into envelopes and sent to my mom. “We could go to Vegas . . .”

  “Hey!” I lurch for the money. “That’s my diaper fund!”

  I know it’s not much right now, Paul Tucci wrote. But it’s a start. I know diapers are expensive—

  “Don’t worry,” Liv says. She cradles the wad of cash to her chest, stroking it gently. “I’ll give this baby a good home. A very good home.”

  My mom snorts.

  “You are such a freak,” I say.

  “It’s called humor, people. And it’s very therapeutic. You should try it sometime.”

  We make it to school, barely. Riggs is waiting at my locker, just as I’d imagined he would be. When I see him, my stomach sinks and my heart jumps at the same time. The expression on his face isn’t exactly what I’d expected. He doesn’t look worried; he looks pissed. “Where have you been?” he says. “Why haven’t you answered my voice mails?”

  I wasn’t prepared for anger, and I’m not sure how to respond. Am I supposed to apologize? Cry? He’s the one who was acting like a sex-crazed jerk the other night.

  Luckily Liv launches in, full throttle. “So Josie calls me, and she’s like, ‘Liv, come over. We’re up in the attic, searching for Tucci letters.’ So I drive over there, and she and her mom are both just rooting around through all of her grandparents’ old, dust-encrusted crap—”

  “Paul insisted he wrote these letters,” I interrupt, “but my mom kept telling me, ‘Josie, he’s making it up.’ Then, the minute I brought up my grandmother’s name, she was like—”

  “Her own parents intercepted her mail! They never even opened anything, they just shoved it all in a box and hid it.”

  “Seriously?” Riggs asks. He’s staring from Liv to me with those bluest of blue eyes.

  I nod. “It’s not how it sounds, though. They were trying to protect her.”

  The second bell rings and Liv gives me a quick hug before sprinting to her locker so she won’t be late for class. All around us, bodies are moving, doors are slamming, but Riggs is still standing here, looking into my eyes.

  “That’s unbelievable,” he says.

  And I say, “I know.”

  “So, what now?”

  I shake my head. “No clue.”

  Here we are looking at each other and, before I know it, Riggs leans in so close I can smell his toothpaste. “About the other night . . . I was an asshole.”
<
br />   I pull back, look him in the eye again. “Yes. You were.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, bending in to kiss me.

  But I pull back again. “This is huge for me, Matt, my father being back. Huge. And sometimes I’m going to want to talk about it. Not just hook up. Talk. And you’re going to have to listen.”

  Riggs nods. “I know.”

  “Well . . . good.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “OK.”

  He hesitates, then asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

  I am about to say yes, but Mr. Charney, the hall monitor, has waddled up to us with his clipboard. If we don’t get to class in the next three seconds, he threatens, we’ll have detention.

  Riggs and I squeeze hands. We hold on as long as we can. Then we force ourselves to walk in opposite directions.

  The whole day is weird. One moment my brain is perfectly functional, solving quadratic equations, the next I am picturing Paul Tucci’s letters. Piles of them. Line after line of his tiny block print. There’s one in particular I can’t get out of my head—not a letter, but a card. On the front are two green birds against a blue sky. The first bird is saying, “I love you more,” and the second one is saying, “No. I love you more.” Inside it says, “Let this be our only disagreement.” I must have read that card a dozen times last night. Enough to remember what he wrote.

  Dear Katie,

  I miss you so much I can’t describe it. Today when I got home from school I tried working on this essay I’ve been procrastinating over, but you have this power over me that won’t let me think about anything else. I don’t mind the feeling though. I love you. Please tell me that even though I haven’t heard from you you’re having as much trouble concentrating as I am, because then maybe I won’t feel like such a jackass. You don’t know how much I want to see you again. You AND the baby. I love you both.

  —PAUL

  You AND the baby. I love you both.

  All day long, those words are bouncing around the back of my skull, like tiny rubber balls. It’s a wonder my head doesn’t fly off.

  While Liv and I are getting dressed for practice, Coach sends one of the JV girls into the locker room to get us. A pony-tailed head pokes through the doorway. “Josie and Olivia? . . . Coach wants to see you in his office.”

  Office is the generous term for the old janitor’s closet off the boys’ locker room. When Liv and I get there, Coach pushes the door shut. His EHS Hurricanes sweatshirt and matching polyester shorts have been starched into submission, and the whistle around his neck gleams in the fluorescent light.

  “Sit,” Coach says, leaning back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together.

  Liv and I glance at each other. We know it’s bad. We slump onto the metal stools that have been set up for us, and we wait.

  “So . . .” Coach says. “The two of you missed practice yesterday. Strange, since a little birdie tells me she saw you both in the locker room five minutes before.”

  What kind of birdie?That’s my question. A Jamie birdie or a Schuyler birdie? Surely not a Kara birdie. A Kara birdie would never—

  “Apparently,” Coach continues, “you had somewhere more important to go. . . . Would anyone care to elaborate? . . . Josie?”

  The office smells like soccer socks and pine cleaner. I don’t know what to tell Coach. I have no clue what you’re talking about? I was dragged out of the school building against my will by my delinquent but well-intentioned best friend?Or how about the truth?

  Here is the truth: I don’t know what the truth is anymore. Three months ago, I couldn’t have imagined feeling this way. Three months ago, I trusted my mother’s word and Paul Tucci was just a figment of my imagination. Three months ago . . .

  Coach is tapping his fingertips, blinking at me.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “We skipped practice.”

  I look over at Liv, who is nodding.

  “And we take full responsibility for our actions.”

  Coach lowers his hands to his desk and clears his throat. “In that case, I have no choice but to suspend you for the next three games.”

  “Three games? ”Liv’s jaw is on the floor.

  “Are you serious?” I say.

  It’s already the end of October. Three games means East Hampton, Cathedral, Greenfield. . . . It means the difference between play-offs and no play-offs. Three games could mean the season.

  “You choose to disrespect your teammates?” Coach says. “You choose to think that the rules of this team don’t apply to you? You choose to suffer the penalty.”

  We’re still in shock when he glances down at his watch. “Well,” he says, pushing down on his desk and rising slowly, “time for practice.”

  Liv and I glance at each other.

  “Um . . .” I say.

  And Liv says, “Do we still come to practice?”

  “Of course.” Now Coach is smiling. “I would never deny a player the privilege of practice.”

  Here is what “practice” is when you have chosen to disregard Coach’s rules: “Practice” is running wind sprints until your legs are Jell-O and you’re dry-heaving facedown in the dirt. “Practice” is one hundred squat thrusts followed by one hundred push-ups followed by enough stomach crunches to make even Arnold Schwarzenegger weep. “Practice” is enduring the venomous stare-downs of your teammates for two hours straight.

  “Sorry about that,” Liv says as we’re limping back toward the locker room, alone, because everyone is too mad to talk to us.

  With what little strength I have left, I smack her in the butt. “You’d better be.”

  Nineteen

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Liv and I sit on the bench in our home uniforms, watching our team get creamed by Cathedral High School.

  “This is beyond punishment,” she mutters. “This is torture.”

  “Brutal,” I agree.

  At first I thought that not being able to play was the worst possible thing—second to the fact that right now we are losing six to one. Third to the fact that our teammates have yet to forgive us for our trespasses.

  But I realize I’m wrong.

  The worst part is that my mom is alone in the bleachers.

  Seeing her sitting there, blowing into her hands to stay warm, I feel a wave of sadness come over me. Sadness, of all things. Here she is, without Jonathan, focused exclusively on me—just what I wanted, right?

  Well, as it turns out, no. This morning, before Liv and I left for school, I walked into my mom’s bedroom to say good-bye and she was still lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. I sat down next to her, and she said, “Jonathan and I are taking a break.” I didn’t say anything, just looked at her. “It was my decision,” she said.

  “Is it because of—” I started to ask.

  But she cut me off. “This has nothing to do with Paul. . . . Or, well, it has very little to do with Paul. . . . Mostly, it has to do with how fast everything’s been happening.”

  “It has been fast,” I agreed.

  “And how needy Jonathan is. He wants . . . a lot from me, emotionally. . . . At first it was flattering, but . . . well, I’m not sure I’m ready to give it to him. . . . So we’re taking some time apart. To think things through.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Uh-huh.” Then, “OK.”

  I let her think I was glad about it. The truth is, though, I was a little shocked. I thought she was into him. And I can say for a fact—based on Jonathan’s and my Virtual Boogie/ Slurpee excursion yesterday—that he’s still into her.

  I don’t really get how “taking a break” is any different from “breaking up,” but one thing I do know: I don’t like seeing my mom sitting alone in the bleachers.

  In the car after the game, she says, “Do you want to tell me why you didn’t play today?”

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Are you hurt?”

  I shake my head.

  “Josie. . . . Are you in trouble?”

  I hesitate. Then say, “You won’t
like it.”

  “I’ll like it a lot less if you don’t tell me.”

  So I do. I tell her what happened yesterday, about blowing off practice, about Coach suspending us.

  And then, once the confession gates have opened, I tell her about Liv.

  My mom’s eyes never leave my face. I watch her mouth open as she takes a breath. “Liv thought she was pregnant?”

  “Yes,” I say. Then, “But you can’t say anything to her, Mom. I’m sure she’ll tell you herself at some point, but—”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m only telling you because it’s . . . relevant.”

  She raises her eyebrows.

  “You and Paul. The whole mess . . . Liv thinks I can’t understand what you went through because I haven’t been there.”

  My mom nods. “Ah.”

  “But maybe I can understand, sort of. The way things are with me and Matt . . . maybe I do get it—”

  “Wait,” she says. “Back up. The last I heard about you and Matt was the kiss at the party . . . and something about a cheerleader . . .”

  “Oh my God,” I say. “You are so behind.”

  “Well . . . catch me up.”

  So I do. I tell her all about dinner at Matt’s house and meeting his family and how we can talk on the phone for hours. I tell her about the fight we had the other night and how good it felt to make up this morning. I tell her that I’ve never felt this way before, about anyone, ever.

  My mom nods, smiling a little. “I’m happy for you.” Then her face gets serious. “Josie. If the two of you are . . .”

  “We’re not.”

  “If you’re having—”

  “We’re not having sex, Mom. We’re taking it slow.”

  She breathes out, a long, steady stream. “OK. . . . But if you ever decide—”

  I hold up my hand to stop her. “I know. Condoms. Spermicide. The Pill. The diaphragm. The cervical cap. . . .”

  She nods, nods, nods.

  “I’m not a complete idiot, OK?”