Tuesday, October 3
“My mom thinks I’m sneaking around getting high,” Grady said. We were lying backward on my bed with our feet propped up on the wall above the headboard. I was wearing a shirt and nothing else, Winnie-the-Pooh style. He was naked.
“What?? Why?” I said.
“Because Bear’s babysitter tattled on me and told her I’m never home after school anymore.”
“What did you tell your mom?”
“That I’ve been hanging out with my girlfriend.”
He turned his head to look into my eyes and smile. I’m Grady’s GIRLFRIEND! I mean, obviously. But it was still exciting to hear him say it.
He took my hand. “I don’t know if she believes me, though. She was like, ‘I want to meet her.’ All suspicious.”
“Are you trying to tell me you want me to meet your mother?” Without sitting up, I lifted my butt in the air and pulled on my underwear. It seemed rude to mention his mom with my vagina hanging out.
“Yeah, ASAP. I think she’s been going through my drawers looking for bongs.”
“You should probably meet my parents too. My dad. And my . . . Miss Murphy. That way if they catch us, we won’t be in such big trouble.”
We shook hands to seal the deal, which was awkward, since we were lying on our backs.
“Are you nervous?” I said. “To meet my dad?”
“I feel like I’m going to throw up just talking about it. So yeah.”
“OK, good. Because I’m terrified to meet your mom.”
“She’ll love you,” Grady said.
“My dad will love you too,” I said.
“Love.” We’d both said “love”! Not to each other, but about each other, which is almost the same thing. It made me so nervous I couldn’t speak. Grady got quiet too, which was probably a coincidence. Maybe it hasn’t even crossed his mind to tell me he loves me.
Wednesday, October 4
Here’s our plan: I’ll tell my dad and Miss Murphy that Grady exists tonight. He will skip this step, since his parents already know about me. I’ll go to his house for dinner on Saturday night. He’ll come to my house on Sunday afternoon.
I’m with Grady: even writing this down makes me feel like I’m going to throw up.
Thursday, October 5
Between classes I ran to Grady’s locker and quizzed him about his mom.
“What does she like?”
“Uh, ordering new clothes for Bear from Old Navy.”
I shook his arm a little. “But what does she watch? What does she read?”
“Netflix? Stuff on her phone?”
“Argh. Never mind. What about your stepdad?”
“He likes shooting things and telling me I’m a hypocrite because I eat meat but won’t kill it myself.”
“He sounds great.”
“Yeah, he’s the best.”
At least I have a basic sense of Grady’s horrible stepfather. His mother is a Netflix-watching mystery.
At dinner, I delivered the lines I’d written out for myself in my math notebook and memorized during my bike ride home. “I wanted to tell you guys I’ve been dating someone. Grady Lawrence. He’s really nice. I was wondering if he could come over to meet you on Sunday.”
Miss Murphy and my dad glanced at each other. I couldn’t read their look. “That’s great, Chloe,” Dad said.
“We’d love to meet him!” Miss Murphy said. “I mean, I would. I shouldn’t refer to myself and your father like we’re one unit.”
God. I know they’re one unit. Who does she think she’s kidding?
“Of course I’d love to meet him too,” Dad said. “Sunday. Great. For dinner?”
“I’m having dinner with his parents the night before,” I said. “If that’s OK.”
Another meaningful glance between my dad and Miss Murphy. They’re so annoying. It’s like they think I can’t see them.
“Maybe we could do an afternoon thing instead,” I said.
“Sure,” Dad said. “I’ll make cookies.”
Dinner. Cookies. It’s the food planning that makes this seem like it’s really going to happen.
Friday, October 6
Tris and I went to the movies tonight. We were in the lobby afterward, waiting for his mom to pick us up, when he asked me if I felt sick.
“No,” I said. “How come?”
“This is the first time ever you haven’t stolen half my popcorn,” he said. “It was so relaxing not bumping into your hand every two seconds.”
“I’m too nervous to eat right now,” I said.
“Really? Why?”
“I’m meeting Grady’s parents tomorrow,” I said.
“Whoa!”
“What do I do?” I said. “How do I make them like me?”
“Be yourself?” Tris said. He didn’t sound too sure.
“I’m serious. How did you do it with Roy’s parents?”
“Unless I’d actually flipped over their dining room table, they would have loved me. Roy’s first boyfriend—they’d been waiting to show me how cool they were with me since Roy was six years old.”
“Grady’s mother doesn’t even believe I exist,” I said.
Tris looked out the glass doors to the parking lot, thinking. “Be polite,” he said. “Call her Mrs. Lawrence.”
“Mrs. Trevor. She changed her name when she got remarried.”
“Mrs. Trevor, then. Bring something nice. A hostess present. Offer to help with the dishes.”
I’d thought of the dishes but not of the present. “What else?” I said.
“If you disagree with something they say, just look pleasant and be like, ‘Oh, I’ve never thought of it that way.’ Don’t put your hands on Grady in front of them.”
I got out my phone to take notes. What would I do without Tris?
Saturday, October 7
Dad agreed to stop at the garden center on his way to drop me off at the Trevors’. I bought a small plant in a white pot.
Grady met me at the door, and I could tell he was terrified, which didn’t exactly make me feel better. “Hey! Come on in!” he said in a chipper tone of voice I’ve never heard him use before. I was so full of adrenaline that I sucked in every detail of my surroundings as he led me back through the house. Framed drawings by Bear in the foyer. Through a doorway, a living room. Braided rug, boxy TV, overstuffed couch. Through another doorway, the dining room. Upholstered chairs and an old-fashioned chandelier. In the kitchen, Bear was scribbling on a school handout with a green crayon, and Mrs. Trevor was flipping through a cookbook. She looked up when I came in and rushed over to give me a hug. “You’re Chloe! Oh my God. You’re real. You’re adorable!” She was laughing over my shoulder and kind of jiggling me up and down.
“MOM,” Grady said.
“Grady’s going to lecture me later,” she said. “I promised I wouldn’t be too enthusiastic.”
I couldn’t speak from the shock. This was Grady’s mom? She was SO YOUNG. She looked like him—or vice versa, I guess. Fine features, deep-set eyes. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she was wearing a red-and-white striped shirt, socks with a pink star pattern, and boyfriend jeans. And she was what, 30? Maybe 35? I’m terrible at guessing adults’ ages, but definitely under 40. She made my mother look like a crone.
“Is this for me?” she said, grabbing the pot. “Oh-em-gee! I love succulents!”
Grady cringed dramatically behind her back, to apologize for her. Was he really embarrassed by his cute, nice mother? Did he realize what I’d give to have a mom like this?
She was in the middle of asking me questions about myself (do I have siblings? What extracurriculars do I do? What do high school kids call it now, “going out” or “dating” or “hooking up” or what? [Grady threw his head back in pain when she said “hooking up.”] What music do I listen to? How old was I when my parents let me get a phone?) when Mr. Trevor came into the kitchen. He said “hey” to me and grabbed a beer from the fridge. I thought he’d be som
e swaggering dad-bro in cargo pants, but he looked more like an ex-UFC fighter. He had short hair, almost buzzed, a tattoo of an eagle on his forearm, and a crooked nose.
Grady could have given me a heads-up. By the way, just so you’re not surprised when you meet them, I should mention that my mom’s really young and my stepdad is sexy in a glowering way. Instead I was caught unaware, and my face probably looked like a surprised emoji.
At dinner, I ate every bite of my chicken and rice and tried not to say anything controversial. Mrs. Trevor said “Totally!” a lot and laughed whenever I tried to make a joke. She helped Bear spear his food and told him not to worry about it when he spilled some milk on his napkin. When she wasn’t busy with him, she was rubbing Mr. Trevor’s shoulder, scratching the back of his head, or asking him to tell us about the clients on Willow who wanted him to install a toilet right in the middle of the master bedroom. “Freaks,” said Mr. Trevor, shrugging. He didn’t say much more than that. Once Grady mentioned that the people next door got a new dog, and Mr. Trevor said, “Nah. The wife has allergies.” There was silence for a while after that. I was confused. It wasn’t like Grady was expressing an opinion; either they got a dog or they didn’t. I tried to think of a way to say Grady must be right and finally came up with “What color?”
“Brown with a white diamond on its chest,” said Grady, staring at his stepdad, who didn’t respond. I looked at Mrs. Trevor, who was pressing her lips together and pinching the end of her ponytail.
“How was it?” Dad asked when he picked me up.
“Good,” I said.
He waited. “What are they like?” he asked, after it became obvious I wasn’t going to elaborate.
“Pretty nice.” I wasn’t trying to be difficult. It seemed impossible to describe the evening or the Trevors beyond that.
I called Grady as soon as I got to my room.
“I’m sorry,” he said, instead of “hi.”
“What are you talking about? Your mom’s amazing!”
“She’s so . . . ugh, I don’t know. She’s so bubbly.”
“That’s a good thing, you weirdo.”
“OK,” he said, sounding relieved.
“She’s pretty young, right?”
“She’s 37,” he said. “So’s my dad. They had me when they were seniors in college.” He sounded embarrassed and defensive.
“It’s nice,” I said. “Probably she can still remember what it was like to be in high school.”
“She thinks she can, that’s for sure,” he said in a more normal voice.
“Is your stepdad always like that?” I said.
“What, silent and grouchy? Pretty much.”
“Does your mom care?”
“I think she likes it. The moodier he gets, the more cheerful she gets. It’s like she has to balance him out. And sometimes he’ll goof around with her, and she loves that. It only happens once in a while, but she lives for it. Intermittent positive reinforcement, you know?” He’s taking AP Psych. I’ve been hearing a lot about B. F. Skinner.
“He was mean to you,” I said.
“Was he?” He sounded surprised.
“The dog thing.”
“Oh.” He laughed a little. “Yeah.”
“Your mom looked upset.”
He sighed. “It bugs her when he’s a dick to me. But it’s not like she’s going to leave him.”
It’s so hard being a kid. If adults are trapped in a bad relationship, they can get out. What’s Grady supposed to do? Live in L.A. with his dad who’s not interested in him? Run away?
Sunday, October 8
Dad and Miss Murphy loved Grady and the visit went perfectly, which I don’t even care about right now.
After Grady left, we ate dinner. I was about to start clearing the table when my dad and Miss Murphy exchanged a look. Right away I knew something was up.
Dad cleared his throat. “Marian and I want to talk to you.”
I waited.
He glanced at her, and she said, “We’ve been discussing the possibility of me moving in here.”
Dad said, “Obviously the divorce has been delayed longer than—”
“Where? Here?” I said. I looked around the dining room. The blue runner on the buffet; the green vase holding dusty paper flowers I made in fourth grade; the plaid L.L. Bean cushion Snickers likes to plop down on so he can be close to us while we’re eating—she was going to sit here, in this dining room, every night?
“OK,” I said, and pushed my chair back.
“Chloe, please take a seat,” Dad said.
“We want to know how you feel about the idea,” Miss Murphy said. “If it’s too early or just too strange, I want you to tell us.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I don’t care. May I be excused?”
I could see Dad struggling to figure out whether he could force me to sit back down.
“We can discuss this later, if you want,” he said.
“Sounds good.”
Twenty minutes later, I was staring at my math homework without seeing it when Dad knocked and came into my room.
“Sorry if you felt ambushed there, kiddo,” he said. “Maybe it was a bad idea to talk to you together like that.”
If he’d come in guns blazing, I probably would have been a meek little mouse, but his apology made me brave enough to get mad.
“When’s she moving in?”
“We’d discussed early November. How does that sound?”
I laughed. “I can tell you really care about what I think.”
“I do care.”
“Right, that’s why you already have the move-in date.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Where’s her mom going?” I said. “What, she’s dumping her in a nursing home to die of cancer alone?”
His face turned angry, and I regretted what I’d said. I didn’t feel bad about it yet—I was too furious—but I wished I hadn’t made a tactical error.
“I know you’re not really that callow,” he said.
I didn’t respond. I can be callow if I want to be. It’s my God-given right as an American teenager.
“Mrs. Murphy needs more help than Marian can give her,” he said. “She’s moving to Woodcrest next weekend. She’ll be in assisted living for the time being, but they have nursing care and an excellent hospice program, so when the time comes, she can transition there easily. Marian’s devastated by the whole situation, as you can imagine.”
I looked out the window behind Dad. The wind was whipping red and orange leaves off the trees like a mean kid ruining something beautiful for kicks.
I had no comeback. I was upset that my dad’s girlfriend is moving in? Well, my dad’s girlfriend was upset because her mother is sick. I couldn’t compete.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
Dad shook his head slightly, like he couldn’t believe this ingrate was the same girl who used to ride on his shoulders and pick dandelion bouquets for him.
Monday, October 9
On top of everything else, Mom texts me at least once a day. Nice stuff. “Just wanted to say hi. Hi!” “Saw something about Webkinz online and thought of you. Do you still have your collection?” “Hope you’re having a great day off from school!” I hate it. I hate it so much. She thinks she can use a few happy texts to cancel out years of hissing at me over nothing, calling me names, and leaving me. And it WORKS. I can’t be mean to her in response. I feel too guilty. I send her smiley faces or answers ending in exclamation points (“Hi!” “LOL nope!” “Thanks!”). Don’t worry, Mom! I’ll pretend you’re a great parent and always have been! Anything to avoid being mean or making you feel bad!
Tuesday, October 10
I was doing my homework in the kitchen, and Dad and Miss Murphy were talking in the living room. I wasn’t eavesdropping. In fact, I was intentionally trying not to listen, because I’d heard Dad say the word “constipation,” and I really didn’t want to overhear any details. Then Miss Murphy started talking in a voice
I’d never heard her use before.
“She’s always been the most dignified person I know,” she said. I realized—she was crying. That’s why she sounded so strange.
“This is the right thing,” Dad said. “She doesn’t want you to be the one giving her suppositories.”
“It’s better if some stranger does it?” Miss Murphy said.
“Yes,” Dad said firmly.
I want to think I’ll never be like Miss Murphy, sobbing over suppositories, spending hours at my mother’s sorting through her old books and broken tennis rackets. But of course I will. I will get older, and so will my parents, and someday I will have to help them like she’s helping her mother.
Wednesday, October 11
Took the PSATs. Not to jinx anything, but I think I might have done OK. It was a relief to sit in a quiet room focusing on linear equations instead of pacing around my house thinking about death and divorce.
Thursday, October 12
I offered to help out with the Woodcrest move this Saturday, but Miss Murphy said there wasn’t much stuff to carry in. She looked so miserable, I changed the subject.
Friday, October 13
It’s not that I’m not having sex with Grady constantly, because I am. It’s that I feel guilty writing about it in my diary when people’s mothers are sick.
Saturday, October 14
I thought Miss Murphy would be a mess tonight after the move, but she seemed OK. Quiet, but not crying or pale. Maybe she was relieved that this day she’d been dreading was almost over. Dad ordered Indian food for dinner, but no one ate much. I thought maybe one of the adults would bring up our own living situation, but neither did. When they’d almost finished a bottle of wine, I said, “Miss Murphy, are you going to sell your mom’s house now?”
“Chloe,” Dad said. “Let’s discuss that some other night.”
Notes from a Former Virgin Page 5
