by Amy Giles
I know I’m supposed to say no to be polite, but . . .
“Yes, please.” I hold out my plate.
A real smile blossoms across Mrs. Rossi’s face this time, not like the nervous one from before.
“I’m so glad you like it,” she gushes as she spoons another huge serving on my plate.
Lucas scoffs. “Careful, Mom. Jess isn’t used to all this monosodium glutamate in one sitting. She might balloon like Violet from Willy Wonka.”
Lucas and his dad both laugh, the sounds rumbling through the room like thunder. Mrs. Rossi smiles like it’s something she’s used to and puts up with, but this smile is nothing like the one that lit up her face when I handed her my plate for seconds. Like the guys at work with their tired “cleanup in aisle six” gag, it looks like Mrs. Rossi’s cooking has been the butt of a joke for too long.
“Hey.” I shoot Lucas a quick glare. “Cooking’s not easy. You should be really grateful that your mom makes dinner for you every night.”
I probably just swung the door wide open into my home life. The laughter comes to a full stop.
Mrs. Rossi seems to choose her next words carefully.
“Do you like to cook, Jess?” It’s the most delicate way of sidestepping the landmine I set for myself.
“Like? No. You’d be amazed at how many things I can burn. Did you know if you boil eggs for too long the yolks will turn green? And you can’t microwave them either. I learned that the hard way.”
Mr. Rossi chokes a little but then he laughs, which relieves some of the tension.
“But I can hold my own. And my neighbor is always bringing us food. Tonight she brought over stuffed peppers,” I add.
“Mrs. Alvarez,” Lucas adds, and nods. “She’s nice.”
I smile at him. I like that he likes her, even if he only just met her and he’s saying it to be polite. She’s old and can tell the same story to me every day as if it’s the first time she’s ever shared it, but she takes care of me more than anyone else these days.
“Mrs. Alvarez tried to teach me how to cook a couple of times, but everything was ‘Add a handful of flour . . . more if it needs it . . . Taste it? Does it need salt?’ I mean, how am I supposed to know if it needs more flour or salt if I’ve never cooked before?”
Mrs. Rossi nods, nibbling on her lower lip in thought.
“Well, I’m sure Mrs. Alvarez is a better cook than I am, but I can give you a few cooking tips. Easy things you can do yourself,” she decides, nodding to Lucas. “Pass the bread to Jess.”
After dinner, I help bring the plates into the kitchen, where Mrs. Rossi opens the pantry doors and the freezer to show me different dinner options and combinations. She pulls out a large frosty package of frozen ground beef and holds it up like a trophy.
“This right here is a lifesaver. Family size is the most economical; then divide it up into plastic bags and throw it in your freezer.”
She turns to the stove, showing me her large frying pan.
“Just brown it in a skillet . . . you know what brown means, right? Break it up with a spatula until the pink is gone.” Then she pulls out a box. “Then add this and stir it together. Get some buns, and you have sloppy joes. Or . . .” She pulls out a packet from the pantry. “Add this instead for tacos.”
She keeps rattling off her favorite recipes and writes some tips down for me. The kind of practical tips I didn’t know I needed to get from my mom before she started having more bad days than good.
When Lucas takes the car keys to drive me home later that night, Mrs. Rossi rushes to the front door before I leave.
“Jess, wait!” She pushes a plastic food container into my arms. “Take a little home with you. I made too much.”
I know what “I made too much” really means, but I don’t argue.
“See you soon, I hope.” She kisses me good-bye on the cheek. I nod and turn away before she sees the tears well in my eyes.
Lucas is quiet as we get in the car and buckle up. We pull out of their driveway and turn down his tree-lined street. New spring leaves round out the trees’ silhouettes against the dark sky.
He reaches over and grabs my hand, exhaling deeply, as if he’s nervous. “So . . . what’d you think?”
“Your parents are so nice,” I say. But what I really want to say is they’re so nice and normal. Tonight was great, but it was also a painful reminder of how much is missing in my life. Missing and missed.
“I knew they’d be over-the-top nice,” he says. “They’re trying to take it a little easier on me because they were so hard on Jason.”
“About Reggie?”
The green light of the dashboard softens the planes of his face as he makes the turns back to my place.
“Yeah,” he says. “My parents just thought they were too young.”
“She told me why he really stayed when we were at the bonfire,” I tell him.
He sucks in air through his teeth. “Yeah . . . please don’t ever mention it to my parents. They don’t know that she asked Jason to stay.” He shakes his head. “They’d never forgive her.”
“That’s not fair,” I argue.
“I know,” he agrees. “Big difference between ‘fair’ and ‘feelings’ though.”
My feelings for his parents aren’t as generous anymore. But I have to remember what the Rossis lost also.
Lucas turns to me. “Are you in a hurry to get home?”
I choke on my laugh. “Uh . . . no!”
“Want to go down to the beach?” He runs a finger over the back of my hand. Just that little touch makes my breath stutter with anticipation. I nod and smile back.
Lucas turns the car around and we drive down a beach road that had been covered in sand, splintered wood, and debris after Sandy. So many of the numbered Beach Streets off the boardwalk looked like a ship had wrecked on a deserted island. We couldn’t imagine ever rebuilding, but we did. Most of us did, at least. Some homes are still abandoned, reminders that not everyone is resilient, not everyone can find their way back after being knocked down repeatedly.
The Rockaways were built on a sandbar. We didn’t start off with the best foundation to begin with. At a certain point you have to wonder why we keep leaving ourselves vulnerable and wide open.
Lucas
For Jess
The next morning, I find a Post-it on the kitchen counter with Jess’s name. Under it, a stack of coupons clipped together: Hamburger Helper, Old El Paso, Ronzoni. At the bottom of the pile is the golden ticket, the coupon my mother looks forward to every week in the Wednesday circular: five dollars off your grocery order. She’s giving this to Jess. That’s a huge deal.
Progress. I see it everywhere. Even outside the kitchen window, the trees are exploding with spring, each one of those little buds from just a few weeks ago fanning out into tiny green hands. The calendar on the wall by the phone has a picture of a tulip field and a monthly inspirational quote: Hope springs eternal. Maybe so, May. Maybe so.
Dates are circled and appointments scribbled onto the days of the month. Looks like Dad’s having a colonoscopy on the tenth. Mom didn’t even try to come up with some kind of secret code to save him some embarrassment. Nope. It says, “FRANK, COLONOSCOPY, 10:30 A.M.”
Not circled? Saturday, the twentieth. A little more than two weeks away. The day of my boxing match. The only two people who know about that match are me and Leo. I haven’t even told Jess yet. I’m not sure when or how I’ll break that news to her.
Mom walks by in her fuzzy white bathrobe, sipping her coffee. She glances at the coupons in my hand. “Oh good, you found them. Make sure to tell Jess Wednesdays are double-coupon day.”
I don’t even know what to say, so I just grab her in a huge hug.
“Oof!” She holds her coffee mug out so she doesn’t spill it on me. When I pull away she reaches up and pats my cheek.
Jess has her back to me at her locker, her hair falling in shiny copper waves. She keeps it down at school, up in a ponytail at
work. I sneak my arms around her waist and rest my chin by her ear, her hair tickling against my cheek.
“Hey.”
She pockets her phone and turns around in my arms to meet me for a kiss.
This really is one of the many new highlights of my day. Just a few weeks ago, I was freaking out that I couldn’t handle this. Maybe all those feel-good oxytocin hormones flooding my body are keeping my anxiety up against the ropes.
“Mr. Rossi, Miss Nolan.” Mr. Klein, our principal, holds a warning finger up. One finger. First warning.
As soon as Mr. Klein turns the corner, we sneak in another kiss before heading down the hallway, my arm around her shoulders, her waist pressed into my hip. I pull the coupons out of my back pocket with my free hand and pass them to her.
“This is from my mom.”
She flips through them and smiles. “Oh. Thanks.”
She doesn’t get it.
“It’s a big deal. She gave you her five-dollar-off coupon. That’s like getting the slice of cake with the flower on it.”
Jess laughs and pockets the coupons. “Great, now I want cake.”
I don’t think Jess grasps the magnitude of the gesture. These coupons are my mother’s way of welcoming Jess. Jason would have given his right throwing arm for my family to roll out the welcome mat for Reggie.
I mumble something so pathetic, I wish I could shove the words back in my mouth as soon as they’re out.
“Those coupons mean a lot to my mother.”
Jess looks confused and upset. “Oh.” She takes the coupons back out of her pocket and hands them to me. “Give them back to her. I don’t need them,” she says, but her cheeks are flaming, because I’m an idiot.
I can hear Dr. Engel in my ear. “If you communicate and problem solve together . . .”
So I collect my thoughts, and take a deep breath. “That came out all wrong. She wants you to have them because she likes you. And I wanted you to know that’s a big deal because of everything Jason went through. Like, I wanted you to know that my parents are, um, trying.” I scratch the back of my head. “And you would have no way of knowing it’s a big deal to me or them, so I’m sorry.”
I take my finger and try to erase the worried furrows on her forehead that I caused. “I’m sorry,” I say again, and lean to kiss her. And she lets me.
I take her hand and we walk back down the hallway to class. “How about after work tonight we go to my house, watch a movie or something?”
She smiles in relief. Her smile tugs at me, makes my heart jump and do tricks. It’s a little scary. And awesome.
It poured while we were at work. Now that the rain has passed, the air is still damp, but sweet-smelling. Clean.
Store awnings trickle rainwater in steady metronomic drips all around us as we head to my car parked a few blocks away. The cars tearing past us whiz over the thin sheen of moisture on the asphalt.
Jess pauses as she comes up to a puddle on the sidewalk by my car. A sly smile sneaks across her face, right before she stomps in the puddle, soaking both of us.
“Hey!” I laugh, even though my jeans are now cold and wet against my legs.
“Whoops! That kind of backfired.” She laughs, shaking her wet leg out. “I pictured that turning out way differently in my head.”
I swoop in and take advantage of her brief moment of remorse, pressing my lips down on hers. My hands are at her waist, drawing her in. She smiles against my lips and her fingers cinch into my jacket, holding me close. I can feel my reserve tanks filling with pure bliss.
She pulls back and gets in the car, still grinning. It’s a five-minute drive to my house. Jess waits for me on the curb before we walk in together.
“Ma, we’re here,” I call to her while Jess and I kick off our shoes. Mom’s at the kitchen table with her laptop open, glasses on.
“Hi,” she greets us, still tapping on the keyboard. She looks up and smiles at Jess. “Hi, Jess.”
“Hi.” Jess waves. “Thank you for the coupons!” she says.
“You’re welcome! Did Lucas tell you Wednesdays are double-coupon days? You might want to wait until next week to use them.”
Jess nods, wide-eyed and eager to please. I feel guilty watching her try too hard to make my mother happy. I projected Jason and Reggie’s drama onto our relationship for no good reason.
Mom refocuses her attention on her laptop.
“What’re you working on?” I ask.
There’s something in the way my mother’s sitting that’s different. Shoulders squared, eyes focused . . . and she’s tapping like a boss on the keyboard. Papers are fanned out on the table next to her. She glances at them, then back to her screen.
“My company—my old company—offered me a freelance job. And I said yes. I mean, why not, right?”
Watching her work again fills me with a mix of pride and happiness, and not a small amount of relief. It’s the closest thing to normal I’ve seen from her in a while.
I take Jess by the shoulders and steer her toward the basement door. “We’ll get out of your way. We’re going downstairs to watch a movie.”
Mom looks up from her keyboard with a strained smile. “Okay. But I’m doing laundry down there, just so you know,” which is a mom warning for “don’t do anything you don’t want me catching you doing.”
My family has a huge DVD collection. Downstairs, Jess plops down in front of the storage bins cross-legged, as excited as a kid in the toy store.
“Oh my God!” She holds Young Frankenstein up and waves it in the air like she struck gold. “This! We have to watch this first!” But she’s not done. She makes piles of movies she wants to watch next time she comes over. I like that she’s planning on coming back again, and by the number of movies she’s putting aside, she’s planning on coming back a bunch of times. Some of the movies are old as dirt but classics: The Birds, The Graduate, The Exorcist.
She stops when she gets to Roman Holiday. Her finger traces the cover and her smile dims. I crouch down next to her.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says. Then she shrugs. “My mom and I used to check out movies from the library all the time. She loved Audrey Hepburn. This one was her favorite.” She turns it around to show me, then she puts the movie back in the bin. I take it out and place it on top of the pile of movies she’s put aside to watch another time.
“We should watch it, then,” I say.
She scrunches up her nose and shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”
I put my hand on her shoulder and squeeze.
“Why don’t you take it home to watch with your mom?”
She bites her lip and thinks about it.
“Maybe.”
The metaphorical door closes, slamming in my face. That’s all I’m getting. Jess hands me Young Frankenstein with a smile. I pop it in and we set up camp on the couch.
I have to give her credit; Jess can switch gears faster than anyone I know.
By the time Gene Wilder stabs himself in the leg with a scalpel, Jess and I are in full make-out mode. I stretch out on the couch, taking Jess with me, and pull the blanket over us . . . just in case. My hand skims underneath Jess’s shirt. She rolls her eyes to look up the stairs.
“It’s okay,” I murmur in her ear. “I’m watching out.”
I kiss her ear and tug on her earlobe with my teeth. She gasps and hitches her leg around my hip, pulling me closer. Soon, we’re both pressing into each other and I’m wishing so hard my mother would have to go to the store for something, anything, because this would be so much better if we could peel off a few layers of clothes.
The door opens and we both bolt up. I hold the blanket across our laps, smoothing it down and trying to act normal.
“I’m coming to check on the laundry!” Mom announces in a commanding voice.
Mom looks between us on the couch, both of us trying to pretend nothing was going on, but by Jess’s messy hair and swollen lips, I think it’s obvious what we were
up to.
Mom opens the dryer, peeks in, then shuts the door again. She pushes the start button and walks by. “Needs a little more time,” she says, pointing to the dryer. At the foot of the stairs, she adds, “I’m just going to keep the door open, okay?” Mom’s not really asking, she’s telling. Jess’s cheeks flame.
As soon as we hear my mother’s footsteps crossing the floor over us, I pounce on Jess again.
“Your mom!” She shoves at me.
“Kiss quieter!” I tease. She rolls out from under me onto the floor. Then she shoves a throw pillow in my face.
“Maybe you’d rather kiss this instead!” She laughs. I fall back on the couch and stare at the pocked ceiling tiles.
Jess tries to take the blanket from me, but I hold on.
“Give me a minute.” I close my eyes and scour my brain for anything that will get this situation under control. Remembering the time some drunk guy walked out of the Blarney Stone and puked on my sneakers as I was walking by usually does it.
“That’s quite an impressive tent you’ve pitched, Mr. Rossi,” I hear Jess say. “Your talents are being wasted at Enzo’s. You should get a job at Dick’s Sporting Goods.” She snorts at her own joke.
I groan. “You’re not helping.”
Later that night, I drive Jess home. The porch light to her house is off. I wait for her to get inside safely, but I can’t help but wonder what’s waiting for her, what she wants to hide from me.
Jess
If one more idiot promposes in front of me, I’m going to scream. I’m about ready to put a No Promposal Zone sign on my locker.
Too late. Andrew just arrived, hair looking extra crispy today.
A string quartet lines up in the hallway next to Sarah’s locker. Risa organizes the cello between her legs.
“I can’t be late for chem,” she warns Andrew, who’s holding up his promposal sign.
WHAT’S BETTER THAN A QUARTET?
A DUET!
ME AND YOU @ PROM, BABY!
It’s really the “baby” part that makes me throw up in my mouth a little. That and the fact that Sarah is still dating him after he got all aggro with her in the hall.
