Moxie

by Jennifer Mathieu

  “Mr. Shelly said if I do anything Moxie related, I’m suspended and probably expelled,” Lucy continues.

  “And then what happened?” I ask.

  “Then he sent me home early,” Lucy says with a shrug. “He said it wouldn’t go down as a suspension on my record this time, but he still wants me to take it as a serious warning or whatever.” She scowls, but then, out of nowhere, her eyes glass over and a tear or two tumbles down her cheek.

  “Fuck it,” Lucy says, wiping the tears away. “I’m sorry, I hate crying in front of people.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I say, looking around the room for a tissue or a napkin or even a semi-clean piece of laundry for her to wipe her eyes with.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says, shaking her head and sniffling. “I’m fine. I’m … fine.”

  I can’t remember the first time I saw Claudia cry or the first time she saw me do it. It was always something we knew we could do in front of each other, but with Lucy, our friendship still feels fresh. Fragile even. I’m not sure if I should hold her in my arms like I did the morning Claudia came over to tell me about Mitchell. Lucy’s eagerness to shut down her crying makes me think she wouldn’t like that, so I just scoot a little closer to her and rub her shoulder a bit.

  “I’m sorry, Lucy,” I say. “I’m sorry this happened.” Because of me.

  Lucy wipes at her red eyes with the edge of her black T-shirt. “You know what pisses me off the most?” she asks, and without waiting for my answer, she keeps going. “In Houston I never got in trouble. Ever. I was, like, a super nerd in my school. I was a kickass student and in, like, twenty clubs. I was even on the student advisory board. Teachers liked me. The principal fucking loved me!” Lucy moves her hands in the air as she talks, emphasizing her points.

  “They had a student advisory board?” I ask, my eyes widening at the idea.

  “Yes!” Lucy says, half-wistful, half-angry. And with that she slumps down and curls up in the corner of her bed. “I know I come off like some tough girl here or whatever because I actually care about social issues and stuff,” she continues, “but honestly, I really just want to do well in school and go to college. I can’t get into serious trouble because that could affect stuff like admissions and scholarships and everything.”

  “I know,” I say, nodding. “I really know. And I’m really, really sorry you had to deal with all this.” I reach out tentatively and stroke the top of Lucy’s dark curls. She looks up and manages a half smile and the two of us sit there, quiet except for Lucy’s occasional sniffles. I lean my head against the cool glass of the tiny bedroom window and peer down at the front yard. Lucy’s little brother is racing his scooter up and down the sidewalk, his dark hair flying out behind him, not a care in the world. At last Lucy says, “You’re a good friend, Viv. I’m really glad I met you.”

  “I’m really glad I met you, too,” I say. But my stomach churns. A good friend would tell Lucy the truth right now. A good friend wouldn’t let her carry the weight of everything.

  I open my mouth. Then I shut it.

  Maybe I’m not a good friend. Just a chicken.

  “You know, Moxie has been a total saving grace for me,” she says, taking a deep breath, “but I kind of hope it takes a break for a bit. Until shit calms down.”

  It stings to hear those words, and it hurts to see Lucy so defeated. If I had the guts to admit I started Moxie, maybe Lucy would want to keep the fight going. The only trouble is, I think part of Moxie’s power is that it is a secret who started it. Would it be as powerful if everyone knew it was my idea?

  “I wonder if whoever started it got freaked out enough by Principal Wilson to stop,” I wonder out loud, to see what Lucy will say.

  “Whoever started Moxie doesn’t seem like they’d get too frightened too easily,” she answers. “But I’m scared. I definitely think the administration is going to be keeping a super close eye on all us girls. I don’t know. I hate to say it, but I really do think Moxie should take a hiatus.” She frowns.

  “Yeah, probably,” I say, trying to shake the empty feeling that’s come over me. Did I really just decide to stop Moxie?

  Just then my phone buzzes, and I slide it out of my pocket.

  Hey how’s Lucy doing?

  “Ooh, is that your guy?” Lucy says, kicking me gently in the shin.

  I shoot her a look. “Maybe.”

  “Well, if it isn’t, he better not know about whoever it is whose texts make your face go all goofy like that.”

  “Look, he just wants to know how you are,” I tell her, showing her the screen.

  “Wow, an East Rockport guy who isn’t a dick,” Lucy says. “He should be, like, bronzed or something.”

  I laugh out loud and text Seth back.

  She’s doing okay considering but we’re still hanging out … can I call you later?

  A second later Seth writes back.

  Yeah sure … just don’t forget your pathetic lonely boyfriend over here

  I blush briefly. Boyfriend. It’s the first time Seth’s used that word with me.

  I won’t forget you … I promise

  “Okay, enough, lover,” says Lucy. “Let’s go downstairs and see if we can raid my grandmother’s Klondike bar collection in the freezer.” At that she pulls herself off the bed and heads for the door of her bedroom. I slide my phone back into my pocket, my head spinning at the idea of a cute boy who calls himself my boyfriend and my heart aching at the feeling that all of a sudden Moxie has stepped on the brakes. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to make sense of it, but I guess it would be asking too much for 100 percent of my life to be 100 percent awesome 100 percent of the time.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I’m making out with my boyfriend.

  Even though Seth and I have been going out for almost two months—since Christmas, really—sometimes I have to stop (briefly) in the middle of a make-out session and consciously recognize that yes, Seth Acosta is my boyfriend. And I get to make out whenever I want.

  The way he kisses that place right behind my ear.

  The way he can’t stop touching my hair, running his fingers through it over and over until I get goose bumps.

  The way he looks at me with his dark eyes, his cheeks flushed, before he collapses into me and we kiss again.

  Only normally this happens in his car or by the beach or in my living room before my mother gets home from work. Tonight it’s happening in his house—in his house decorated full of strange paintings and sleek, shiny furniture—the total opposite of Meemaw’s country kitchen vibe. (There’s not a damn rooster knickknack in sight, that’s for sure.) Making out in this house makes the making out seem more grown-up somehow. Or at least more sophisticated.

  Finally, we pull apart, catching our breaths.

  “My parents are going to be here soon,” he says, blinking. Trying to steady himself.

  I peer at him from my end of the couch. I really want to attack him again.

  “Yeah,” I say, “I don’t want my face to look all, like, make out-ey when they get here.”

  “I didn’t realize make out-ey was a word,” Seth says, grinning.

  “It totally is.” A smile breaks out on my face, and I lean in and kiss him again.

  It’s a testament to how super crazy I am about Seth that I would even risk making out with him in his house so soon before his mom and dad are set to arrive with dinner. I’ve never even seen them before, but Seth’s mom insisted I come over today, Friday—the weekend before Valentine’s Day—so we could meet in person.

  “She’s just, like, into knowing who you are, since we’ve been hanging out,” Seth explained to me a few days ago when he asked me if I would mind coming over.

  “Are you blushing?” I’d asked him.

  “No,” Seth had answered, even though he totally had been.

  Finally, Seth and I manage to stop messing around and it’s a good thing, too, because just moments later his parents come through the door carrying whi
te plastic bags full of takeout from the House of Beijing, the one Chinese place in the entire East Rockport area. Delicious smells float in with them, and my stomach growls just a little.

  “Vivvy?” a female voice asks, and I stand up from the couch and see Seth’s mom. Long graying hair in a tight ponytail. Beautiful face with a slash of red lipstick in the middle of it. Black jeans and a black T-shirt with a silver scribble running down the middle. Silver and turquoise bangles line both wrists. She walks right up to me and hugs me without warning. She smells of baby powder.

  “I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you, honey!”

  “Hi,” I say, anxious about getting this woman to like me and wondering what the right thing is to say. It turns out I don’t need to say anything. Seth’s mom introduces herself (“Please call me Zoe. And please call Seth’s dad Alejandro, okay?”) and then she doesn’t stop talking. Like, at all. Not as she takes out the bright green Fiestaware from the cabinets to set the table. Not as she slides out her phone and taps at it for a moment or two. Not as she slips an arm around Alejandro and kisses him on the cheek in a way that feels a little more intimate than I’d expect from people who’ve been married for a hundred years.

  She talks about Austin and East Rockport and art and politics and the weather and the lack of good ethnic food in the area and soul music and manicures and how she likes my boots. She talks about how she just found and ordered a vintage Italian parasol online that she really loves, and she talks about how she thinks she’s just had a breakthrough on her recent commissioned piece. (“I just need to keep listening to it sing to me, you know?”) Her voice is knowing and lilting and sure of itself, and by the time all of us sit down at the groovy modern all-white kitchen table and chairs, I’m not sure if I should be smiling or nodding or laughing at everything Zoe Acosta says. But I’m pretty sure I’m exhausted.

  That’s when Alejandro offers me some wine.

  “Red or white, Viv?” he asks, a bottle in each hand. He’s younger than Zoe. Handsome like Seth. A tattoo of a snake slides down his left arm and wraps itself around his wrist.

  I thought my mom was cool, but honestly next to Seth’s mom and dad, she looks like the president of the PTO.

  “Oh,” I say. I glance at Seth, who’s sitting across from me, calmly scooping moo goo gai pan onto his bright green plate.

  “You don’t have to have any, sweetie, but we’re okay with Seth having a little bit of wine with his dinner,” Zoe says.

  “I don’t want any,” Seth says, not looking up. He seems tense, somehow, but I’m not sure if I’m imagining it.

  “I’m … okay, too,” I say. My mom has let me have a sip of her wine in the past when I was curious (“Don’t tell Meemaw, okay?”) and I’ve had my fair share of crappy semi-cold cans of beer at stupid parties when people’s parents were out of town, but I’ve never been offered alcohol by an adult in a way that felt so casual.

  Alejandro doesn’t offer me wine again, and he and Zoe spend the rest of the meal chatting among themselves, with Zoe inserting a simple question or two directed at me every so often, like was I born in East Rockport and what do I think I want to study in college and so on. I manage simple, to-the-point answers and then sit back and listen as Zoe picks up from where she left off before she asked me anything, sliding back into conversation about her favorite topic: herself.

  As Alejandro starts clearing the table and Zoe begins to brew coffee, Seth shoots me a look that clearly reads desperate. His eyebrows arched, he carefully mouths, “Let’s go.” I shrug, scared of appearing rude. But Seth just stands up, clears his dishes and mine, and says, “Well, look, I think I’ve got to be getting Vivian home.”

  “But you just got here!” Zoe shouts, turning and walking toward me, clutching my hands in hers like I’m about to journey into the woods with no plan to ever return.

  “She and her mom have a thing,” he answers, outright lying.

  Zoe performs an exaggerated pout, her mouth sliding down into a severe upside-down U.

  “Well, we’ll let you go only if you and your mom come by one night for dinner, all right, preciosa?” Her Spanish accent is awful. She puts her hands on her hips and Alejandro comes over from the kitchen sink and scoots his arms around her waist and kisses her on the neck.

  “You and your mom should definitely join us one night,” Seth’s dad says, lifting his gaze and smiling at me. I notice he has tiny diamond earrings—one in each ear.

  “You ready, Vivian?” Seth says, pocketing his keys off the counter.

  “Sure,” I say, standing up and offering Zoe and Alejandro my most polite smile. “It was so nice to meet you. Thanks for a delicious dinner.”

  “Thank you for being the cutest thing ever,” Zoe says, slipping out of Alejandro’s grip and swallowing me up in one last suffocating hug.

  Outside in Seth’s car, he slides his key in the ignition, but instead of starting the engine, he just looks at me and slumps against the driver’s seat.

  “And those were my parents,” he says, sounding like a sideshow barker who’s been introducing the same carnival act for years.

  I smile and try to think of what I want to say.

  “They were … nice. Really.”

  “They drive me nuts,” Seth says, starting up the car. “Wanna go to the beach? It’s not too cold.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I pick out a song by this all-girl band from Louisiana that I just found out about and Seth nods approvingly, but I can tell he’s still feeling off about the dinner. “Your parents really are nice, they’re just…” I search for the word. “They’re intense.”

  “I mean, they’re fine,” Seth says. “It’s not like I’ve got any reason to complain. They bought me a car. They kind of let me do what I want. They’re not assholes or anything. I mean, I think they’re fundamentally, like, decent people. It’s just that they’re really, really into being themselves. Especially my mom.”

  I nod, peering out the window of Seth’s car, watching East Rockport at night zip past. I think about my mom moving back to her hometown after my dad died. Working hard to put herself through school. Raising me as a single parent and always letting me know in big and small ways how much I matter. She always put me first, to the point where I think maybe she forgot to have her own life.

  “I wonder if my mom hasn’t been into herself enough,” I say.

  “Yeah? What do you mean?”

  I’m still working it out in my head, so I speak slowly. “Well, she basically hated living here when she was a teenager and she had this whole plan to leave East Rockport, and she did it. Then because of me she had to come back and live next door to her mom and dad. She works long hours to make ends meet and does it all on her own. This guy John that she’s dating, he’s only the second boyfriend she’s had in my whole life.”

  Seth pulls the car into the public beach parking lot. I can see a few other cars here, parked down the row. It’s prime make-out territory tonight.

  “Wanna get out and walk for a while?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  We maneuver by a few empty beer cans and an abandoned green-and-yellow beach towel, and Seth takes my hand in his. The lights of East Rockport twinkle at us from the other side of the bay. If you can ignore the fishy smell in the air, it’s almost romantic.

  “So you think your mom will ever leave?” Seth asks. “After you do?”

  I shrug. “Who knows? I think at this point she’s probably pretty settled. Honestly, things with John seem pretty serious.” I pause, and Seth waits for me while I think. “I know I complain about him because he voted Republican, but the truth is, she really seems to like him and he does actually seem okay. I guess it is good for my mom to do something that makes her happy.”

  “I’m sure my parents will head back to Austin after this crazy small-town Texas experiment is over,” he says. “They always follow their whims.”

  I’m seized by a horrible feeling. “But not right away, right? I mean, you don’t thi
nk they’ll get tired of East Rockport anytime soon?” I try to make my voice sound casual.

  But Seth grins. “Why, would you miss me or something?”

  “Shut up,” I say. “And yes.”

  “I think their East Rockport performance art piece will probably last until I finish high school at least. So I’m not going anywhere.”

  Now it’s my turn to grin. We walk to the picnic tables and sit down next to each other. Seth squeezes my hand. I lean my head on his shoulder.

  “I liked meeting your parents,” I say.

  “Well, I’m glad they didn’t totally overwhelm you,” Seth says. “They’re just weird. God, this one time my mother actually…” He stops, like his brain just caught up with his mouth. “Forget it.”

  “Now you have to tell me.”

  “It’s embarrassing.”

  “What?” I insist, elbowing him a little.

  Seth looks out at the bay as he answers. “My mom literally bought me a box of condoms for my sixteenth birthday after I started going out with Samantha,” he says. “She wrapped them in fancy wrapping paper and put a bow on them and everything.”

  Seth owning condoms. Seth having sex with Samantha. Seth wanting to have sex with me. Seth and me having sex. Condoms, sex, Seth, sex, sex, and sex. That’s essentially what runs through my mind in the seconds after Seth speaks.

  “Did you have to unwrap the present in front of her?”

  “Yes!” Seth says, shouting and laughing at the same time. “She put the box on my dinner plate. My dad took a picture. I can only hope to God it’s not online somewhere.”

  “You are not serious.”

  “I am serious.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly. My mom told me it’s what the Dutch do and she thought it was, I don’t know, progressive or something.”

  “Wow,” I say, but my heart is hammering. I muster up the courage to ask. “So you and Samantha…?”

  Seth shakes his head no, just slightly.

  “We never did. I don’t know … I mean, I was … interested, I’m not going to lie. But she wasn’t sure. So it just, like, never happened.”