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Authors: Suzanne Supplee

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Kyle looked down at his plate. “You think I could get some fries?” he asked.
“The menu’s pre-fixed,” the waiter interrupted. He stood above us, holding our salad plates. “It’s called a night of
artichokes
.”
“Even the dessert?” asked Kyle.
The waiter rolled his eyes and smacked our plates down on the table. “I just
love
prom night,” he said and huffed off.
Kyle and I zipped through the main course—pasta with crushed tomatoes, red peppers, and artichokes. It was delicious. Just to be on the safe side, we skipped dessert altogether. I didn’t want to blow my diet, even if it was prom night, and Kyle was convinced the dessert would have artichokes in it, too.
Kyle paid the bill, and when he wasn’t looking, I added a few extra dollars to the tip. I knew why the waiter hated prom night so much (teenagers are notoriously lousy tippers). We climbed into the Suburban, and Kyle leaned in close—full brown-eye-to-brown -eye contact. “Remember that day at the computer table? When you lost control of your chair?” he asked. I nodded. “Well, that was the first day I knew I wanted to ask you out.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m serious. I liked you then and there.”
“Kyle, I was forty-five pounds heavier then and there,” I pointed out (idiot that I am).
“Well . . . when you look at a person’s eyes or her smile, you can’t tell how much she weighs. . . .” He paused, and it seemed like he had something more to say. I wondered if he was anywhere close to
I love you
. I sure was. The words were hanging off the end of my tongue, threatening to let go and make that big leap any second. I resisted, and if Kyle had been about to say the words, he resisted, too.
The Spring Hill High School parking lot was nearly empty. “Looks like we’re early,” I said.
“Yeah. If we go in now we’ll have to mingle with teachers or the prom committee.” He grabbed a parking spot in the back, near the tennis courts, and began flipping through his CD collection. Louis Armstrong, Bobby Darin, and Ray Charles flashed by. “You like Ray Charles?” he asked, and went back a page. I nodded. Ray was one of Miss Bertha’s favorites, and I knew many of his more popular songs by heart.
Ray’s froggy-throated voice filled up the car, and I reclined my seat back a little. “Look at that sunset,” I said. Across the late spring sky were streaks of fire orange mixed in with bits of purple, green, and blue. Before I knew it, we were kissing. I’d just reapplied lip gloss, but I didn’t care. In Kyle’s defensive lineman embrace, I felt small, exposed somehow—as if all
my
spikes were peeled away. And his mouth was so warm, his tongue so inviting. It seemed like all these hard, clutched-up little pieces of me were floating right out the window. Before I knew it, the words
I love you
tumbled out.
It was like I’d dropped a whole drawer of pots and pans. Kyle pulled away and blinked at me. I waited.
Please say it back.
I waited some more.
Please.
Cars were beginning to fill the parking lot, and I could hear music coming from the gymnasium.
“Maybe we should go inside now,” said Kyle, his face kind and apologetic.
chapter thirty-six
Girls Gone Wild
On our way inside the gymnasium, Kyle slipped his arm around my waist, but I pulled away. Why had I let the
I love you
slip out?
Stupid, stupid girl!
I hadn’t intended to say it. I’d just gotten carried away with the sunset and Kyle’s lips and Ray Charles. Somehow I wanted to convey this to Kyle, but there was no way to backtrack now that my
I love you
was out there.
Logan Clark and Marta Pitts were locked in a mutual butt-grabbing embrace over by the giant trophy cabinet. Under the staircase, Tara Waters appeared to be resuscitating the NB I’d tripped that day in the hallway.
Where are the chaperones when you need them?
Kay-Kay had definitely made the right decision. I was beginning to think I should’ve stayed home with her.
“Wanna dance?” asked Kyle when a song finally came on. The music was so fast it was impossible to find a beat, although what could you expect from a band called Rupture Your Eardrums?
“Okay,” I said stiffly, avoiding his eyes. Kyle slipped his arms around my waist and pressed his forehead against mine. He tried to kiss me, but I turned my head to the side, giving him cheek instead of lips. When the song was over, I briskly led the way back to the bleachers.
“Want something to drink?” he tried. I could tell by the way he said it my aloof behavior was making him nervous.
This is not about Kyle,
I heard Mrs. Wallace say.
This is about you, Rosie.
“Sure. I’ll have the punch,” I said politely. I felt guilty as I watched Kyle wander off through the crowd. He wore the bewildered, what-just-happened expression of a person involved in an accident, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do next.
Finally, the band took a break. Intermission music crackled through the ancient speakers, and someone jacked up the volume. “Oh, no!” I groaned.
“What?” asked Kyle.
“It’s the Bluebirds’ theme song,” I shouted. Dressed in various shades of blue (a long-standing prom tradition for Bluebirds), the girls scrambled to the dance floor. Tara had pried herself off the NB long enough to grab Misty and jump in the middle of it—all of them sweating and gyrating and shouting out the “We Are Family” lyrics as if Sister Sledge had written the song especially for them.
Girls Gone Wild,
I thought, and smiled to myself. This was exactly the sort of thing I would’ve (under normal circumstances) whispered to Kyle, but not tonight. I finished off my punch, crumpled the paper cup, and shredded it into tiny pieces. I also had a little talk with myself (inside my head, of course).
You don’t want some boy saying he loves you just because you said it first. It has to be real.
Yes, but it still sucks that he didn’t say it back!
You took a chance, and that’s good. Just relax and have fun. What are you? An idiot? Six months ago you wouldn’t have even considered this as a possibility—going to the prom with anybody, much less Kyle Cox. Be grateful!
I am. I am grateful. And I love Kyle even if he doesn’t love me back.
Then go dance your ass off and try to have a good time.
Okay.
I tugged Kyle to his feet. “Let’s go dance some more,” I said, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“Sure,” he said, and let me lead him to the floor.
By the end of the evening, I was certain Rupture Your Eardrums had lived up to their name. My ears rang like the downtown church bells on Sunday morning. Kyle and I walked hand in hand to his car, and the cool night air felt good on my damp skin.
“Let’s go to the park,” said Kyle when we pulled out of the parking lot. “It’s not really time for any after-parties yet.”
“Okay,” I said, thinking how uninterested I was in any after-parties.
Kyle pulled the blanket out of the back seat and we sat down. “There’s no security here tonight,” he said. “The city had some cutbacks or something. They had to let the night guy go.”
“Did you research this?”
“No. Daddy talks about this kinda stuff every night at the supper table. He’s real into local politics. He talks about running for office himself one day, but Mama says the only place Daddy’s running is to a ball field to pick up one of my brothers.”
“Your mom hasn’t been to the salon for a while,” I said, trying to make conversation.
“Yeah. She’s not much on stuff like that. She always
says
she’s going to, but she hardly ever does.”
In spite of the chilly temperature, I still felt sweaty from all the dancing. In my mind, I calculated the number of calories I’d burned off on the dance floor. Without warning, Kyle locked his lips on mine and eased me back onto the blanket. His face hung over me like a wide moon. I opened my eyes and watched his eyes flutter behind their tightly closed lids. After a while, I switched my gaze to the inky sky, which was sprinkled with stars. I was trying hard not to feel anything.
“What’s the matter?” asked Kyle, drawing back. “What are you looking at?”
“The sky,” I replied. I’d insulted his intense kissing, I knew, but something had come over me. I wasn’t sure what it was, but everything seemed different now—more reality, less fantasy.
Kyle Cox was handsome. He was a jock. He was even a nice guy. No, he was more than that. He was an exceptional guy, but he didn’t love me. Sooner or later, I would have to deal with the fact that the fat girl doesn’t wind up with Enormous Strapping Jock Boy in the end. Maybe this was our denouement.
“The sky
is
pretty tonight,” he agreed. “So are you,” he said, and kissed me again. I thought of the couple Miss Bertha and I had seen in the park all those weeks ago. I remembered the electric feeling I’d gotten watching the boy knead his girlfriend’s bosom like bread dough. I pictured my virginity floating off over the treetops like a bright red helium balloon.
“That’s enough,” I said, pushing Kyle away. “It’s time to go home.”
“Home? But what about the after-parties?”
“I’m not going to any after-parties,” I said, rearranging my now
very
wrinkled dress. “I plan to start studying for exams tomorrow. They’ll be here before you know it, and my mother starts chemo again on Monday. Her lungs are all cleared up now. I wanna spend the day with her. Do something fun to celebrate maybe.”
“Oh, well, that’s really good. I’m glad,” said Kyle, “that your mom’s better, I mean.” Obediently, he stood and folded the blanket. I tried not to notice the hurt in his eyes.
Crumpled dress draped over my chair, scuffed shoes flung into a corner, Grandma Georgia convinced of a good time, I lay in my bed listening to the hum of the air-conditioning unit. I wondered how Kay-Kay had spent her night. I thought about Logan and Marta. I obsessed over Kyle. The words and images of the day, of the last few months, actually, filled my head. My heart had that two-sizes-too-big-for-my-chest feeling again. “I love you, Rosemary, ” I whispered. “I love you,” I said a second time, because I really needed to hear the words.
chapter thirty-seven
Heart
On the Monday after the prom, I talked Mrs. Wallace’s ears off. I probably made her wish she’d never become a nurse practitioner or started studying to be a counselor or ever made her way from Nashville down to Spring Hill. After I’d finished going over the events of the past week— Kyle, Kay-Kay, Mother, Aunt Mary, and I don’t even know what else—Mrs. Wallace leaned forward in her chair and studied me. I figured she was deciding which mental hospital to put me in or what kind of psych drug I should take (or whether straitjackets came in my size). Instead, she said, “Rosie, you’ve made amazing progress. You don’t need me anymore.”
My mouth fell open, and I stared at her. “What? What do you mean I don’t need you? Of course I
need
you! What are you talking about?” Panic pulsed toward my chest.
“Take a deep breath and listen for a minute.” She clasped her hands loosely across her lap and leaned back in her chair. Her head was cocked slightly to the side, and she was smiling a little. “Remember when I told you I was doing a study on the
short
-term effects of counseling?” I nodded. Already, I knew where this was headed, and she hadn’t even said anything yet. “Well,
short-term
is the operative word here. You’ve had several months of counseling, you’ve lost fifty pounds—”
“Forty-five,” I corrected her.
“At any rate, you’ve made tremendous headway in terms of your weight, your relationships,
and
in your willingness to take emotional risks. Your telling Kyle and your mother that you loved them are probably the biggest signs of how far you’ve come.”
“But my mother was asleep!” I protested.
“You’ve learned to think your problems through. You’ve learned to look at life through the eyes of a healthy, smart, self-sufficient young woman. You have coping skills, a brand-new set of them now. And a support network.” She stood up, ready to usher me into my life. I knew there was no talking my way back into her ripped vinyl chair once I got out of it.
“I don’t know,” I said, still sitting.
“You have to trust me on this one. More importantly, you have to trust yourself.”
“Wait,” I said. “I have something for you.” I searched through my purse for the Heavenly Hair gift cards Grandma Georgia had printed up. Her idea was to give a $20 gift certificate to any person who wasn’t already a client. I handed the card to Mrs. Wallace. “You can use it on whatever you want. Except for hair products,” I added, “and it’s good for a year.”
“Thank you, Rosie. I’ll definitely come by and see you,” she said.
On the way home, I called Kyle. “Honey, he’s not home,” Mrs. Cox said. “I sure would like to see some a those prom pictures. We took lots of Kyle before he left to pick you up, but I wanna see one of you, too. I heard you were real pretty.”
“Oh, well . . . uh, thanks,” I said. “I’ll send you one.”
“Better yet, why don’t I make an appointment with your mother. I can see the whole batch then.”
“That’s a good idea,” I replied. I waited, wondering if she would say something, anything at all, about Kyle, but she didn’t.
“Well, I’ll tell Kyle you called. Bye, hon,” she said and was gone. Kyle hadn’t called on Sunday, and I hadn’t seen him at school all day on account of a field trip to the Parthenon (as in Nashville, not Greece). I drove around for a while and ended up at Heavenly Hair.
The salon is
always
closed on Mondays, so it was odd that the front door was wide open; Mother’s car was parked out front, and Miss Bertha’s was right beside it. I pulled in the back lot and noticed Richard’s and Drew’s cars, too. “Nice that there’s a party and no one bothered to invite me!” I said out loud.
And it seemed there really was a party. Colorful streamers hung from the ceiling and balloons were taped around the doors and windows. In the back corner, where the magazine rack normally stood, was a brand-new station. For years, Mother had talked about adding another one, but I couldn’t believe she’d done it today, and after four hours of chemo. It was slightly smaller than the others, lower to the ground, too, but it matched perfectly.
“Hey, Rose Garden!” said Grandma Georgia. “Come on in! We’re having a
simkhe
!” Mother was sitting in her regular chair, sipping a
regular
Coca-Cola. Aunt Mary was perched on a stool beside her, eating peanut M&M’s. Richard was giving Drew a manicure, and Miss Bertha was on the phone.
“Uh, it’s Monday,” I pointed out, as if my family and friends couldn’t figure out what day it was.
“Your mama had a brilliant idea,” said Grandma Georgia. “Peri’s getting out of the nursing home tomorrow, and Willy Ray called up tickled to death, saying he wanted to surprise her and get her hair done.”
“There’s no way I’m letting her climb from a wheelchair to the regular chair,” said Mother. “Not with
her
heart, and we’ve been needing a station to accommodate wheelchairs anyway. The Quilters are getting up there, too, and well . . . I just wanted to do it.” Mother shrugged and grinned at me. It was her real smile, too, not that put-on one she uses just to hide her troubles.
“Well, I got my ticket!” said Miss Bertha, hanging up the phone. “I’m taking the bus to Memphis,” she announced proudly. “Reda can’t believe I’m coming.” She glanced at me over her half-glasses. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” I lied.
Oh, my therapist just dumped me. My boyfriend doesn’t love me, and we haven’t talked in two days, but everything else is just fine,
I felt like saying, but I didn’t. For the first time in ages, all the people I loved were in a good mood at the same time. I wasn’t about to spoil it.
“Kyle stopped by,” said Miss Bertha, still looking at me with those probing, experienced-mother eyes.
“Oh, really?” I tried to sound casual.
“I reckon he forgot we were closed on Monday. He left these,” said Miss Bertha. She disappeared behind the desk and popped back up again. “Here,” she said, handing me a bouquet of roses, not the store-bought kind, but the
real
kind, like the ones that get aphids and grow on stakes in the backyard. Something caught in my throat, and I couldn’t speak. “Why is it men never bring flowers unless they’ve done something wrong?” Miss Bertha flew around the counter and hugged me.
“
I
bring flowers on a regular basis!” said Richard indignantly.
“He does,” Drew agreed.
"Y’all do not count!” Aunt Mary snapped. “Of course you bring flowers. That’s how come you’re gay.”
Grandma Georgia rolled her eyes and shook her head.
Kyle’s roses were red, and there were little sprigs of fresh rosemary mixed in, too. The whole thing was wrapped in layers of wet paper towels, aluminum foil, and slightly damp tissue paper, and it was tied together with a brand-new shoelace. Judging by the shoelace, he’d done this all on his own.
“Here’s the card,” said Miss Bertha. I could feel all eyes locked on me as I slowly, fearfully opened it.
Ditto on the I love you.
Kyle
No one made a big fuss about it when I cried, but I cried. It was a little embarrassing, but I couldn’t help myself.
As soon as I got home, the phone rang. It was Kyle. I could tell it was him by the way my heart dropped to my stomach and flew into my throat again (even
before
I picked up the phone or glanced at the caller ID).
“Hey, there,” he said. “Did you get the flowers?”
“They’re beautiful,” I replied. “Thank you.”
“Did you get my note?”
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“I’m sorry I let you hang there by yourself the other night. I was pretty sure I felt the same way, but I didn’t want to say it . . . well, you know . . . just because
you
said it. I mean . . . I didn’t want you to
think
I was saying it just because
you
said it. I wanted to say it and have you
know
I was saying it because I meant it. You’re not still mad, are you?”
“No! I’m not mad. I’m sorry about the other night. But we still had a good time. I didn’t ruin your prom night or anything, right?”
“Nah. It was the prom. Other than gettin’ to go with you, I wasn’t expecting much. And what’s a prom without a little drama, right? Oh, and by the way, I’m taking Mrs. Edinburgh’s English class next year,” he announced proudly.
“Really? And she let you in?” I was shocked. Usually, once a kid dumps Mrs. Edinburgh, there’s no getting her back.
“I might’ve name-dropped,” said Kyle. “I told her I’d ask you to help me out if I had any problems.”
“What did she say to that?”
“She said if I’d used any name other than yours, she’d have said no, but since it was you, she was willing to give me the chance.”
“No way. She didn’t say that.”
“She did, I swear.”
Just as we were about to hang up, there was a moment of strained, who’s-gonna-say-it-first silence. I waited. Kyle waited. “I love you,” he said finally.
“Ditto,” I replied and hung up.
Later that night, I paced around my just-cleaned room. It looked so pretty with its perfect-shade-of-blue ceiling, and I’d even draped a few strands of Christmas lights above the windows just to give things an extra sparkle. On the bureau a candle burned, and Roberta Flack sang “Killing Me Softly” on the oldies station, which I was listening to pretty much exclusively these days. A breeze rustled the lush trees outside my open window, and I could smell rain, distant still, but coming. I could also smell Kyle’s flowers, and the hint of rosemary mixed in. Over and over, I’d read and reread the note, then proudly tucked it inside a frame along with one of our prom pictures.
I went to the mirror and stood there a long while. My thighs were slightly pudgy, my face still round and plump, my stomach anything but flat. I thought about something Kyle had said on prom night, about the day he first decided to ask me out.
When you look at a person’s eyes or her smile, you can’t tell how much she weighs.
The same was true of a person’s heart.
chapter thirty-eight
Hope
The salon went crazy when Mrs. McCutchin’s new van pulled up to the curb. “Let’s go out to greet her!” shouted Hilda May Brunson.
“And give her another heart attack?” Aunt Mary scolded. “We’re all staying right here.” Mrs. Brunson looked at Aunt Mary sharply and huffed off out the door.
“Well, if she drops dead right out there on the sidewalk it’ll be Hilda’s fault,” said Aunt Mary. I could tell she halfway hoped it would happen just so she could be right.
“So do you wanna go for a ride in my Bug this weekend?” I asked. Aunt Mary was the only one of the 4 Rosies who hadn’t been yet.
“I thought you’d never ask!” she said, and put her arm around me.
Since my phone call that day, Aunt Mary and I had been different toward one another—more polite, less disrespectful. At least we were trying to meet halfway. “Do you like my new outfit? ” she asked.
“Yeah, I do,” I replied, meaning it. My aunt had developed a crush on some lawyer from Nashville, and his case was on the docket this afternoon. I knew she’d probably gotten all dressed up on account of him.
“Oh, lookie yonder!” Mrs. Ida Harris shouted above the squeal of her new hearing aid. The Quilters, all four of them, had come to celebrate Mrs. McCutchin’s return to Heavenly Hair. “I can see her!” Slowly, the van door slid open, and Mr. McCutchin eased his wife’s chair onto the lift.
It was as if Miss America were passing right down South Main Street. Every person in the salon went running to the windows, even Drew, who’d never even met Mrs. McCutchin. Her wheelchair gleamed in the Tennessee sunshine, and a tall neon-orange flag stuck straight up off the back—it was exactly the kind I’d had on my bike when I was little. I glanced down at the wheels of her chair, and there were plastic spoke decorations.
Her boys,
I thought and smiled to myself. Mr. McCutchin rolled her in, and at first everyone held back, afraid.
“Well, y’all don’t jest stand there!” she said. “I won’t break!” Mother was the first to hug her, then Miss Bertha, Grandma Georgia (who hadn’t seen her in years), and all the rest, except for me.
Willy Ray grinned from ear to ear and clutched his wife’s wheelchair as if she were perched at the edge of a cliff. “Willy, baby, go get them thangs we brought,” said Mrs. McCutchin. Mr. McCutchin looked at Mother helplessly, as if to say,
I can’t let go of her.
“Drew, run out to the truck and get the sweets Peri brought,” said Mother.
“Now how’d you know I brought sweets? Maybe I brought something else,” Mrs. McCutchin teased. Her cheeks had a purple tint, and her breath came in short huffs, just the way I sounded when I tried to talk to Kay-Kay and run up North Main Street at the same time. I stayed on the sidelines, wondering if I should speak or keep quiet. “Now where’s Richard? He’s the only one that can shave my neck right. No offense, Rose Warren, but he’s got the touch.”
“I’m right here,” said Richard. He moved through the crowd and bent down to kiss Mrs. McCutchin’s cheek. “She’s all mine now, Willy Ray,” he said, and winked, nudging the poor man away.
“I told you he was fresh!” Mrs. McCutchin wheezed. Richard rolled Mrs. McCutchin over to the new station.
“Well, what’s this now? We’re gettin’ mighty fancy around here, Rose Warren.”
“It’s called progress,” Mother replied. “You’re the first client that’s tried it out. You let me know if it needs anything now.”
“Well, I reckon we’re going,” said Mrs. Harris. “We’ve got to get a new quilt started. And we don’t wanna wear you out, Peri.”
“The quilt’s for Peri,” Mrs. Alcott mouthed. “It was right good seeing you again!” she called.
"Y’all, too,” Mrs. McCutchin replied.
The Quilters waved and blew kisses, and the four of them tottered toward the door. I tried not to think about which one was driving.
“I’ve got court,” said Aunt Mary importantly. Her face was pressed close to the mirror, and she was smearing on fresh lipstick.
“I’ll walk you up to the courthouse,” said Mrs. Brunson. “I need to get a glimpse of this fella you’re gettin’ yourself all worked up over.”
“And I’ve got to go home and pack,” said Miss Bertha. “I’m going to see my youngest daughter in Memphis.”
“That’s nice,” said Mrs. McCutchin. “Do you like them cookies, young man?” Drew was sitting at Richard’s usual station devouring one oatmeal raisin cookie after the other, and Mrs. McCutchin was smiling broadly at him in the mirror.
“Oh, sorry. I should’ve asked first. I’m Drew,” he said, dusting the crumbs off his freshly manicured hands and rushing over to meet the woman we’d been fretting over for so long.
“It’s a pleasure, Drew,” said Mrs. McCutchin. “Next time I’ll brang some sand tarts. You like sand tarts?” Drew nodded enthusiastically. “And who are you?” she asked, glancing my way. I looked behind me, but there was no one there. All at once, I realized Mrs. McCutchin meant me. I took a nervous step forward.
“It’s me, Mrs. McCutchin. Rosie.” She gasped and her hand flew over her mouth.
“Why, you don’t even look like yourself! Come over here and let me get a good lookatcha.” I went over to her chair and patted her plump shoulder awkwardly. “Oh, darlin’, you look so good.” She squeezed my hand. “Why, you ain’t big as nothin’. Your mama didn’t tell me you’d lost so much weight. Oh, Lord, I shore wish’t I could. Aw, ain’t you so proud, Rose Warren?”
“I am.” Mother nodded. “I always was,” she added, and smiled at me.
With a light heart, I headed out the door. I had an afternoon study session with Kay-Kay, and that night Mother and I planned to go out for dinner. She was dying to have a steak and a glass of wine before the chemo kicked in and knocked her flat, something she was actually looking forward to. “That’s how I know it’s working,” she confessed.
I pulled into Kay-Kay’s driveway, and she came bounding out the door in a pair of sunshine-yellow running shorts, a matching sports bra, and bright white (new, obviously) tennis shoes. “Well, guess what?” said Kay-Kay, leaning into the passenger’s-side window. “It came!” she cheered before I had a chance to guess. “The Ab Cruncher came already! And, that’s not all. I got a job at Harvey’s Gym. I didn’t even have to interview. Harvey wants me to start the second school’s out. Oh, Rosie! I can hardly believe it!
And
in addition to being paid, I get two new workout outfits a month—this is my first,” she said, twirling around to show me all sides, “and if I stay two years, I get a lifetime membership. For
free
! The shoes I had to buy, of course. Harvey can’t afford to give those out for nothin’.”
“That is
so
great! You’ll be right down the street from Heavenly Hair! Hey, we can go to lunch together every day if we want.”
“We can do lunchtime weight training sessions, too,” Kay-Kay reminded me.
“Great,” I teased. “A bonus for us both!” Kay-Kay laughed. “At least if those Snickers bars start calling out to me from the snack machine, you’ll be close by.”
“You know your mother really ought to have that thing removed,” said Kay-Kay.
“Oh, it won’t fit up the stairs, so she just keeps filling it.”
“Well, it’s always something, I guess. And it’s not like you can rid the whole entire world of junk food.”
For about an hour, Kay-Kay and I sat on the hard floor in her sparse room and pored over her not-very-thorough English notes. Luckily, I already knew all about gerunds and participles. I’d intended to stay the whole afternoon, but I could tell Kay-Kay was ready to bust out of her skin, so I cut it short. I figured even a little tutoring was better than none at all. Just as I was packing up my books, Kay-Kay said, “Rosie, this summer I want to reinvent myself.”
“Reinvent yourself?
How?
” I asked. Kay-Kay Reese was about as perfect a girl as I’d ever seen.
“You know Madonna’s always doing that, just totally changing who she is all the time. Just when you think she’s all disco sex and dance leotards, she starts living like the queen of England and wearing tweed.”
“You wanna wear tweed?” I teased.
“Daddy’s always said I could do so much better in school. Sometimes I just flat-out don’t try. Like today. I mean, I should study all night long for this test. No offense, but I still don’t have a clue about participles, and it’s completely
not
your fault, Rosie. It’s just I’m too preoccupied with trying out these new running shoes to pay attention.” Kay-Kay bit her already chewed-off nails and paced around her small, utilitarian room.
The windows were covered with bland, water-stained curtains, and except for one tattered rug, the floor was bare. There were no pictures on the walls, no fluffy pillows on her bed, no piles of fashion magazines (as I’d so often imagined). Except for a couple of cheerleading trophies, it could’ve been anybody’s space. A few months ago, I’d assumed Kay-Kay’s personal life was as perfect as her looks, but up close I could see that wasn’t true at all.
“Okay, listen. First, you need to relax a little. Go for your run. Tear it up and then come back and set a goal. Study for thirty minutes, and then jump on the Ab Cruncher. Take a shower. Then study thirty more minutes.”
“You think that’d work?”
“I didn’t start out running three miles. Remember? I had to work my way up to it. You’ll get there.”
“You really think so?” I nodded. “You know what, Rosie. Me and you would be a hell of a person put together.”
“What?”
“With my determination at the gym and yours in school, we’d be one amazin’ girl.
And
we’d have big boobs!” Kay-Kay giggled.
“We’d have big other stuff, too,” I reminded her.
Kay-Kay walked me to the door. She threw her arms around me suddenly and squeezed hard. “You don’t know how much I’ve been needin’ a friend like you, Rosie.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” I replied.
“You can drive on the way home,” said Mother as she made a left onto the Lewisburg Pike. “I plan to have
two
glasses of wine. I don’t remember the last time I had wine! This feels like a celebration somehow. I feel better. You look beautiful. And Peri coming into the shop today . . . well, that just topped everything off. You don’t think she was offended at the handicapped station?”
“No! Not at all! I think she was grateful not to have to get out of her chair.” Mother rolled the windows down, and I slipped my hair into a ponytail. For a while we rode in silence. Sterling’s was twenty minutes outside of town, and on a weeknight, they wouldn’t be busy. I was glad. It would be nice to have Mother all to myself for a change.
“So have you and Kyle had sex yet?” The question flew out as if Mother’d been holding her breath.
“No! We haven’t had sex
yet
!”
“You’re awfully defensive,” she pointed out, knitting together what would’ve been her eyebrows if she’d still had any.
I took a deep breath. “No, we have not had sex,” I said again, this time leaving off the
yet
part. Mother kept her eyes glued to the highway and tapped the steering wheel. I could tell she was waiting for me to say something else, to reassure her somehow. “Mother, I can barely face
myself
in the mirror. Does it really make sense that I’d be naked with a boy?” It was the perfect reply, I knew, but I thought about prom night, about Kyle’s soft lips and his manly football paws, about the vision I’d had of my virginity floating right over the treetops.
“Well, he’s bringing you flowers and taking you out all the time. It’d be normal, I guess, if you did. I’d rather you wait, though. Be sure of each other before you take that step.” Mother glanced over at me, but I couldn’t look at her. “And you’ll have to go to the gyno!” she added, as if this fact alone would be enough to deter any sexual relations. Thinking Mother’s little talk was over, I switched on the radio. “You know, I made a lot of mistakes when I was your age,” she said, switching it off again.
“I know,” I groaned. I hated it when any discussion veered toward teen pregnancy—for so many reasons. I knew
I
was the mistake Mother was referring to, and I didn’t much care for starting out that way—this scandalous, unwanted, unplanned, screwed-up-your-mother’s -life baby. “Can we
not
talk about this tonight?
Please?
”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this,” said Mother, “and I want you to hear me out.” I sighed and rolled my eyes.
So much for our night feeling like a celebration,
I thought. “I want you to know,
really know,
that you were wanted, Rosie. I
chose
to have you. I never considered any other option, not that I judge people who do. But . . . well, anyway,
I
didn’t, just in case you ever wondered. I guess I’ve maybe been a little too protective of you at times, and I know I worked way too much. Looking back on things, I could’ve scaled back a little, made more time for you.”
“Mother, my weight gain is not your fault. I made a choice to be fat.”
“Yes, but I didn’t stop you. I saw what was going on.”
“You did?” I asked.
Mother looked at me and nodded. “And I didn’t do anything about it. I kept telling myself it was just a phase, but deep down I knew it wasn’t. I knew why you were eating. I knew it was because you needed me, and I wasn’t there for you. I feel terrible about it, Rosie. I just want you to know that. I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.”

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