Be the Girl(61)

Dear Julia,

Single white female. That’s what SWF stands for. I Googled it. As in, I’m some sort of stalker.

Holly basically called me a stalker. And then she tripped me!

Of course, like I expected, she pretended to be “oh so sorry!” (insert apologetic, concerned treacherous doe eyes here).

Maybe I can use this as my excuse to quit cross-country. Though, I think I’ll get so much more satisfaction from beating her at regionals. Is that too catty a thought? I can’t tell anymore.

All I know is that I hate Holly Webber and I don’t feel an ounce of guilt over showing Emmett that video anymore. In fact, I’ll be sure to stick my tongue in his mouth the next time she’s—

Mom’s signature knock sounds on my bedroom door and then she pokes her head into my room. “How you doing?” Her concerned eyes shift first to my knee—cleaned, bandaged, and propped atop the desk chair I dragged over to my window seat, bag of frozen peas chilling the ache—and then to the diary on my lap.

I shut the book. “I’m fine. It’s already feeling better.” Because it’s numb.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. Listen … so …” She edges in, folding her arms over her chest. “Mick asked me out to dinner tonight. To that cute little Italian place we drove past the other day. You remember—Nonna’s? The one with the red-and-white-checkered awnings.”

“Okay?”

“But I don’t have to go,” she rushes to say. “I can stay home with you. If you need me to.”

“Why would I need you to?” I pause. “Unless you’re looking for an excuse to turn him down, in which case I am dying and they may need to amputate, so you should stay with me. I’m on board with whatever. Just let me know what to say.”

She chuckles. “No, it’s not that I don’t want to.” Her gaze searches the cluster of yellow stars stuck to the ceiling above my bed. “I spent twenty years married to the wrong man. A complete schmuck. Twenty years. And here I am, going on a first date again. I don’t know if I’m ready. Plus, Mick is a good man but he’s never been married and, at his age, that raises alarm bells.”

“It’s just pasta.”

Her lips twist in thought. “It’s just pasta. You’re right.” Shaking her head at herself, she stands taller. “So, you’ll be fine at home alone tonight, then? Well, Uncle Merv is here, but he’ll be in bed soon.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Oh!” Her eyes flash. “And I was thinking, if your knee is good enough, we could get mani-pedis tomorrow morning and then, I don’t know, maybe head into the city to go shopping? You know, make a day of it, for your birthday.”

“Umm … Yeah, that sounds great.” It’s now or never. “And there’s this guy at school who’s having a few people over to his house tomorrow night. It’s around the corner. Like, a five-minute walk. So, I was thinking of going.” I figure the key to this is telling her, not asking her.

“Will this boy’s parents be there?”

I bend my knee intentionally, so I’m forced to wince and have an excuse for shifting my eyes when I lie. “As far as I know.”

She shrugs. “Okay. Sounds good.”

My phone chirps with an incoming text.

How was the meet?





I can’t keep the wide grin from showing when Emmett’s name appears, despite his question.

“Let me guess … a certain boy from next door?” Mom smiles knowingly. “So, what’s going on between you two?”

I shrug, trying to act nonchalant. “We’re hanging out.”

“Right. ‘Hanging out.’ That’s what the kids call it.” She bites her bottom lip. “Maybe we should have a conversation soon, about what it means to have a boyfriend—”

“I’ve already had a boyfriend, Mom. Two, actually.”

“Oh?” Surprise fills her face before she smooths it over. “Anyone I know?”

“No. They were from my old school. But … no.”

“I see.” She hesitates, then asks, “And have you ever …” Her eyes widen.

“Mom.” My face flares with heat. “Let’s stick to the daily three for now.” As much as she’s pushing for this whole open-and-honest communication, we’re not at the chatting-about-our-sex-lives stage. I kind of hope we never get there.

She purses her lips. “Fine. Just know that you can come and talk to me about that kind of stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” No, thank you.

“And remember, Emmett is older than you and probably—well, hopefully—more experienced.”

I groan and close my eyes. I so regret ever telling her about the hickey.

“I want to make sure you’re being careful and—”

“This just started.” And I want this conversation over with.

“Yes, well, these things have a way of moving fast when you really like the boy. And I can tell that you really like this boy.” She smiles. “And for the record, so do I.”

My phone chirps with another text.

So, what’s the plan for tonight?