“Why are you sitting in the corner?” Sarah asks. She’s back. She’s carrying two cans of soda and a bag of popcorn.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I like chairs.” This may be the stupidest thing I have ever said. It might be the stupidest thing that any human being has ever said.
“You like chairs?” she asks.
“Yes. I do.”
She smiles. It’s one of those smiles that’s meant to say something, but I have no idea what it says. I feel like I’m on an alien planet. I’m surrounded by stuffed animals and books and pillows and pink. There’s an overhead light and a lamp by the door and a smaller lamp on her desk, and they’re all turned on. The room is practically bursting with light. Everything is so organized and neat. The pens and markers have separate cups on her desk. A half-dozen trophies are lined up on a shelf. Dancing. Or maybe gymnastics. Her schoolbooks are stacked on a little table like a pyramid, with the biggest books on the bottom and the smallest on top. I can’t imagine taking the time to sort my schoolbooks by size. This place looks nothing like my bedroom. Like no bedroom I’ve ever seen.
“Here,” she says. She hands me a can and sits down on the edge of her bed. There’s too much space between us. She’s on one side of the room, and I’m on the other. It’s like we’re sitting on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon. There’s a round, blue rug between us, and it feels like an ocean separating us. I feel stupid for choosing this seat. I should’ve just stayed standing while I waited. I could’ve pretended to be looking at the books on her shelf or the drawings taped on the walls. Old crayon drawings of unicorns and mermaids and castles. Now I’m trapped in this stupid corner on this stupid chair feeling stupid.
“Are you sure Julia and Charlie are okay?” she asks. “We could call and invite them over, too.”
“No. They’re fine. Honestly, I’d be fine, too, if I was home. They fight like this a lot.”
“Do you ever worry they might get divorced?”
I laugh. “I wish they’d get divorced. I hate that fucking asshole.” As the words come out, they feel wrong. I don’t think I’ve ever sworn like that in front of a girl before. And in her bedroom it somehow feels even worse. I take a sip of soda. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to … you know. Use that language.”
Sarah laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Actually, I take that back. Don’t be fucking ridiculous. You can swear all the fuck you want.” She laughs again. Then she lowers her voice. “But not in front of my parents. Okay?”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not that stupid.”
“I know.”
She says those two words like they’re made of cotton. Her voice is soft. Warm. She means them as a compliment. She thinks I’m smart. Or at least not stupid, which is almost as good. It’s a tiny compliment, but it might also be the best compliment I’ve ever received.
The prettiest girl in the world thinks I’m not stupid.
“Isn’t it weird,” I say. “Adults can swear right in front of us—right at us sometimes—but we can’t drop the occasional F-bomb without them going ballistic?”
“Hypocrisy at its best.”
I’m not entirely sure what hypocrisy means, so I nod and take a longer sip of soda. I can probably guess based upon the context clues, but this is not the time to take any chances. She doesn’t think I’m stupid. I want to keep it that way.
“I don’t think they mean to be hypocrites,” Sarah says. “I think they’re afraid of us growing up. Anything that makes us look or sound or act older is bad. It starts with swearing, but before they know it, their little girl is drinking beer and smoking pot and having sex and she’s not so little anymore. They’re just trying to hold back the future as long as possible.”
“I never thought of it like that,” I say. I also want to say that this is the first time I’ve ever heard a girl say the word sex in my presence, and it was in her bedroom.
But I’m not stupid enough to say any of this aloud.
“Maybe that’s just my parents,” Sarah says. She pulls at the popcorn bag, trying to tear it open. When she can’t, she uses her teeth, tearing away the corner of the bag and spitting it into her hand. “They’re always telling me to stop growing up.”
“I don’t think my parents are trying to stop me from growing up. If anything, they’re pushing me to grow up faster than I want. Giving me stuff to do that none of my friends ever have to do. I guess I have the opposite problem. I wish my parents would grow up.”
“What do you mean?” She quickly adds, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s mostly my mom. Glen’s a loser. He’ll never grow up. I knew that the second I met him. He’s one of these guys who thinks he’s going to make it big, but he doesn’t do anything to make it happen. He’s like the kid in class who doesn’t study for a test and fails and is pissed at the teacher for it. Like he deserves more than he gets.”
“What does your mother see in him?”
“No clue,” I say. It’s a question I’ve been asking myself ever since Glen moved into our house. It feels good to hear someone else say it. “I honestly can’t imagine what she was thinking.”
“Do you think she loves him?”
I open my mouth to answer and realize I don’t know the answer. I’ve never asked myself this question.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah says. “I shouldn’t be asking questions like that.”
“No, it’s fine. I just don’t know the answer. I assume she loves him. Right? Why else would she marry him?”
“People get married for lots of reasons,” Sarah says. “Love is a good one. Probably the best one. But people get married because they’re lonely or in trouble or are afraid that they won’t ever find someone better. Lots of reasons.”
“Yeah?”
“I think so.”
“How would you know?” I ask. “You been married before?”
“Call it female intuition. And a lot of Jane Austen.” She shakes the popcorn bag at me. “You want some?”
“Sure.” I stand up and walk across the room, each step feeling more ridiculous than the last. It’s like we’re sitting a mile away. Once I’ve crossed the blue-carpet chasm between us, I reach into the bag and pull out a handful of popcorn. I turn around to begin the return trip back to the chair when Sarah grabs my wrist again.
“Just sit on my bed, dummy. It’s okay.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”
I sit. The two or three inches of space between our legs evaporate as the mattress sags under my weight, pulling the two of us together. I look down. Our thighs are touching. Pressed up against each other. Denim against denim. I stare for a second. A long second. I’m sitting on Sarah Flaherty’s bed, our bodies joined at the thigh.
It feels almost more impossible than the other mother.
I look up. Sarah’s looking at me. She was looking at me looking at our thighs. She giggles. Every minute spent in this bedroom is the best and worst moment of my life at the same time.