“He got a face full of pepper spray.” All because he was trying to decorate my room to invite me to a dance. Poor guy. And poor me, since Mom and I ended up moving right after—Mom says the two are unrelated, but I doubt it.
She calls it wanderlust, but I’m not sure that’s what it is. She’ll be fine one day, and the next I’ll come home from school to find that she’s quit her job and already has half our belongings in boxes—hence the unpacked ones stacked in my room. We’re closing in on a year in our current duplex, and I’m hoping to make it through graduation here, if nothing else. But that means getting Mom to make some ties in Bridgeton so she won’t want to leave the next time she gets an itch.
My greatest triumph of the past year was getting her to agree to start dating, something she hasn’t done since my dad died, despite the frequent offers she gets. She had me when she was only nineteen, so she’s still young and looks amazing—also thanks to the fact that we run together every morning. She has stunning green eyes and thick auburn hair that reaches halfway down her back. My eyes and hair are the same color as hers but not nearly as striking. The main difference between us is that my skin is more olive than her fair, sunburn-prone complexion, a gift from a man I barely remember.
Based on the way she still tears up on the rare occasions I get her to talk about my dad, I’m not expecting her to fall madly in love with one of the guys she dates, but a little flirting and fun would be good for her. And any reason to stay in one place long enough for it to feel like home is good enough for me.
If she found Aiden in my room, she’d have a moving truck in our driveway before he even made it out the window.
I push him again. “You have to go.”
“Meet me tomorrow.”
“I—” I start to object, since I have no idea how I’ll slip away from Mom, but he looks perfectly content—eager, even—to get caught. “Fine.”
“Promise?”
I almost grit my teeth, but I remember that he’s still waiting for my answer about whether he’s wasting his time with me. I know what I want the answer to be, but hearing Mom’s footsteps on the stairs, I give Aiden one last shove. “I promise.” He climbs out the window, only to dart back in the second I start to turn away—to kiss me one more time.
“Go!” I hiss, trying not to smile. I don’t breathe again until he clears the frame so I can close the window and yank the curtain shut.
By the time Mom enters my room, I’m sitting at my desk, laptop open and an acceptably academic website on the screen, with my history book beside me.
“Oh, hey, one sec,” I say, turning my head but keeping my eyes glued to the page, because if I’m gonna play the dedicated student, I’m gonna sell it. At last, I sigh triumphantly, as though finishing the section I was reading, and twist in my seat to face her, propping my chin in my hands on the backrest and grinning. “So is my new dad waiting downstairs?”
Mom shudders in response. “I pray to God that man never procreates.” Then she frowns at me. “Honey, are you feeling okay? Your skin’s all flushed.” When she reaches to brush my hair away for a closer look, I pull back and try not to look too guilty as my face blazes with anxiety and embarrassment. I put a few feet between us by casually moving to sit in the middle of my bed.
“I’m fine. Don’t change the subject. Aren’t you being a bit dramatic? You spent less than two hours with the guy. What was wrong with this one?”
“Besides the fact that he kept staring down our waitress’s blouse every time she refilled our drinks?”
“Ew, really?” My shoulders relax, now that she’s no longer scrutinizing my appearance.
“And then he didn’t even tip her.”
I scrunch up my face to an almost painful degree. There is a special circle in hell for nontippers. Another huge concession on Mom’s part this year was letting me get an after-school waitressing job, so I know from experience. Mom’s date could have started picking his nose at the table, and I’d still say his cheapness was his biggest character flaw.
She leans one hand on my bed so she can take off her heels. “Can we just agree now that trying to date after thirty-five is evil and I can give it up?”
“If something is hard, quit right away. Got it.”
Mom flops back and starts the contortionist act required to free herself from her Spanx. “What if I just got like a dozen cats instead?”
“Mom.”
“And I could start eating frosting right out of the can. You know I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“Then I will drop out of school and start auditioning for reality TV shows. Mom, I will go on The Bachelor. I’ll do it.”
Freed from her Spanx, Mom folds them neatly in her lap. “It’s just so demoralizing.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking about her dating failures or The Bachelor. Probably both. “We just need to widen the net a little.” I’m more confident than ever in the surprise I’ve been working on.
“Okay, so don’t get mad,” I say, leaping up. “Even though I’m the one with the birthday next week, I got you a present. I know you don’t want me posting anything about myself online, because you watch way too much Dateline.” I tug her to sit in my desk chair. “And I didn’t,” I add quickly when she pales. “But you are an adult, and I thought you might…have…better…success…” I slow my words as I lean over her, fingers flying across the keys to pull up the site I’m looking for. “I knew it! Look, a half dozen messages already.” I point at the tiny counter on the screen and wait for the panicky, wide-eyed look to leave her face.
It doesn’t.
Her voice drops low as she reaches for the laptop. “Katelyn, what did you do?”
“It’s a completely nonscuzzy dating site for ‘mature adults looking for lasting relationships,’ ” I say, reciting the website’s slogan. “I created a profile for you, and there are plenty of guys interested, even with your nearly seventeen-year-old kid and all. Look, I even included a photo of us from the day we moved in.”
“When?” She shoots a hand out to wrap almost painfully around my wrist.
“I did it after you left for your date. I thought you’d…I’m sorry. I’ll take it down.” She’s overreacting. Again. It’s not like I passed out copies of her social security card. I was just trying to help her go on a date that didn’t end with us splitting a carton of cookie-dough ice cream and watching a Jason Statham movie.
It takes me less than a minute to delete her profile, but the second I’m done, Mom slams the laptop shut and pulls her phone from her purse, calling a number without hesitation.