When Izzy’s gone my mom looks at me, hard. “What’s this about, Sam? You feel sick?”
“Not exactly.” One thing that is not on my wish list is to spend even one second in a doctor’s office.
“What, then? There must be something. I thought Cupid Day was one of your favorites.”
“It is. Or, I mean, it was.” I sit up on my elbows. “I don’t know, it’s kind of stupid, if you think about it.”
She raises her eyebrows.
I start rattling on, not really thinking about what I want to say before I say it, but afterward I realize it’s true. “The whole point is just to show other people how many friends you have. But everybody knows how many friends everybody else has. And it’s not like you actually get more friends this way or, I don’t know, get closer to the friends you do have.”
My mom smiles a tiny bit, one side of her mouth cocking upward. “Well, you’re lucky to have very good friends, and to know it. I’m sure the roses are very meaningful to some people.”
“I’m just saying, the whole thing is kind of sleazy.”
“This doesn’t sound like the Samantha Kingston I know.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m changing.” I don’t mean those words either, until I hear them. Then I think that they might be true, and I feel a flicker of hope. Maybe there’s still a chance for me, after all. Maybe I have to change.
My mom stares at me with this expression on her face like I’m a recipe she can’t quite master. “Did something happen, Sam? Something with your friends?”
Today I’m not so annoyed at her for asking. Today it strikes me as kind of funny, actually. I so wish that the only thing bothering me was a fight with Lindsay, or something dumb Ally said.
“It’s not my friends.” I grasp for something that’ll make her cave. “It’s…it’s Rob.”
My mom wrinkles her brow. “Did you have a fight?”
I slump a little farther down into the bed, hoping it makes me look depressed. “He…he dumped me.” In some ways it’s not a lie. Not like he broke up with me, exactly, but like maybe we weren’t ever serious serious in the way I believed for so long. Is it even possible to go out with someone seriously who doesn’t really know you?
It works even better than I expected. My mom brings her hand up to her chest. “Oh, sweetie. What happened?”
“We just wanted different things, I guess.” I fiddle with the edge of my comforter, thinking of all those nights alone with him in the basement, bathed in blue light, feeling sheltered from the whole world. It’s not so much of a stretch to look upset when I think about that, and my bottom lip starts to tremble. “I don’t think he ever really liked me. Not really really.” This is the most honest thing I’ve said to my mother in years, and I suddenly feel very exposed. I have a flashback then of standing in front of her when I was five or six and having to strip naked while she checked me all over for deer ticks. I shove down farther into the covers, balling up my fists until my nails dig into my palms.
Then the craziest thing in the world happens. My mom steps straight over the flaking red line and strides over to the bed, like it’s no big deal. I’m so surprised I don’t even protest as she bends over me and plants a kiss on my forehead.
“I’m so sorry, Sam.” She smoothes my forehead with her thumb. “Of course you can stay home.”
I expected more of an argument and I’m left speechless.
“Do you want me to stay home with you?” she asks.
“No.” I try to give her a smile. “I’ll be fine. Really.”
“I want to stay home with Sam!” Izzy has come to the door again, this time halfway dressed for school. She’s in a yellow-and-pink phase—not a flattering combination, but it’s kind of hard to explain color palettes to an eight-year-old—and has pulled on a mustard yellow dress over a pair of pink tights. She’s also wearing big, scrunchie yellow socks. She looks like some kind of tropical flower. A part of me is tempted to freak out at my mom for letting Izzy wear whatever she wants. The other kids must make fun of her.
Then again, I guess Izzy doesn’t care. That’s another thing that strikes me as funny: that my eight-year-old sister is braver than I am. She’s probably braver than most of the people at Thomas Jefferson. I wonder if that will ever change, if it will get beaten out of her.
Izzy’s eyes are enormous and she clasps her hands together like she’s praying. “Please?”
My mom sighs, exasperated. “Absolutely not, Izzy. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I’m feeling sick,” Izzy says. This is made slightly unbelievable by the fact that she’s hopping and pirouetting from foot to foot as she says it, but Izzy’s never been a great liar.
“Did you eat your breakfast yet?” My mom crosses her arms and makes her “strict parent” face.
Izzy bobs her head. “I think I have food poisoning.” She doubles over, grabs her stomach, then immediately straightens up and begins hopping again. I can’t help it; a little giggle escapes.
“Come on, Mom,” I say. “Let her stay home.”
“Sam, please don’t encourage her.” My mom turns to me, shaking her head, but I can tell she’s wavering.
“She’s in third grade,” I say. “It’s not like they actually learn anything.”
“Yes we do!” Izzy crows, then claps her hand over her mouth when I give her a look. My little sister: apparently not a champion negotiator, either. She shakes her head and quickly stutters. “I mean, we don’t do that much.”