“That girl” is the bully I want to strangle.
My daughter nods, and with a mixture of sympathy and rage, I pull her into my arms. “What happened?”
She buries her face in my shoulder and speaks angrily. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
There are times when my daughter speaks these words, but she means the opposite. Sometimes she wants me to drag the truth out of her. Other times, she wants to escape from the problem at hand and do something fun. I’m not sure which of those scenarios applies presently.
Amanda lifts her head, peers over my shoulder, and becomes instantly cheerful. “Is that Aunt Becky?” We step apart, and Amanda strides into the kitchen. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”
“I went to Connor’s game.” Becky stands up to hug Amanda. “I figured I might as well get a free meal out of it.”
Amanda turns to me. “The chicken lasagna smells yummy. Can I help? I could make a salad.”
“Music to my ears.” I’m relieved that she’s not dwelling on whatever happened with the malicious brat on Instagram. “Check the vegetable drawers. I’ve got cucumber and tomatoes that need to be chopped. And there’s a can of black olives in the pantry cupboard if you want to go Greek.”
“I’m on it.” Amanda strides to the refrigerator just as the house shakes from the woofer speakers in the basement. More gunshots and explosions. People running and screaming.
This is my life. Teenagers. Food. Movies. Bullies.
Sadly, Nate has not been a part of it for a very long time. He has no idea what he’s been missing.
The chicken lasagna, as always, is a hit, and Connor goes for a second helping, which he shovels into his mouth with the same speed and tenacity he exhibits on the ice.
I offer Moose Tracks ice cream for dessert, but Connor asks if he can take his bowl downstairs and finish watching the movie. I say yes because he asked nicely, but I also want some time alone with Becky and Amanda because I’m troubled by how quiet Amanda was during the meal. She barely touched her food.
“Two scoops or one?” I ask her and Becky.
“Two, please,” Becky replies, and Amanda nods in agreement.
As I rise from the table, I’m aware that my daughter occasionally opens up to Becky about things she doesn’t tell me. I once askedAmanda about this, and she explained that it was because Becky was “single and stylish,” and she had a different perspective about life compared with mine. I appreciated my daughter’s honesty, but there have been instances where I’ve felt hurt by this. I try to resist any inclination to resent my best friend for this connection she has with my daughter because I’m conscious of Becky’s disappointments in love. Her most serious relationship was with her boyfriend Mark, whom she’d wanted to marry, but after four years, it didn’t work out. She’s alone now, but she never complains. She’s embraced her “single and stylish” life, so I’m grateful that Amanda has someone mature to talk to—someone I trust—about things she might not wish to reveal to me, her not-so-stylish mother.
A few minutes later, I return to the dining room with three bowls of ice cream on a tray. “Two scoops for all.” I hand them out, and we all dig in.
We revel in the creamy vanilla ice cream, chocolate swirls, and peanut butter cups until we all sit back, groan over our full bellies, and push our bowls away.
“That was yummy,” Becky says as she leans back in her chair and pushes out her belly. “I think I’m going to have a food baby.”
Amanda laughs.
Becky sits forward again. “Now tell me what’s been going on in your life, kiddo. It’s got to be something because you barely ate your supper. What’s up. Is it a boy? Are you failing geometry? Do you have a wart on your foot?”
Amanda glances at me. “Did you tell her?”
“I didn’t say a word,” I reply defensively, raising my hands in surrender.
Amanda exhales. “Okay, fine. Mom knows most of it, so you might as well hear it too.”
“Spill it, kiddo. I’m all ears.”
The floor rumbles with another explosion in the rec room below us, but we’re immune to it now.
Amanda sits back and twirls her long dark hair around her index finger. “There’s a guy at the pool that I like, and we’ve been flirting a bit.”
Becky nods with approval. “Good job. Is he a hottie?”
Amanda and I both chuckle.
“Yes,” she replies. “Very hot. His name is Jeff. But he goes to a different school, so I don’t know any of his friends, but I can’t imagine we’d ever be a thing if we went to the same school.”
