Page 56 of Mad Girl

John’s eyebrows lifted. “You mean because we both pulled that prank senior year and somehow I got the harsher punishment?”

Nic smiled at him. “You’ll never let this go, will you?”

“Absolutely not,” John said. “Only you could spend that much time in the headmaster’s office and leave with a slap on the wrist.”

Libby walked over to refill John’s coffee. “You’re one to talk, honey. All those times you got in trouble for sneaking back onto campus after hours? Our senior year, you had more than three strikes. Anyone else would’ve been kicked out.”

“No way,” Michael said, gaping at his dad.

“You mean a couple of privileged white boys weren’t held accountable for their actions back in the early 2000s?” I asked. “Shocker.”

John and Nic blinked at each other, their hands held aloft. Clearly, I was killing it with the quips that morning.

“He and Nic used to hang out at this local bar,” Libby said, smiling. “The owner looked the other way when the boarding school kids came in and let them drink beer. Victoria had a pass to stay out late because she worked there, but the boys didn’t.”

“Who’s Victoria?” you asked politely.

“Oh,” Libby said, pausing with the coffee carafe. “That’s Elliot’s mother. She went to school with us, too.”

Everyone went silent as your gaze met mine across the table.

The mood always shifted when someone mentioned my mother in conversation, but that was the first time she’d ever been brought up in front of you. Nic clasped my wrist, his way of saying, You still have me. I tore my gaze away from yours to stab at my eggs.

“And John,” Libby said, changing the subject, “was a big flirt back then. Our senior year, he spent late nights at that bar—he and Nic both—flirting with the waitresses there.” She paused to lean on John’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, John?”

John folded his arms, eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please,” Libby said. “Every time I stopped by, I saw you flirting with that one waitress in particular—very pretty, dark hair. Everyone kept getting her and Vicky mixed up until she chopped her hair off. Remember her?”

My gaze flew to Michael’s just as a flicker of recognition passed across his face. The picture he’d given me at Christmas. My mom with the other girl. Standing at the bar. So similar they could’ve passed for sisters.

“What was her name?” Libby wondered aloud.

John chewed on his bottom lip. “That was a long time ago. I don’t remember.”

“What about you, Nic?” Libby added more coffee to my dad’s mug, then clasped a hand over his shoulder. “You have such a great memory for things like that.”

Nic’s gaze dropped to the table as he thought about Libby’s question, and I could’ve sworn I saw it: a flash of remembrance. But he only squeezed Libby’s hand and said, “I don’t remember, either. Sorry, Lib.”

Libby shrugged. To Michael, she said, “Anyway, the important thing is your dad got his act together when we found out you were on the way.” She lobbed a serious look at John. “Eventually.”

“I was nineteen,” John said, squirming in his chair, “and about to be a dad. I just needed a little time to wrap my head around that.”

“A little time?” Libby repeated, one manicured hand poised on her hip. “More like a few months.”

A hush settled over the table as a look of understanding passed between my dad and the Harrises. Whenever this subject came up, I got the feeling it had taken Nic and Libby both to help John get his act together and Libby still harbored some resentment over it.

John clasped Michael’s shoulder. “But when the shock wore off and I did come around, I was ecstatic. Honestly. I can’t imagine my life going any other way.”

Michael offered John a small smile. “I know, Dad.”

“I saw you,” John said, “and I fell in love instantly. I thought, I’ll never accomplish anything as great as this.”

“Okay, Dad,” Michael said, shifting beneath John’s hand. “We don’t have to—you don’t have to get all mushy and stuff. We get it.”

“Oh, this is nothing,” Nic said. “For days after you were born, he could barely hold it together. He cried more than you did.”

John smiled at my dad, then turned to you. “You should’ve seen Libby, Casey. She hides a pregnancy the last four months of her sophomore year in college, then comes back as a junior with a stomach out to here”—he stuck both arms out, gesturing with his hands—“and everyone’s looking at her like she’s crazy, right? You don’t see many pregnant students around a place like Harvard, and she can’t stay in the dorms anymore. A newborn screaming at all hours of the day and night isn’t exactly conducive to learning, so we get a place off-campus, and I take a gap year to help campaign for my dad and take care of Michael when he’s born. Meanwhile, Libby’s taking shit from her professors and classmates, who all expect her to drop out before winter break.”