Page 16 of Please, Sir

“And you know,” I tell her pointedly, “that me pulling you up to JV has absolutely nothing to do with you and I chatting after class the other day. That’s just Alexa’s jealousy.”

She chews the inside of her cheek, still twirling her hair. “I know.”

I can tell Alexa is maybe a sore subject, so instead, I ask her about her dad. And I keep Leah’s words very, very far from my mind. Like you’d need a map and a compass to find her story of Jake’s hotness. Yep. Absolutely, positively not thinking about it.

“Will your dad be okay with you moving up to JV? It’s the same time commitment but, I don’t know, I just want to make sure he’s okay with it.”

Jo Jo makes a show of rolling her eyes. “Like he cares what I do.”

I think of my parents, and suddenly I wish I could conjure the fantasy image of Jo Jo’s hot cowboy dad.

“He cares. Of course he cares. Parents always care,” I assure her, because it’s true. It’s true in the sense that they don’t want to see you dead, and that they always think they have your best interests at heart. The key word there beingthink. They always think they’re caring in the best ways, but some parents, as I know better than most, put their own interests front and center, disguising them as their child’s best interests.

I want to believe that some of those parents don’t realize they’re doing that.

I want to believe that more than anything.

“What are your parents like?” Jo Jo asks, and when I look up at her from the tie on my shoes, I find her studying my expression, reading my features, trying to decide exactly how I’m feeling. So I plaster on a smile because I’m here to help these teenagers, not the other way around.

But before I have to sugarcoat anything, a truck rumbles up into the parking lot, but stops at the end, parking.

“He’s gonna make you walk!” I tease her.

She levels me with a glare. “I tell him to pick me up down there.” She gets to her feet and lifts her bag over her shoulder, pulling the end of her ponytail out from under the strap. “Thanks for bumping me up to JV. And thanks for just… being cool, I guess.”

I give her a nod and watch her until she steps up into the truck and it disappears down the road where it came.

And then I go home and take a long run, reminding myself that just because our parents don’t always love us the way that we want, it doesn’t mean they love us any less.

I run eight miles and by the time I get home, I’m not sure I believe it anymore on mile eight than I did on mile one.

Important thing is, Jo Jo believes it.

CHAPTER

SIX

I’ve officially doneeverything I can do this Saturday except the one thing I’m putting off.

I swept and mopped my floors, planted some tomatoes in my windowsill garden, gave myself a neon yellow pedicure, did my grocery shopping after clipping coupons, took some of my old work clothes to the Goodwillandwent for a six mile run.

It’s now 11:04 am.

Running a hot bath, I pour lavender bubbles under the water, and tug the ponytail free from my hair. God it feels good to scratch my scalp after a run with a pony. I think it nearly rivals taking your bra off after a long day.

I’ll take my bath—an everything bath, complete with a hair mask, leg shaving and facial—and feel incredibly stress-free and amazing. And after the bath? That’s when I’ll dothe thing. The dreaded, evil, awful, nerve-wracking, stress-inducing, blood-pressure raisingthing.

I stay in that water until my boobs look like prunes and I’m desert-level dehydrated. After combing through my hair and applying oil to the ends then giving myself a rosewater facial, I am officially out of distractions. Getting dressed in gray sweatpants that I’ve owned since my own freshman year of high school, I opt for one of my new Bluebell Bruisers t-shirts, flop down on the couch and make the call.

“Riley!” My dad answers the phone, shouting my name as a greeting. My cheeks burn with the instinctual smile that comes when hearing my dad’s soothing voice. But muscle memory is stronger than anything because I tamp that smile down, and it sadly burns out while he calls for my mom to join us on the line.

“Ry! Is that you? It’s been two weeks! Oh my, how nice to hear your voice!” My mom gushes, and though I should hear a mom missing and loving her daughter, all I hear is the complaint–that I didn’t call for two weeks. My lips twitch, and I can’t fight the urge. I’m too weak right now.

“That tally goes both ways, Mom,” I say, trying my very hardest to at least clap back with some control.

As always, she fails to acknowledge the very valid point I’ve drawn, and instead asks about cheerleading.

I would talk anyone’s head off about cheerleading. Seriously. Put a five year old in front of me for ten minutes andshe’s walking away knowing what a basket toss is. I’ll call bingo for the seniors and at the end, they’ll be talking about cupies and flyers.

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