Page 2 of You Started It

“Okay?” she repeats.

I unspool my arm from Ben’s, stepping up to my mother. Ben remains by the door, probably planning our escape. Can’t blame him. My mother ruins everything. This was supposed to be a romantic reunion, but she won’t get the hint and scurry off to her basement salon.

“What else do you want me to say?” I raise my hands, then quickly lower them once I realize it looks like I’m about to choke her.

Mom puffs air out of her nostrils and places one hand on her hip. “I want you to say, ‘Sure, Mom. I’ll keep my crap out of therest of the house and maybe I’ll even clean my room once in a while. I might even cut the attitude and show some appreciation to my uncle who has sacrificed his privacy for us.’ ”

“If this is not a good time…” Ben begins, his hand on the doorknob.

“It’s a great time. Mom,” I say, glaring at her, “I haven’t seen Ben in two months. TWO. MONTHS. Can you save this lecture for later?” Ben’s been away working as a counselor at an overnight camp up north. The goal was to go together, but Mom wasn’t cool with the idea. Even though I’m seventeen, going on eighteen, and even though she’s pretty chill for an Arab mom, it was still a hard no. But if she knew me as well as she claims, she’d know Ben and I would never dothat…at least not yet.

We’re waiting until winter formal.

“Fine. Amo is going out with Eric tonight. He wants to bring him back here after. Just make yourself scarce,” she says.

“All good. We’ll hang out at Ben’s,” I say, nodding at him for approval.

He opens his mouth and looks back and forth between us. “Actually, that might not work.”

“Why not?” I ask, trying to read his adorable but slightly distanced face. We’ve been together since our ninth grade winter formal. That’s when we made it official, but we were destined to happen. Our moms were best friends in high school. They grew apart when my mom married my father and moved to the middle of nowhere. Okay, not the middle of nowhere, but two hours north of Toronto. One of the few benefits of my dad leaving us has been getting to live closer to the city.

Ben’s mom, Lucy, and my uncle remained close through the years and even live in the same neighborhood. So, when Mom and I came to stay with my uncle three years ago, it was only a matter of time before Ben and I would have our magical meet-cute.

It happened about a week after we’d settled in. Mom, Eli, and I were invited to Ben’s house for a barbecue to welcome us to the neighborhood. I’d heard about Ben. Was told he’d show me around and make my transition easier. I wanted to tell my mom that I didn’t need someone to make things easier for me, but that would have required an open and honest conversation, and we weren’t always so good at that. Especially back then when things were still so raw.

Growing up as an only child with parents who sometimes suffered from a state of arrested development, I’d gotten used to being independent. Over the years, there were kids who tried to befriend me, and I sometimes tried, despite being a shy and anxious child. But my parents were so inconsistent. They’d agree to bring me to a birthday party and then cancel last minute when they forgot to buy a gift. Mom would arrange playdates, but after one of my friends told her parents that my mom and dad screamed at each other the whole time she was over, word got out and people stopped acceptingandextending invitations. That’s when books became a lifeline. As long as I had a good story to keep me company at recess and on weekends, I could block out the rest of the world.

When I saw Ben for the first time, reading on a hammock, it instantly put me at ease. He was my kind of people. Back then, he wasn’t as tall as he is now, or as filled out, but I could see the potential.

“What’re you reading?” I asked, deciding to skip all pleasantries. He was dressed in khaki shorts and a short-sleeved button-up shirt, like he was about to attend an all-day golf tournament.

Ben looked up from his book, his hazel eyes locking in on mine. The breadth of his smile reached almost across his face, andit made his eyes disappear into little slits. He had this one tiny dimple on his left cheek, and the sight of it melted me.Maybe being an independent woman is slightly overrated, I thought.

“It’s just…um…” He struggled to get out of the hammock, stumbling slightly and dropping his book. “You’re Jamie?”

“I’m Jamie,” I said as he bent down to retrieve the book. He seemed a little awkward, but to me, it was endearing.

“My mom—” He cleared his throat. “She didn’t tell me you were so…”

“So…tall?”

“No.” Ben looked down at the ground, trying to hide his blush. He cleared his throat again, finally looking me in the eye. “Pretty.”

I couldn’t help but smile. Puberty had been quick and kind to me, but being pretty isn’t enough. It doesn’t fix the messy parts of your life. It doesn’t keep your parents together. It doesn’t stop you from doing or saying or thinking things you shouldn’t. “Thanks. My mother probably thinks warning people about the words that may come out of my mouth is more important than giving them a heads-up about my supposed above-average looks.”

And then something unusual happened: Ben laughed, the sound like a song I wanted to play on repeat. The tingles that pulsed through my body in response told me everything I needed to know: this guy would be my first—everything.

“You’re funny too,” he said, standing straighter.

“My mother doesn’t seem to think so.”

Ben glanced over my shoulder and sucked in a smile. I turned to find the adults gathered by the barbecue, pretending not to watch us. Ben waved politely at my mom and uncle before returning his gaze to me.

“There must be some sort of microchip that reprograms a person’s DNA once they have kids, which sets off as soon as we turn thirteen. That’s when they seem to stop understanding us,” he said.

“Yes. Oh my god, YES! Although”—I paused and spoke more quietly—“my mother and I made it to fourteen before that fully happened.”

“Aren’t you fourteen now?” he asked. I nodded, and Ben studied me for a moment before asking, “What happened this year?”

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