“What?”
I gave her a look. “What is that?”
“My senior prom dress,” she said.
“You look like a cupcake.”
“It was the nineties,” she said, giving me a playful swat on the shoulder. “Give me a break. That was cool then.”
“And why are you uploading this monstrosity?”
Mom shot me a look over the top of her computer glasses. “I’m uploading this very flattering picture of myself because I need a profile photo.”
“What are you making a profile for?”
Mom bit her lip. “An online site.”
“What kind of site?”
“Just… a site.”
I gave her a look. “Mom. What are you doing?”
She sighed. “Match dot com, okay? I’m making a profile on an online dating site.”
“Mom!”
“What?” she asked, blinking in mock innocence. “Lots of people are on Match.”
“Lots of weirdos.”
“Lots of perfectly normal single people.”
“Seriously, Mom, why would you want to go out with any of those people?”
“Why not? Hartley, it’s been years.”
“Years since what?”
Mom opened her mouth to speak, but I quickly changed my mind.
“Wait-don’t answer that.”
Okay, I’m not stupid. I know where babies come from and I know at some point my mother and father had to have done the deed in order for me to be here. Since then, though, Mom and Dad had divorced and moved three hundred miles away from each other, and the idea of sex and my parents had been a blissfully distant one.
Until now.
“You know what a lot of people your age do to fill their time?” I asked. “Hobbies. You could take up gardening or painting. Or knitting,” I suggested.
Mom shot me a look. “Knitting? Exactly how old do you think I am, Hartley?”
“What? Lots of people knit. It’s a great way to pass the time.”
Mom shook her head. “Look, I’m not saying I’m ready to get married or jump into anything serious, hon. But I would like to get out and meet some people my own age. Okay?”
“Some men, you mean.”
“Yes.”
I looked from Mom to the photo. Well, on the upside, at least with this as her first impression, she wasn’t likely to get too many offers.
Once I helped Mom upload her profile photo to Match.com (Though I drew the line at helping her come up with a “flirty” headline. Shudder.), I escaped to my room, and logged on to Twitter. I quickly found Sydney Sanders’s page and DMed her saying I was doing an article for the school paper and wanted to get her side of the story. Then, while I waited to hear back, I scrolled through her most recent tweets. Apparently being grounded gave her a lot of free time, as there were at least a dozen an hour.
It also appeared, as I read them, that being grounded forever was really depressing. Each tweet was sadder than the last, starting out that morning with:
my life sux.
To that afternoon where she’d disintegrated to:
i have nothing left 2 live 4.
Drama much? Then again, Sydney did thrive on school social events like homecoming, and she had been in the running for queen, so maybe her life really was suckish to extreme.
An hour later I was still waiting for a response and was beginning to fear that maybe Sydney’s parents had decided to take away her laptop, too. I was just about to give up and see what kind of vegan dinner I could beg out of my mom when a reply finally popped into my box. I clicked it.
what do u want to know?
Yes! I quickly typed back:
how did u get the cheats 2 the test?
A moment later her reply came in.
can’t say.
Crap. Though honestly, if she hadn’t told the vice principal how she got the answers under threat of losing the homecoming title, I knew the chances she’d tell me were slim. Still…
i want 2 print ur side of things. it’s unfair u were suspended. u deserved to be hc queen.
This time there was no pause.
i know! totally unfair!
can we meet? 2morrow?
i’m grounded.
This I knew. But I also knew that Sydney lived on Teakwood Court, which backed up to the Los Gatos Creek biking trail. Conducting an interview through her back fence wasn’t totally ideal, but if I met her there after school, at least it meant she wouldn’t have to breach her grounding perimeter.
I typed my plan to her, and almost immediately I got a reply.
k. c u then.
I grinned. Now that was what even Chase would have to call real reporting.
Chapter Two
THE NEXT DAY, I WAS SO ANTSY TO TELL SAM ABOUT MY meeting that as soon as the fourth-period bell rang, I dashed toward the cafeteria. Stacks of trays and cartons of chocolate milk lined one wall, while rows of tables and benches filled the room. The floors were gray linoleum, the walls dull beige, and posters advertising our upcoming homecoming dance were plastered over every available space. I grabbed my tray, loaded up on pizza sticks, an apple, and a carton of milk, and quickly found Sam sitting near the back of the cafeteria with her boyfriend, Kyle Lowe.
I hesitated.
Okay, here’s the thing: I like Kyle fine. He’s a cool guy. I totally have nothing against him. But lately something was happening to Sam whenever she was around him. She was turning from a normal, rational, sixteen-year-old girl into a cartoon character with little pink hearts floating out of her eyes. Suddenly she was saying things like “my wittle wuv” and “I gots to has you,” getting so cutesy and grammatically incorrect it verged on embarrassing. I had yet to find a kind way to tell her this whole lovey-dovey thing was getting out of control.
Sam looked up, saw me contemplating my seating options, and waved me over.
Then turned to Kyle and gave him an Eskimo kiss with her nose.
Oh boy.
I made my way to their table and plopped my tray down, trying not to look as Kyle Eskimo kissed her right back.
“Look what I made us,” Sam said right away, shoving her wrist toward me. On it was a pink friendship bracelet made of braided thread. In the middle was a pattern of a red heart.
“Very cute,” I said.
“I made Kyle one, too,” she told me, pulling his wrist out for inspection along with hers. “See? We match.”
“Very… matchy.”
She grinned. “Thanks.”
