For Keeps by Natasha Friend

to study,” I add, for emphasis.
    You would think that Jonathan would take the hint, but he doesn’t. “I was horrible at trig,” he says. He crinkles his eyes at me. “I guess that’s why I became a music teacher instead of a math teacher.”
    I nod. As if I care.
    “Do you play any instruments, Josie?” Jonathan asks. His head is cocked to one side, like a parrot’s. A sandy-haired, red-nosed parrot.
    I start to say no, but my mom pipes in, “You play the recorder.” Then, to Jonathan, “Josie plays the recorder.”
    “I don’t play—”
    “The recorder!” Jonathan’s face lights up. “That’s great! If you can play the recorder, the clarinet is just—”
    “I do not play the recorder . I played it for a week , in third grade. And I hated it.” I shoot my mother a look, as in, What the hell?
    She smiles. “Miss Mundt said you showed a lot of promise.” To Jonathan, “Miss Mundt was Josie’s third-grade teacher.”
    Instead of sharing in the maternal pride-fest, I am annoyed—mad, in fact, that my mother is using me as a way to flirt with Jonathan. Listen to these cute little factoids about Josie from when she was a child . And even though my mother is the one I’m mad at, I turn to Jonathan and say, “I’m not a band geek, if that’s what you’re asking. . . . I’m more into sports, you know?”
    Yes. He’s turning red.
    My mother stares at me, surprised. Hurt.
    I stare right back at her, say nothing.
    Jonathan, finally taking the hint, says he has to go. He gives my mom a peck on the cheek and hightails it across the parking lot.
    “You were rude,” my mother says when we get to our car.
    “Excuse me?” I say.
    “To Jonathan, back there. You were very rude.”
    I turn to her. “Are you serious?”
    “I would never act that way with one of your friends,” she says, and her voice is tight. “Never.”
    “Oh, he’s your friend now?”
    “You’re missing the point.”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “We were talking about your manners.”
    “No, we weren’t. You were talking about my manners. And if you want to talk about manners, let’s talk about the fact that you invited someone to my game without my permission.”
    “What?”
    “I played like crap! Did you even notice? Or were you too busy playing footsie under the blanket?”
    She turns to look me straight in the eye. “Is that really what you think?”
    I shrug.
    Now she turns away, silent, staring out the window. After a minute, “You know something, Josie? Not everything is about you.”
    “Oh,” I say, nodding. “OK. So, what—everything’s about you now? Is that it?”
    “I didn’t say that.” She sounds angry. At me. I am the reason for her anger.
    “Well,” I say, “why don’t you try saying what you mean? ”
    She sighs. “What I mean . . . Josie, what I mean is I need to have a life too. Outside of being your mom. I don’t want to be just a mom for the rest of my life. OK?”
    I hold very still.
    “Josie.” She actually has the nerve to put her hand on my arm. “Jonathan is important to me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    I nod slowly. I am trying not to let the volcano that’s erupting between my ears spew out of my mouth.
    “Good.” She turns the key in the ignition, presses the gas.
    We drive about three yards.
    “By the way,” I say casually, like I’m about to mention some fun but inconsequential fact, like the soccer team getting new jerseys. “Paul Tucci’s dad came into the café last night.”
    My mother puts on the brakes and turns to me, stunned. “What?”
    I shrug. “Actually, he’s been in a few times. I guess they’re back in the area. . . . I would have mentioned it sooner, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. . . .”
    Liar, liar, pants on fire.
    “Right,” she mumbles, nodding. “No, you’re right. It’s . . . not a big deal.”
    But I can see her face—the truth, smeared all over it.
    Was it a mistake, telling her? Am I supposed to feel bad now? This