I was sitting in an Adirondack chair eating toast and reading a magazine when my mother came out and joined me. She had that serious look on her face, her look of purpose, the one she got when she wanted to have one of her mother-daughter talks. I dreaded those talks the same way I dreaded my period.
“What are you doing today?” she asked me casually. I stuffed the rest of my toast into my mouth. “This?”
“Maybe you could get started on your summer reading for AP English,” she said, reaching over and brushing some crumbs off my chin.
“Yeah, I was planning on it,” I said, even though I hadn’t been.
My mother cleared her throat. “Is Conrad doing drugs?” she asked me. 53
“What?”
“Is Conrad doing drugs?”
I almost choked. “No! Why are you asking me anyway? Conrad doesn’t talk to me. Ask Steven.”
“I already did. He doesn’t know. He wouldn’t lie,” she said, peering at me.
“Well, I wouldn’t either!”
My mother sighed. “I know. Beck’s worried. He’s been acting differently. He quit football …”
“I quit dance,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And you don’t see me running around with a crack pipe.”
She pursed her lips. “Will you promise to tell me if you hear something?” “I don’t know . . . ,” I said teasingly. I didn’t need to promise her. I knew
Conrad wasn’t doing drugs. A beer was one thing, but he would never do drugs. I would bet my life on it.
“Belly, this is serious.”
“Mom, chill. He’s not doing drugs. When’d you turn into such a narc, anyway? You’re one to talk.” I elbowed her playfully.
She bit back a smile and shook her head. “Don’t start.” 54
