But who would have figured? she wondered. Who on earth would have actually thought Logan O’Donnell, who was going to Harvard, could be so clueless?
“You want to go skiing on Saturday?” asked Sonnet. The three of them were going to Sonnet’s house after school to study for a global-history exam. Daisy didn’t much care for school, but she genuinely liked Zach and Sonnet, and even though they’d be studying, it was a chance to hang out with them.
“I can’t go anywhere on Saturday,” Daisy reminded her. “I’m working, remember?”
“You didn’t waste time getting a job,” Sonnet said.
“Yes, well, I figure if I’m gainfully employed, maybe my folks won’t pressure me so much about college. I haven’t told my mom yet, though.” She could just hear her mother now.
A
Bellamy? Working as counter help in a bakery?
Like that was some big stigma.
“What’s your mom got against working?” Zach asked.
“Nothing,” Daisy said. “That’s, like, the main reason she and my dad split up, because she
’s a workaholic. She spent more hours at her law firm than she did at home, that’s for sure. Last year, she worked on a case in Seattle, meaning she only came home every other weekend. And now she’s in The Hague, and she almost never comes back to New York anymore. We e-mail, though,” Daisy admitted. “E-mail and phone calls. I think we actually talk more now that she’s in Europe than we did when she was home.” Daisy actually liked—no, loved—those talks. It was the one time she had her mother’s undivided attention.
“She’ll probably respect you for getting a job,” Sonnet pointed out.
“She would want me to have a job that, according to her,
matters.
And to my mom, that means a job that leads somewhere, like being a page for a politician, or an intern at a brokerage firm or something. Working for somebody who can write me a good reference for college.”
“Jenny will write you a reference,” Zach pointed out.
“Yeah, right—‘My cousin did a really good job selling muffins and pull-aparts.’” She looked at Zach. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but my mom wouldn’t think it’s anything special.”
“It’s not,” he said. “But I like working for Jenny. I think it’s cool that she’s your cousin.”
“Here we are,” Sonnet said, stopping at a mailbox that was nearly buried in a bank of snow. “Home, sweet home.” She collected the mail and led them up the walkway to her house.
In the dimness of the falling light, the snow rippled with purple shadows and the boxy white house looked like something from a distant time. It was incredibly plain, an unadorned white saltbox in the middle of a flat white yard. Daisy hoped there were flower beds or shrubs under the thick blanket of snow, because if not, the place would probably qualify for one of those makeover shows. She knew, though, that it didn’t matter what someone’s house looked like. Her parents used to have not one but two beautiful houses—a town house in Manhattan and a weekend place on Long Island—but it hadn’t managed to make them happy.
“My mom’s sick today,” Sonnet said as they trooped into the side door. “She came home from the conference with a cold.”
Daisy heard the sound of a radio somewhere in the house. Nina Romano turned out to be a fan of Air America. Sonnet led the way into what appeared to be the family room.
Nina was on the sofa with an afghan covering her, the radio on and a laptop computer in front of her. On an end table, there was an array of mugs and cold remedies, a box of Kleenex, a regular phone and a BlackBerry. She looked up and a smile lit her face. “Hey, you guys. How was school?”
Daisy had to pause for a moment to cover her surprise. She expected the town mayor to be a brisk, efficient, Marian-the-Librarian type, with thick ankles and sensible shoes. Instead, Nina Romano looked way too young to have a daughter who was a senior in high school. And she was white, though that wasn’t a surprise, since Daisy had met two of Sonnet’s uncles at school. Another thing that didn’t surprise Daisy—Nina was drop-dead gorgeous. Judging by Sonnet’s looks, that was to be expected. However, mother and daughter appeared as though they came from different continents.
Sonnet made the introductions, and Nina beamed at Daisy. “Don’t come any closer,” she said. “I’ve got the mother of all colds and I don’t want to get you guys sick. I’ve been hoping to meet you, Daisy. My brother Tony says you’re in his homeroom.”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re already working at the bakery, I hear. That’s great.”
“Word travels fast,” Daisy said.
“You have no idea. Did you know Jenny Majesky is my best friend? We grew up together.” Nina turned to Zach. “How are you?” she asked. “I haven’t seen much of you lately.”
“I increased my hours at the bakery.” Zach appeared slightly uncomfortable, standing in the doorway as though poised to flee. Daisy knew that there was tension between his father and Sonnet’s mother, undoubtedly because his dad, the current city administrator, was after Nina Romano’s job. Zach didn’t say much about his dad, but she had the impression that Matthew Alger was strict and very focused on money. And he probably didn’t think much of his son coming here, fraternizing with the enemy, so to speak.
The three of them went into the kitchen to find something to eat and get to work.
“Your mom looks like a college girl,” Daisy said to Sonnet.
“She was just fifteen when she had me.”
Daisy didn’t know what else to say.
I’m sorry
didn’t seem right. “So what happened?” she asked, blurting out the question before she could decide whether or not she should ask it. “I mean, besides the obvious.”
“She met a guy from West Point. He had no idea she was underage. My mom looked way older than fifteen. Now she looks way younger than thirty-one. I’m really proud of her.”
“I don’t blame you. She must be something, to go from teenage mom to town mayor. You
’re something, too,” Daisy added. “You’ll only be sixteen when you graduate. Why the rush?”
Sonnet shrugged. “There wasn’t much to it. I doubled up on English classes and that gave me enough credits to finish, so it didn’t feel like a rush. I guess I’m kind of in a hurry to move away, start college. My mom would never say anything, but I just get this feeling she’s waiting for a shot at her own life.”
“What about your dad?”
“I don’t really call him my father or my dad. That implies a relationship that isn’t there. He is…the guy whose DNA I have. The guy who made me biracial.”
“So where is he now?”
She shrugged, the casual gesture probably masking a world of hurt. “He works in Washington, D.C. At the Pentagon.”
“What is he, like some military VIP?”
“That’s what they say. And he has this incredible trophy wife who’s a Rhodes scholar and the granddaughter of a famous civil rights leader, and they have two perfect kids who look like movie stars.”
Again, Daisy didn’t know what to say.
“I’m okay with all that,” Sonnet quickly explained. “Except…”
“Except what?”
“Except sometimes I have no idea who I am. I see my dad maybe once a year. My mom’
s like, the town hippie. A throwback to Woodstock.”
“She must be more than that, to be elected mayor.”
They opened their backpacks and took out their notes. Daisy also took out her camera, a digital with Carl Zeiss optics. She’d gotten it for her birthday last summer and had discovered a new obsession. At her former school, photography had been the only class she enjoyed. She absolutely loved taking pictures, capturing a particular moment or image or slant of light.
There was something compelling and oddly intimate in the way Sonnet and Zach sat at the table, studying together, occasionally teasing. The angle of their heads formed a curious symmetry.
“Don’t mind me,” Daisy said, powering up her camera. “I just want to take a few shots.”
The space between them formed a heart shape, but it wasn’t too cutesy because their expressions were so intense. Daisy took a few pictures and then put the camera aside. Sonnet offered her a Coke but she declined. Daisy was starving. Lately she got the munchies in a way that was, like, ten times more intense than when she smoked pot. At odd hours, too, sometimes in the middle of the night. So when Sonnet put out a bag of chips and a tub of sour-cream dip, Daisy dug in as though she hadn’t eaten in days.
She asked for a glass of water. The moment she finished drinking it, all the cold liquid seemed to head straight for her bladder.
“Where’s the restroom?” she asked, suddenly about to burst.
Sonnet pointed down the hallway.
Daisy hurried. She passed the study where Nina was now talking on the phone, something about city finance.
The chips and dip had been a mistake. A huge mistake. She felt them heading northward, until she felt like a volcano about to erupt.
Bathroom. Where the hell was the bathroom?
She wrenched open one of the hallway doors. Damn. Coat closet. Tried the next one.
Damn. Cellar stairs. Almost panicking now, she tried door number three. It wasn’t a bathroom, either. She was about to explode when she heard Nina say, “End of the hall, honey.”
Daisy ran. She didn’t know which was more urgent—the need to pee or the need to puke. But she had to get to that bathroom.
Ten minutes later, pale and completely empty, having sponged herself off and rinsed her mouth, she staggered out of the bathroom.
Get a grip,
she told herself.
Go to the kitchen and
act normal.
Shoulders back, chin up, she walked down the hall. As she passed the study where Nina was working, Daisy pretended not to see her. She almost made it past, when Nina spoke up.
“Have you seen a doctor yet, honey?”
Food for Thought
by Jenny Majesky
Heaven in a Bottle
A nursing mother should drink something alcoholic every day, as long as she doesn’t have a drinking problem. A doctor wouldn’t tell you this, but my grandmother and her friends all believed it. Give a nursing mother a glass of beer to drink every evening, and it’s good for her milk production. A very moderate amount doesn’t affect the baby at all.
My grandmother was never much of a drinker, but we always had liquor in the house to use in her baking—sherry for Fanny Farmer cakes, Triple Sec for the fruitcake, Kahlúa with its variety of uses, rum and, of course, Irish Cream. Decades ago, Gram found a recipe for a cake on an Irish Cream label, and Grandpa liked it so much that he finished off the rest of the bottle.
Afterward, they could be seen snuggling on the porch swing.
She made the cake so many times, she never really had to refer to the recipe again. This cake freezes well, and makes a nice gift.
IRISH CREAM CAKE
1/2 cup finely chopped pecans
1/2 cup finely shredded coconut
1 (18.25 ounce) package yellow cake mix
1 (3.4-ounce) package instant vanilla pudding mix
4 eggs
1/4 cup water
1/2 cup vegetable oil
3/4 cup Irish Cream liqueur
1/2 cup butter
1/4 cup water
1 cup white sugar
1/4 cup Irish Cream liqueur
Preheat oven to 325°F. Grease and flour a 10-inch Bundt pan. Sprinkle chopped nuts and coconut evenly over bottom of pan.
In a large bowl, combine cake mix and pudding mix. Mix in eggs, 1/4 cup water, 1/2 cup oil and 3/4 cup Irish Cream liqueur. Beat for 5 minutes at high speed. Pour batter over nuts in pan.
Bake for 60 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the cake comes out clean. Cool for 10 minutes in the pan while you prepare the glaze. To make the glaze, combine butter, 1/4 cup water and 1 cup sugar in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil and continue boiling for 5 minutes, stirring constantly with a whisk. Remove from heat and whisk in 1/4 cup Irish Cream.
Invert the cooled cake onto a serving platter. Prick top and sides of cake. Spoon glaze over top and brush onto sides of cake, until the glaze is absorbed.
Fourteen
1991
“I’
ve made up my mind,” Nina said to her friends, who were waiting for her outside the clinic where she’d gone for a counseling session. “I’m keeping it.”
Jenny, Joey and Rourke sat silently in Rourke’s Volvo. As a camp counselor this year, he was entitled to bring a car. He and Joey had permission to be off-premises for the afternoon. A breeze from the river blew through the open windows. “Alive” by Pearl Jam was playing on the radio. The three of them had been waiting for Nina for over an hour. Jenny imagined she could feel the guys squirming, although she couldn’t actually see them move. Pregnant girls and family-planning clinics were not exactly favorite topics with boys, that was for sure. As for Jenny, she greeted the news with mixed emotions, but for Nina’s sake, she smiled as she scooted across the backseat and motioned for Nina to get in. “All right,” she said. “Then…congratulations.”
Rourke adjusted the rearview mirror. “Seat belt,” he said, and both girls complied.
Jenny kept looking over at Nina and trying to imagine what she was feeling. Nina just looked down at her lap. A moment later, she took some colorful brochures out of her purse and started looking through them. She was just fifteen.
Fifteen.
She didn’t even have her license yet, but before long she’d have a baby to look after twenty-four/seven, and no husband to help her with it. And actually
having
it—Jenny had seen the standard film in health class, and wanted no part of giving birth. The very idea that a whole baby came out down there was…Jenny resisted the urge to squirm right along with the guys. She still went to a pediatrician, for cripe’s sake, and as far as she knew, so did Nina. There was a kind of doctor called a “gynecologist,” but Jenny didn’t even know whether that was pronounced with a hard or soft “g” and was too embarrassed to ask. Not having a mother meant not having someone to ask stuff like that. At least Nina had a mom. A mom who was probably going to ground her for life when Nina told her she was pregnant.
The guys were quiet. Joey was staring out the window. Rourke was scowling at the road; she could see his frown of concentration in the rearview mirror. As always, Joey and Rourke were a study in contrasts, earning them the nickname Bill & Ted, after the goofy movie about likable boneheads who were best friends. Rourke was the blond, suntanned surfer, while Joey’s black hair, dark eyes and full mouth reminded her of Keanu Reeves. Privately, Jenny thought they were more like Jay Gatsby and Nick Carraway, but that reference was lost on most people.