I push myself out of bed. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” I tell her, yanking on her ponytail as I jog past her and down the stairs.
“Mom said so. She said to let you sleep in.”
That makes me perk up. Maybe it will be the perfect morning to ask for a reprieve. Maybe I do deserve to sleep in and even go on a date.
Downstairs, I find my mom setting the table while my sister examines each omelet to be sure she gets the best one.
“Keith had to run into work for a bit,” says Mom. “So it’s just us girls.”
The three of us sit down, and my mom pours two glasses of orange juice, for herself and me, while Kyla demands to pour her own. I think this is the first time we’ve all sat together for a meal in weeks. Mom’s always busy with work and running Kyla to dance class and soccer, and Keith has been picking up extra shifts to save for the vacation he and my mom have talked about taking us all on for years now.
“I don’t want to take dance classes anymore,” announces Kyla with her mouth full of egg and cheese.
“Excuse me?” asks Mama. “Swallow your food and try again.”
Kyla takes a sip of orange juice and then sits up on her knees, so that she’s at eye level with both of us. “I want to quit dance.”
I slink back a little. This is definitely my fault. “You’ll regret it, Kyla bear,” I tell her.
“And just what brought this on?” Mama asks. I can hear it in her voice, the way she’s trying not to overreact. But truthfully, Mama is a dance mom. She even has the bumper stickers to prove it.
Kyla shrugs, oblivious to the tension mounting around her. “Callie doesn’t dance anymore.”
Great. One more thing for Mama to blame me for.
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say she quit of her own volition,” Mama reminds her.
“Well, it’s not like that was my choice,” I remind her.
Kyla looks to me. “Well, you don’t seem to miss it very much.”
I shake my head. The kid misses nothing.
“Well,” says Mama, “after the spring recital we’ll look at taking some time off of dance. But you’ve already made a commitment, and we always follow through on a commitment. Don’t we?”
“Only ’cause you make us,” says Kyla.
Mama stares her down into submission.
Kyla huffs. “Okay.” After a few more bites, she hops down from her chair and announces that she has television to catch up on.
“Don’t watch Tiny House Hunters without me!” I call.
“Put your plate in the sink,” Mama tells her.
With Kyla in the living room and the TV turned up a little too loud, I watch as my mom scrapes her fork around her plate, not really eating anything.
“I’ll talk to Kyla,” I tell her.
She doesn’t look up. “I think you’ve done enough damage.”
That stings. I pull in a deep breath. “You can’t be mad at me forever.”
“No,” she says, “but I can be disappointed in you for an awfully long time.”
I slump back in my chair. Why can’t we just have a conversation without her slinging guilt on me from every direction?
She’s in a shit mood, but this is the only chance I’ve got. “A friend of mine wanted to hang out.”
“Is it that sweet little thing Millie? She’s welcome here anytime.”
I clear my throat. “It’s a boy.”
“Oh Lord.”
I put the orange juice away and try to sound as casual as I can. “It’s not even a real date, Mama. We just wanted to hang out.”
“What’s his name?” she asks.
“Mitch Lewis.”
She pauses for a moment with her arms elbow-deep in the suds-filled sink. I can see her flipping through the mental files of every student she’s had an interaction with. “That big ol’ boy with the cheeks?” She looks at me. “He is very sweet . . . and not someone I ever thought I’d see you spending time with.”
I decide not to take that as an insult. “I’m full of surprises these days.”
“That you are.” Mama takes her time as she weighs her options. “Okay,” she finally says. “Y’all can hang out here tonight. At the house.”
“But—” I stop myself. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mitch arrives at seven thirty on the dot. The doorbell rings, and Kyla races from the kitchen, where she’s dyeing eggs with my mom and Keith. She peeks through the window beside the door and shouts, “He’s here! He’s here! He’s here!”
“I heard you the first time!” I yell down from my room. “I’m sure he did too!” I give myself one last glance in the mirror hanging on the back of my door. I haven’t honestly tried to look this decent in weeks, but with Mitch coming over to my house I didn’t want to look like I tried too hard, so I kept it simple with a pair of denim shorts and a fitted gray T-shirt with the outline of Texas across the front. I curled my hair and painted my fingers and toes the shade of red my mother swears was made to match her lipstick perfectly.
I run down the stairs, but Keith beats me to the door. He turns to me. “You girls and your mother only let me answer the door when it’s a steak salesperson or a Jehovah’s Witness. My turn.” He swings the door open. “Well, aren’t you a big fella,” says Keith.
“Keith!” I smack his arm and push him out of the way.
Mitch takes off his sweat-stained baseball cap and shoves it in the back pocket of his khaki shorts. “Mitch Lewis, sir.”
“You’re a Lewis boy,” says Keith. “Theresa,” he calls over his shoulder, “didn’t we go to high school with a Lewis?”
Mom steps out from the kitchen in a food-coloring-stained apron. “You know, I think your father was a few years ahead of us,” she says.
“Class of eighty-nine, ma’am.”
“Hey,” I say, interrupting their trip down memory lane.
Mitch grins. “Thank y’all for having me over tonight. My mama sent over some of her cranberry-orange muffins for Easter morning or just whenever a craving hits ya, I guess.”
Mama clicks her tongue. “Well, that is the sweetest dang thing ever. You come on in. We just ordered some pizza and are dyeing eggs, but I’m sure y’all would rather—”
Kyla takes Mitch’s hand. “You should dye eggs with us. Will you, please?”
Mitch’s broad shoulders cave in a little and he says, “Sure.”
I groan. Wrong answer.
“Actually,” Mama says, “why don’t y’all go for a walk or something? Pizza won’t be here for a little while.”
I squint at her, trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick question.
“Go on,” she says. “Y’all get outta here before I change my mind.”
Keith raises his brows, and his whole expression tells me he’s just as surprised as I am.
I shove my feet into my boots and throw on the sweatshirt I left hanging on the railing.
Outside the dusky sky is nearly dark enough to be nighttime, but daylight still burns at the edge of the horizon, which is only visible because everything around here is so damn flat.
“It was cool of your mom to let me come over,” says Mitch, once we’re a safe distance away from my house.
“It would have been even cooler if she would have let me go out.”
“Haven’t you already been everywhere in this town?” he asks.
“Well, sure,” I say, “but isn’t the whole point of a date so you can show me some magical hidden gem of Clover City that I’ve never seen?”
“Would it be horrible of me to say that maybe you’re the hidden gem of Clover City?”
“Very cheesy,” I tell him, but I look away and do that thing where you stretch your jaw out to stop from smiling.
“Well, then I won’t say that.” He bites down on his lips until they disappear.
“Okay, good,” I say. “I mean, at the very least, we could have made out in the back of your car.”