The Jodi Picoult Collection #3 Read online

  “Liz the custodian?”

  “She’s a groundskeeper,” Alex said.

  “Whatever. She must have told you something about this guy.” Josie hesitated. “It is a guy, right?”

  “Josie!”

  “Well, it’s been a really long time. The last date you went out on that I can remember was the man who wouldn’t eat anything green.”

  “That wasn’t the issue,” Alex said. “It was that he wouldn’t let me eat anything green.”

  Josie stood up and reached for a tube of lipstick. “This is a good color for you,” she said, and she swept the tube over Alex’s mouth.

  Alex and Josie were exactly the same height; looking into her daughter’s eyes, Alex could see a tiny reflection of herself. She wondered why she’d never done this with Josie: sat her down in the bathroom and played with eye shadow, painted her toenails, curled her hair. They were memories that every other mother of a daughter seemed to have; only now was Alex realizing that it had been up to her to create them.

  “There,” Josie said, turning Alex to look in the mirror. “What do you think?”

  Alex was staring, but not at herself. Over her shoulder was Josie—and for the first time, Alex could really see a piece of herself in her daughter. It wasn’t so much the shape of the face but the shine of it; not the color of the eyes but the dream caught like smoke in them. There was no amount of expensive makeup that would make her look the way her Josie did; that was simply what falling in love did to a person.

  Could you be jealous of your own child?

  “Well,” Josie said, patting Alex’s shoulders. “I’d ask you out for a second date.”

  The doorbell rang. “I’m not even dressed,” Alex said, panicked.

  “I’ll stall him.” Josie hurried down the stairs; as Alex shimmied into a black dress and heels, she could hear conversation stir, rise up the stairs.

  Joe Urquhardt was a Canadian banker who’d been roommates with Liz’s cousin in Toronto. He was, she had promised, a nice guy. Alex asked why, then, if he was so nice, he was still single.

  How would you answer that question? Liz had asked, and Alex had to think for a moment.

  I’m not that nice, she’d said.

  She was pleasantly surprised to see that Joe was not troll-statured, that he had a head of wavy brown hair that did not seem to be attached by double-sided tape, and that he had teeth. He whistled when he saw Alex. “All rise,” he said. “And by all, I do mean Mr. Happy.”

  The smile froze on Alex’s face. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” she asked, and she dragged Josie into the kitchen. “Shoot me now.”

  “Okay, that was pretty awful. But at least he eats green food. I asked.”

  “What if you go out there and say I’m violently ill?” Alex said. “You and I can get take-out. Rent a movie or something.”

  Josie’s smile faded. “But, Mom, I’ve already got plans.” She peered out the doorway to where Joe was waiting. “I could tell Matt that—”

  “No, no,” Alex said, forcing a smile. “One of us ought to be having a good time.”

  She walked out of the kitchen and found Joe holding up a candlestick, scrutinizing the bottom. “I’m very sorry, but something’s come up.”

  “Tell me about it, babe,” Joe said, leering.

  “No, I mean that I can’t go out tonight. There’s a case,” she lied. “I have to go back into court.”

  Maybe being from Canada was what kept Joe from understanding how incredibly unlikely it would be for court to be in session on a Saturday night. “Oh,” he said. “Well, far be it from me to keep those wheels of justice from grinding. Some other time?”

  Alex nodded, ushering him outside. She took off her heels and padded upstairs to change into her rattiest sweats. She would eat chocolate for dinner; she would watch chick flicks until she was completely sobbed out. As she passed the bathroom, she could hear the shower running—Josie getting ready for her own date.

  For a moment Alex stood with her hand on the door, wondering whether Josie would welcome her if she went in and guided her in putting on her makeup, offered to style her hair—just as Josie had done for her. But for Josie, that was natural—she’d spent a lifetime grabbing moments of Alex’s time, when Alex was busy preparing for something else. Somehow, Alex had assumed that time was infinite, that Josie would always be there waiting. She never guessed that she herself would one day be left behind.

  In the end, Alex drew away from the bathroom door without knocking, too afraid she might hear Josie say she did not need her mother’s help to even risk making that initial offer.

  * * *

  The one thing that had saved Josie from total social ruin in the wake of Peter’s math presentation was her simultaneous anointing as Matt Royston’s girlfriend. Unlike most of the other sophomores who were occasional couples—random hookups at parties, best-friend-with-benefits situations—she and Matt were an item. Matt walked her to her classes and often left her at the door with a kiss that everyone watched. Anyone stupid enough to mention Peter Houghton’s name in conjunction with Josie’s had to answer to him.

  Everyone, that is, except for Peter himself. At work, he didn’t seem to be able to pick up on the clues that Josie gave him—turning her back when he came into the room, ignoring him when he asked her a question. He finally cornered her in the supply room one afternoon. How come you’re acting like this? he said.

  Because when I was nice to you, you thought we were friends.

  But we are friends, he replied.

  Josie had faced him. You don’t get to decide that, she said.

  One afternoon at work, when Josie went out to the Dumpster with a load of trash, Peter was already there. It was his fifteen-minute break; usually he walked across the street and bought himself an apple juice, but today he was leaning over the metal lip of the Dumpster. “Move,” she said, and she hefted the bags of garbage up and over.

  As soon as they struck bottom, a shower of sparks rose.

  Almost immediately, fire climbed up the cardboard stacked inside the Dumpster; it roared against the metal. “Peter, get down from there,” Josie yelled. Peter didn’t move. The flames danced in front of his face, the heat distorted his features. “Peter, now!” She reached up, grabbing his arm, pulling him down to the pavement as something—toner? oil?—exploded inside the Dumpster.

  “We have to call 911,” Josie cried, and she scrambled to her feet.

  The firemen arrived in minutes, spraying some noxious chemical into the Dumpster. Josie paged Mr. Cargrew, who’d been on the golf course. “Thank God you weren’t hurt,” he said to both of them.

  “Josie saved me,” Peter replied.

  While Mr. Cargrew spoke to the firemen, she went back into the copy shop with Peter following. “I knew you’d save me,” Peter said. “That’s why I did it.”

  “Did what?” But Peter didn’t have to answer, because Josie already knew why Peter had been up on the Dumpster when he should have been on break. She knew who’d tossed the match, the moment he heard her exiting the back door with bags of garbage.

  Josie told herself, even as she pulled Mr. Cargrew aside, that she was only doing what any responsible employee would do: tell the boss who had tried to destroy his property. She did not admit that she was scared by what Peter had said, by the truth of it. And she pretended not to feel that small fanning in her chest—a smaller version of the fire that Peter had started—which she identified, for the very first time in her life, as revenge.

  When Mr. Cargrew fired Peter, Josie didn’t listen to the conversation. She felt his gaze on her—hot, accusing—as he left, but she focused her attention on a job from a local bank instead. As she stared at the papers coming out of the machine, she considered how strange it was to measure success by how closely each product resembled the one that had come before.

  * * *

  After school, Josie waited for Matt at the flagpole. He’d sneak up behind her and she’d pretend she didn’t noti