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I’m also not used to hearing Sienna say words like shit, which is how I know she’s trying to show off for this boy. She likes him. I can tell. Sienna is sixteen. It was only a matter of time before she developed an interest in boys. “Besides,” she says, “you slayed the last test. I got a C. If anyone sucks at geometry, it’s me.”
“That’s not true. I just got lucky on that test. Circles are not my jam.”
“Are they anyone’s?”
“Simon Hall maybe.”
Sienna sneers. “Simon Hall is stupid smart.”
“He probably actually likes this shit.”
“He probably does it on the weekends for fun.”
They have a good laugh at Simon Hall’s expense. The L goes rolling by, muffling their laughter. As far as I can tell, Sienna and her friend stop talking, waiting for the train to pass before they carry on. They pick up thirty seconds later, talking about things like chord and tangent lines and, from the way he explains geometry to my daughter—gentle, patient—I realize that this boy doesn’t suck at math as much as he’d like Sienna to believe. He was being self-deprecating, which tells me he likes her back.
Sienna makes a mistake in her work. He corrects her, and she says, “Shit. I’m so stupid.” I can hear the frustration in her voice. Math is not her cup of tea.
His kindness is endearing. “No, you’re not. Anyone could have done it.”
“You didn’t,” she says. There’s a beat of quiet, and then, from out of nowhere Sienna says, “Gianna says a person can’t be both pretty and smart,” as if these things are mutually exclusive, and this boy tells her, “Gianna’s an idiot. You’re both.” I feel myself smile because it’s exactly what she was angling for: a compliment. She’s never been shy.
From the kitchen comes a discomfiting quiet. I imagine their faces close together and I wonder if my daughter has ever been kissed. I wonder if she’s done more than that.
Sienna would die if she knew I was listening in. I let the front door slam closed loud enough that there’s no mistaking I’m home.
“Sienna?” I call out as if I don’t already know where she is.
“In here,” she says back, chair legs suddenly scraping against the maple floors. I follow the sound of her down the narrow hall and to the kitchen. Our three flat is a standard layout, living room with its large, protruding window in front, kitchen in back overlooking a negligible, communal yard, with two small bedrooms and a bath just off the hall between them.
Sienna is standing at the refrigerator when I come in. The door is open; she’s reaching inside for the juice. Her clothes have become a source of constant irritation in recent years. Gone are the grunge days of my youth: the baggy, flannel tops and wide leg jeans. Instead, she wears this red tank top with spaghetti straps that’s both cropped and low cut, showing far too much skin for my liking, and is out of place for this winter day. Admittedly, I bought the shirt for her, but with her word that she’d wear a cardigan or hoodie over it, which she’s not. Her jeans are the distressed kind, with holes everywhere. They’re high waisted, which covers some of the bare midriff. But still. There is a dress code at school. None of this is allowed, not cropped tops nor jeans, which means she changed since she’s been home. Her friend has not. He’s still in his school-issued polo shirt and khaki pants, which also tells me he’s quite possibly been here since school ended over four hours ago.
What have they been doing all that time?
“Mom, this is Nico,” she says, barely looking over her shoulder at him. He sits at my table. He’s man-size, a boy in a man’s body.
I smile. “Hi, Nico. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Hi, Mrs. Long,” he says. He’s awkward but polite.
“It’s Michaels. Ms. Michaels,” Sienna cuts in because I went back to my maiden name after the divorce while Sienna kept Ben’s.
She leaves the refrigerator door open as she pours herself a glass of juice. I come around to the far side of the room, setting the grocery bags on the table, glad to be free of their weight. I slip out of my coat, seeing that the heavy bags have left red troughs in my arms. “Meghan is fine, Nico. Sienna, you mind helping with these groceries?”
“Are you going to pay me?” she asks, cocking a hip as she sips her juice.
“How about I keep paying for your phone and we call it even?”
Sienna pouts, sticking that bottom lip out. She has naturally pouty lips. She has these beautiful bushy eyebrows, which are in high demand these days. Her whole look is enviable. She’s what all the girls aspire to be: pretty and thin. I just wonder when her teenage sass will reach its peak and she’ll come back down to earth.
“I’ll help,” Nico says, scootching his chair back and standing up. He’s even taller when he’s on his feet. It’s been so long since there’s been a man here, even if he is only sixteen years old. Which makes me wonder—is he sixteen? Or is he older than Sienna?
Nico unloads, laying items on the table that Sienna puts pokily away.
“Thank you, Nico. That’s very kind of you. Can you stay for dinner? I have Italian beef in the slow cooker. It’s ready. I just have to serve it.”
“You should,” Sienna says. “Her Italian beef kicks ass.”
“Sienna.”
