Free For Keeps by Natasha Friend Page A

sliding a tray of cookies out of the oven. They’re the almond variety, rich and buttery, with little nut slivers on top. Breathing in, I feel a burst of spit fill my mouth, reminding me that I’m famished. I never did finish my waffle this morning. I was too distracted by the Jonathan discussion to eat.
    Jazzy Jonathan.
    Coming for dinner.
    Tonight.
    Ach.
    OK, I’m not going to focus on that. I’m going to focus on milk-steaming. And bean-grinding. And assembling beautiful, fluffy, cinnamon-dappled cappuccinos for the masses—
    “Excuse me, young lady?”
    I turn. “Yes?”
    The man is silver-haired, with square shoulders and a wide, ruddy face. He smiles at me and I suddenly realize who he is and give a little jump. Naturally, the pitcher of scalding milk in my hand jumps, too. And sloshes onto the front of my shirt. And soaks through to my bare skin.
    “Oh, shit!” I announce, trying to pull the fabric of my shirt away from my scalding chest. “Hot! Hot shit!”
    Paul Tucci’s father’s eyes widen, and he points to the sink behind me. “Water! Cold water!”
    In moments like these, you don’t think about decorum. You don’t think at all. You just spring across the floor like a jungle cat and stick your entire torso under the faucet, letting the cold water run, and run, and run.

    “Oh . . . my . . .” Liv is laughing so hard she’s gasping for breath. “God! . . . Hot! . . .” Tears are literally streaming down her face. “Hot shit!”
    “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much for laughing at my humiliation. Really. I feel so much better now.”
    “I’m . . . sorry. . . . It’s just . . . you burned . . . your . . .” A fresh fit of giggles erupts and Liv collapses face-first on the bed.
    “That’s right, Olivia,” I say. “I burned my boobs. Hilarious! Keep it up.”
    We are in my room. Everyone else is downstairs, mingling and drinking wine. Preparing to eat my mother’s steak. Already I can tell how this night will go: about as well as the rest of my day. It would be nice to have a best friend who appreciated the gravity of the situation.
    “You know,” I say, “for someone who dates college guys, you’re awfully immature.”
    Suddenly, amazingly, Liv rolls over and sits up. “Guy. Singular. And I wouldn’t call it ‘dating.’ More like . . .”
    “What?”
    “Hanging out. Hooking up. You know.”
    I do know. You can’t be friends with Liv and not know exactly where she stands on the subject of sex: i.e., it’s a magnificent thing. One time last year, she got into a half-hour-long morality debate with Wendy Geruntino in the middle of the cafeteria. Wendy’s logic consisted of, God wants us to stay pure for marriage , and Liv’s argument was, Hey, God made us sexual creatures. If he wanted teenagers to wait that long, he would have made puberty start at twenty-five.
    And don’t even get Liv started on the double standard. She’ll give you an earful: If a guy wants to have sex, he’s a stud, right? If a girl wants to have sex, she’s a slut, a ho, a trollop. How warped is that?
    “Well,” I say now. “I hope you’re using protection.”
    “Of course,” she says firmly. “I’m a safety girl. . . . But we weren’t talking about me.”
    “Actually, we were.”
    “No, we weren’t.”
    “Well, I’d rather talk about you.”
    “We can talk about me after you tell me the rest of the story.”
    “There is no rest of the story.”
    “So, what—you just stayed there, cooling off your boobs in the sink, and that’s it? You didn’t talk to him at all?”
    “Nope.”
    Liv shakes her head.
    “Well, what was I supposed to do?”
    “Gee, I don’t know, Josie. Offer him a pastry? Crack a joke? Something to get the ball rolling?”
    “And what ball might that be?”
    Liv heaves a sigh.
    “What?” I say.
    “Josie, they live fifteen miles away from you. We have the address to prove it. And I don’t care what you call them, they are your grandparents. Don’t you