Free 31 Hours by Masha Hamilton

private happiness of knowing that in a few minutes, she would be standing in a stream of hot water, massaging her muscles with lavender-scented soap, feeling aches slide off her body. Preparing for Jonas, as she thought of it. Purifying for Jonas.
    Turning the corner, she saw a woman standing on her stoop, arms crossed over her chest against the cold. Jonas’s mom: that was who it looked like. But it couldn’t be; what would she be doing here? Vic’s fantasies about Jonas were making her imagine parts of him everywhere.
    As Vic got closer, though, the woman waved, and Vic saw that it was Jonas’s mom, which she immediately decided was a strange coincidence. Jonas’s mom would never come to visit Vic—Vic doubted Jonas’s mom even knew where she lived. She must be here to see someone else, someone in Vic’s building, and what a fluke, here came Vic.
    But no. Jonas’s mom was striding toward her, one hand reaching out, saying, “Vic, hi, hon, sorry for the intrusion, I was hoping to catch you; do you have a few minutes?” For some reason, those words sent fear shooting through Vic’s body, and even as Jonas’s mother was inmidsentence, Vic was interrupting: “Is Jonas okay? He’s all right, isn’t he, Mrs. Meitzner?” and before Vic could finish speaking, Jonas’s mother was answering, “Carol, honey, I’m just Carol, surely, after all this time, heck, I’m not even married to Mr. Meitzner anymore, and yes, Jonas is fine, at least I think so, I mean, nothing’s happened, nothing specific, but that’s what I want to talk with you about.”
    Vic was so startled she couldn’t even think of how to respond properly, and then she realized they were still on the street, where it continued to be frigid, and then she wondered how messy her place was—Mrs. Meitzner kept a neat apartment, she knew—but how could she even think of that? How many times over the years, during high school and beyond, had Mrs. Meitzner welcomed her, made her dinner, even insisted that Jonas walk her home if it got too late?
    “Come on in,” Vic said. “Yes, please. I’m just surprised. I didn’t even know that you knew my address—”
    “Your mom . . . I called . . .”
    Vic unlocked the first door to the building, and then the second door, and Mrs. Meitzner followed her up three flights, and Vic unlocked the apartment door and flung it open to the living room, which wasn’t too cluttered, a pair of boots by the door, a plate, a coffee cup and a partially read newspaper on the floor in front of the couch, two wineglasses on a table to the side, and a small pile of clothes in the corner. “What can I get you to drink, Mrs. Meitzner? I have some herbal tea?”
    “That would be perfect on a day like this, thank you, but please call me Carol, okay?”
    Vic nodded mutely, and they both stepped into the open kitchen—really just a counter, a stovetop, an oven, and some cabinets for glasses and dishes.
    Vic put on the water and pulled out three boxes of tea bags so Jonas’smother could choose, and while they fussed together in the kitchen, Jonas’s mother asked about the dance company, and how practice was going, and when the performance would be, and how Vic’s parents were, and Vic answered on autopilot, wondering all the while what this could be about. She wondered if Jonas’s mother knew about the unexpected outcome of the camping trip, and how it had changed the status between Jonas and Vic, and if she would say, “You’re not good enough for my son; stay away from him.” But those were lines from some B movie, and Jonas’s mother was nothing like that; she was much more tolerant and classy. Besides, she liked Vic; Vic was sure of that; she always had.
    Freshman year. Jonas and Vic were in a physical science class together. He’d skipped a grade and was the smartest kid in that class, but he didn’t look the part. Jonas was not nerdy. Yet he had the face of a scholar. His eyes were set a little too close together for