Free Spin Doctor by Leslie Carroll Page B

her friend. “Laurence. Do you have a last name, Laurence?” He mumbled something, genuinely embarrassed.
    â€œJacobs. Laurence Jacobs,” Molly translated sullenly.
    â€œMy mother was a real Olivier freak,” Laurence said sheepishly.
    He’s lucky she didn’t name him Heathcliff. “So, Laurence-not-Lauren, does your mother know you’re out this late?” Eek, I was suddenly channeling another mother again: someone from the Eisenhower era who wore aprons and sensible heels every day instead of faded Levi’s and clogs.
    â€œYeah, I guess. She doesn’t care, though. She and my dad aren’t home anyway.”
    â€œAnd how do you know my daughter, since she’s never bothered to mention your name before?”
    â€œMom,” Molly wailed, “stop giving him the third degree. We’re not kids!”
    â€œI’m afraid that the State of New York would quibble with you on that point.”
    Laurence opened his mouth to reply but received a shot in the ribs from my delicate daughter, who decided to speak for him.
    â€œLaurence goes to Fieldston too. He’s also a junior, his father is a lawyer and his mom is a realtor who’s allergic to cats so they had to give theirs away last year. We met in the Environmental Club that Mr. Nivon leads after school on Thursdays, okay? So, he’s, like, socially responsible.”
    I rolled my eyes. “And tonight would be a shining example of his social responsibility?”
    â€œHe doesn’t drink.”
    â€œYeah, but you do,” Laurence quietly grunted, then immediately realized the gravity of his misstep in the loyalty department. Unfortunately for Molly, this time his mumble was articulate enough for me to decipher. While whistle-blowers are often regarded as heroes, the kid would not be someone I’d want on my side if cracking under torture was ever going to become a factor. It wouldn’t surprise me if Molly broke up with him over this transgression.
    â€œExcuse us, please, while I speak to my daughter,” I said to the boy, then pulled Molly toward me so we were nose-to-nose. “What were you drinking tonight and how many have you had?”
    â€œGod, Ma!” she whined. “I’m fine.”
    â€œNo. No, you’re not. And I’m not just talking about underage drinking. I’m talking about lying to me. You didn’t tell me where you were really going tonight—”
    â€œDid you really expect me to? Mom, sometimes I think you are totally—”
    â€œYou didn’t tell me that you actually went out with a guy.”
    â€œSo now I can’t date?”
    â€œOf course you can date. Don’t put words in my mouth. Dating at sixteen is fine. Speaking of which, how long have you been dating Laurence and why did you feel you couldn’t tell me?”
    â€œSince March and it’s none of your business.”
    â€œAs long as you live under my roof, eat my food, can’t afford to pay your own tuition, and are below the age of eighteen, I’m going to have to disagree with you on that point.” With Molly, no matter what she’s into, if you need to ask how deeply involved in it she is, it’s always safe to assume that the answer is “very.” She’s been pushing the envelope since she pushed her way into the world. I wasn’t even about to ask the Sex Question as far as it concerned Laurence. Not in the middle of a nightclub, certainly. So I bit my tongue and chose a less inflammatory query instead. “So, why, Molly, as long as you were somehow managing to sneak into nightclubs with your boyfriend—which is another issue that I’ll get to in a moment—did you choose to come to Sappho, since, it appeared to me, from your performance on the dance floor, that Laurence is a heterosexual male.” I regarded Laurence’s almost pretty, clean-shaven face. “And tonight he’s masquerading as a