Page 22 of Kitty Season
“The piercing’s fine, Mom. It’s nothing.”
“Troye Harold Becker.” Oh shit. She full-named me. Every kid gets this, but when the best parts of your life have been spent with free-loving, tree-hugging hippy types, traditional parenting methods feel fucking terrifying. “I have cared for you when you were hungover, nursed you back to health from every childhood disease known to humanity, and cried alongside you when you got your place at BU.” Dagger, meet heart. “I know you like I know my way around your mom’s?—”
“NOPE! DO NOT FINISH THAT THOUGHT!”
The sound of their joint laughter slightly loosens the knot that my stomach has been in since I was summoned to Coach’s office. “Honestly, Troye. How did we raise such a prude?” That’s Delphi. My other mom. The self-appointed ‘cool one’. “Now, back to your mom’s question. We know you. Tell. Us. What. Is. Wrong.”
Many a lie has slithered its way from my mouth over the years, but very few, if any, have been directed to these two. I don’t want to start now. But I also don’t want to let them down.They cried alongside me when I got my place at BU.
How do I tell them I’ve blown it?
“Ahh, I made a bad play last night, and a guy, Brady, got a pretty decent concussion. Guess I feel a bit guilty.” Moms mutter to themselves like they always do, one unable to settle on a decision without the other. It‘s Delphi that speaks first. Her soothing, raspy tone, a much needed tonic.
“You have a heart of gold, Troye. Even if your temper is a little short at times on the ice. I can’t imagine you set out to hurt this boy, did you?”
“No. I was … Um.” Pausing, I rub my hand down my face, waiting for the right answer to come to me. “I was trying to help him, but kinda did it the wrong way.”
“Like the time you decided to help us make apple jelly by smashing a half day’s pick with your hockey stick?”
“Kinda. Yeah.”
“Then I think what you’re feeling shows that you are a good and honest person.” Fuck me I’m going to hell. “Who deeply cares for others. Not feeling any remorse would be more of a concern.”
“And do remember, son,” adds Fifi. “Hockey is like a romantic relationship. People get hurt all the time, but we stillloveto play the game.”
“Noah, your little D is being a massive pain in my A. We just got back from the old apartment after hours of packing, lugging boxes down three hundred flights of stairs?—”
“Three, Quinn. Three flights of stairs,” Lotte rudely yells, trying to steal her phone from my hand.
“Because,” I overemphasize. “Someone’s afraid to use the elevator. Then we dusted and vacuumed and cleaned the walls. Now we’re home, and I’m so close to the comfort of the sofa, I can taste it. But am I resting? Are my aching feet, already weary from a four hour shift at work, nestled upon by any kind of fluffiness? No. Instead they’re facing a wall, covered in filth because she’s painting … again.”
Flicking my eyes, from what appears to be a dew drop, to Lotte is unnecessary. I can hear the slow roll of her eyes accompanying her sigh. “It’s not filth, it’s life and color and dreams and infinite possibilities.”
I gaze down to the cans filled with pink, lime green and yellow goop. “It’s paint, Lot. Mass produced, liquid chemicals in a can. Isn’t it Noah?”
“Well, I can’t hear what Lot said, but I presume it was something about paint equaling dreams or rainbows or some other fairy junk,” he replies.
Lotte scoffs and jabs the air with her brush. “Noah will agree with me, Quinn. Your problem is you lack imagination. If you put as much effort into your creative side as you have your stalking of Plum you’d be the next Frida Kahlo.”
Since all I know about Frida is that Selma Hayek played her in a movie, I let that slide and give in to Lotte’s desperate attempts to talk to her own fiancé. “Bye, Noah. See you next week.” My roomie snatches, and presses the phone to her head like it’s an iron and she’s trying to press a pleat into her skull.
By the time they share fifty goodbyes and Lotte disconnects the call, I’m overcome with jealousy. Yes, it’s petty. Yes, it’s wrong. And yes, Troyecanbe sweet and soft and cuddly, too. But he also has to catch himself each time he is, and before I can blink, that damn barbed wire guarding his heart slips right back in place.
I could tell her how lucky she is, and beg her for tips on casting such a spell over her man, but I instead choose to address her earlier inaccuracy. “Stalking is such an overrated term. I mean, take you and Noah. You accused him of stalking on several occasions when you first met, and now you’re engaged and living in a palace.”
Lotte drops the phone, and tilts her head like a wounded pup. “That was different. I was basically a tiny hermit being pursued by an extroverted giant jock. You’re mapping out the daily movements of a professor and yourfriend.” She air-quotes friend, and like everything else she’s saying, it’s highly unappreciated.
“Look. My father is a member of faculty, which means I have a by proxy duty to uphold the school’s reputation.”
“Really. And is this by proxy duty, that I’m sure is recorded on a legally binding document, why you dressed me as a bunny and yourself as a German beer wench for a party held on the grounds of our school’s arch-nemesis?”
“That was months ago, and yes, I think it’s mentioned somewhere. Besides, Troye’s place is off campus.”
“Oh, well yes. You’re right. That makes all the difference.”
Since I’m still holding my paint brush, I flick a blob of pastel rose destined to become a petal, into her hair. Of course it looks cute as fuck. “These smart-ass comebacks may have won over your man, Charlotte West, but I find them tiresome.”
“I should expect most things would after your first full day at work. How are your feet feeling?”
