would occasionally come to Jo’s tennis matches—probably because I have to wear a skirt to play, Jo thought—but had skipped every volleyball and basketball game, even the ones on Mondays and Tuesdays that she theoretically could have attended. Jo suspected her mother hated the sight of her racing up and down the court, or crouching in front of the net; that she hated the knee pads and the mouthguards, the uniforms that left her sweaty limbs bare. It’s so rough, Sarah had said once, shuddering, after enduring the sight of Jo exchanging hand-slaps with her teammates after they’d won a tough match.
“So thank you,” Sarah said. Her eyes seemed to glitter. “Thank you both.”
“You’re welcome,” Jo said, and Bethie added, “There’s nothing you need to thank us for.”
“No. I’m grateful. You did a wonderful job.”
Jo thought of the Jell-O and shuddered, wondering if her mother would notice if she just never brought it to the table.
Mr. Simoneaux and Mr. Stein went to the kitchen to carve the turkey. “Jo, get the cranberry sauce,” said Bethie. Up close, Jo could see a suck mark on the side of her sister’s neck. Sarah passed around the side dishes, the green beans and the rolls, the mashed potatoes and the sweet potatoes that Bethie had baked and run through a ricer with heavy cream, nutmeg, and real butter and a pinch of orange rind before spooning them into a baking dish and decorating the top with an intricate, spiraling pattern made of bits of glazed pecans and miniature marshmallows. That was Bethie, Jo thought. Everything she touched came out perfectly.
Jo helped herself to stuffing, reached for a drumstick, saw her mother’s face, and took a slice of white meat instead.
“Jo,” Sarah said brightly, “don’t forget your Jell-O!”
“The famous Jell-O!” said Henry Sheshevsky as he clapped his hands.
Slowly, Jo got to her feet, sending up a silent prayer to whatever god guarded careless teenage lesbian sex fiends. She carried the Bundt pan to the table and turned it upside down on a clean plate. She tapped it gently. Nothing happened. Feeling everyone’s eyes on her, Jo gave the pan a little shake. Still nothing. Jo raised the pan, shaking harder. There was a horrible slooping sound, and a flood of half-liquefied Jell-O and chunks of fruit poured out of the mold and flooded the plate, pouring onto the white tablecloth, and directly into Mrs. Stein’s lap.
Mrs. Stein shrieked and shoved her chair back, out of the path of the deluge. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!” Jo said, as she tried to scoop up as much of the fruit and solid Jell-O as she could, but it was clear that Mrs. Stein’s dress was ruined, and the tablecloth, and maybe the carpeting, too. She bent to shove napkins over the worst of the damage while Bethie ran to the kitchen for seltzer water and baking soda and paper towels. At the head of the table, Jo heard her mother pull in a slow breath and let it hiss out of her nostrils. Jo bent back down, scooping up the fruit, scrubbing at the stains, listening to her mother breathing, postponing the inevitable as long as she could, until finally she straightened up so that Sarah could see her. “I think this is as good as it’s going to get right now.”
Her mother said nothing.
“I can try putting vinegar on the stains . . .” Jo’s voice trailed off. Sarah still did not speak.
“I’m so sorry,” Jo said. “I don’t know what happened!” She felt laughter, like poison gas, bubbling up in her chest—had it been just a few hours ago, at Lynnette’s, where she’d thought things couldn’t get worse?—and she had to bite her lip to keep it inside.
“Not to worry,” said Henry Sheshevsky. He patted Jo’s back. “It’s a little spill, not the end of the world!”
Sarah ignored him and kept her eyes on her daughter. “You have to make a real effort to ruin Jell-O, so maybe I should be impressed that you found a way,” Sarah said. Her voice was calm. “What is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know,” Jo said. She was telling the truth. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, or why she was different, or how to make it right. “I really don’t.”
“Well, whatever it is, you’d better fix it. Because, you have my word, no man is going to want a wife who can’t even manage Jell-O.” She sighed, the weary exhalation of a woman who