moisturizer, a soft roll of her belly visible through her nightshirt without her Spanx. And Kearson, with wet hair smelling of her apple detangler spray, retainer slid in, dots of Oxy on her problem areas.
Their discussions stretched hours past Kearson’s bedtime. Her mother had gone through plenty the past few years, divorcing Kearson’s stepdad, switching Realtor companies, and now, the beginnings of menopause.
She didn’t get into the nitty-gritty details with Kearson, but instead posed plenty of abstract questions. Would she find love again? If she did, should she even think about getting married for a third time? Would she earn Top Producer Midsize Market again this year? Or would it be taken by some younger, prettier real estate agent who was better at social media?
“I keep tweezers in my purse,” she once confessed. “I’m growing a beard one wiry chin hair at a time.”
“Mom! Stop! You’re beautiful!”
Growing up, Kearson was always impressed by her mother’s flawless appearance. Stylish clothes. A full face of makeup, a natural yet elevated look. Her whitened smile swung from wooden FOR SALE signs hammered into front lawns across West Essex. She was ambitious as hell, held herself to the highest expectations. Her mother worked hard and she loved working hard. It was a beautiful thing for a daughter to watch.
And yet there was something alluring about seeing her mother, a confident, successful woman, laying bare her insecurities in the middle of the night. It made Kearson respect her even more. Her friends talked ruthlessly about their moms, outdoing each other with the goriest details observed behind closed doors, colonoscopy prep, cellulite, varicose veins, hot flashes. Kearson would keep her mother’s secrets forever.
Kearson had her own worries, of course. Boys she liked, pressures at school, drama with the JV team. Trivial stuff, really. But her mother treated Kearson’s every concern with reverence. She could take a single fear or dream of Kearson’s and coax out others Kearson didn’t know were tethered to it, gently, subtly, deftly unspooling her.
Kearson loved the dizzy head rush of oversharing, never gave a thought to slowing things down, keeping some parts of her life private. Stupidly, she put the same blind faith in her friends on JV, aligning herself with Marissa and Quinn, trusting them despite already knowing the kind of girls they were. It barely stung when those two stabbed her in the back. But Kearson never thought her mother would betray her. That wound will never, ever heal.
“It’s just up here,” Kearson says. “On the left.”
For the two games Kearson had played varsity last season, she was a passenger in the car that also dropped Mel off. Even still, it would be easy to pick out Mel’s house from the other stately colonials on the block. Two clusters of navy blue and white helium balloons float cheerily above the pom-pom topiaries that flank the arched black front door. The house is huge, the lawn perfectly landscaped, with lemon-leaf hedges, a gardenia tree, and a curving redbrick walkway. Mel’s Mini Cooper shares the driveway with Ali’s Jeep. Coach’s SUV is parked at the bottom, blocking both cars in.
Her mother pulls up right alongside it.
Kearson tightens at the thought of Coach and her mother having to make polite small talk. Kearson knows Coach would be cordial and respectful, because that’s the way teachers have to deal with even the most overbearing parents. But how would her mother behave? What she might say to him?
At the end of last season, in a meeting with both Coach and the athletic director to discuss a complaint her mother had made regarding Kearson being subbed out of the last regular-season game, Kearson had tried to be as helpful as possible, sharing whatever tidbits she could think of to contextualize her mother’s recent erratic behavior—the full-blown menopause of course, but also her two divorces, the antidepressants, at least a half bottle of white wine each night.
It seems her mother hasn’t decided how to play the situation. She tentatively peers inside Coach’s SUV, her bottom lip caught under her teeth, and then appears relieved he’s not inside it.
No surprise. Coach is never late to anything Wildcat related.
Stepping out of the car, Kearson pauses to smooth the front of her chambray jumper and makes sure the bow sash is tied pertly at her hip. From the trunk, Kearson loads up her arms with her gear for tomorrow’s scrimmage; a tote with her sleepover clothes, a bathing suit, and a towel; and a rolled-up sleeping bag and pillow. Kearson