Page 84 of Intermission

Spring cleaning has always been my mom’s post-tax-season project. Usually, we all steer clear of her single-minded drive toward restoring order and spotless dignity to our home—which wasn’t messy to start with. This year, however, spring cleaning has become a mother-daughter activity, taking hours after school most days and nearly every waking hour of my weekends.

It’s hard, but I help without complaint. I even volunteer for some of the worst jobs, hoping my attitude and maturity will be noticed... and that it will soften Mom’s heart toward me and, eventually, Noah. After three weeks of being a cheerful, obedient, and dutiful daughter, who only communicates with my friend Noah by electronic means—I still can barely believe she relented and allowed even that—I finally build up the nerve to broach the subject one Saturday.

“You’ve probably figured out that Noah and I decided we should just be friends.”

Of the seemingly thousands of spring cleaning projects Mom is checking off a multi-page spreadsheet, today finds us cleaning and alphabetizing the bookshelves in Dad’s study.

“You know,” I continue when she doesn’t look up, keeping my tone casual, “nothing romantic or anything. Just friends.”

My mom actually snorts. “Right.”

“No, seriously. We agreed that we’re not going to hold hands, orkiss, or anything like that. We just want to be able to hang out. To talk. To sing together. Really. Total friendzone.”

“But you don’t want to be in the friendzone, as you say, with Noah Spencer.” Something just shy of tenderness floats across the study on Mom’s voice when she chuckles. “I’m not quite so old that I don’t remember what it was like to be a teenager. Having a crush on a boy can seem pretty serious at your age. And this Noah fellow? Well, he’s a looker.”

“True.” I nod. “But I have lots of guy friends who are cute.”

“Noah is more mature than the boys your age. That ups his attractiveness, I’d wager. And that’s why I don’t want you dating him.” The tenderness is gone, but there is no animosity in Mom’s voice.

If she can stay neutral, so can I.

“I know. I understand that. Noah does, too. That’s why we decided to just be friends.” I grab a book from the pile on the floor, look at the spine, and slide it into position on a freshly dusted shelf. “Besides, he’s leaving for London in just a few—”

“He really is leaving, then?” Mom brightens. “When?”

“In August. August tenth, I think.” I know. That date was seared into my brain the first time I heard it. It still stings.

“Oh. Not until the end of the summer, then.”

“Right. People who date in high school usually break up when one of them goes off to college, anyway, so it would be silly to try to keep a romantic relationship going with an ocean between us for three years. Being friends makes more sense.”

Sillyisn’t exactly the word Noah and I had used in our discussions of long-distance relationships. The wordpainfulwas mentioned.Excruciating, a time or two. Butsillyis a word Mom might better appreciate.

“Three years, huh? Atdramaschool?”

“Yes. The London Academy of Musical Theatre.”

“Well!” Mom twirls her dust rag in the air. “La-dee-dah.”

Inwardly, I bristle. Outwardly, I pretend her antics are amusing. “As friends, we can still keep in touch by chatting online and stuff.” I pick up another book. “No pressure. And if we want to date other people, no problem. Because we’re just friends.”

My heart lurches over the idea of all the older, more sophisticated girls Noah will meet in London, girls whose parents are more open-minded, maybe evensupportiveof his theatre aspirations.

“But even with all the technology at our disposal,” I continue, swallowing down everything in me that wants to contradict these facts with my hope, “there are time zones to navigate, and he’ll be making new friends in London.” I shrug, but the weight of my own words is like lead on my shoulders. “Once he’s gone, the reality is that we—” I gulp, glad my back is to her as I dust this shelf a second time. “We probably won’t talk much.”

“I don’t know, Faith.” Mom sighs. “He seems too old to even be your friend. It’s... well, I don’t know. It’s a little weird, isn’t it?”

No.“Maybe.”No, no, aaaannnd no.“But we’re already friends. Real life isn’t like the internet, where you can just ‘unfriend’ someone and that’s that.” I bite my tongue to keep from arguing the age issue. Again. “And the romance part ended weeks ago.Weeks.You’ve seen my texts.” Every night, the minute she gets home from work, I have to hand her my phone. “You’ve read my emails. We’re friends. The romance part is... done.”

“I have every right to read your texts and emails. I’m your mother.”

“I’m not saying that you don’t.” I work to keep my voice even. “Actually, I’m glad you’ve read them, because it proves to you that Noah and I can just be friends.”

“You’ve shown a remarkable sense of restraint these past few weeks, Faith. You may not think I’ve noticed, but I have. You’ve been helpful around the house without complaint. And I’ve seen in your eyes how you’ve battled to keep your mouth shut when you’ve wanted to argue.”

A small noise squeaks in my throat, but I don’t say a word.

Mom holds up her hand. “I know that sounds like a criticism, but it’s a compliment. I’m saying you’ve shown me some maturity.”