Page 9

9 | Kiss Kiss KAITLIN

Sasha is on time for pick-up today. Bart high-fives his teacher to be dismissed, then grabs his mother’s hand, as they hurry around the corner to where Nettie waits with her teacher too.

Once they grab her and all reach the corner, having maneuvered their way through the eye of the pick-up storm, they pause to regroup. Sasha slings Bart’s dinosaur backpack over her shoulder, so he is freewheeling.

Nettie is upset again.

I am standing a few feet away, waiting for my daughter’s class to be dismissed, under a dogwood with leaves that have yet to change. Like my kid’s teacher, this tree is always running behind.

I pretend to keep scrolling on my phone, through pictures of a former coworker-cum-real-estate influencer—but I’m watching.

Early on, Sasha and I used to chat at pick-up and at school events in the yard occasionally, as old acquaintances. In addition to the usual mom small talk—about dance classes, school lunches, sleep deprivation—we’d swap updates on high school friends with whom we’d kept in touch. We’d make eye contact or smile knowingly when some nineties song blared from the subpar speakers. Any tension about the abrupt ending to our childhood friendship was long buried below pleasantries.

Once, we—well, I really—organized a playdate after school at the playground for our two girls. But our kids never really gelled. Her Nettie almost seemed to have been born a thirty-five-year-old adult or at least a teenager, disinterested in the imaginary play and jungle gym climbing Ruby and the other kids preferred.

When we were still teens ourselves, for years after we stopped hanging out, I would see Sasha around. Even then, I got used to acting like we were fine—like I was fine. But, the truth is, I never got good at connecting with the aggressively chill Upper West Side kids like she did. And I still blamed her for abandoning me. I stuttered as I searched for replies to boys who told me my “kicks” were “dope” and girls who asked what music I liked. I don’t know. Everything?

One night, near the end of tenth grade, I ran into Sasha. In a cropped top and baggy jeans, she was lounging on her elbows against the steps of someone else’s swanky building, surrounded by a crew of friends—some of whom I knew too. They were always so dedicated to her. In my life, I never inspire that kind of loyalty—unless I demand it.

She smiled warm and big when she spotted me, chatted for a bit while most of the others ignored me. Then, she went back to laughing carelessly, shooting the boys who liked her playful dirty looks as they paced the sidewalk, battered skateboards and blunts in their hands. Soon enough, she slung her mini backpack across her shoulders and kissed each and every person on the cheek goodbye—even me—as they booed her for leaving.

In those years, when we happened to find ourselves in the same place, it seemed to me she was always going. Always the first to say goodbye. Always leaving them wanting more.

The hangout continued without Sasha that night, until everyone was gone, including me. But something had gone missing after she left. A little luster worn away.

Even as an adult, she seems to effervesce in and out of school events. One minute she’s there; the next she’s gone. At the winter carnival one year, maybe when the girls were in first grade, we were chatting by the painted rock garden while the kids played makeshift carnival games. Sasha had never been much into volunteering, but she and Celeste had taken the lead on decorating. I had to admit the schoolyard looked magical—twinkle lights, shimmering white streamers, metallic glitter and run-of-the-mill holiday tinsel somehow metamorphosed into an enchanting wonderland. Of course, Celeste is a professional, so she had a leg up. Sasha herself was not dressed up in any festive way, just bundled in neutral woolens, and I felt dumb in my reindeer headband and glitter eyeshadow, which I’d applied based on a TikTok trend and thought looked cute in the mirror at home.

“Have you ever run into Hugo?” I dropped, in context. I’d been dying to ask for months, playing the long game, but it was impossible for me to hold her attention for any extended period.

“Hugo?” she said, scrunching her nose. “Which Hugo?”

“You know,” I said, forcing a smile. “Hugo Reyes! How many Hugos do you know? And, by know, I mean…” I raised my eyebrows suggestively.

She looked genuinely confused. I felt my frustration ratchet up. I was already in a bad mood. My husband had just called about extending his business trip and I had hit a solo-parenting wall.

“I think I remember a Hugo,” she said. “Was he the tall one with dreads who always wore the Saints Starter jacket?”

“No, no. Medium height. Skateboarder. Shaved head.”

Had she really forgotten? ’Cause I hadn’t.

“Ohhh.” She nods. “Okay. I think I know who you mean.”

I could tell she was only humoring me. Maybe, it occurred to me, she was always humoring me.

“You guys dated,” I said, impatience creeping into my voice.

“My God. We probably did. My memory is the worst for that time!” Sasha smiled. “Maybe it was all the weed and malt liquor. Or maybe it was Rebecca who went out with him, not me?”

Rebecca. One of her mean-girl best friends.

“No!” I insisted. “You must remember! It was spring of junior year. Right after you broke up with Josh.”

“Wow. I’m surprised you remember that.”

Of course I remembered. She and Josh had sparkled. We all knew he cheated on her, but everyone envied her anyway. He was that adorable. We were equal parts gleeful and disappointed when they ended. That put her on the market. That led her to Hugo.

“I saw you guys together—you and Hugo—at a party at Crane Club,” I said.

I saw them together all right. His tongue deep down her throat; their bodies pressed together against the quilted wall, illuminated intermittently by strobes. Her skimpy cropped top, miniskirt and clunky Doc Martens. His Champion sweatshirt pushed up above low-slung jeans, revealing the waistband of his boxers and her hand resting against the shadowy divots below his six pack.

The image was burned on my brain.

“Oh, right,” she said. “Crane Club. That’s a blast from the past.”

I could tell I was making her uncomfortable, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“You really don’t remember? Like, at all?”

“No, I think I do, kind of,” she said, pulling her hat down on her head to protect against the cold. The sun was going down, a final curtain call on warmth for the day. “I was pretty sad after Josh. There were some rebounds. Probably at Crane Club.” Sasha shivered. “I should go make sure Nettie is doing okay.”

“Right,” I said. I couldn’t bring myself to smile.

With a wave, she walked away in search of anyone and anywhere else. She did it again. Receded. Left us— me —wanting more.

That might have been our last substantial conversation.

And, standing there, alone, for a moment I returned to the body of a fourteen-year-old me, loitering at the edge of a circle surrounding her.

I returned to the body of a fifteen-year-old me, saying hi to Sasha under the nasty gaze of that Rebecca girl.

I returned to the body of a sixteen-year-old me. Mary J. Blige belting “Real Love” through the speakers with too much bass. Standing alone in a frenetic club, jostled by my drunk and drugged underage peers. Reeling from the gut punch of seeing the boy who just dumped me, the boy I believed I loved, making out with the girl who had also dumped me and who rarely gave me the time of day.

“Disaster!” I heard someone exclaim.

I looked up. Lisa was standing next to me in a Santa hat. Like me, she had dressed up on theme for the fair. “We’ve run out of chocolate elves!”

I was shot back into reality. I am an adult woman. In a schoolyard. At my daughter’s school. And we needed more chocolate elves.

I focused my attention back where it thrives: on my daughter.

“I know what to do,” I said. Lisa followed at my heels.

“There’s nothing I can do,” I hear Sasha saying now, as Nettie hangs her head, her shoulders slumping. “Drama is full. I’m sorry. I tried. But I’m looking into alternatives.”

This is getting good. I put my phone in my pocket.

I see Sasha see me, then pretend she doesn’t.

“Whatever.” Nettie turns and begins trudging in the direction of their apartment.

Bart looks up at his mother. “Nettie is walking without us.”

Sasha nods. “I see that.”

“Why is she doing that?”

“I think she’s angry.”

He pauses to watch. “I think she’s sad.”

Sasha closes her eyes tight for an almost imperceptible moment. I know that look. She is holding back tears.

Don’t cry, Sasha .

“Let’s catch up!” shouts Bart, running ahead. And the spell is broken.