Split Just Right by Adele Griffin Read Free Book Online Page B

him with his mom at Strawbridge’s. In that goofy pink—”
    “I know, you’ve already said, that pink golf sweater. But I mean, Ty really plays golf? It’s not like he’s wearing it for, like, modeling purposes? His family owns a place in West Palm, and he gets special golf lessons from the pros and stuff.”
    “Honestly, though. Do you really see me hanging out with a guy who wears a pink golf sweater?” But all this talking about Ty catches a little thrill in different parts of me, in my fingertips and behind my neck and low in my spine.
    I’ve had a thing for Ty since fourth grade, when he came to the annual Rye/Bradshaw Switchover Day and I was assigned as his Bradshaw Buddy. He had soft yellow hair and soft manners and soft little fingernails rounded into china-doll half-moons, so much nicer than my inky, raggedy ones. Then a couple years later, his parents rented a house in Nantucket near Portia’s parents’ house, and we all spent the summer playing tennis and traveling in packs with other local kids to the only movie theater in town. Later, in seventh grade, Ty and I danced every dance at the annual end-of-the-year Rye/Bradshaw Middle School Mixer.
    It doesn’t seem like a lot, but when you go to a school that’s all girls or all guys, even the smallest encounters count way more than if you saw that person at school every day.
    “There’s like a ten percent chance he’s coming to our basketball game tomorrow. Jess told me. You could ask him then?”
    “I’d rather call than do it in person. You can’t hang up if you’re getting rejected face-to-face.”
    “Stop, you’re so insecure. If you don’t hurry up and invite him, someone else will, or he’ll be going to the civic center for that boring Bulls game.”
    “Bulls games are so not boring,” I snap. Sometimes Portia gets too girlish, and I hate being called insecure. “I’d majorly go see the Bulk over this dumb dance if I had the chance.”
    “Yuck, how can you even—”
    “Hey, I just remembered something,” I interrupt. Arguing with Portia about basketball isn’t worth the time it takes. I lift myself off Portia’s melon-ruffled bed and sit at her dressing table, uncapping one of her dozens of lip liners. I carefully start outlining my mouth. “You said earlier you had important news.”
    “I did?” Portia flips through a magazine. “Oh please, oh puh-leez let me lose at least ten pounds by next Saturday to fit into my Vera Wang.”
    “Yeah, you did. Remember? On the answering machine.”
    I can see Portia reflected in the mirror. She’s pushed in and is kneading her lips over her braces, scraping the soft skin of her mouth over the metal. It hurts, she told me, but she does it to put more poutiness in her lips.
    “Stop doing that thing with your mouth, okay, and just tell me.”
    “What thing?” She stops doing it, though, and flips her hair into her face. It splashes heavily over her eyes and she drags her fingers through it, flipping it first to one side, then the other. Gold and honey brown streaks catch the lamplight and swirl together like a shampoo ad. Portia’s hair practically has its own personality
    “Come on.” I deadeye her and she pulls up to sit on her knees, flipping the magazine to the side.
    “Okay, it’s about your mom.”
    “My mom?”
    “See, I saw her … last night? At the Greenhouse? I was out to dinner with Mom and Dad. Danny, I had no idea.”
    I knew it. Mom went on a secret date with Mr. Sallese. He’d been just a bit too friendly with her in the faculty lounge. The Greenhouse is a pretty popular bar and grill restaurant; it’s where Bradshaw girls throw their sweet sixteen parties and where the senior class dinner usually is held. Mom had been sort of mysterious last night about what she was doing. She told me she had rehearsal every night this week, but thinking back on it, rehearsal every night seems like an intense schedule, even for a last-minute Rosalind/Celia switch.
    But Mr.