Tom Perrotta - Nine Inches

“What?”

“Dana said you were okay with it, but I wanted to double-check.”

“She said I was okay with it?”

“More or less. She said you wouldn’t care.”

“Of course, I care.” Liz was glad Jodie couldn’t see the color spreading across her cheeks. “They’re just so young to be—”

“I know.” Jodie’s voice was dreamy and forgiving. “But they love each other. And they seem really responsible. To tell you the truth, Liz, I think they’ve been sneaking around for a while now, playing musical beds in the middle of the night. At least this way it’s out in the open. I just don’t want them to think there’s anything to be ashamed of. As long as you’re all right with it.”

Liz knew the moment had arrived to state her objections. The problem was, she wasn’t quite sure what she was objecting to. She’d slept with college boyfriends when she was just a little older than Dana, guys she’d known for a lot less time than Dana had known Chris, guys who didn’t even pretend to be nice to her, let alone love her. And besides, she knew it wasn’t Dana’s age or the sex itself that bothered her. It was more that she resented her daughter for getting everything all at once, for being so pretty and happy and lucky, skiing all day and then slipping under the warm covers with her ridiculously cute, totally adoring boyfriend. But how could you even begin to talk about that?

“Liz? Are you there?”

“No, you’re right, Jodie. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just as long as they’re being careful.”

“That’s exactly what I told them.”

At the time, Liz had consoled herself with the knowledge that winter was almost over, that there wouldn’t be many more Vermont getaways before the snow melted and club soccer started up. Pretty soon everything would be back to normal.

The trouble was, Dana and Chris liked sleeping together, and it didn’t make sense to them that they could share a bed in Vermont, but not in Gifford. Before long, Dana was heading out on Friday night and not coming home until Sunday afternoon. Liz made a belated effort to put a stop to the sleepovers, telling her daughter that she missed her and needed to spend time with her on the weekends, but the only result of this intervention was that the lovebirds started switching off, spending one night with Chris’s parents, and the next with Liz, like newlyweds trying to keep both sets of in-laws happy.

It was actually kind of fun to have them around. Sometimes the three of them would watch a movie together or play Scrabble or go out for ice cream; Dana and Chris were less self-centered, a lot more available to Liz, now that they knew they’d have all the alone time they wanted once they went to bed. The only real awkwardness came after lights out, when Liz had nothing to do but lie awake and listen for the telltale sounds of passion coming from down the hall, wondering how two teenagers managed to be so utterly silent, making it seem like the only sex in the house was taking place inside her own muddled, dirty-minded head.

THE CHILLING Station was a smart concept, a makeshift living-room/rest area that glowed like a mirage at the end of a deserted corridor, a cozy, lamplit oasis. It was equipped with a motley array of furniture — couches and chairs, two army cots, even a freestanding hammock — along with a stack of board games and some rickety card tables to play them on. The only thing missing was the kids.

“It’s been dead,” grumbled Craig Waters, the volunteer on the eight-to-midnight shift. He’d been napping on the recliner when Liz and Sally arrived and still looked a little out of it. “There were a couple of chess nerds early on, but nothing for the past two hours.”

“It’ll pick up,” Sally said. “The kids get pretty tired around four in the morning.”

Craig pondered Liz with groggy curiosity. “How late are you staying?”

“Till the bitter end,” she told him. “Six A.M.”

“Wow.” He yawned. “Good for you.”

And then they were gone, leaving Liz alone among the mismatched furniture, with nothing to do except kick herself for not having brought something to read. It was a ridiculous oversight, considering that it was her policy never to leave home without a book, a soccer mom’s best friend when practice ran late. But she happened to be reading The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, and the library hardcover was massive, not the sort of volume you could easily slip into your purse on the way to a graduation party. So she’d left it on her bedside table, where it was doing no one any good.

She could hear music and voices from the other end of the building, the sound of young people having fun, and it struck her almost like a taunt, a reminder of everything she was missing, not just tonight but every night, the void that had become her life. She felt a minor panic attack coming on — or maybe just an urgent need for fresh air and human contact — and wondered what would happen if she marched back to the sign-in table and demanded a better assignment, something that would at least allow her to join the party, to interact with the kids and the other volunteers. The worst they could do was tell her no.

Oh, come on, she scolded herself. Don’t be such a baby. It’s not even twelve-thirty.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? She still had five and a half hours to go. Five and a half hours. A whole endless night. Just the thought of it was exhausting. She found herself sneaking glances at the beige velour recliner that had been Craig’s undoing, imagining how sweet it would feel to crank back the handle and put her feet up. But there was no way she was going to allow herself to fall asleep in public, to be that vulnerable in front of people she didn’t know, especially teenagers.

Hoping to clear her head, she slipped into the narrow space between the hammock and the fire doors and did a few yoga stretches. She’d been trying to find a regular class for a while now, but somehow the timing was never convenient, or she didn’t like the teacher, or the other students were show-offs. It was too bad, because yoga never failed to cheer her up. She could feel the magic working right away — her muscles warming and loosening, the tension dissolving in waves, her mind emptying itself of negative thoughts — despite the cramped space, the lack of a mat, and jeans that hadn’t been designed for sun salutations.

It’s just one night, she reminded herself. It’s going to be fine.

Arching into upward dog, she was startled by the sound of soft voices and muffled laughter. It was coming from right in front of her.

“Hello?” she called out as the fire door creaked open. “Excuse me?”

The intruders froze in the doorway as Liz scrambled to her feet. They were a couple, a tall boy in a WESLEYAN LACROSSE shirt and a short, plump girl with multiple piercings and too much makeup.

“Where did you come from?” Liz demanded. She’d been told that the fire doors were off-limits, except in case of emergency. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

The boy let go of his girlfriend’s hand. He was clean-cut and preppy, with the bland good looks that were his Gifford birthright. She was more of a townie, in skimpy denim shorts that did her thighs no favors, and an orange V-neck tee that was two sizes too small.

“Mr. Waters told us it was okay,” the boy explained after a moment. He looked Liz straight in the eye, his voice calm and confident. “Jenna needed her medication.”

The girl giggled a little too loudly. She had dirt on her knees and a big pink blotch spreading across her chest.

“I have asthma,” she said. Something about the way she pronounced her ailment made Liz realize she’d been drinking. “Hadda go home for my inhaler.”