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from Bananarama, and my mom’s Volkswagen—aka the Green Hornet—is parked outside.
    Bob’s crush on my mother is so obvious, it’s painful to behold. Give it up , I want to tell him. It’s never going to happen . Instead I nod and say, “Yeah. She’s working today.”
    Of course, I can’t blame Bob for feeling the way he feels. He isn’t the first, and he certainly won’t be the last to fall under the Kate Gardner spell. In eighth grade, my earth science teacher, Mr. Bond, could barely get the words out around her at Parents’ Night. He kept saying the same thing: “Y-You’re . . . J-Josie’s mother?” Then there was the cable guy, Russell, who after he installed our modem made about five hundred excuses to drop by and see how things were “working out.” There’s Len from the post office. And Kara Ballensweig’s dad, who flirts with my mom during soccer games, even with Kara’s mother sitting right there. I could go on and on. But now, as I’m beginning to fill the napkin dispenser, Bob is snapping his fingers in my face.
    “You have a customer.” Snap, snap . His hands are milky white and pudgy at the knuckles, like a toddler’s. “Customers first . Napkins after . OK?”
    “OK,” I say. Bob is such a stress ball. It can’t be healthy. I want to tell him to close his eyes and breathe, picture a babbling brook. Instead, I assume the ice-cream position. “Welcome to Bananarama! Forty-one Flavors of Fun!”
    I know. The first time I said those words I felt like a moron. But I’m used to it now.
    “What do you think, monkeys?” It’s a woman with frizzy red hair, about my mom’s age, and two freckly boys in matching dump-truck shirts. “Pistachio? Butter pecan? Peach?”
    They take about a year to decide, which doesn’t surprise me. Forty-one is too many choices for a kid.
    Finally, the mother orders—two chocolate cones, waffle variety, with sprinkles, rainbow for Joel and, uh—“Do you want sprinkles, Matt? . . . Chocolate or rainbow? . . . OK, Matt wants rainbow too.”
    Matt .
    Well, now my cheeks are burning and I’m glad to have an excuse to stick my head in the freezer.
    I am so not going to think about Matt Rigby right now. In fact, I’m not going to think about him for the rest of the day. Because, let me tell you, I have many more worthwhile things to think about.

Three
    LIV’S DADS INVITE us for Sunday dinner. It’s a two-part celebration: me, Liv, and Wyatt going back to school and Dodd’s promotion at work. Now instead of being Trillium Salon and Day Spa’s assistant stylist, he’s the expert colorist. This may not sound like a big deal, but Pops couldn’t be prouder. There’s shrimp on the grill, champagne, and a huge cake in the shape of a woman’s head, with yellow Twizzlers for hair.
    Liv made up business cards on her computer: Todd Longo, Colorist to the Stars . Todd is his real name. When Liv was little she couldn’t pronounce her T’s, and “Dodd” just stuck.
    Now, about fifteen minutes into dinner, Pops starts telling the story of how he and Dodd met.
    “So he took one look at me and said, ‘Sweet Christ, what are we going to do with all that hair ?’ ”
    Even though she’s heard the story a million times, my mom throws back her head and laughs. I do too. Because the thing is, Pops does have crazy hair—thick and dark and curly. When it grows out, it becomes a Jackson Five fro, which is pretty funny when you think about where he works: Sterling, Weiss & Lowe, this ultraconservative law firm in Worcester. Pops is Gregory James Weiss—the “Weiss” in Sterling, Weiss & Lowe . He wears custom-made suits to work every day.
    Dodd wears jeans.
    Pops is also a sports fanatic, whereas Dodd couldn’t hit a baseball if his life depended on it. Pops drinks scotch; Dodd drinks Fresca. Basically, if you didn’t know how perfect they were together, you’d take one look at them and think, Huh? But Pops and Dodd are, bar none, the happiest couple I