by Cat Clarke
I stand, too, feeling almost shy all of a sudden. “Happy birthday,” I say.
“Don’t I get a birthday kiss?” This surprises me. Thomas isn’t normally one for PDAs. I give him a quick kiss on the lips.
“You know, Thomas, you look different somehow…more manly, I think.” Martha grabs his upper arm and squeezes it. “Nope, my mistake. Still the same old noodle arms.” For a second, I think Thomas is going to be really annoyed, even though he’s not particularly sensitive about his body, but he just laughs and says he prefers to think of them as “sinewy.”
He fiddles with the badge, and I can’t believe he’s going to wear it. He twists the pin on the back so that it’s pointing outward. Then he looks at me. “May I?”
“You may.”
The sound of the balloon popping makes everyone in the cafeteria jump and turn around to see where the noise came from. Laney Finch clutches her hand to her chest and leans on one of her friends to steady herself. One of the boys standing next to the coffee machine shouts “Dick!” in our direction, probably embarrassed because he jumped so high his head almost hit the ceiling. Thomas gives the boy a little salute; the boy responds with a raised middle finger.
I decide to give Thomas his present at lunchtime—there’s no way I can wait until tonight. We arrange to meet at a little deli around the corner from school. I arrive before him and order our panini. The guy behind the counter knows our order by heart. Thomas doesn’t like him, probably because he’s really handsome and is always very friendly to me while having a tendency to ignore Thomas.
The guy puts the food down on the table at the exact moment the door opens and Thomas walks in. “Shame…I thought I was going to have to join you.” He winks at me and stands back to let Thomas sit down. I smile politely and wonder whether it’s weird that I don’t know the deli guy’s name.
Thomas takes a huge bite of his sandwich, and the melted cheese forms oozy strings from his mouth to the panini. It makes me feel slightly nauseous, watching him. I nibble on the edge of my sandwich and try not to look. In between bites, Thomas tells me about his morning. One of his favorite things to do is to embarrass teachers by showing off his superior knowledge on certain subjects; his current number one target is his English teacher. I used to think it was funny, but today it just seems childish. I smile and laugh in all the right places, though—it is his birthday, after all. He demolishes his sandwich in record time, despite the fact that he’s hardly stopped talking since he arrived.
“Are you not eating that?” He looks at my sandwich like a hungry hyena.
I push the plate toward him. “Go for it.”
“I probably shouldn’t….I don’t want to spoil my appetite for this fancy meal tonight.” He puts his hand on his stomach, which is as smooth and flat as anyone could wish for. Little does Thomas know the most he’ll be getting to eat tonight is some chips and dip.
“That’s hours away! You should eat it.” He doesn’t take much convincing.
I take the present and card out of my bag when Thomas has finished eating. At first he says he wants to wait till tonight, that he’d rather open his present in the restaurant than here. Again it doesn’t take much to convince him. The card makes him smile. On the front, there’s a drawing of us walking hand in hand through a forest. There are wolves and monsters lurking in the shadows of the crooked trees. It took me seven attempts before I was happy with the drawing, and then I had to trace it onto the card. I’ve never gone to that much effort for anyone before.
“I didn’t know you could draw! You’re really good, you know? This is…really cool. Creepy, but cool.”
Inside the card I’ve written the kind of thing that a girlfriend writes to her boyfriend on his eighteenth birthday. Thomas leans over the table to kiss me. He calls me a dark horse.
The present is next. He tears into the wrapping paper like a kid on Christmas Day. When he sees what it is, he smiles and says “Wow!” and thanks me profusely, but I can tell something isn’t right. He says “wow” far too many times. “Wow” is not a very Thomas-like thing to say. It’s a first edition of a book by some poet I’d never heard of before I met Thomas—in mint condition even though it’s nearly forty years old. It’s the perfect gift—for Thomas, at least. If someone gave it to me, I’d probably use it to prop a door open.
Thomas leans over and kisses me again, for longer this time. “It’s perfect. Thank you,” he whispers in my ear. I wonder if maybe I was being paranoid and maybe he does love it after all. Perhaps he was so keen to show just how much he loved it that he accidentally went overboard on the enthusiasm and ended up sounding like Laney Finch. But now I feel strange and unsure, and disappointed that the moment didn’t go the way I wanted it to go. What is wrong with me?
“You’re not cutting school, are you?” Kay sips her gin and tonic, raising an eyebrow to make it abundantly clear that she wouldn’t care if I was.
“Nope, free period.”
She was waiting for me this time. Same spot on the sofa, same drink in front of her. For some reason, I find myself telling her that it’s my boyfriend’s birthday today. I tell her about the poetry book and the surprise party, and the fact that Thomas’s mom seems to prefer Martha to me. Kay’s amused smile makes me stop talking. “Sorry, we should probably be talking about Laurel, shouldn’t we? Um…what else do you need to know?”
Kay switches on the recording device. “Well, why don’t we pick up where we left off? Tell me about the first time you saw Laurel again after all those years….It was in a hotel room, wasn’t it?”
I talk about what it was like seeing this young woman in front of me and trying to reconcile that with the picture of the little girl I had in my head. I talk about when Mom and Dad left us alone, and how it didn’t feel like being left alone with a stranger. I talk about how surreal it was, sitting in that suite, watching the press conference going on downstairs.
Then it’s on to Laurel’s first days back home with us. I can tell Kay is happy with how it’s going.
Kay leans back and crosses her legs. “So, Faith, it can’t all have been sweetness and light since Laurel came home….For all intents and purposes you’d lived the previous thirteen years as an only child. It can’t have been easy to have a sister thrust into your life all of a sudden.” She sees the confused look on my face and adopts a chummy voice that I find off-putting. “I know what it’s like—my sister and I used to fight all the time, especially when we were teenagers. Remind me to tell you one day about the time we both liked the same boy.” I know exactly what she’s doing. She thinks I’m stupid. She thinks she’ll get something interesting out of me if she acts like my friend. She probably doesn’t even have a sister.
I don’t know why she’s bothering. Even if she did manage to get me to say something juicy, there’s no way I’d approve it to go in the book. Maybe she’s just nosy or maybe she’s looking for a story she can sell to the newspapers on the sly. Or perhaps I’m just being paranoid, and she’s just genuinely interested and thinks that a little bit of grit would be a good addition to the story—to make it less sugary, more real.
I take a sip of my drink and shake my head. “No…it’s been wonderful. We get along so well it’s as if we’ve never been apart. Anyway, I’ve never felt like an only child. Even when Laurel wasn’t around, she was there.” I pause and wonder if what I want to say next would be going too far. Kay seems like the sort of person who can detect bullshit a mile away, unlike Cynthia Day. I decide to go for it anyway. I touch my hand to the middle of my chest and say, “She was always here.”
Kay doesn’t laugh or raise her eyebrows, and she doesn’t call me a liar. She just nods thoughtfully, then asks me another question, this time about press intrusion. It’s the perfect opportunity for me to get my revenge on Jeanette Hayes, to tell the world exactly what we think of her. But, instead, I say that we’ve been so grateful that people have respected our privacy and given us the time and space to get to know each other again.
>
Kay leans forward. “So you’re not bothered about what people are saying on Twitter?”
I shake my head. “I never go on there anymore. I’ve got better things to do.” This isn’t me. I don’t know where this stuff is coming from, but I do know one thing: Mom will be happy. It will be worth it, telling these lies and half-truths, if it makes her happy.
It would almost be funny to see the look on Kay’s face if I told her the truth—all of it. If I told her that Laurel gets away with murder—that she can wrap my parents around her little finger without even trying. I could tell her about the shoplifting, about her weird little trips off by herself, and, best of all, that she spied on me and my boyfriend having sex. Now, that would be a story people would want to hear. But it doesn’t fit with the image they have of Little Laurel Logan, so maybe they wouldn’t want to hear it after all. Maybe Laurel would call me a liar and everyone would believe her, because put us side by side, and I can’t think of a single person who would take my word over hers.
Kay asks if there’s anything else I’d like to say before we wrap up. “Anything at all?” She does a decent job of concealing her disappointment when I say I have nothing more to add.
It’s Laurel’s turn in a couple of weeks. They’ve scheduled in three whole-day sessions to start off with. “I’m a bit nervous, actually,” Kay says quietly, as if she’s letting me in on some big secret. “I’ve never worked on a project quite like this before. Nothing quite so…harrowing.”
Does she want me to comfort her, when all she has to do is listen to what Laurel went through? That’s not going to happen. I just stare at her until she starts talking again. “Well, I think we’re done. Thank you so much for your time. I’ll let you know when I have something for you to read. I’ll probably work on Laurel’s sections first, though, so it might be some time.”
That’s fine with me. I’m in no hurry to read my words filtered through another person’s brain. We say our good-byes. Unlike last time, today I’m glad it’s over. I’m glad I don’t have to talk about Laurel anymore.
I didn’t leave myself enough time to get ready. I’d wanted to wash my hair, but it takes ages to dry. I’ll just have to hope that no one notices it’s on the edge of being greasy. I always think of it as “on the turn,” the way Gran describes milk that’s a few days old.
At least I don’t need to stress about what to wear, because I already laid out my clothes this morning. Black jeans, boots, a red top. Nothing too fancy. When I go downstairs, Laurel’s watching TV. “You look nice,” she says. She couldn’t have picked a blander word, but I thank her anyway. She asks what time she should get there, and I swear I must have blocked out that she was coming to the party. I have no idea how my brain managed to do that. It’s fine, though—I won’t have to babysit her. She’ll have people hanging on her every word, as usual.
I tell her she should probably turn up around nine o’clock. She looks surprised and says, “That’s a bit late, isn’t it?”
I shake my head and say most people probably won’t be arriving until then. This is a lie, obviously. It’s not that I don’t want her there; it’s that I’d like a bit of time before she arrives and hogs all the attention.
Laurel says she’s nervous, and I tell her there’s nothing to worry about. There’s no time to give her any more reassurance than that. I can tell she has more to say, that she would like me to stay and talk for a while, but I’m going to be late as it is. “I’ll see you later. You know where you’re going, right?”
Mom’s dropping her off. She’ll be fine.
The bus arrives five minutes late, and I spend the whole journey willing it to go faster. I tell myself that I was perfectly nice to Laurel. She can stand on her own two feet now—she doesn’t need me to prop her up. Besides, the party will be pretty tame. It’s not as if it’s some raucous house party with sex and drugs and random strangers. This will be good for her.
Martha’s already there when I arrive, moving chairs around under the strict direction of Mrs. Bolt. Thomas’s dad is standing on a chair, trying to hang one end of a banner from a light fixture. It looks like he might fall and break his neck any second. That would probably ruin the mood a bit.
Mrs. Bolt spies me lurking in the doorway and calls me over. Thomas’s mom doesn’t look like the sort of person who’s spent most of her adult life in the army. I was surprised, the first time I met her. Thomas teased me about it, asking me what I’d been expecting. I didn’t answer, but the truth was I’d imagined short hair, stocky build, maybe some camouflage. I definitely wasn’t expecting her to look like she could have had a decent shot at a modeling career. Tall, very slim, long blond hair, nice clothes. At least Thomas’s dad conformed to my (admittedly ridiculous and stereotypical) expectations. He looks hard as nails.
Mrs. Bolt gives me a dry peck on the cheek and asks how I am. I mumble that I’m fine, thanks. She looks beautiful tonight. Elegant is the word. She intimidates the hell out of me; I never know what to say to her. I still get the feeling that she kind of hates me, no matter what Thomas says (that I’m completely paranoid and she actually thinks I’m lovely). Mrs. Bolt nods and shoos me away to help Martha with the chairs.
Martha has a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead from shifting all that furniture. She’s dressed even more casually than I am—faded jeans and a fitted black shirt. Martha doesn’t seem to need my help, which is good, because I got sweaty enough rushing from the bus. I look around for something else to do, but it seems like everything’s just about ready. I am officially surplus to requirements.
Thomas’s mom makes sure the wineglasses are lined up neatly on the table in the corner, then picks up one of the glasses and holds it up against the light. She looks over and sees me watching, so I go and ask if there’s anything else I can do to help. Mrs. Bolt looks around the room, and it reminds me of the Terminator, as if she has a computer in her head, analyzing every tiny detail in front of her. “No, I think we’re just about ready. Thanks for your help.” She smiles and then narrows her eyes. “You haven’t told him, have you? You haven’t ruined the surprise?”
“No!” I probably should have toned down the indignation a little bit.
She’s doing that Terminator thing again, trying to work out if I’m lying. “Good.” She turns her back on me without another word and heads over to where Thomas’s dad is testing some fairy lights he’s strung up over one of those awful stuffed reindeer heads.
There’s no doubt about it: Thomas’s mother is a straight-up bitch.
—
People start arriving, most of whom I don’t recognize. I’ve hardly met any of Thomas’s family, which is weird when you think about it, because he’s met all of mine. I sit in a corner with Martha, and we try to guess who everyone is. At last, a few people from school arrive and one of them swipes a couple of bottles of wine and some glasses from the table and brings them over to our booth. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Bolt wouldn’t be too happy about that.
Five minutes before Thomas is due at the restaurant, I go over to Mrs. Bolt—because I don’t want her coming over to us—and say that I’m going to head outside. She claps her hands together and shouts to everyone to be quiet, then tells them what to do. “Right, off you go!” she says impatiently, practically pushing me out of the room.
I stand in the doorway of the restaurant and look at the menu. I sort of wish we were going in there, spending the evening alone together. Maybe that’s exactly what we need—to do something different, something special, and reconnect after the weird couple of months we’ve had. I wonder what Mrs. Bolt would do if we just didn’t show up.
“Hey, you.” Thomas has snuck up behind me.
“Hey.” I turn to kiss him, and I’m so shocked that I can’t speak for a second. He looks good—really good. He’s slicked back his hair so I can actually see his face for a change. His clothes look brand-new—even the shoes. He looks exactly how you should look when you’re going to a fancy restaurant for dinner—he’s
even wearing a tie. “You clean up well,” I say, standing back to have a proper look.
He’s embarrassed to have me staring at him, so he pulls me close and kisses me. “Seriously,” I whisper in his ear, “you look great.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re hoping to get lucky tonight….”
He tells me that I look beautiful, and it sounds like he really means it. It’s easy to remember why I fell for him when it’s like this.
“Shall we go inside?” He puts his hand on my shoulder to usher me in, but I don’t move. “What’s the matter? You must be freezing out here….Why didn’t you bring a coat?”
I have a decision to make. When it comes down to it, it’s not even difficult. “Okay, promise you won’t be annoyed…?”
Instead of saying what he’d usually say—that he has no intention of doing any such thing until he knows what I’m talking about—he just says, “I promise,” and smiles.
I tell him about the surprise party. I tell him everything. His shoulders slump with every detail. “Oh,” he says. “Right. Okay.”
“And you have to make sure you act surprised when we walk in, because otherwise your mom will know I told you and she’ll probably put me in front of a firing squad or something. I’m sorry. I know this is your worst nightmare. I’m so sorry.”
He looks gutted—a little boy who’s just been told that Christmas is canceled. “So we were never going in there, then?”
“Nope. But we can go. I’ll call tomorrow and reserve a table, okay? My treat. This was such a terrible idea….I should have said something to your parents. I should have stopped this. Forgive me? Please?”
He closes his eyes for a second, and I wonder if he’s going to dump me on the spot. I wouldn’t blame him. A couple of weeks ago, I’d have probably been relieved, but something’s changed. The knowledge is inside me—it’s been there all along, but I wouldn’t allow myself to see it. Things have been too confusing, with Laurel being back. I lost focus on what’s important in my life. I do love him. He may not be perfect, and he drives me crazy on a regular basis, but I love him. And if he dumps me now, right here outside this restaurant, I will only have myself to blame.