Rules We're Meant to Break

by Natalie Williamson

  I hang back and let Mom and Kevin take the lead after The Giant, who I am assuming is Oscar Klein, and find myself alone in the huge foyer with Cammie. She’s lingering by the long mirror that faces the doorway. From where I’m standing I have a pretty good view of myself and I can see that my hair is puffed out around my head from Oscar’s hug. Cammie’s blond hair is sleek and smooth as usual. So not fair.

  “Well,” I say, reaching up to run my fingers through my hair in an attempt to smooth it down. “That was something.”

  “That was Oscar,” she says with a shrug.

  I give up on taming my frizz and take advantage of our aloneness to check out the foyer. It’s all high ceilings and magazine decorating. I check to make sure Cammie isn’t looking and sneak a picture on my phone for Hannah. I promised to document the evening since we’ve spent so many years wondering what this place looks like on the inside.

  Delicious smells are wafting in from the room to my right, which is promising. Less promising are the loud voices coming from the same room. It sounds like a pretty big crowd. New people are always my least favorite part of holidays with Mom’s boyfriends, because you never know what you’re going to get. For example, in middle school when my mom was dating Leo, he had an aunt who loved to talk to me at holidays and always tried to steal my food.

  Aunt Marin is the inspiration for rule number five: Protect your plate at all large meal gatherings, holidays or otherwise. She’d start a conversation with me about random things and immediately reach out to grab a bite of my pie or my stuffing or whatever else looked good, always with used forks. She said it was okay for us to share because we were “family,” and didn’t ever seem to hear me when I told her that I don’t even share forks with my mother, who is my actual blood relation. I never got to eat very much around her. I was always too grossed out.

  Hopefully since no one here is related to Kevin and Cammie I won’t get anyone like Aunt Marin, but you never know. Turkey and stuffing do weird things to people.

  When Cammie and I finally come into the dining room—which is just as impressive as the foyer, but too crowded for me to sneak a picture of—my mother shoots me a look and holds out her hand, beckoning me over. She’s smiling through her teeth, which tells me she can’t remember the name of the person she’s talking to. For as long as I can remember we’ve had a rule that if Mom doesn’t introduce me to someone it’s because she can’t remember their name. It’s my job to find it out. This means that I’m the one who ends up introducing myself to her current boyfriend’s mother/sister/best friend/ex-wife, which is … awkward, most of the time. Which is why rule number three is: Get used to introducing yourself to strangers. It’s going to happen a lot.

  I fix on a smile of my own and walk over to my mother, hoping that this isn’t another ex-wife situation. That happened with Howard at his first Christmas with Mom, and it did not end well.

  “There you are,” my mother says, grabbing hold of my arm and turning me so I’m facing the tiny lady in front of her.

  “Here I am.” I shake free of Mom’s grip and hold out my hand to her new friend. “Hi, I’m Amber. What’s your name?”

  “Michelle,” the lady says, shaking my hand. “I’m Oscar’s wife.”

  “You have a beautiful house,” I say, and Michelle beams.

  “Thank you,” she says. We make small talk for a few more minutes and then Michelle starts talking to Mom about the rolls and pies we brought over. Under the safety of dessert talk, I slip away, sure Mom won’t miss me. She can talk dessert for forever and a day.

  I do a survey of the room. There are about fifteen other people here, all adults in fancy clothes holding champagne flutes. Kevin’s talking to Oscar and a bunch of other guys who look like they’re in their mid-forties and above, and Mom and Michelle have been joined by the rest of the ladies. There’s an invisible line separating the men from the women. It’s like we’re at a middle school dance or something.

  I spot Cammie in a chair by the fireplace and decide that since we are the only people here under thirty-five, she’s my safest bet.

  “Hey,” I say when I reach her.

  “Hey. You met Michelle?”

  “Yeah. God, she’s tiny.”

  “I know. Did she offer to give you the tour?”

  “No.”

  Cammie gets up. “Come on. Knowing them, the food’s ready but we won’t eat for another half an hour.”

  I eye her for a second, trying to decide if this offer is genuine or not. Rule number two for survival is to remember that children of the boyfriend are roommates to be tolerated, not friends. But this doesn’t seem like a friendly gesture; it just seems like a polite one. That plus the fact that she didn’t say a word about Buffy being loose in the house when she came for dinner on Tuesday make me decide it’s safe to say, “Okay.”

  The rest of the house is like the foyer and the living room. Big. Impressive. Decorated down to the smallest details. And all the beds have at least twenty throw pillows, which is the most impractical thing I have ever seen. I don’t even bother trying to hide that I’m taking pictures as we go along. As we come out of the master suite, which has a bathroom and walk-in closet combo the size of the den at Kevin’s house, I turn to Cammie and say, “And to think I thought your house was big.”

  She gives me a funny look. “It’s pretty small for this neighborhood, actually.” She turns and gives one last look to the cavernous bedroom and adds, half under her breath, “I like ours better.”

  I’m so surprised to hear her refer to the house as ours that I say, “Me too,” without a hint of sarcasm.

  Cammie glances at me, then shuts the light off in the bedroom and starts back off down the hall. “We better get back.”

  “Right.”

  With rule number five in mind, I stick close to Mom once we rejoin the group. Somehow we manage to get the four of us in a row on one side of the table, with Cammie and me in between Mom and Kevin. It’s perfect, especially since the table is huge and long and the centerpiece is the most elaborate thing I have ever seen. It runs the whole length of the table and has so many tall parts that you have to move your head to one side or the other to actually look at the people across from you. It makes having a conversation with anyone who isn’t right beside you difficult, which is fine by me. And reaching over or across it is totally out of the question, which means I can enjoy my food without fear of anyone stealing a bite.

  By four o’clock almost everyone is still talking across and around the centerpiece at each other. I’m on my second slice of pie. I’m still doing okay but then Mom gets up to go to the bathroom and the lady on the other side of her starts eyeing me like she wants to suck me into a conversation. Oh, shit. I’ve been debating about whether or not to actually use the lifeline Jordan gave me last week, but now I’m thinking maybe I should. Right on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Jordan. SOS. Perfect.

  I get up and am surprised when Cammie grabs for me, a panicked look on her face. I notice that Kevin’s gotten up and followed Mom into the kitchen, and that the lady on his other side is leaning across the empty seat and opening her mouth like she’s about to start talking at Cammie. Cammie and I may not be friends, but it’s not like I can leave her to that kind of fate. I lean forward and put on my best polite smile.

  “Hey, Cammie, can you show me where the bathroom is again?”

  “Sure!” She scrambles out of her chair. The lady looks disappointed but snaps her mouth shut, and before anyone else notices, we’re out in the now-empty living room.

  “Thanks for that,” Cammie says.

  “No problem.”

  “Go ahead and go. I’ll wait here. I need to text my mom to see when she’ll be back at the apartment. You remember where the bathroom is, right?” She’s already going toward the fire and the cushy armchairs there.

  “Yeah,” I say slowly. “I remember.”

  I could leave it at that. Make my escape on my own. Go h
ang out with Jordan alone, because he told me himself he wasn’t banking on his usual holiday hang-out time with Cammie today. But that feels wrong, somehow. Like, if Cammie found out about me leaving her here to go hang out with her friend, I would feel like a huge bitch. And if Jordan found out—ugh, I don’t want to think about why it would make me feel so guilty. But it would.

  Plus, it’s Thanksgiving. A holiday. Niceness is important on holidays. It’s not getting involved, or caring, if I invite her along. It’s just being nice.

  Also, it might be good to bring her along. As a buffer. Since I don’t have my usual canine one with me today.

  “Actually,” I say, “I wasn’t going to the bathroom.”

  Cammie gives me a weird, narrow-eyed look, like I have confirmed all her worst fears about me. “Uh, okay. Were you going home?”

  I shake my head. “I’m going next door.”

  She pulls her head back a little, a reflex, as if what I’ve said doesn’t compute. Then she says, “Oh. Right.”

  “Do you want to come? Jordan said you guys usually hang out after your dinners here anyway. This would just be bailing a little early.”

  For another long moment she just studies me, her expression unreadable. Then she gets to her feet and tucks her phone back into her pocket. “Yeah. Okay.”

  thirteen

  Jordan’s garage is already open and he’s digging something out of one of the buckets on the back wall when we walk in. At the sound of our footsteps he turns around and smiles, the kind that’s slow and takes a while to spread out all over his face. The kind of smile that definitely does not make me feel like someone is slowly cranking up my heart rate right along with it.

  “Hey,” he says, nodding to me. “Took you long enough.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” He glances behind me and brightens even more when he notices Cammie. “Hey, Cam.”

  I want to ask him why he sent the SOS but Cammie says, “Hey, J.” So I don’t.

  Jordan turns back to the bucket, rummages around for a few more seconds, and comes up with a basketball. Of course. He holds it out in my direction, a questioning look on his face.

  I glance down at my outfit. Jordan’s in track pants and a long-sleeved Nike T-shirt, so they must keep it casual at the Baugh house for Thanksgiving. Either that or they ate super early. I’m in a sweater dress, tights, and boots, my peacoat buttoned up halfway. Not exactly the right clothes for shooting around, but I shrug, pull off my coat, and toss it on the weight bench. Just like it didn’t feel right to leave Cammie alone next door, today it doesn’t feel right to remind him that we’re supposed to work first, play second. Stupid holiday niceness.

  “You going first today?” I ask.

  “Nope. Cam, you wanna play?”

  “Play what?”

  “Horse.”

  Cammie wrinkles her nose. “No thanks.” She gestures down to her feet, at the nice heels she’s wearing. “I can’t play in these, and I don’t want to shred my tights.”

  Jordan grins. “Fair enough.” He bounce-passes me the ball and we go back out to the driveway. Cammie drags a chair to the edge of the garage and sits down to watch. Jordan hangs back near her but turns to me. “All right, Amber. Let’s see what you got.”

  I’m wired and jittery. It must be all the pie. I put the ball down between my feet and do helicopters with my arms for a second, first forward, then back. I size up the basket, trying to decide my best move. Do I start off easy, or go for the kill right away?

  “Come on,” Jordan says in a teasing voice. “We don’t have all day.”

  I scowl at him, grab the ball, and position myself in front of the basket. Turn around. Don’t look when I toss the ball over my head. Smile like a maniac when I hear the ball swish through the net.

  “Damn,” Jordan says. I turn around and smirk at him before I go running after the ball.

  “How many times has she made that shot?” Cammie asks. It’s clear from her tone that she knows this is a thing we do. I’m not sure if that’s good or not. That she knows. Or that Jordan and I have a thing.

  “Twice,” Jordan says.

  “And how many times have you made it?”

  I’m back over to them now. I hand Jordan the ball and say, “None yet. You need me to show you the spot?”

  He slumps his shoulders, an exaggerated frown on his face. “No. I remember.” He gets the spot right, but misses.

  “H,” I say.

  “Yeah, yeah. Go on, superstar. It’s your turn.”

  “I’m not a superstar,” I tell him, but I go pick my next shot anyway.

  We go back and forth for a while. I manage to get him to HOR, tying my personal best, but I’m a letter ahead and earn my E before I can make him plural. I’m a little out of breath when we finish, and a lot sweaty. It’s cold out but we’ve been moving around enough that I wish I could strip down to something cooler. I settle for pushing my sleeves up as far as they can go and pulling my hair back into a sloppy ponytail.

  Cammie’s quiet through most of the game, and when Jordan goes to get us all drinks from the fridge in the garage I realize she’s watching me, eyes narrowed.

  “What?” I ask.

  She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Nothing.”

  Jordan comes back out then. I reach for the water bottle he’s holding out, but instead of handing it over he comes around behind me and says, “Hold up your hair.”

  “What?” I ask again, but for some insane reason I do what he says. The next thing I know the bottle is pressed against my neck. It’s cold and it feels good and for one second that’s all I think. Then my brain catches up with what’s happening and I’m hotter all over than I was a minute ago. Rule number seven. Rule number seven. I step away and turn around to face him, snatching the bottle from his hand.

  “Thanks,” I say, working to keep my tone even. Short.

  He grins. “Sure thing.”

  Cammie does this cough that sounds like she’s trying to cover up a laugh. My face burns with embarrassment. I need to sit down, so I go into the garage and over to the weight bench, my usual spot. This is good until Jordan comes over and slides in next to me. Not touching, but close. All relaxed and comfortable and easy. I am none of those things. I am the opposite of those things. And I need to get away from him but I can’t get up because I just sat down and getting up again would be weird.

  I look over at Cammie. She looks like she needs to cough again. Jesus Christ.

  “So,” Jordan says, making me jump. “Thanksgiving dinner. You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

  “Ugh,” Cammie says, rolling her eyes. “Oscar practically suffocated Amber. She’s not small enough to escape the pits.”

  Jordan winces. “Ouch.”

  “Yup.”

  They’re both looking at me. I should probably say something. What comes out is, “At least he wears deodorant.”

  For about ten seconds there is total silence. Then it’s like someone snaps their fingers and we all laugh and laugh like I am the funniest person in the world, even though I’m definitely not.

  The laughter is a good icebreaker, and Cammie and Jordan start trading stories. They ask each other questions like they already know the answers, and I’m sure they do, since Jordan said they do this little tradition every year. Jordan asks how long it took Oscar to tell his African safari story and Cammie asks whether Jordan’s grandparents have said anything nasty yet (twenty minutes, and yes, after Tasha came out to them, which resulted in Jordan’s dad kicking them out). I don’t have much to add to the conversation, but it’s nice. Too nice, actually, though it’s better than if I’d stayed next door.

  Eventually Cammie’s phone rings. “It’s Dad,” she tells us, glancing at the screen. She answers in a very upbeat tone that I’m betting Kevin will find suspicious since she’s still been less than enthusiastic about spending time at his house. “Hey, Dad. What’s up? No, sorry, we went next door. You know I alway
s hang with J after turkey, and Amber had to help him with their editing thing.” Jordan and I exchange a glance. Editing. Right. We were supposed to be doing that. “Well, I’m sorry. You guys were busy.” Cammie sighs. “Yes, fine. Yeah, I’ll ask him. Yes, God. See you in a sec. Okay, yeah. Bye.”

  She gets up, shoves her phone in her coat pocket, and looks over at us. “Dad wants me to head back. I guess we’re going home soon, and then I need to go back to my mom’s. He said to tell you he’s very impressed that you’re so studious on a holiday and to ask you, J, if you’ll give Amber a ride home when you guys are done.”

  All of this comes out very fast, too fast for my brain to keep up. When it finally does, Cammie’s still standing there, now with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyebrows raised as she waits for one of us to answer.

  “Uh, well—” I should go with her since we aren’t actually studying and I’ve bailed on a holiday and this whole situation is bending rule number seven so far I can feel it cracking. But Jordan interrupts me.

  “I can do that no problem.” His gaze flicks to my face, and then quickly away. “I mean, if you’re cool with it.”

  I swallow; my throat is suddenly very dry, in spite of all the water I just drank. I should say no. But what comes out is, “Yeah. I’m cool.”

  “Cool,” he says.

  “Cool,” Cammie says, and not in a mean way.

  The door to the house opens up and a man who must be Jordan’s dad sticks his head out and says, “Jordan, what are you—oh. I didn’t realize you had company.” He smiles warmly at Cammie. “It’s good to see you, kiddo.”

  “Good to see you too, Tom,” she says, smiling back at him. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Same to you,” Jordan’s dad says. Then he looks over at me and his smile turns knowing and Jordan, who has this easy way of sitting most of the time, shifts and straightens up next to me on the weight bench. His dad’s gaze flicks between us briefly. “And you must be Amber.”