“Okay.”
“Ms. Joanna Prine: I'm intuiting by your tone that you disagree. Please, do tell: have you never had great sex? Be honest.”
I let my mind drift again, through assorted raunchy scenarios from the previous summer. Mr. Mahoney's hand on the small of my naked back. My back, pressing into Mr. Mahoney's desk. Mr. Mahoney's—I mean Eric, weird—Eric's cock, pushing into me with slow, deft strokes. He fills me up, doesn't he? And ours is forbidden sex—the sexiest kind there is.
“If you have to think about it this long, my guess is you haven't.”
“I have, too! Fuck you!”
“You've seriously had earth-shattering sex? Someone who rocked you to your core and kept rocking sex? Can't-eat-sleep-live-without-'em sex?”
“Well now you're talking about love, and that's not the same thing.”
“I beg to differ!” Claudia is standing now, dramatically gesturing around the living room with her perilously full third cooler. “People put this big stigma on sex for pleasure, but who's to say that great sex ISN'T love? Not necessarily love that lasts a lifetime, or love that conquers all—but love for a few minutes. What else are you giving a person, when you bring them to orgasm? It's the tip-top of pleasure. It's a generous act. It's –”
“Okay, Drunky McDrunk Drunk. Let's settle down.”
“Come on, Jo. No one gets drunk off two wine coolers.” Claudia obligingly returns to the couch pillows. But she still has that badgery look in her eye.
“Who? Who was it?”
“What?”
“The sex with! Idiot.”
“I'd thank you to not call me an idiot in my own house.”
“Tell me who you had great sex with, or I will scream and wake up Janice and Earl.”
For the briefest of seconds, it crosses my mind that I should keep my damn mouth shut—but Claudia's the kind of lady whose approval you really want to earn. She's so sparkly and fun and exciting, and for one second in the actual light of the real world, I want to be like that, too. Plus, it's been sheer torture keeping a big secret from her. Torture that now feels unfair, given how wretched Eric made me feel at the open house.
“Umm. Mr. Mahoney,” I say finally. Then, I chug my wine cooler, and cast around the living room for something else to look at. Through the kitchen window, I can see a light snap on in the garage. Great. So Trace is up late, too. Is his “boo” in there with him?
“Eric Mahoney?” Claudia's eyes are gaping circles. It feels weirdly good to read shock in her face—especially since she shocks me so often.
“You can't tell anyone.”
“You're fucking the career counselor?!”
“Guidance counselor! And please keep your voice down.”
“Joanna Prine, isn't he married? Not to mention, one hundred years old?”
“Never mind. You don't have to believe me.”
“I believe you. Because that would be an insane thing to make up. Wow.” My friend's eyes soften. I imagine her, imagining me and Eric. Is what she pictures sexy? Earth-shaking, can't-eat-sleep-live-without-'em sex? And he's not really so old, right?
“Okay, I'm sorry I said he was one hundred. He's a total Silver Fox, natch. But...wow. I just would never have expected it of you, Ms. Prine. Sex with a teacher...”
“Oh, why, Claudia? Because I'm such a goody-goody? Because I'm so perfect in every single way, and could never possibly do anything wrong?”
“No! Because –” and as if on cue, something shatters in the darkened kitchen. I seize up with panic, and catch Claudia's eye—but she's already in hyper-brave-warrior-woman mode, standing tall, peering into the gloom. She sends me a cautionary glance with her eyes that I take to mean, 'don't move.'
Tiptoeing a few paces into the kitchen, Claudia whispers into the darkness: “Who's there?” I realize my head is ever-so-slightly spinning from the wine, to the point that the most logical conclusion occurs last. I'm too busy picturing a cat burglar, with a stocking over his head and a gun in his hand, to account for the relatively new fact of my foster brother. Who is still so dream-like and distant to me that it's hard to believe he really moves around my childhood home, as opposed to merely my imagination.
So when I hear the lights snap on, and the sound of a glass breaking, followed by Claudia's bray of a laugh, I'm surprised. “Trace!” she cries. “Look, Jo! It's just your brosef. What's shaking, man?”
I lurch up from the couch, and see Trace looking adorably guilty in front of the refrigerator. A glass bowl of grapes rests in shards on the tile. My foster brother, it should be noted, is wearing only sweatpants. His naked chest looks even better in the full light, sans the mugginess of our bathroom; that pleasing trail of tummy fuzz beginning just below his heart's center forms a perfectly visible arrow to his crotch. Trace's hair, three weeks longer than it was the day I'd met him, is tousled by sleep. He wears a slim gold chain around his neck.
“Sorry to have bothered you ladies,” he breathes. “Just coming in for a lil midnight snack. Some of the fellas need their Vitamin B.”
“The fellas?” Claudia arches her back, thrusting her ample breasts forward. I attempt and fail to not roll my eyes, though my snarkiness competes with relief. Fellas, he said. As in, not girls.
“The basketball team. Gilmore and Rubenstein and Duffy, and some of the wifeys.”
“You made the team? Oh, congrats, Trace! That's so cool!”
“It's aight.” But now, Trace turns his attention toward me. I realize I'm once again in the uncomfortable position of being the girl who's wearing something dumb in front of someone hot. Today's sleepover sees both me and Claudia decked out in our queen of the dorks finest—matching orange V-neck t-shirts emblazoned with the logo and name of the school paper, the “Douglass Gazette.” And—yup, great, awesome—Trace is definitely stuttering over the text on my shirt.
Or very possibly, sizing up my breasts. ..
“It's weird it's not The North Star, huh?”
“What?” Claudia simpers from the ground. She's already bent over, collecting pieces of broken glass in her outstretched palm. Her perfect ass very deliberately on view.
“The name of the paper,” Trace continues. Then, he takes a step closer to me. I fight the urge to flinch. I realize, bizarrely, that this is already the longest conversation Trace and I have ever shared. He's already in so deep with the cool crew at school, I feel like I'm talking to one of the jocks.
Trace proceeds to extend a long, muscular forearm. He places the tip of his index finger a few centimeters from the swell of my right breast, right over the word Douglass. And I know this sounds bat shit, but for a breathless second it's like I can feel my nipple straining through the fabric to reach his fingertip.
I want him. Every fiber of me.
“That was the name of Frederick Douglass' newspaper. The North Star. Frederick Douglass High, Frederick Douglass paper...” Trace rattles off a sigh, and I watch his pecs engage—“Just seems like a bit of a missed opportunity, is all.” Then, as if he's aware of our brief, magnetic connection, Trace drops his finger. He looks at me with the same haughty, smug eyes I recognize from our strained family dinners, and I fold my arms across my chest. It's then that Claudia stands up, looking pleased as punch, and carries what's left of the shattered fruit bowl towards the trash compactor. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, fixes Trace with a gaze I know far too well, then smiles brilliantly.
“That should do it, Stealthy.” I think she's waiting for him to invite us over to the garage for a hang-out—or even thank her for cleaning up his mess—but instead, Trace just stands there like a lug. I watch his chest expand with each breath, the muscles in his chest rising and falling. His arms don't quite lie flat against his sides, I notice. Because his huge biceps get in the way.
“See something you like?”
Shit.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I see you looking, baby girl.” I sense Trace is messing with me again but when I meet h
is gaze again, it seems that most of the humor has left his eyes. Now, my foster brother is just a strong man, staring me down in my own kitchen. He seems powerful and too-aggressive. “I told you to take a picture. Take a picture for the paper, even.”
“Oh, give it a rest. Like you're so fly that no one can help themselves. Women find this attitude so charming, by the way. Real panty-melter.”
“You're practically drooling over there. You want a piece of this, sweetheart? All you need to do is ask.” He takes a dramatic step towards me again, but this time I do shy away. He looks the way he did those weeks ago, when I interrupted his sexy-time. In one way, it occurs to me, this must be exactly how pesky little sisters are made to feel: foolish. Unwanted. I set my chin.
“Damn straight. Because you couldn't handle it.”
“You've got an awful lot of self-confidence for an orphan,” I spit. And the second I say it, I know I've gone too far. Something very slight but very perceptible shifts in Trace's green eyes, and he seems to retreat from me without moving. Claudia, visibly uncomfortable, takes a conciliatory step towards my foster brother. Guess she's picked her side.
“Ouch, Jo.”
“I'm sorry. Look, I'm sorry, Trace. I shouldn't have said that.” ...though it's kind of your fault. It's because you're a demon. “It was completely uncalled for. We're supposed to be like brother and sister, so –”
“Man, FUCK you people,” Trace erupts. And he says this in a voice that I'm sure the whole house can hear. Watching him turn back toward the garage, tearing open the side door so hard his back muscles flex with pride and anger—I feel truly low. I recall Case-Worker Melanie, frizzy-haired, frantic, gripping my hand and gazing into my eyes and saying, “Your only job is to provide him a loving home.”
Claudia stands with me in silence for a moment, as we listen through the floorboards for any sign of my parents' stirring—but thankfully, it seems that Janice and Earl have fallen asleep. Slowly, Claudia lets out a loose rattle of a breath.
“Ai yi yi. What was that all about?”
“I don't know.” I say. “I feel like shit, though. He just—he makes me so mad sometimes.”
“So Trace is a little sensitive. We know that now.”
“Oh, ya’ think?”
“Easy, tiger.” Claudia, ever-practical in a crisis, has already returned her attention to the few remaining shards of glass on the floor, the many burst grapes. She hovers over the fixable problem, a dustpan in her fist. “Look. Nobody said this was going to be easy, for either of you. And he's clearly a smart, handsome dude. You guys should just ...breathe it out.”
“What the hell does 'breathe it out' mean?” I glare at Claudia, who's bent over the floor, sweeping. She pretends to consider.
“Fuck if I know,” she says, finally. My best friend pulls a face. We both burst out laughing.
“There's my girl!” Claudia cries. “Feel better? Or do you want to make out, to take your mind off things? I'm an expert with the ladies now, you know.” Claudia wiggles her eyebrows as she returns from the trash can, and makes a playful grab for my breast.
“C'mon, Claudia.”
“Seriously, think about it. We're BFFs. We could probably manage some earth-shattering sex.” She laughs, but I can tell her heart isn't all the way in the joke—if it even is a joke. I know because at that second, both of our heads snap in the direction of the room over the garage, where we watch and hear the light zap off—leaving the patio, the kitchen and the living room in darkness. I imagine I can hear some dark, murmuring beat coming from the other building. But then, such sounds might just be my angry heart, pounding.
Chapter Five
October 19th
We're gathered around the table, peaceful as a Rockwell painting, when my Dad gets that Santa-style glint in his eye again. I can tell he has a secret, and he'll be hard-pressed to get through baked sprouts casserole before giving away the goods. God help the Prines.
“I've got some news, everyone,” he says finally, his big beard practically quivering with anticipation.
“Don't say you're adopting some other kid,” Trace mutters into his meal. My mother throws her head back and brays like this is the funniest thing ever uttered, and my Dad's eyes crinkle at the edges (making him look, ever so briefly, even more like Santa). For my part, I can't help smiling a little at Trace's goof—but I don't let foster brother see. We haven't spoken to one another, one on one for a week—at school or at home. I'm trying not to get another piece of that nasty temper. Not when I have a Common App deadline to meet before midnight.
“There's a conference in Minnesota, which your mother and I have been invited to. And it's very, very prestigious.”
“Some of the leading scholars in literary theory will be there. Can you kids imagine?”
I feel Trace's eyes on me, and out of habit, I glance up to meet his gaze. He's knit his brows together and tugged a corner of his mouth to one side to form a zany, “are-they-crazy?!” kind of face. I snort into my sprouts.
Okay, whatever. So he has his funny moments.
“We were thinking that the four of us could all go up together, last weekend of November,” my Dad is blustering. “Take the van. Rent rooms along the way. Road trip it, all-American family style!” Once he sits back, beaming—and folds his soft academic's hands over his considerable belly—the words sink in.
“Dad, are you serious? I can't go to Minnesota in November!” My voice is coming out shrill, but there's nothing for it. “I have college deadlines, and the newspaper, and there's the symphony thing to prepare for –”
“What symphony thing?” My mother leans over the table. “I thought there were no more school concerts until January.” Across the table, Trace sets his fork down. He cocks his head to the side and looks at me a little quizzically, his jaw working mechanically on tonight's vegan surprise.
“What do you mean, concert? You play shows and shit?” He glances quickly to my parents. “And—stuff? I mean, you play shows and stuff?”
“Yeah. I mean, why do you think I carry that violin around all the time? To look cool?” I cock an eyebrow at Trace, in challenge. Let him snap at me. I'd love to see him try that tough guy act, here in front of his grateful benefactors.
“Jo!”
“Jo, be pleasant!” My Dad begins to tug on the tail end of his facial hair, which is usually a sign that he's distressed. “And I accounted for the college deadlines. This wouldn't be a long trip. I just thought this was something we should all try to do. As a family.” Oh, I get it. The table's agenda is now crystal clear. Here we go again, on another Prine family GUILT trip.
“So what's this symphony thing, and why can't it wait?” Mom presses. She's onto me.
Three sets of eyes swivel, as in unison, and size me up. I even take an extra-long time to chew and swallow my last mouthful of dinner, but no one backs down.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
So, okay, the skinny with the symphony; this was all Claudia's idea. Well, Claudia and my orchestra teacher, Mr. Gavin. The pair of them ambushed me in the cafeteria yesterday and plied me with a dozen fliers for college conservatory programs. I remember Gavin's wormy little face looking up at me, full of teacherly pride, when he said something like: Look, Jo. You're an incredibly talented violinist, and I don't think I'm being dramatic when I say you'll regret it forever if you don't at least take a chance on your bliss.
At the time, I hadn't been thinking about what I'd say to Mom and Dad, or even Eric, if they asked what I was up to one weekend in November. I'd planned to go up to New York for a single big school audition at the end of the month. But I knew that Janice and Earl wouldn't approve. The one time I'd mentioned to my parents how I might like to apply for music school, they didn't even glance up from their shared section of The New York Times before judging me:
“Be a real shame to see a brain like yours go in for that whole la vie Boheme thing, Jo,” my Dad smirked. My mother had slapped him lightly on the elbow, but still managed t
o make her reproach clear.
“Oh, he's just teasing, Joey. But think about it. Do you want to be a starving artist, or a brilliant leader of nations? Which one do you think the world could use more of?” Then she'd smiled at me, and the discussion was considered over.
Eric, of course, is even more judgmental about my pursuing music. He'd let me play violin for him once, just once, over an eight month courtship. We were in his office one evening in August, and the whole way through Lauer Lied he'd cracked his knuckles with anxiety. He was apparently convinced that a cleaning lady could track the sound of music through the school and would use such damning evidence to ruin both our lives.
So, no. I hadn't exactly been forthright about the whole “symphony thing.”
It's not like I even really think I'm good enough to get into a school like Juilliard, and I'm not even sure that I'd want to go, if I do get in. Maybe I would be better off as a “brilliant leader of nations,” as my parents are so fond of saying. But when Mr. Gavin was foisting brochures on me, I knew in a moment of absolute clarity what I didn't want: to end up like my orchestra teacher, so clearly filled with regret. I have to at least try, don't I? If I apply to school and don't get in, then at least I can say I gave the music thing a fair shot.
“Come to think of it, Mr. and Mrs. Prine—I don't think I can make that final weekend in November, either.” Trace pats the sides of his mouth with his napkin. A princely gesture. I look across the table at my foster brother, and for a second, I could kiss him. I could just launch across the table and press my face onto his.
This weird impromptu ruse has worked. Mom and Dad swivel their bobble heads away from me, and towards the demon.
“What's happening with you that weekend, Trace?” Mom says. For a second, I feel bad about the fib. They both look like their greatest hopes have been dashed.
“I've got a career counseling session with Mr. Mahoney, my counselor. He says that right now I'm standing at a crossroads in my future, and if I buckle down, take the next few weeks really seriously, then I can maybe consider college programs for next fall.”
A Family Affair: My Bad Boy Foster Brother Page 4