by ANDREA SMITH
Chapter 26
So that’s Weston’s game, huh? Well it certainly explains why he’s been more personable with me lately. It’s a fucking set up, frat boy style.
Fuck me.
It was lucky for me that I took Eva’s shift tonight so she could make it to her study group for her History final.
Son of a bitch.
Now what do I do?
I’m fresh out of the shower, getting ready for bed. I sit beneath the covers, towel drying my wet locks and thinking about what Weston’s buddies said tonight at Big Daddy’s, about Penny.
My first instinct is to shove my old lady shoes into his ball sack when I see him tomorrow at our study session. But I need to think this through from all sides. If he is seriously going to ask me to have Thanksgiving with his family, this could be an opportunity too good to pass up.
On one hand, going to a family dinner with Weston gives me an unexpected but welcomed opportunity to rule out or prove out my theories relative to the typical root causes of wealthy and overindulged pretty boys with their shallow personalities and innate sense of entitlement.
I finally toss the towel to the floor and turn off my bedside lamp. I pull the covers up under my chin and take a deep breath. Ever since those words were said by Drake – or Alex – whomever it was, I’ve felt a knot in my stomach that just won’t quit.
A dull stab in my heart. And then another.
What the hell is this about? Why am I affected by this?
I stretch out on my bed, putting an arm up over my head. I take in a slow, cleansing breath. And then another.
If this is true, then it should be good news, right? Weston Matthews inviting me to meet his family as some sort of a practical joke, I mean, what could be better than that to prove my theories, right?
It means that all the research, data plotting, and observation notes that I’ve worked so hard on haven’t been for naught. It actually validates the fact that my hypothesis is sound. A male such as Weston Matthews doesn’t possess the social grace to cross barriers of class and lower the bar on physical attractiveness in order to form relationships, be it romantic or platonic.
This. Is. Good. News.
Then why does it feel as if I’ve just taken a punch to the gut? Am I an idiot?
No.
I am nobody’s fool.
Weston has been sending mixed signals for the very purpose of orchestrating this scheme, practical joke – whatever he wants to call it. It’s pure entertainment for him. I think back to his behavior when he thought Stuart was two-timing Penny. He cared enough to approach Peyton and tell her to back off to protect Penny, right?
Wrong.
That wasn’t his motivation at all. I smack my hand against my forehead.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
I totally misread his intentions. He’s such a fucking player that he thought that Peyton would be impressed by his allegiance to someone like Penny.
Except that he has no clue that Penny and Peyton are one in the same. He has no reason to believe that Peyton even knows who Penny is because, hell, it’s a huge campus. Of course that’s it! I know that Penny is homely and totally unsexy, but Peyton wouldn’t know that, right? (If she wasn’t one in the same, that is.)
Therefore, I have been giving Weston way more credit than he deserves. I erroneously jumped to the conclusion that he was being protective over his purported friend, Penny. The reality was that he simply wanted Peyton to believe he was protecting a female friend’s best interest, so that she would be impressed with what?
His chivalry?
Yep. That way he could go in for the kill with Peyton.
Is this clear as mud to you?
Me fucking too.
I roll over onto my stomach, my mind now clear of the confusion that’s been draped like cobwebs in my brain all evening.
Everything is perfectly clear now; totally transparent. I’m ready for his invitation if it is indeed forthcoming. He won’t catch this girl by surprise again, I think, as a single tear spills over and runs slowly down my cheek.
Stupid motherfuckers.
Stupid ass me.
I finish grading the practice test I gave Weston. Surprisingly, it appears that some praise is in order. He’s watching me. I can feel it. Judging by his quiet intensity, it appears that he plans on extending an invite to ole’ “Hard up Penny.”
She’ll be ready for him.
Stay cool, calm, and collected Penny.
Jeez, am I really carrying on a two-way inner voice convo with my alter ego?
Apparently so. And that’s just kind of sad on so many levels my Peyton voice chides.
Shut up. Both of you.
“Weston, you did really well on the practice test today. I don’t think you have a thing to worry about on Monday. Just make sure you get your essay finished before the end of the term and I think you can easily snag a solid “B” in this course.” I beam proudly at him.
“Thanks,” he says, less than enthusiastic.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” I reply, gazing across my desk at him, nervously tapping my pen on the cover of the book.
‘Stop that’ I order myself silently.
Weston shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
Come to Mama.
“Can I ask you something, Penny?”
I don’t bother correcting his grammar. “Yes, of course, you may.”
“Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”
There it is. Act a bit surprised.
“I…uh, I haven’t really thought about it,” I lie, stumbling over my words for effect. “I usually go home for fall break.”
“Well, my grandparents have a timeshare in Plymouth. I guess they like celebrating Thanksgiving where the Pilgrims did for some reason,” he continues with a soft chuckle. “Anyway, it’s only an hour away, and I just thought maybe you’d like to go with me – unless you have other plans, that is…” his voice drifts off. No doubt he expected me to shout out a resounding, “I’d love to!” making it unnecessary for him to end the sentence properly.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, tapping my pen against the palm of my hand. “How long do you intend to stay there?”
“I start practice back up the day after Thanksgiving, so it would only be for the day.”
“Hmm, well that might work for me since my family is only about an hour from here as well. I’d have to meet you there though, since I won’t be coming back to Cambridge until the weekend.”
“Sure, that’d be fine. I’ll get the address and directions from my mother. I can let you know Tuesday when I see you, how’s that?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I reply, giving him a shy smile. “Good luck on your test, Weston. I’ll see you here Tuesday to review your essay.”
“See ya then,” he replies, tossing me that sexy grin as he heads out into the hall.
I release the breath I’ve been holding. I wasn’t nearly as calm as I appeared, but hell if I didn’t pull it off like a pro.
Piece of cake.
Hah! Guess who’s coming to dinner?
Chapter 27
Weston had aced his final test in Early American Lit 101. It sucked that he needed to take EA Lit 201 next semester, but he’d learned a lot from Penny, so he had a process down pat and, hopefully, it would carry over to his next semester’s work so that he wouldn’t require a tutor.
He hated to admit it, but Penny had saved his ass. She’d been a pain in it most of the time, but Weston understood that’s what she’d been paid to do. His father’s money had been well spent it seemed.
He had just finished up his final essay that he would turn into Penny the following day for their last session. She would look it over for possible changes required before he emailed it over to Professor Lindquist. He was pulling a high “B” in the class last he checked. He was stretching his legs when his cell rang.
“Hey Mom,” he said, rolling over onto his back to take five.
“Weston, I wanted to get bac
k with you about Thanksgiving. Mom wants to eat around two, but come before that so we can all catch up, okay?”
“Yep. Sounds good. Oh, and by the way, I went ahead and invited a friend to come along with me.”
“Oh?”
“Well…yeah, I mean you’re the one that suggested it, Mom. Remember?”
“Sure, I remember. But you acted as if you weren’t seeing anyone when we last talked. Is this a male friend or a female friend?” she pressed tentatively.
“Seriously, Mom?”
She laughed at herself. “Stupid question, I know. “Well that’s fine, honey. Is she someone you recently met?”
Weston was a shit. He knew his mother probably regretted bringing that invitation into the previous conversation. He supposed she had every right to be a bit…leery. After all, the bevy of bitches she’d seen him with since high school had obviously been non-relationship material. It had been all about their physical aspects, and the fact that they all were willing and able to please Weston in ways that would likely make his own mother mortified, party girl or not.
“Just remember, honey. Your grandparents tend to be a bit…conservative, that’s all. We don’t want anyone feeling out of place or uncomfortable.”
His grandparents were cool. It was his father she was worried about. She didn’t fool him for a minute.
“No worries, Mom,” he said with a laugh. “I’m sure even Dad will approve of this one. She’s the brainy, intellectual type.”
Weston could feel her relief it was so damn apparent.
“Where did you meet her, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Actually, Dad is kind of responsible for my meeting her when I stop to think about it. He’s the one who arranged for a tutor for that class I’m retaking, Early American Lit? You know---the one I flunked last semester?”
“Um…oh, yes, that’s right. I remember. So, is she a teacher?”
“No, she’s a senior student. But she’s the one that gets paid for tutoring me and, well, she’s become kind of a friend as well.”
“It seems that it has all worked out nicely then,” she replied. “Weston, you realize that sometimes a bad thing can turn out being for the best. You need to keep that in mind.”
“I will, Mom. Penny Lane and I will see all of you Thursday, say around noon?”
“Her name is…Penny Lane?”
“Yep. Kinda cool, isn’t it?”
Chapter 28
Okay so game on I think to myself as I head out on the interstate for the hour drive to Plymouth. Luckily, Eva left yesterday for Pittsburgh, so I was able to dress and put my holiday face on at home versus that bloody nasty Sunoco station.
I love the transformation of “Tutor Penny” to “Holiday Penny.” It should be a “Nerd Barbie Series,” you know?
Oh, I haven’t transformed myself into anything un-nerdy, but I do owe it to Weston to put my best ‘face and body’ forward so as not to embarrass him, right?
So, I ditched the tit binders I’ve been wearing. Time to let the girls out. I’m wearing a black knit V-neck sweater, with a black lacy pushup bra underneath, basically serving up my full tits on a platter. To offset this vulgar display of skin, I’ve coordinated it with a wool pleated, pink and grey plaid skirt that comes to just above my ankles, and I’ve got black knit leggings on underneath, with silver buckled, black patent leather Mary Jane flats. This allows me to wear the fake tummy roll padding underneath the waist of the skirt.
I put my mousy brown, short haired wig on, parting it in the middle, and placing pink, little girl barrettes shaped like butterflies on each side to hold my bangs back off of my face. It gives me a festive look I think.
Contacts, glasses, and my protruding teeth mouthpiece are all in place. I’m a bit apprehensive about eating with the mouthpiece in. I’ve never done it before, so I’m not sure what to expect, though the product information says it’s sturdy enough. We shall see. No make-up, as usual, although I did plaster a shade of hot pink lipstick with shiny gloss on my lips. Unfortunately, some of it had landed on my fake teeth.
Oh well.
And the final accent is a bright pink chiffon scarf tied around my neck that totally matches my plastic butterfly barrettes.
Good to go.
I don’t allow myself the luxury of feeling nervous about my mission. This is, after all, what I’ve worked so hard for, right?
Finally, I will get to meet the “X” and “Y” chromosome donors that made Weston the guy he is today. Perfect and flawed. A bit complicated, I admit, but shallower and more calculating than I would’ve guessed. This has to be inherited.
But from which donor?
I know absolutely nothing about his mother. So, she is the one I will be focusing on today. Well, as much as possible given the circumstances here.
I follow the directions on the GPS. It’s just before noon when I pull into the gated community that’s called “Plymouth Rock Resort.” A guy comes out from the white brick building with a clipboard.
“Name please?”
“Penny Lane.”
He scrolls down the list and locates my name, marking my arrival time down. “Cottage eight,” he says, walking back into the tiny building. In a moment, the electronic gate swings back allowing me to proceed.
And I have to admit I am totally awestruck by how this development has been…well…developed! It captures all of the history surrounding it in a very non-intrusive way.
It is rural, and woodsy with winding dirt roads, trimmed brush on each side, and clusters of tall evergreens. There are painted wooden signs using black Old English font to direct the visitors to the various buildings. A very rustic touch.
Weston’s grandparents’ timeshare is in Section B, which is called the ‘Nina’. I guess that’s ‘Nina’ as in the ‘Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria.’ Yeah, I know my American History. No worries.
My car moves slowly around the winding trail, and the landscaping is simply divine. I actually feel like I’m back in time! I fully expect to see, as I round the next curve, a clearing where Pilgrims and Native Americans are side-by-side, shucking corn while a turkey is roasting slowly on a spit over the fire.
What I actually see is a sign indicating that I’m in the ‘Nina’ area. I find their unit, and park across from it where the sign indicates ‘Visitor’s Parking.’ The driveway in front of their unit is full. I spot a black sporty Beamer I recognize as Weston’s. He’s here.
Of course he’s here. Where else would he be?
It’s only when I shut off the car engine that my pulse quickens and, for one brief moment, I’m not certain I can go through with this.
I gather my wits, along with my purse, and climb out of my car. Taking a deep breath, I cross the paved drive and head up to the door. Weston opens it before I have a chance to knock.
As soon as I step inside, I feel all eyes on me, including Weston’s. My coat isn’t zipped up, so my black low cut sweater is in full view. His eyes have stalled at my chest. Imagine that. And I don’t miss the fact that they widen just a bit.
Right, he thought Penny was flat-chested.
Surprise!
He quickly regains his composure and his gunmetal eyes flicker up to my face. “Glad you found the place okay, Penny. Can I take your sweat…coat?” he asks, quickly correcting himself.
I smile as he helps me off with it. “Let me introduce you to everyone,” he says, placing my jacket on a chair.
Weston makes the introductions, and everything becomes a blur in those moments. My God, they all seem so normal. And very nice, too.
His father is very good looking. Easton Matthews has a British accent that no one else shares, so me being me, I ask him about it. Turns out he was born and, for the most part, raised in the UK. He mentions they still maintain a home in London. I can see that Weston shares many of his father’s features. There’s no denying that DNA match.
His mother, Darcy, is beautiful. She looks to be a bit younger than Easton, and seems bubbly
and talkative in contrast to her husband’s more serious and quiet demeanor. She immediately makes me feel welcome, and there is nothing in her interaction with me that feels judgmental, fake, or otherwise condescending.
Weston’s grandparents are from his maternal side. I judge them to be in their late seventies. But they seem totally awesome! The grandfather’s name is Martin Sheridan, and his grandma is Denise, and they both hug me like…well, like they never thought Weston would bring a girl home. The fact that I’m not his girlfriend, only his tutor, or that I’m pretty Plain Jane here doesn’t seem to matter. This really starts putting a chink in my armor as they say – well as my dad says.
When I’m offered a seat in the large family room and a glass of wine, I readily accept.
Someone is missing. And just as that thought crosses my mind, a young woman enters the room – scratch that, a beautiful, fragile girl with some serious style makes her entrance.
Carson Matthews.
Weston’s nineteen-year-old sister. She might as well be fifteen with her petite features, and flawless face. Well, almost flawless. Her face still bears a hint of the brutality she endured at the hands of whomever. The bruising has faded, but is not yet totally erased. Her deep blue eyes are magnetic. She wears little make-up, but then, why fuck with perfection? Thick, sooty lashes, perfectly arched eyebrows, delicate bone structure, and perfect skin that likely have never known the intrusiveness of a zit. Her thick, dark hair is pulled back from her face, and tied up in a ponytail. But, instead of it making her look younger, it makes her look a bit exotic.
A collegiate femme fatale in her finest designer duds who wears her pain like some misguided badge of courage. Her body language is deliberately masked to appear confident and upbeat, if not sanguine.
I call bullshit.
I swallow the rest of my wine as Weston introduces me to his sister. I hand him my empty wine glass, so that I can shake the hand she extends to me.
“Well, this is new,” she says with a slight purr. “A rarity for sure. Pleased to meet you, Penny.”