Baby? Sterling mouthed at Cricket.
Cricket just shrugged and sat down on the sofa, crossing her long legs and pulling out her phone.
“We, ah… met playing minigolf,” Dorian said.
Tatum made a noise that sounded somewhere between a laugh and a cough but just nodded soberly when Alice glanced at them.
“Since when do you minigolf?” Sterling demanded.
“What? I’m not allowed to have fun now?”
“Were you ever?”
“Boys,” Alice said mildly. “Please.” She stood, straightening her linen pantsuit, and Sterling was struck with the memory of Sanyam tugging his shirt into place after kissing him. “Dorian, a word?”
Sterling sat down on the couch next to Cricket as they left. “At some point, you’re going to have to tell me how they really met,” he said under his breath.
“Porn shop,” Cricket said, equally quietly, and Sterling choked on his tongue.
He coughed and spluttered as Cricket pounded him on the back, muffling her giggles in faux-concern for his plight. When he was able to draw breath, eyes streaming, he looked up to see Tatum sitting on his other side, regarding him. Those brown eyes were disconcerting in their intensity, and Sterling gulped, trying for a smile.
“I’m Sterling, but call me Fox,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Oh yes, Dorian has told me all about you,” Tatum said. They accepted his hand, skin warm and smooth. “Spoiled rotten, thinks he owns the place, overinflated sense of self-worth—I could go on.”
“Aw,” Sterling said, pressing a hand to his heart. “He’s being nice. Dodo’s in love, Cricket!”
Tatum raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t mention you were funny.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Sterling said.
To his surprise, that won him a smile, setting Tatum’s eyes dancing.
“I like you,” they announced.
“Thank you,” Sterling said. “I have to admit, you’re not Dorian’s usual type. Which is a compliment, I should point out.”
Tatum laughed. “Dorian’s more open-minded than you might think.” They glanced at the wall and the framed snowflake puzzle hanging there, and their eyes widened. “Whoa, who did that?”
“Me,” Sterling said.
Tatum glanced at him, clearly reassessing their opinion of him. “You like puzzles?”
“Difficult ones, yeah,” Sterling said. “The kinds without edges or a cover image so I don’t know what I’m making—those are fun. You know, if you ever need birthday or Christmas gift ideas.”
Tatum grinned. “Noted.”
Sterling fidgeted, uncomfortable with being so close. “So… can I ask?”
“They and them pronouns,” Tatum said. “I’m not a boy or a girl.”
“How does that work, exactly?”
Tatum shrugged. Their fingernails were painted dark, iridescent blue, with swirls of violet throughout. “I’m bi-gender.”
“I don’t understand,” Sterling admitted, scooting an inch away.
Tatum gave him a pitying smile. “Not many people do. It’s okay. Basically, I don’t identify with either gender. I’m both… and neither. I’m just me. Calling me she isn’t accurate because I have male aspects, but calling me he is equally problematic and dismisses my feminine qualities.” It had the practiced ring of something they’d said often, patient and rehearsed.
“I thought it was one or the other,” Cricket added. “Tatum set me straight. Did you know that there are actually a lot of genders?”
“Are you okay with this?” Tatum asked.
Sterling squirmed, unable to make eye contact. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Maybe because you’re having a hard time looking at me?” Tatum said. Their voice was calm, like they’d had this conversation more than once, and a bubble of guilt welled under Sterling’s breastbone.
“I’m—I guess I’m having trouble wrapping my head around the concept.” He managed to look at them, and Tatum gave him an encouraging smile. “For Dorian, though, I’ll try,” Sterling said, and Tatum’s smile widened.
I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a rose.
Sterling closed his eyes as scraps of memory floated through his mind.
“But… I’m a boy.”
The memories fled as Alice and Dorian came back into the drawing room, high spots of color burning on Alice’s cheeks. Dorian mostly looked irritated, and he made a beeline for Tatum, who held out a hand and pulled him down onto the couch.
Humphrey stepped inside, discreetly clearing his throat. “Dinner is served.”
The meal was a reserved, chilly affair, with Alice obviously upset and Yates getting more and more annoyed throughout the courses, sneaking glances at Tatum, who was calmly eating and talking to the siblings.
The tension in the room only grew, though, and over dessert, Yates set his spoon down and leaned forward to address Tatum. “So tell me the truth, are you a boy or a girl?”
“Dad,” Dorian snarled.
Yates ignored him, and Tatum put a hand on Dorian’s arm.
“It’s okay. I’m neither, Mr. Reynard.”
“Okay, whatever, I don’t even know what that means, but what’s between your legs?”
“Yates!” Alice hissed.
Tatum didn’t seem fazed. “Dorian, if I’m lucky,” they said, lips curving.
Sterling choked on his sorbet, and Cricket snorted and hastily stifled it as Dorian turned bright red, and Yates glared.
“What were you born as?” he insisted.
Tatum regarded him, Dorian nearly vibrating with fury beside them. “If I tell you that, you’ll use those pronouns to refer to me, won’t you?”
“It’s what you truly are,” Yates said. “None of this ‘part boy, part girl’ bullshit. What you are when you’re born is the gender you should be.”
Tatum nodded gravely. “So transgender people are just confused?”
Yates bridled. “Look, the problem with young folk in this day and age is that they’re coddled. They’re told they don’t have to conform, so they all decide they want to be special snowflakes. Your gender at birth is what defines you, and—”
Dorian shot to his feet. “We’re done. Dad, when you can treat my partner with respect, maybe we’ll consider coming back. Let’s go, Tatum.”
Tatum stood more slowly and held their hand out to Sterling, who accepted it. “It was nice to meet you, at any rate.” They leaned in. “Nice hickey, by the way.”
Sterling glanced down and realized with horror that his shirt had slid to the side, exposing one of the marks. He jerked at his shirt, swearing silently as Tatum winked and followed Dorian out the door.
Alone with Cricket and his parents, Sterling glanced around the room. “So that was fun.”
“Eat your sorbet,” Alice snapped.
Cricket elbowed him. “Who gave you that?” she whispered as Alice and Yates conversed in low tones at the head of the table.
“None of your business,” Sterling said.
“Do I know him?” Cricket continued.
Sterling dropped his spoon and stared at her. She blinked big green eyes at him, innocence all over her face.
“You—what—how—”
Cricket rolled her eyes. “Don’t give yourself an aneurysm. I’ve known you were gay since I was eight.”
“But… I didn’t know until I was fifteen!” Sterling protested.
“Because you have even less grasp of your personal identity than you do others’,” Cricket said. “It’s painfully obvious to anyone with eyes.”
Yates cleared his throat, and the siblings’ heads whipped around.
“What are you two gossiping about?” he asked, forcing cheer into his voice.
“Fox’s most recent girlfriend,” Cricket said instantly.
Sterling kicked her under the table, and she punched him in the ribs, smile still firmly in place.
“Children,” Alice said despairingly.
“When are you going to bring a girl home for us to meet?” Yates asked. “Surely there must be one out there you like well enough to keep around for more than a few weeks. Or who likes you well enough, I suppose. We could take her out on the Calypso before the sea gets too cold.”
Sterling flinched. “No such creature,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Mom, as always, it’s been a pleasure. Dad, have fun trashing the liberals ruining the country. I have things to do this evening.”
He kissed his mother’s cheek again and escaped out the front door, the oppressive atmosphere easing as soon as he was outside. He’d been lying, of course—he had nothing to do, no plans to get together with anyone, but he couldn’t stay in that house another minute.
HE DROVE home in the gathering twilight as fireflies winked among the branches of the trees that crowded the boulevards.
Sterling had always loved this time of day. There was a peace to it, a feeling of stillness that made him think, impossibly, that things might be all right eventually.
HE WAS eight years old, a blur of constant activity, unable to sit still for even a minute.
“Mom, Mom! Come quick!”
Alice dropped her pen on top of the papers and caught Sterling’s slim body before he could launch himself at her. “Sterling, we’ve discussed your indoor voice,” she said, gently holding his wrists away from her perfectly pressed pantsuit.
“I wanna show you something,” Sterling insisted, squirming in her grasp.
“I’m busy, darling,” Alice said. “Can’t you show Cricket or Dorian? Or how about Amparo? I’m sure she’d love to see it.”
Sterling pouted. “Cricky’s too little, and Dorian is dumb. And ’Paro is doing laundry. It won’t take long, Mom, please?”
Alice sighed and stood up, smoothing her hair back as Sterling danced around her. He wrapped his small, grubby fingers around her hand and towed her out into the back garden.
“Look!” he said, gesturing expansively at the fireflies that dotted the garden with streaks of phosphorescence. “Their butts light up, see?”
Alice almost smiled. “Yes, dear. Because they’re fireflies.”
She ruffled Sterling’s hair, and he squirmed away from her to dash out into the garden and spin in a circle, small arms flung wide in the delight that wouldn’t be contained.
When he stumbled to a stop, breathless and dizzy with laughter, his mother had gone back inside.
HE GOT a text from Cricket as he was pulling into his parking spot.
Don’t forget about estate sale @ 7. Taking Daddy’s Land Rover.
Sterling groaned, the half-formed idea of finding some friends to hang out with dashed on the spot, and instead headed upstairs to shower before bed.
Chapter Ten
HE PICKED Cricket up the next morning, parking as she bounced down the steps, glossy hair swinging in a careless ponytail.
“Good morning!” she chirped as he stepped out.
“Matter of opinion,” Sterling grumbled. He stalked for the Land Rover that Humphrey had pulled around, sliding into the seat and starting the engine. Cricket hopped in next to him and buckled, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
Sterling slanted a look at her as she pulled the address up on her phone. “Why are you forcing me into this again?”
“Dorian is busy, and he helped me at the booth most recently,” Cricket said. “I mean, I’m nineteen years old, I could totally do this on my own, but Daddy—”
“Do not start,” Sterling said, holding up a hand. “I haven’t even eaten. I can’t take your rants on an empty stomach.”
Cricket shook her head. “You don’t take proper care of yourself, Fox. It’s not healthy. Have you ever even exercised?”
Sterling shuddered delicately and pulled out onto the boulevard, following the directions through Vancouver to Shaughnessy.
Cricket regarded him, and Sterling pretended not to notice.
“Are you going to do this for the rest of your life?” she asked.
“What?” Sterling asked, caught off guard.
“Act like you don’t care,” Cricket said.
Sterling bridled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what that means,” Cricket said flatly. “You’re above it all, aren’t you? Too good to mix with the unwashed masses? No, I mean it”—as Sterling tried to protest—“you turn up your nose and you sneer at us ‘plebes,’ you laze around and spend Daddy’s money—isn’t there anything you want to do? It’s a serious question; I want to know.”
Sterling swallowed the affront and tried to consider the question. “I’m—I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “I’m not good at anything. There’s nothing I like doing well enough to consider doing it as a career. Why should I? It’s not like Dad’s going to run out of money—he can afford it, and maybe when I hit my thirties, I’ll actually join his firm. For now, why shouldn’t I have fun? Is that so wrong?”
“It’s not wrong,” Cricket said. “But caring about stuff doesn’t make you uncool or whatever. Having a passion is important.”
Sterling shrugged this off. “What about you? Is this really what you want to do with your life?”
Cricket glanced at him, her boots propped on the dash. “Is that a serious question?”
“Well… yeah,” Sterling admitted. “I guess I’m curious. This is what makes you happy? Finding glassware and repurposing it?”
“There’s more to it than that,” Cricket said. “And I’m hoping to have my own antique shop at some point, but yeah. This is what I want to do with my life. I love glass, I love cleaning it up and making it sparkle again, seeing it come to life, and I really want to branch out into refurbishing and sourcing antique furniture when I can convince Daddy that I’m serious about this. Are you even familiar with the history of Depression-era glassware?”
“Only what you’ve forced me to learn,” Sterling said, slowing to turn into the driveway of a house even more palatial than their parents’. “So who kicked it?”
Cricket snorted a hastily smothered laugh and tried to replace it with a frown. “Really, Fox, for shame, have some respect for the dead.”
Sterling grinned and parked in the designated area. “I’ll be here when you’re done,” he said, putting his seat back.
“Oh no,” Cricket said. She grabbed the keys from the ignition and scrambled out of the front seat as he lunged to get them back. “You’re coming in with me. Come on. I’m not doing this alone.”
“Goddammit!” Without the engine running, it was too cold to stay in the car, so Sterling got out, glaring ferociously.
Cricket just smiled and turned to march inside, Sterling trailing behind her and muttering under his breath.
He followed her from room to room, bored out of his head, as Cricket inspected the items and pointed out interesting things.
“Look, Fox, a zoetrope!”
Sterling yawned. “Fascinating.”
Undaunted, Cricket kept going. “Oh, oh Fox, look at the glassware!” she said as she dragged him into the next room.
“There’s a lot of it,” Sterling agreed.
Cricket gasped out loud and pounced on an iridescent bowl. “Oh my God, a Fenton fantail-footed carnival glass bowl, I don’t believe it! Fox, hold this for me.” She shoved it at him, and Sterling swore as he grabbed it.
“Why does it look like rainbows?” he asked, turning it gingerly in his hands.
Cricket was poring over the rest of the collection, making happy noises as she gathered pieces. “The makers would spray a mineral salt solution on the surface before firing it,” she said without looking up.
“Kind of looks like an oil slick,” Sterling said. He ran a finger over the embossed pattern of grapes and butterflies around the rim of the bowl. “Is this Depression glass?”
“No,” Cricket said, putting another piece in his hands—a heavy platter that matched the bowl. “This is carnival glass. Similar era, different style.”
&n
bsp; “Where’d the name come from? Did carnivals make it?” Sterling asked, following her through the room.
Cricket shot him a glowing smile over her shoulder. “No, they gave it away to customers as incentive to get them to come. Oh, oh, elegant glass, this is the best day ever!” She picked up a cobalt-blue pitcher and held it to the light.
“That’s not Depression glass?” Sterling asked, struggling to keep his armful steady. “I thought Depression glass was blue.”
“It can be,” Cricket said. She tucked the pitcher under her arm and turned back to the table. “Elegant glass was made at the same time as Depression, but especially if you compare them, you can see the difference in quality. Elegant was fire polished to get rid of flaws, and a lot of the things you’ll see in a Depression piece—raised seams, uneven bases, things like that—aren’t there with an elegant piece. It’s worth more, obviously, and I haven’t found many pieces up here.”
A small man in a perfectly pressed suit approached, discreetly clearing his throat. “Perhaps sir would like to put his purchases in here,” he said, offering a box.
Sterling accepted it gratefully and put the glassware inside, making sure each piece was securely nestled and wouldn’t bump into the others. He took Cricket’s items and set them inside as well, then locked the lid as Cricket went through the rooms one more time to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.
Finally, though, she decided she was done, and Sterling heaved a sigh of relief as she paid for the pieces, and he carried them down the steps onto the front lawn toward the Rover.
Cricket was ahead of him, keys in hand as she cheerfully chattered on about the history of glassware in general, and Sterling hefted the box in his arms and missed the last step, unable to see his feet.
He went sprawling, horror dawning in slow motion as he realized what was happening but unable to stop his forward plunge.
The box hit first, the glass inside shattering like it had been hit by a hammer. Sterling clipped his forehead on the corner of the box as he went down hard, and his wrist turned beneath him. Pain burst in kaleidoscope colors on the inside of his eyelids.
Broken Rules Page 8