by Inda Herwood
He looks up from the book bag he had brought with him, full of his application papers, wearing a strange expression. “What do you mean?”
“Is this going to be boring for you? I know it’s not like an official date, but –”
“Hey,” he says, stopping me before I can ramble, “I don’t need to go out and do something to have fun with you. I just like being around you, even if it’s with you painting and me filling out stuff for college. And the only thing that’s going to be boring for me is trying to figure out how to make myself look good on paper.” He waves the applications in a fan motion, his smile half sweet and half dreadful.
I smile at his answer, glad that he sounded sincere. But seeing him this worried about his essay, I ask, “Do you want me to help you with it?”
“Really?”
“Sure. What is it that’s giving you trouble?” I ask, wetting my paints while he pulls out a piece of paper with a bunch of handwritten notes on it.
“Mainly making myself stand out with something other than my academic achievements. According to online, the more individualized I can make myself, the better.”
“Well,” I say, dipping my brush in the water before lightly damping it on one of my paper towels, “I think the internet is right. I’m sure admissions officers would be looking for a more personalized essay rather than just wanting you to list everything you’ve ever done; something that shows your personality. Like if you mention being in the music club, then talk about how you contributed to it and led others. Or when you talk about your experience with the piano, let them know how it shaped and influenced you enough to make you want to be a composer, and how you want to affect the industry after school. Long-term goals and short-term accomplishments are a good thing to focus on. It shows you’re dedicated and hardworking.”
“Goal oriented,” he says under his breath while he quickly writes down what I said. “That’s great. Make sure to list what I achieved, but make it more personal and less stuffy.” He looks up, his lips thinning when he says, “Now all I have to do is figure out how to combine the two in a matter of five hundred words.”
“Don’t think of it like that if it makes you anxious,” I tell him. “If you want, make it like you’re writing a letter to me, telling me what you want to do with your life. Maybe it’ll make you less self-conscious and your writing more natural.”
He grins, tapping his pencil on his paper stack. “Are you just trying to get a love letter out of me, Kahlo?”
I roll my eyes and get back to my project, saying over my shoulder to the tune of “Without Me” by Halsey, “If you wrote a love letter to a university, your mother really would have a reason to panic.”
CHAPTER 17
Blaire
“I forgot to tell you earlier, but my mom wanted me to invite you and your family over for dinner next week,” Beckham says after I walk him out to the driveway, slipping a pair of sunglasses over my eyes. It’s got to be at least ninety degrees out with not a cloud in the sky. It makes me glad that I picked my air-conditioned art room over the beach today.
“That’s ironic.”
Placing his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun while he looks at me, he asks, “Why is that?”
“Because my mom asked me to ask you over for dinner next week.”
He huffs a laugh, looking at me with squinted eyes when he asks, “Why do you make it sound like it’s the worst idea ever?”
I frown, explaining, “It’s going to be an interrogation dinner, the kind where Nana and Dad are shooting you daggers across the table the entire time. I doubt that’s something you’d like to experience. But since your mom invited us all over, it might persuade my mom to cancel her dinner for now. Fingers crossed.” I actually cross my fingers, making him laugh.
“I have to warn you, though. My grandfather is coming to visit for a week, that’s why my mom wanted you guys to come over. He’s grumpy and hard to entertain for long, and she thought meeting some new people might make him a little more tolerable.”
Wrapping his hand around mine, trying to distract me, I say, “Oh, so we’re just buffers for you then, huh?”
“Pretty much,” he grins. “But don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
“From your grandfather?”
A nod. “I wasn’t kidding when I said he’s grumpy. But maybe your nana can distract him for us. She’s a lot like how my grandmother used to be, spunky and filter free. Though my grandma would have never dared to wear leopard print.” He snickers, and my face flushes from old embarrassment.
“Can we please never speak of that again?”
“I don’t think so. I like how it makes you blush.” He runs a finger over my cheek just to prove his point.
“Beck,” I warn.
“Blaire.”
I shake my head at him, our fingers drifting away from each other when I start to walk back to the porch. “Tell your mom we’ll be there. And if there’s anything we can bring, call me.”
“I’ll be calling you a lot, Kahlo, but not for that reason.” He winks at me before turning around and jogging back to his own house, leaving me with a too happy smile on my face.
***
“I feel ridiculous in this,” Nana says as we stand in front of the Lyons’ door a week later, my hands filled with a giant dish of green bean casserole. “It doesn’t even have a print on it.”
“Normal people don’t own clothing in every animal print on the planet,” Mom tells her, pushing her hair behind her ears, her new haircut shorter than I can ever remember it being. She and Nana decided to get mini makeovers the other day, and came back looking like the richer versions of their former selves. Mom got a haircut and Nan was forced by her daughter to buy some clothes from this century.
Seeing their transformation, I decided to do something I almost never do and curled my hair for tonight, only to regret it when I realized that curling over two feet of hair takes over an hour to do. My arm is still sore from holding the stupid iron up for so long. I did keep the clothes normal, though. I have on a knee-length chiffon skirt and a light blue blouse that Mom says brings out the color in my eyes.
“Maybe you should knock again,” Dad says, pulling at the unfamiliar tie around his neck, like he’s afraid it’s going to strangle him if it’s on for too long. We’re all dressing a little fancier than usual because Beckham warned me that his grandfather is the fancy sort, and tonight was going to be much more formal than our previous barbecue. When he told me that, I may or may not have gone into a full-blown panic, wondering how my family was going to pull off being refined and dignified for an entire evening. All it would take is Nana opening her mouth once and we could be screwed.
Who would have thought that pretending you’ve always been rich could be so hard?
And it isn’t getting any easier, especially since I’m around Beckham so much now, seeing each other almost every day. And with every second that I keep the truth of my background from him, my stomach grows tighter and tighter.
More than ever, I want my boyfriend to know everything about me, to understand my life and how it brought me here – to him. I hate giving him the bare minimum when he asks me about what my life was like growing up, and the places we must have visited with my parents’ work. He doesn’t ever say anything about it, but I know he wonders why my clothes are so old, and why most of my things from my previous home are dented and aged. Claiming that they’re vintage is only half of the truth, and he deserves all of it.
Now I just have to figure out how to get my parents to let me tell him who we really are, and pray he won’t hate me for it like he did Jenna.
Dad knocks on the door again while Nana readjusts her mauve wrap dress for the hundredth time. Right as the door opens, she says, “If I chafe, it’s all your fault, Martha.”
Beckham, dressed in slacks and a dark green dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, widens his eyes at Nana’s statement, looking at me with a stunned half-smile on his lips.
“Good evening Cromwell crew. Come on in.” He steps aside, and my parents and Nana walk past him and into the house with short greetings. I linger at the back, wanting to have a moment alone with him.
“She’s going to blow this for all of us, I can feel it,” I tell him nervously, his hands reaching out to take the casserole from me. My arms sag in relief.
“It’ll be fine. The worst that can happen is she offends my grandfather and he stomps off in an angry rage.” When his face doesn’t break under the joke, I take it that he’s serious, and actually start to worry for real this time, because what he just described could most definitely happen.
“I’m kidding,” he says, laughing at the sure to be horrified expression on my face. “Besides, I don’t want to talk about tonight.”
“What do you want to talk about then?” I ask after he shuts the door, my fingers picking invisible lint off my shirt.
“How about how beautiful you look right now? I almost missed what your nana said because I was too busy staring at this.” He holds the casserole with one hand while the other wraps a curly tendril around his finger. With a moan, he says, “Are you trying to kill me or something?”
“It wasn’t the intention, but I’d be flattered if you did,” I tease, kissing his cheek quick before taking his hand and leading him into the house.
“Do we really have to stay down here?” he asks, his tone on the verge of pitiful.
“For now, yes. But maybe later we can sneak away for a bit.”
“Like a walk on the beach?” he asks with a secretive smile.
“Well we can’t go for a swim again, that’s for sure.”
Apparently, I’m the only one that finds the joke funny, because he says, voice emotionless, “Low blow, Cromwell. Low blow.”
Stepping into the living area slash kitchen, I’m a little taken aback when I see the amount of unfamiliar faces in here. It’s not just the Lyons’, but I also see a middle-aged couple talking to Mr. Lyons by the island, and a distinguished looking older man with gray hair and a full mustache standing by the French doors, staring out onto the backyard.
“The couple over there own the Victorian across the street, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly,” Beck tells me when he sees me looking at them. “And the scowling expert by the doors is my grandfather, Theodore Lyons.”
Even just seeing his back and side profile I can tell he has a stiff, unmoving personality; the total opposite of his son and grandsons. “Wait. That’s the guy your sweet little brother was named after?” I ask, not bothering to cover up my disbelief.
“Yup. And you better brace yourself, because he’s as cuddly as he looks, and he likes to ask rude, intrusive questions.”
“Then he’ll love Nana,” I deadpan, feeling like I need a drink. My mouth went dry with just the idea of her interacting with such a man.
“That’s the plan,” he says, giving me a wink that only I see.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Leigha says, popping up in front of me, a champagne flute filled with a bright red liquid in her hand. “Sorry, Cuz, I need to borrow your woman for a second.” She takes my hand without warning and drags me off to an area of the living room where no one is within earshot. Letting out a long sigh, she says, “I did it.”
“Did what?” I ask, rubbing at my wrist. The girl is a lot stronger than she looks.
“I returned that stupid shirt back to Guy.”
Guy? Who’s guy? It takes me a minute before I remember, “Oh, Guy. How did it go?”
She bites the corner of her cheek, looking out at the sunset like her grandfather, who has since moved over to the kitchen where my mom and Nana are hanging out with Mrs. Lyons…oh crap. “I don’t know. He was annoying and frustrating like usual, but then something weird happened –”
Inch by inch, the distance between Theodore and Nana grows smaller. The only thing that’s separating them is Mrs. Lyons, my last bit of hope. Please stay where you are, please don’t move, for all of our sake’s… When Leigha snaps her fingers in my face, I turn my head back to look at her, forgetting what we had been talking about. “Huh?”
“What has you all distracted?” she asks, looking in the same direction as I had a minute ago.
“I’m sorry, it’s just Nana. I’m afraid she’s going to make a scene and ruin your aunt’s party. The last time she was around so many people, she started to talk about her hernia surgery, and then she pulled out her camera to show them pictures of the scar,” I explain, my mind coming up with the worst possible ways she could embarrass us tonight. The camera incident wasn’t even her worst stunt, it was just the first one my memory could grab onto.
“I kind of hope she does. These things are usually a snooze fest.” Taking a drink from her glass, she swallows before saying, “At least the Okura’s didn’t come. Aunt Elise had invited them, but unsurprisingly, they turned her down.”
Still keeping an eye on Nana, I ask, “Why do you say that?”
“Say what?”
“That it isn’t a surprise they turned down the invitation.”
“Oh, well it isn’t much of a secret that they’re pretty uptight, not very social like most of the elite are. I’m actually surprised you and I have never met at some ball or fundraiser before. My mom has put on a lot of events for hospital charities in the past.”
Continuing to sweat over Nana, I’m not really paying attention when I ask her, “Why would you expect to see me at one of those?”
She turns to me, eyebrows slightly raised in question. “I thought you said your mom was in the medical industry before she retired? I just thought that she’d be at one of the events is all.”
“Oh,” I say awkwardly, clearing my throat. I totally forgot that’s what I’d told her when we first met. “Right. Um, we’re not really the social types either.”
Her look is mildly suspicious at first, but then she shrugs it off, asking, “Then how do you feel about bonfires?”
“Bonfires?” I repeat, wondering what she’s talking about.
She nods, saying, “In a few weeks I’m throwing one down on the beach for the senior class. I overheard Beckham telling Catch he was going to invite you, and I thought I’d beat him to the punch. That reminds me, do you want any?” She gently swishes the drink in her glass, eyes waiting for an answer.
“Sure, that sounds great.”
“What, the drink or the bonfire?”
“Both,” I say, making her smile.
She links her arm with mine and guides me over to the kitchen, a happy skip in her step. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Beckham
Once everyone gets themselves a drink, and Mom announces dinner is ready, we all find our places around the long rectangular table, decorated to the nines in true Elise Lyons fashion. I’m quick to grab two seats together for Blaire and I, pulling her chair out for her. She smiles in thanks, placing her glass down in front of her.
Theo walks up to her on her right side in his little blue suit, pausing next to the empty seat. He gives her his “Blaire” smile as I’m calling it, silently asking her if he can sit there. “Come right on up, sir,” she tells him, pulling out the seat for him.
He climbs up and puts his butt in the chair, looking like the king of England with how proud his smile is. It’s the first time Mom has ever let him sit at the adult’s table, something he’s been excited about all week. That, and he finished his superhero drawing the other day, showing it to Blaire, and naturally she loved it. He even taped it to the fridge himself without one of us doing it for him; something he would have never done before if it weren’t for her encouragement.
“This is beautiful,” Blaire says, eyes scanning the expertly laid out table, her fingers lightly ghosting over the gold silverware. “Now I’m afraid to spill something.”
“Don’t be. By the end of the night, Catcher’s section will look worse than anyone else’s. No one will notice if you spill a drop or two.”
“I heard that,” my brother says rather crossly
from the other side of the table, unbuttoning the top button on his gray dress shirt when Mom’s not looking.
“Hard not to when you’re right there.”
“He’s always there,” Leigha complains at the other end, finishing off her punch with a flourish.
A ting sounds, bringing everyone’s attention to the front of the table where Mom is standing, a spoon and wine glass sitting in her hands. Smiling at everyone, she says, “Thank you all so much for coming tonight. We’re having this dinner in honor of our special guest, Theodore Lyons, and as a way to get to know some of our neighbors better. I hope you all enjoy the food and the company. Bon appétit.” She raises her glass and so does everyone else. Blaire grabs Theo’s juice box and hands it to him so he can do the same. The small act of thoughtfulness brings a smile to my face, and I grab my girlfriend’s hand under the table, intertwining it with mine.
I’m met with a shy but happy smile in return.
With everyone seated, we all dig into the catered dishes placed up and down the table family style, the only sound coming from the clinking of metal against porcelain. At least at first.
“Want a roll?” Blaire asks Theo, placing one on his plate when he nods.
“You have a beautiful way with children,” Mrs. Kelly admires from down at the other end of the table, smiling at Blaire. “You must have a lot of experience with them.”
She nods with a small smile. “I’ve done my fair share of babysitting in the past.”
“What was I thinking? I should have introduced everyone before I sat down,” Mom says with a shake of her head. “Hanson, Georgina, Theodore, these are the Cromwell’s, and this is their daughter Blaire, and Martha’s mother, Delfina Hawkins. They just moved in next door earlier this summer.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Mrs. Cromwell says, her smile a little shy but very sweet, reminding me of Blaire.