The Dumnonian Hoard: Rosenberg Twins Adventure #1

by Adrien Leduc

  Chapter Two

  TROY TROTTIER

  Two hours later. Shortly after six o’clock.

  “I want cheese.”

  “Josh, no. Cheese is like…cheese is like the most boring topping!”

  “But I like it.”

  “Ahhhhhh, fine. Here.” I thrust the pizza menu at him. “You order.”

  He looks kind of hurt, and I feel bad. But then I remember how much of a jerk he was to me when I had Angela and Stacey over last week and any sympathy I have for him quickly evaporates.

  “What do you want?” he asks after a minute, his eyes fixed to the menu.

  I look up from my phone. “I told you already. Greek. I want the Greek pizza.”

  “Alright…sheesh…you’re being a cow tonight.”

  “Well, look who I’m dealing with,” I mutter, getting up from the couch and pocketing my phone.

  Josh looks shocked, but he quickly recovers. “You can order your own pizza.”

  I stop and turn around. “That’s fine by me. You’d probably screw up the order anyway.”

  “Why’re you being such a bitch?”

  The word stings, but I’m not about to let Josh know he’s hit his mark. I force a smile. “I’m just giving you a taste of your own medicine for once.”

  Josh makes a sound and looks away.

  “Let me know when the pizza’s here,” I say, flinging my hair back and heading down the hallway. “I’m calling in my order right now.”

  I make my way upstairs, to my room, a small slice of sanctuary in this crazy house.

  I flop down on my bed and dial Giorgio’s. “Hi, yes, I’d like to order a medium Greek pizza…yeah. Yes, for delivery. Okay. Half an hour? Sounds good. Thanks.”

  My pizza ordered, I roll onto my side and check my messages. Stacey had replied earlier and said we could do something tonight. I plan on going over there as soon as we’ve eaten.

  There’s a message from Angela. She’s out with Derek, her new boyfriend. He goes to Belmont and he’s in Grade Twelve. Angela’s been bragging for like the past week and all we ever hear is Derek this and Derek that.

  The doorbell sounds then and I nearly drop my phone.

  Is the pizza here already!?

  “JOSH. GET THE DOOR.”

  My brother doesn’t answer.

  Idiot...

  I roll out of bed and thump downstairs. Josh is coming down the hallway as I near the bottom.

  “Josh!”

  “What?”

  “Why didn’t you answer the door?”

  “I am answering the door.”

  “Why didn’t you answer it when it rang?” I motion toward the door. Through the frosted glass panels, I can see the person’s wearing a yellow shirt.

  “Don’t the Giorgio’s guys wear green jackets?”

  Josh shrugs and I open the door.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  On our doorstep stands a young man. He’s about twenty-four…maybe twenty-five…and he’s cute. Correction: gorgeous. With his sun-bleached, blonde hair and and his yellow polo shirt.

  “You’re not the pizza guy.”

  He smiles. “No…I’m not the pizza guy. Were you expecting a pizza guy?”

  I nod and he laughs.

  “Was I supposed to bring pizza? Professor Rosenberg didn’t say anything about -”

  “You’re looking for Professor Rosenberg?”

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  “We’re the Rosenberg’s, but I don’t know who Professor Rosenberg is…” I turn and look at Josh. “Who’s Professor Rosenberg?”

  Josh shrugs and I return my attention to hunky College Boy.

  “I’m sorry, but who do you mean exactly?”

  “Professor Rosenberg…Professor Martin Rosenberg,” he says, his tone sounding ever more hopeful.

  I practically slap my forehead. “Ohhhhhh, Uncle Marty!”

  His face lights up at my sudden understanding. “Uncle Marty?”

  I laugh. “That’s what we call him. He’s my dad’s brother.”

  “Oh…” He looks surprised. “This isn’t his house then?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Hmm…because this is where he told me to come to. We’re flying to France tomorrow.”

  I nod excitedly, elated by the prospect I’ll get to spend the next few weeks with this gorgeous college boy. “So are we!”

  “You guys are coming too?”

  I can’t tell by his expression whether he thinks this is a good thing or not.

  I nod again. “Uh hunh.”

  “Hmm…he didn’t mention anything about that either…”

  I laugh. “You know my uncle. He’s pretty forgetful. And not always there, if you know what I mean.”

  College Boy’s face breaks into smile. “Yeah, I know. Still, he’s one of the best professors I’ve ever had…and he’s the best source for medieval history at the University of Toronto…he’s also my thesis supervisor.”

  “What’s a thesis supervisor?”

  “The person who supervises your thesis,” Josh cuts in, his tone dripping with impatience.

  I round on him. “And what’s a thesis then, smart guy?”

  Josh can’t answer this question.

  “A thesis supervisor,” College Boy answers, recalling my attention, “is a professor who oversees your thesis project. A thesis project is like a really big paper that you write when you’re going for your Master’s or your P.H.D.”

  “What’s a P.H.D.?”

  “It’s your doctorate...but in other words, it basically means you’ve spent ten years in school.” He laughs as he says this, forcing me to laugh even though I still don’t quite understand.

  I notice the two duffel bags stacked neatly beside him. “Did you want to bring those inside?”

  He nods, graciously, and smiles. “Yeah, that’d be great. My name’s Troy by the way.” He extends a hand. “Troy Trottier.”

  “Sarah. Sarah Rosenberg.” I take his hand and shake it. It’s warm and I feel a tingle up my arm.

  “Is your uncle here then, or...?” he asks as we step inside.

  Josh turns and heads down the hallway, leaving us alone.

  “No, he’s not. But he’s supposed to be here by supper. We’ve already ordered pizza...I don’t know if you like Greek pizza, but you can share some of mine.”

  “Sure. Or I can order my own too.”

  “Well, call right now if you do. Then they can bring it all at the same time. Because I just ordered and my brother,” I turn and catch my brother’s fleeting presence, “I don’t know what he’s doing. I don’t care.” I laugh.

  Troy makes a sound as he lugs his bags inside - they look heavy - and drops them on the floor. “I guess pizza would be nice...” He drops his backpack on the floor and stands fully upright, and now that we’re standing on the same level, I can see he’s at least a foot taller than me.

  “You’re tall.”

  He smiles and runs a hand through his gorgeous blonde mane. “I’m average.”

  Yeah, right. And I’m Marilyn Monroe.

  “I’ll show you where the guest room is.” I turn and start up the stairs. “There’s one upstairs and one downstairs. Uncle Marty usually takes the one downstairs (this of course is a complete and total lie), so you can sleep upstairs with me...I mean,” I feel myself turn red, “in the guest room. My room’s upstairs too.”

  He laughs. “I know what you meant.”

  We make our way upstairs, him balancing his duffel bags precariously on one shoulder and me leading the way, still feeling awkward.

  “What’s all this stuff, anyways? Feels like a museum,” says Troy.

  “All the stuff on the walls?”

  We arrive at the top of the stairs and I look at Troy as he drops his bags unceremoniously on the floor. “Yeah.” He rests his hands on his hips and studies the two walls that line the stairwell. “I mean, you’ve got some kind of African shield there...a Tibetan praye
r flag there...a snowshoe there.”

  “My parents work for the Canadian Red Cross,” I explain with a small sigh. “And every time they go somewhere, they bring something back. So you’ll see all sorts of weird stuff like that in our house.”

  “I don’t find it weird,” says Troy, taking up his bags once more. “I find it pretty neat actually. Your parents must be some cool people.”

  I can almost feel my eyes roll in their sockets. “Uh, no. Well, my mom’s pretty cool. But my dad, hmmmmm, not so much.”

  We both laugh as I lead him down the hallway to the guest bedroom.

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Trust me,” I say, turning to look at him, “my dad’s like my Uncle Marty - only grumpier.”

  “Well, he still seems a lot cooler than my dad. My dad’s idea of a cultural activity was taking me to Hong and Wong’s International Buffet.”

  I giggle. “Hong and Wong’s International Buffet?”

  Troy laughs. “I’m serious. That what my dad’s idea of culture.”

  “Where is that anyway. That’s not here in Toronto, is it?”

  “No. Hamilton.”

  We reach the door to the guest bedroom. “Is that where you’re from?” I open the door and step inside.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. I’ve been to Hamilton a few times.”

  Troy throws his bags on the bed. “Not much to see, is there?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. My friend Stacey and her family took me. We went to the Grey Cup when it was there. It was pretty cool.”

  “Well, football games are about the only thing to see there,” says Troy glumly, flopping down in the computer chair and rummaging through his bag. “That or hockey.”

  I watch as he pulls out a laptop.

  He looks up after a minute. “Do you guys have WiFi?”

  I nod. “Yeah. But that password’s really long...like it’s a bunch of numbers and stuff...I’ll have to go and find it. It’s written down somewhere”

  He smiles. “Great, thanks. I just need to fire off a few e-mails.”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  I hear the doorbell ring.

  “That’s got to be the pizza...I’ll share mine with you...cool?”

  Troy shrugs. “Yeah. No worries. I can always go out and get something.”

  “Whatever you want. There’s a noodle place just up the street.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I watch him for a second as he stares at his laptop screen, still hardly believing I’m going to be spending the next four weeks with a gorgeous college boy. Stacey and Angela will be so jealous!

  “Alright, well...I’ll get you the WiFi password and stuff. Do you need anything else?”

  He looks at me and smiles and I feel weak in the knees. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

  I return his smile. “No problem. I’ll be back in a few minutes with the WiFi password for you, okay?”

  He nods as he punches a number into his cell phone and puts it to his ear. “Sure thing. Thanks.”

  Who’s he calling?

  I take my time leaving his room and what I hear makes my heart sink.

  “Hey babe...yeah, sorry I couldn’t call you earlier. Been busy packing for France...”

  What did you think, stupid? That he was single? Besides, he’s too old for you. But hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?