by Ohlin, Nancy
What are Max and I supposed to talk about when there are so many things I can’t tell him?
“So are your mom and dad coming next weekend?” Max asks me.
“What? What’s next weekend?”
“It’s Parents’ Weekend. You didn’t get the five million e-mails from Dean Sanchez?”
“Oh. Yeah, that.” I twist my napkin in my lap. How do I explain to a US senator’s grandson that my mom just started a second job, at Applebee’s, to make ends meet? Or that my dad isn’t exactly around? Great, more things I can’t tell him. “I don’t think they can make it. They have, uh, other commitments they can’t get out of. What about your parents?”
Max takes a sip of his water. “Yeah, they always show up for this stuff. They want to meet you.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
“I mentioned you to my mom when we were Skyping the other day. She said she and Dad want to have dinner with us. Franklin, too,” Max adds. “They like taking my friends out. I hope it’s okay.”
Maybe Devon was exaggerating. Mr. and Mrs. De Villiers don’t sound “intimidating.” They sound like nice, generous people. “Sure. That would be fun.”
“Great.” Max squeezes my hand. He seems sincerely happy that I’m meeting his parents. Which makes me happy. It’s like we’re a real couple.
“So what should I wear?” I ask him.
Max laughs. “What you always wear?”
“It’s your parents. I want to make a good first impression.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know.” I’ve never met a boy’s parents before, at least not the parents of a boy I was dating. Maybe Devon can give me some advice. Or better yet, let me borrow one of her outfits, as long as it’s not the Las Vegas call girl dress.
“Seriously, just wear that.” Max nods at my red sweater and denim skirt. “So did you finish your paper for Bags yet?”
Good. New topic. Talking about my wardrobe is stressful. “Almost. I’m having total writer’s block with the ending.”
“Me too. With the beginning, middle, and ending. I’m going to have to spend most of this weekend working on it to finish for Monday.”
I guess that means I won’t see him again till then. I bite back my disappointment. “Oh.”
“I’ll get it done. And if I don’t . . . well, Bags is pretty cool about extensions.”
“My friend Kayleigh swears she has this cure for writer’s block,” I say, trying to be helpful. “An hour on a treadmill, followed by a peanut butter and pickle sandwich, followed by a really strong cup of coffee. I’ve tried it, but it just gives me a stomachache.”
Max smiles. “That would give me a stomachache, too.”
The waiter comes by to fill our water glasses. A few tables over, this girl I recognize from Kerrith—Taylor, Tabor?—is having dinner with a boy from my bio class. She laughs at something he says and touches his arm. He grins with pleasure, like a happy, well-fed cat. How does she know how to do that? Is flirting a learnable skill? I have no idea how to talk to boys provocatively or make those small but meaningful gestures. Other girls make it look so easy, but it’s like a foreign language to me. I’m much more comfortable babbling about dumb stuff like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches or sitting in a contented mutual silence. It’s funny, but Max seems to appreciate that.
Or does he? Maybe he’s wondering why I’m not giggling and touching his arm. Why I’m not more charming and chatty, like Becca undoubtedly was, given that she was so popular and the president of everything. What did the two of them talk about? Probably smart, sophisticated things like politics and art and music. Or fabulous places they’d both been to.
Or maybe they just stared into each other’s eyes, whispering about what they would do later in bed . . . in my bed.
“Tess? Do you want to order some dessert?” Max asks me. The waiter hovers nearby with a couple of menus.
“Dessert? Sure.”
Maybe more calories will help me get over my crazy jealousy.
When I get back to the dorm, Devon isn’t in our room. It’s late and I’m tired, and I have to get up early to finish my paper for Mr. Bagley. I should go to sleep, but I’m feeling on edge. Depressed, even. My date with Max was fine, and he held my hand a lot. But he didn’t kiss me good-bye in front of Kerrith. For a second he looked as though he might, but it was like he changed his mind at the last minute, saying “night, Tess,” in a subdued voice.
Am I unkissable?
Or was he just missing Becca and wishing he was with her instead of me?
I grab the laptop, plop down on my bed, and boot up. At least I have my own wallpaper now: a picture of Marshmallow Fluff belly-up on my bed at home. Much better than Max and Becca making out by the beach.
I go online. There are three e-mails in my in-box. The first is from Dean Sanchez, with details about Parents’ Weekend. The second is from my mom:
Hey, honey bunny!
Just wanted to let you know that I miss you and hope you are doing all right. I haven’t heard from you lately, but I figure you must be busy with your classes and all.
Last week, I started my new waitressing job. It’s been a while since I worked at a restaurant. I’d forgotten how annoying customers can be! One guy ordered a hamburger, but when I brought it to him, he claimed he’d ordered steak instead. He yelled at me for five minutes before asking to speak to the manager. I think he was just angling for a free steak!
By the way, I got a notice from your school about Parents’ Weekend. I wish so much I could be there. I asked my boss for the time off, but he said there was no way since two of his other waitresses were on vacation then. Next year, I promise!
I hope you know how proud I am of you, being at that school. You are going to be a star someday.
Let me know if you need anything.
Hugs and kisses,
Mom
I feel so guilty. With everything that’s been happening, I’ve forgotten all about my mom. I make a mental note to call her over the weekend so we can catch up. Of course, I’ll have to leave out some details about the bonfire and Devon. Being a mom, she would worry way too much.
The second e-mail is from Kayleigh:
Hey, girl!
Okay, so I’ve been living on Wikipedia and a bunch of other sites, trying to solve your mystery. I’m 99 percent sure there are supernatural forces at work. You should be super-careful!
Did you get an amulet yet? If not, order one ASAP. After you get it, NEVER TAKE IT OFF. It will protect you from Evil Spirits.
My fingers are stiff as I start to reply to Kayleigh. The room feels colder than it was a few minutes ago. Way colder. I wrap my comforter around my shoulders. Why is our radiator always breaking?
Hey, K! Thanks for the info. I feel like such a selfish friend. When we talked on Monday, I didn’t even ask you how you are.
So, how are you? How are things with your parents? How’s school?
It’s been weird here, and I’ve been in this funk. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I met this amazing guy, and
There is a loud scraping sound from Devon’s side of the room. Startled, I glance up from the laptop. Devon’s bottom desk drawer is open. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t like that when I came in.
What the hell? Did it come loose on its own or is a small animal trapped in there or something? Is Devon playing a prank on me?
I get up and walk over to the desk tentatively.
No small animals. The drawer is empty except for Devon’s silver box. The one with Becca’s photograph in it.
I kneel down for a closer look. The box has a beautiful flower design on it. Roses. I wonder if it holds other Becca mementos?
I try the lid. It doesn’t budge. A warm tingling radiates up my fingers. It’s the strangest sensation.
What is happening?
Footsteps, voices. I hear Devon shout, “Tell it to someone who cares, bitch!” and break into a peal of laughter. I close the drawer and retrea
t quickly to my bed.
I shut my laptop. I’ll finish my e-mail to Kayleigh later. My brain is racing and spinning. It’s crazy, but I feel as though the silver box beckoned, inviting me to open it.
Maybe Kayleigh is right after all. Maybe Thorn Abbey is haunted.
21.
“I THINK SHE SHOULD GO WITH AN LBD,” YOONIE SUGGESTS. “You can’t go wrong with an LBD.”
“For her very first dinner with the parents? I don’t think so, sweetie,” Priscilla says. “Maybe in that slutty city you come from, but not here in the land of the Puritans. I think she should wear a Prada skirt, white blouse, and pearls.”
Elinor pipes up. “I think you’re both wrong. I’d go casual but elegant, like slacks and a cashmere sweater. And a sleek little Cartier watch.”
It’s Parents’ Weekend, and in about an hour I’m meeting Max and his parents at a restaurant called the Hawk and Dove. Franklin will be there, too. I’m secretly relieved since the De Villierses won’t be able to fixate the conversation on me.
Devon and her crew are giving me a makeover. Or, as Devon so sweetly put it, a “do-over.” It’s really nice of the girls to help me out. I wasn’t sure they liked me before, especially Elinor and Priscilla. And Devon, half the time.
I perch on my bed in my bra and panties with a thick layer of cold, muddy goop on my face that smells like cucumbers and dead leaves. Yoonie is straightening my hair with a long, hot metal thing. Priscilla is painting my fingernails pink, while Elinor puts the final touches on my pedicure.
Devon wipes the goop off my face with a wet washcloth. “I’m with Yoonie. We can add pearls for a touch of class. Tess, what do you have in the way of an LBD?”
“Um . . .” I have no idea what an LBD is. It sounds like a medical procedure.
“Actually, why am I asking you? I’ve seen your closet,” Devon says impatiently. “It’s like some Omaha, Nebraska, garage sale. Do you even own a little black dress?”
Versus a big black dress? And what’s up with the bitchy garage sale comment? “No.”
“You can borrow one of ours then. The only problem is gonna be squeezing you in since you’re practically a plus size.” Devon bends over me with a pair of tweezers and yanks a hair from my right eyebrow.
“Ow! Do you have to do that?”
“This is for your own good. You look like a hobbit. Haven’t you ever heard of waxing?”
“Devon, be nice,” Priscilla chides her. “Tess is terrified enough as it is.”
I turn toward Priscilla, or more like half-turn, since Yoonie’s metal device is clamped to my hair like a pit bull’s jaw. “Terrified? Why should I be terrified?”
“You know, sweetie. Meeting the De Villierses and all. Especially since—”
Devon shoots her a look of death. Priscilla falls silent and busies herself with a bottle of nail polish remover. What are they talking about? Do they mean because of Becca? Were Max’s parents madly in love with her, too?
“We’re wasting time, people. We’ll improvise.” Devon strides over to her dresser. “Priscilla, you have that black silk skirt. It might fit her if we use some safety pins to let out the waist. Elinor, you can donate your black blouse with the ruffly collar; it’s pretty baggy. Yoonie, you’re a size eight shoe, right? We’ll need your black flats, please. I’ll throw in my pearls.”
“I’m a size eight narrow,” Yoonie clarifies. “But we can stretch them with this supercool hair dryer trick I know. Do you want the Miu Mius? Or the Marc Jacobs?” she asks me cheerfully.
“Um, either is fine, thanks.”
“The Marc Jacobs, duh,” Devon says. “Okay, let’s move it! She has to be out of here in like thirty, forty minutes tops. And we haven’t even started on makeup, which is going to take forever.”
This do-over isn’t exactly helping my self-esteem.
At five thirty, Devon and I are alone in the room, putting the finishing touches on my outfit for dinner. Yoonie, Priscilla, and Elinor left to meet up with their own parents.
Devon drapes her string of pearls around my neck and snaps the clasp shut. “This necklace is vintage Mikimoto. If you lose it, I will seriously kill you.” She spins me around. “There, what do you think?”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look . . . pretty. And stylish. And put together. Not like me at all.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I gush. “Wow, I wish I could look like this all the time.”
“Yeah, dream on.” Devon steps back and scrutinizes me with a frown.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. Something’s missing.” She glances over her shoulder at her closet.
“No, I’m fine. I’m better than fine. Besides, I have to go—and so do you. Aren’t your parents waiting for you?”
“Nah. They’re not coming this weekend. They can’t stand being within ten feet of each other without their divorce lawyers present.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No biggie. I have other plans. Here, I have an idea. Just two more minutes, okay?”
She reaches into her makeup box and pulls out more tubes and jars. I close my eyes and try to quell my impatience as she draws on my lids with something wet. I feel her applying more lipstick, fussing with my hair, adjusting my blouse, and then . . .
“Perfection!” she exclaims. “What do you think?”
I open my eyes. “Devon!” I gasp. “I look like a—”
“Hottie? Yeah, you’re welcome.”
My lips are dark red, my eyes are lined with thick black eyeliner, and my hair is rumpled in a style that Kayleigh refers to as the “just got out of bed after a long night of you-know-what” look. Devon has also unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse so that a sliver of my bra peeks through.
I reach up to rebutton. “Devon, I can’t!”
Devon grabs my hand. “You can’t what? Handle not looking like a closet lesbian who shops at Walmart? Come on, Tess. Max will be all over you when he sees you.”
I blush furiously. “I—I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not like that.”
Devon stares at me. “You two have done it, right?”
“Devon! We haven’t even—” I start to bite my thumbnail, then stop.
“Made out with your clothes off?”
I shake my head.
“With your clothes on?”
I shake my head again.
“He hasn’t even kissed you yet?” she says incredulously. “Oh my God. This is bad. Wow. Maybe he’s decided he’s gay.”
“What?”
“I’m joking, you idiot. From everything Becca told me, he’s . . . never mind. Anyway, this last-minute adjustment is totally fortuitous. Tonight’s the night. If he doesn’t stick his tongue down your throat when he sees you, we’re going to have to take more drastic measures.”
None of this conversation makes me feel better. At all.
22.
I FINALLY GET TO THE HAWK AND DOVE AT TEN AFTER SIX. FOR some reason, I thought the place would be chandeliers and frilly tablecloths and big, puffy flower arrangements. Instead, it’s almost grim in its simplicity. The decor consists of stone-colored walls, wide-planked floors, and a deer’s head mounted over an ancient brick fireplace.
I follow the stiff-backed maitre d’ to the De Villierses’ table, a stupid grin frozen on my face. And limping, because Yoonie’s Marc-whatever shoes are way too small, even with her hair dryer trick. I really don’t want to meet Mr. and Mrs. De Villiers looking like this. I wish I could sneak into the ladies’ room and undo my do-over. Or pretend to get an emergency call from my mom, someone, anyone, and simply bail.
When we reach the De Villierses’ table, Max stands to greet me. He’s in his dress uniform: navy blazer, white button-down shirt, khakis, and school tie.
“Tess,” he says. “You’re . . .” His eyes grow enormous as he takes in my face, my hair. “Ahh . . .” His gaze falls to the low, low neckline of my blouse.
“Yeah, so, these are my parents. Mom, Dad, this is my friend Tess Szekeres.”
Mr. De Villiers and Franklin both stand, too. Franklin is also in his dress uniform. “Tess,” Mr. De Villiers says, extending his hand. “Very nice to meet you.”
Mrs. De Villiers doesn’t offer me her hand but gives me a tight-lipped smile. She has this terrifying way of communicating complete and total disapproval without uttering a single word.
Franklin shoots me a sympathetic look.
Oh, God, this is already a disaster. Of epic proportions.
The maitre d’ hovers beside me. Why is he still there? Then I realize he wants me to sit. I twist my body awkwardly and sink down onto my chair at the same moment that he slides it out. It’s like a bad screwball comedy, and I almost fall to the floor.
The maitre d’ grabs my arm to steady me. “Pardon me!” he says, sounding mortified.
“Are you okay?” Franklin asks.
“I’m fine. I’m such a klutz!” I scramble onto my seat and quickly adjust my skirt to hide the safety pins. “I hope I haven’t kept you all waiting!” I say a little too loudly.
“We just got here,” Max says in a tense voice.
“What can we get you to drink, Tess?” Mr. De Villiers asks me jovially.
“A Coke, please.”
“A Coke for the young lady!”
The maitre d’ bows and slips away.
I take a second to compose myself and check out Max’s parents. Mr. De Villiers looks like an older version of Max, with ruddy cheeks and thinning hair and a big linebacker’s build. Mrs. De Villiers is slim and regal and beautiful, with glossy, shoulder-length auburn hair and flawless, dewy skin.
I notice that she’s wearing gray slacks and a matching cashmere cardigan. Her only accessories are her wedding rings, a small diamond pendant, and a thin silver watch that I swear says “Cartier.”
I should have listened to Elinor and gone with the pants and sweater.
I should not have listened to Devon about tweaking my outfit at the last minute. Or about anything whatsoever.
A waiter comes by with my Coke, which is in a crystal goblet filled with crushed ice. Mr. De Villiers hands him his own empty glass and says, “Talisker. Neat.”
