by Mona Kasten
Just then a muffled scream came from the house, and I froze. Spencer’s hand clamped down on my shoulder.
Another shriek. It sounded like a girl’s voice.
“Spencer—” I began, but one look from him was enough to silence me.
Taking a deep breath, I rushed to bring him the last few yards to the front door. He took his arm from my shoulder and straightened his back. He took another deep breath. In. Out. Shook out his hands. And suddenly he seemed relaxed. The bitter expression had left his face, along with any signs that he’d needed my help.
His hands were no longer trembling. With an amazingly deft motion he turned his key in the lock and opened the door. I followed him inside.
It took my breath away—again.
We were standing in the middle of a foyer that was bigger than my father’s living room and kitchen put together. A marble floor. A glass table rested directly between two curved staircases with carved, wooden handrails, snaking up to the next level. On the table a huge bouquet of flowers burst out of a vase that glittered in the soft glow of the lamps, reflecting light like a disco ball onto cream-colored walls.
The Cosgroves weren’t just well-off. They were filthy rich.
How could I walk on these floors with my neon-green flip-flops?
A loud crash echoed against the high walls of the foyer, and Spencer’s shoulders tightened again. Shards of something clattered to the ground, and my breath quickened. We ran up the right-hand staircase; Spencer grabbed the railing and took it two steps at a time. He was fast, sprinting past doors along a corridor, and again the high-pitched shriek rang out, this time very close. At the end of the hallway he paused and looked over his shoulder at me.
“Stay here,” he said firmly.
With his commanding tone and serious expression, this was, yet again, not the Spencer I thought I knew.
Before I could even agree to wait in the hall, he’d entered the room and closed the door behind him.
I could hear the murmur of voices. A man’s reproachful tone. Spencer, speaking softly. The soothing voice of a woman who intervened. They were interrupted by the next scream, which quieted to a low howl when Spencer spoke. His voice sounded gentle and steady. Then came a heartbreaking sob. I couldn’t understand her words, but the plaintive sounds the girl uttered sent chills through my body. Whenever Spencer spoke, there was a moment’s silence. Then it started all over again.
Before long the door opened and two older people, who I assumed were Spencer’s parents, stepped into the hallway.
The first thing I noticed was that Spencer was a perfect mix of the two: he had his father’s oval face and his mother’s dark eyes.
The second thing that crossed my mind was that I must look awful. Mr. Cosgrove narrowed his eyes, as if I were a homeless person who’d forced my way into his home.
But who cared? He was wearing striped pajamas.
“You must be Dawn,” Spencer’s mother said. She held out her hand.
I took it and hoped my palm wasn’t clammy.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cosgrove,” I replied with a weary smile.
The whining grew louder, and I winced.
“Come downstairs, Dawn,” Mr. Cosgrove said abruptly, putting his hand between my shoulder blades to shepherd me down the hall.
If only Spencer were at my side.
Mrs. Cosgrove prepared a cup of hot chocolate for me and won my heart. Unfortunately, the steaming cup of sweetness didn’t undo the heavy silence, which only served to make the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room seem unnaturally loud. Between the random shrieks from upstairs, it was all I could hear. Tick. Tock.
I was starting to feel exactly the way Mr. Cosgrove saw me. Like an intruder.
Tick. Tock.
“You have a beautiful home, Mr. and Mrs. Cosgrove,” I said, gesturing with my hand to encompass the breadth of it all.
“Thank you, Dawn, that’s very kind of you to say.” Mrs. Cosgrove smiled warmly, but there was still concern in her eyes.
“Where are you from?” Mr. Cosgrove asked abruptly.
“I grew up near Portland.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Beaverton.”
He grunted and leaned back in his chair.
“And you also attend Woodshill?” Spencer’s mother asked.
“I’m in my second semester of English and creative writing. It’s a great school. I really feel…”
Another snort from Mr. Cosgrove.
“… at home there.”
Mrs. Cosgrove nodded. “Spencer was disappointed about not getting into U of Portland, but now he’s only got good things to say about Woodshill.”
“It’s wonderful there. Not just the campus but the quality of education. All my professors are really there for the students. There’s a nice selection of classes and lectures so you can focus on what interests you most.”
“That’s lovely. Exactly as it should be,” Mrs. Cosgrove proclaimed.
“What do you do, if I may ask?” I inquired cautiously.
“We’re divorce lawyers. Our office is right next door.”
My eyes widened, and I must have given a little gasp.
“Oh, Dawn. Everything all right?” Mrs. Cosgrove asked, startled.
“Fine, thank you,” I whispered.
“So you were with my son when he was getting drunk tonight?” Mr. Cosgrove blurted out.
Before I could reply, his wife interrupted.
“Oh, Raymond, really now,” she protested.
“He should be ashamed of himself, Natalie.”
“Don’t say that.”
Mr. Cosgrove stood up so abruptly that his chair scraped the floor with a screech.
“He wastes his time, has no ambition, comes home drunk—he can’t be trusted. And you’re blind to it!”
“Are you done?”
Tick. Tock.
Spencer stood in the doorway, one hand supporting his head. He glanced at his father indifferently. This was clearly not the first time he’d heard an outburst like this.
Without another word his father huffed out the room; soon after, a door slammed shut.
Spencer’s attitude changed immediately. He suddenly looked exhausted.
“Olivia’s sleeping,” he said.
“Oh, good,” said his mother. “Do you want to stay the night?”
Spencer glanced my way. Then he shook his head and gripped the doorframe. “No. But thanks, Mom.”
Mrs. Cosgrove stood, walked over to her son and embraced him, holding him tightly. He buried his face in her shoulder. The moment was so intimate that I looked down, not wanting to intrude.
Mrs. Cosgrove murmured soothing words into Spencer’s hair. Then she added, “Drive carefully.”
I raised my eyes. Spencer’s mom looked at me warmly and gave a cautious smile.
“Thanks for the hot chocolate,” I said.
One we were back outside, the door closed behind us, Spencer and I returned to the car in silence. The slapping of my flip-flops on the walkway was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night.
Spencer pressed his keys into my hand, and I got in. But he stayed outside; he walked over to some trees, leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. Though he was half-hidden in shadow, I could see him shaking.
It broke my heart to see him this way.
He broke my heart.
I turned off the motor and braved a glance at Spencer. His cheeks weren’t red any more. A good sign. He was breathing calmly and evenly, but even asleep he looked worried. As if some large weight rested on his shoulders.
“You’re staring at me,” he said, his eyes still closed.
So he wasn’t even sleeping. The idiot had been pretending to be asleep for the past two hours, just so he could
avoid talking to me.
“’Cause you look so sweet when you’re pretending to sleep,” I answered.
He opened his eyes and returned my gaze.
“We’re home.” I nodded toward his house. “Should I help get you in?”
He rubbed his eyes. “I’m good. You can take the car, and I’ll pick it up at the dorm tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He unbuckled himself.
“Spence? Do you want to talk about it?” I asked cautiously.
“No.”
One more try. “Who’s Olivia?”
His expression iced over. “I said no, Dawn. That means I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
It was dead out there on the street. Everything was silent, except for us.
“Sorry for everything, I mean. Including what I said in the club. I didn’t mean it that way. I was an ass, and…”
He placed his hand over my mouth.
“I don’t want to hear it, Dawn,” he said gruffly. “I made my point, and you told me pretty clearly what you thought about it. You don’t have to try and make it better just because you suddenly feel sorry for me now.”
He took a deep breath and looked back at me. He seemed to be lost for a moment; he studied my freckles as if he were counting them.
Tick… tock.
“I need some space.” He removed his hand from my mouth, and it felt like slow motion.
Before I could respond, he got out of the car, shut the passenger door with a bang and strode up the walkway to his house.
Chapter 10
Early American Literature through 1865 was one of my toughest courses. Not so much because of the subject matter, but mainly because of Professor Walden. He was super strict, unfair, and seemed to take pleasure in harassing students. In short—he was scary. It was risky to sit too far back in the lecture hall, because he liked to pick on students there. But it was also a gamble to sit too close to the front, because there he’d address you by name. Isaac and I occupied two seats on the aisle in the middle row of the lecture hall. Walden rarely called on anyone there.
“Do you think we’re safe here?” I whispered.
“No idea, but I hope so. I don’t want to take a grilling like the one he gave Darren,” Isaac responded.
Isaac and I were a lot alike when it came to speaking in front of others, so we became allies from the first day of class. When Darren had read his paper aloud a few weeks earlier, Professor Walden had interrupted him and made it crystal clear how bad he found it. It was upsetting to see Darren—a totally self-confident, you might even say cocky guy—break out in a sweat and start stuttering. When a few students demanded that Darren at least be allowed to finish his presentation, Professor Walden had kicked them out. By now, the class was pretty well thinned-out because so many had dropped the course.
I was terrified of the man. Today, Isaac and I were even more jittery than usual: after class, we wanted to ask Walden if we could do a term paper instead of a presentation.
“Is that why you dolled yourself up?” Isaac asked, nodding toward my hair.
I raised my hand and touched the braid that I’d secured with bobby pins across my head like a crown.
“Would it sound stupid if I said ‘yes’?”
He shook his head. “No, man. I did, too.” He pointed to his white shirt and the white on black polka-dotted bow tie. Together with his brown-framed eyeglasses and deliberately rumpled hairdo, it made for an admittedly pretty picture.
After class, we waited for the room to empty before daring to approach Professor Walden.
Making him even more intimidating was his nasty tweed suit, under which he wore a sweater vest in the same greenish-beige color scheme, with an abstract pattern. The knot of a cognac brown tie bulged out at his neck. His hair was gray, nearly white, and his lower face engulfed by a full beard. It was hard to tell if he ever smiled. Actually, it was hard to even imagine him smiling, period.
“Professor Walden,” Isaac said, clearing his throat. “I hope we’re not disturbing you.”
He didn’t look up; he was too busy shuffling his papers together. He made a gesture that seemed to invite us to continue talking.
“Your course requires a presentation as the final project,” I began. “We’ve got an interesting topic that we think can be expressed best in writing, so we were wondering if we could submit a 10-page term paper instead of doing an oral presentation.”
Professor Walden glanced up, looked at me briefly and slid his pile of papers into a folder, around which he snapped a rubber band.
“Why are you in school?” he asked suddenly, staring at me so intently that I froze.
Isaac rushed to help. “We’re here to learn, to build career opportunities, to become independent…”
“I wasn’t asking you, though I appreciate the fact that you have read the Woodshill University brochure,” Professor Walden interrupted him.
Isaac stiffened beside me.
“I do want to be independent,” I began, in all honesty. “I want to know everything there is to know about literature, understand the art of writing and…”
“Where do you see yourself after graduation?” he interrupted, with his penetrating voice.
I took a deep breath. “In publishing.” I wasn’t about to reveal my dream of working from home.
“And you think this attitude toward schoolwork will make it easier for you to start your career?”
“Huh?”
Professor Walden pulled on his coat and slowly buttoned it. “Do you really think you can go through life without ever having to stand up and speak in front of others? If you don’t give a presentation, you won’t pass the course.” He looked me up and down. “Come to think of it, I’d recommend a change of course for you anyway. Studies of female writers may better meet your… expectations.” He picked up the briefcase. “Good day.”
“That… that asshole!” I exploded.
Turned out the long walk to Allie’s apartment hadn’t helped me calm down one bit. I was all fired up. “How can he be so mean?”
Allie plopped down on the sofa. “What happened?”
I couldn’t give a clear answer, not in this state. What I really wanted to do was punch something. Preferably Professor Walden’s face.
“That tweed-obsessed bastard!
“You can do better than that, Dawn,” Kaden’s voice rang out from another room.
“Eat me, Kaden!” I shouted back and then covered my mouth. “I didn’t mean it, Allie, I swear.”
She grinned.
“God, I’ve never been so mad at anyone before. Fucker! I’m shaking. Can you tell?” I held out my trembling hands.
The door to Kaden’s office eased open with a faint squeak. “Should I keep Spidey in my room? So you don’t take out your anger on him?”
I crossed my arms over my chest to ease the trembling. “What I really want to do is teach Spidey how to eat people, and then sic him onto Professor Walden. Are you okay with that?”
A soft laugh came from the office, and I spun around. Kaden was standing in the doorway. Sitting at the huge desk behind him was Spencer. The two computer screens in front of him were brightly lit; he sat with his back to us and didn’t turn around. I hadn’t seen him for days.
I guess he was enjoying the space he requested.
He’d picked up his car late on Sunday while I was in a deep sleep, trying to recover after that stressful night. Sawyer had given him his key and then he was gone. She’d started nosing around, asking me what was up between him and me. But something else was on my mind. I just couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened the night before. I was pretty worried about Spencer.
What was going on with his family? Why did his father seem to hate him so much? What had happened in t
hat room? I’d never seen him so devastated and wanted to know what was wrong. I wanted to be there for him. To be friends again.
“What did Professor Walden say that ticked you off so much?” Kaden asked.
Sighing again, I recounted the story in a shaky voice.
“What?” Allie exclaimed, and even Kaden frowned darkly.
“Stupid jerk.”
“Maybe I should really switch courses,” I mused, dropping onto the sofa next to Allie.
“You’ll do no such thing. If you do, then he wins and we don’t want that,” she said, linking her fingers with mine.
I sighed. “Would it be okay if I didn’t cook today?”
“Of course. We can order in, or go out. Whatever you want.”
“Pizza. And ice cream. And chocolate. And Professor Walden’s car smeared with shaving cream and bombarded with raw eggs.”
Allie laughed. “In that order?”
“Exactly.”
An hour later, I was sitting on the floor between Allie’s legs—because Kaden always pestered me about messing up the sofa—drumming my hands on the coffee table. Kaden was balancing four plates on his arm like a true waiter.
“Spence, stop hiding from Dawn and get your ass over here,” Kaden called out.
My face felt like it went as red as the pizza sauce. “Thanks, Kaden.”
“Calm down you guys. I’m getting tired of this civil war,” he joked and sat down.
I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t a smiling Spencer making a cheerful entry. He looked the same as ever.
Except that he avoided my eyes.
He sat with us and we ate. Spencer chatted with Kaden about hiking and new equipment they wanted to buy. He cracked jokes, made puns, and generally made Allie and Kaden laugh.
How did he manage it?
When we were done eating, Spencer started clearing the table. He collected our plates and brought them into the kitchen. Allie pushed her foot into my back. I looked back at her and she nodded toward the kitchen.
Great. Even our friends noticed that something wasn’t quite right.
Sighing, I got up and collected the used napkins. When I entered the kitchen, Spencer was reaching down to load the dishwasher. As he did, the hem of his gray, long-sleeved shirt slid up to reveal his slightly tanned skin. I was nearly overcome with the desire to touch him. I almost did.
