by Ramona Wray
My body pulsed with it long after we hit the road. And the best thing yet? It wasn’t just me! When we stopped at a junction, Ryder twisted around and cried out his excitement.
“This is the stuff that dreams are made of, right?”
I could’ve pointed out the misquotation; everybody goes for Humphrey Bogart’s famous line from The Maltese Falcon, when the words are actually “We are such stuff as dreams are made on” and they belong to Master Shakespeare, but you know what? With all due respect to the women’s movement, the fact is that, on rare occasions, silence really is a girl’s best garment.
So I just smiled instead.
Chapter: Ten
From there on, I happily pranced through what J called “the golden age of my teen days.” But that was laying it on J-style, which was a little thick; in truth, there was good and then there was bad. The good, well, need I say it? Hottest boyfriend ever, stuck to my arm like glue, practically every second of my waking hours. And the best thing about it? No matter how much time he and I spent together, we never seemed to get enough of each other. The bad? By and large, everything left unsaid between us. All the tiptoeing, always having to decide which topics were safe to bring up. Accepting that he kept things from me. Living in fear of the mystical mojo surrounding those secrets. Being terrified of waking up one day and fi nding it all gone.
So, no bed of roses, but well worth the pain.
Speaking of pains … Lily Crane dating Ryder Kingscott? The president of the United States dropping by for a surprise visit to Rosemound couldn’t have made more waves. The school was abuzz with gossip; in fact, the whole town seemed to have taken an irksome interest in it. Rumors spread like radio waves. Had I lost my magic touch? Was Ryder immune to it somehow? If so, was it because he was an alien? Holy? Covered in protective but invisible slime? Were we sleeping together? Was he going to marry me? Had we already eloped?
One day, while at the drugstore picking up some aspirin for Mom, dear old Mrs. Burns, our pharmacist, shoved a pack of condoms into my hand with a conspiratorial wink.
“They glow in the dark,” she whispered.
This, from a sixty-five year-old granny, I kid you not. Stuff of nightmares.
Then, on Saturday, Ryder’s presence was formally requested at the casa Crane for a family dinner. Declining wasn’t an option. He arrived at seven sharp, sporting slacks instead of jeans and a button-up shirt as opposed to one of his layered outfits. Not only did he clean up real nice, but he was smart enough to come bearing gifts: yellow roses for Mom, Hershey’s Kisses for me, and, after first checking with me about it, a box of His Majesty’s Reserve cigars for Dad. Between the wholesome outfit and the smooth bribes, he scored serious points with the parental units long before we ever sat down to eat. At least, that’s what I thought.
Then the grilling began, with Dad, in his double capacity as lawyer and parent, wildly protective of little ol’ moi, as the Grand Inquisitor.
Mom didn’t need more convincing; she liked Ryder. Dad, on the other hand, was cautious. It wasn’t a question of disliking Ryder; it was simply that he didn’t know him.
The dinner table was beautifully dressed, in gray linen with embroidered white napkins, and Mom’s best china, together with various crystals artfully arranged around a vase filled with white calla lilies. The Italian feast she had prepared was kicked off by roasted eggplant with feta cheese and sun-dried tomato pesto, which I barely had time to sample before Dad moved to full-interrogation mode.
I always kind of wondered if my father secretly belonged to an alien race made up of perfect specimens whose mission on our planet was to make everyone else jealous of them. Picture intelligence, style, and warmth in a broad-shouldered body, crowned by salt-and-pepper hair. With the same emerald eyes that I, his lucky daughter, was fortunate enough to have gotten from him, Dad had the easy good looks of a younger George Clooney. The same sly grin, too. But under his harmless appearance and the laid-back charm, he was an extremely good lawyer, cunning and eel-slippery. That put Ryder in a difficult place.
“So, Ryder,” my dad, the lawyer, drawled, “are you a football or a baseball man?”
My boyfriend, seated across from me, met that with a relaxed smile. Let the games begin, his eyes seemed to convey. Well, at least he wasn’t nervous. Then again, he hadn’t met my father before tonight.
“Neither, Mr. Crane. I’m more of a basketball fan myself. There’s something about a slam dunk I don’t think any other game can replicate.”
Dad, a decisive Cubs supporter, eyed him with curious interest.
“I get your point. There’s that forceful approach to the shot. Some argue that it’s quite poetic.”
“Well said,” Ryder replied.
“Did you go to the games with your father?”
Smooth, Dad, I thought ruefully. Ryder had never hinted at wanting to open the subject, so I always assumed it was too painful for him to go into. But to my surprise, he didn’t flinch at the question. His expression stayed level and his eyes locked on Dad’s.
“No, not really. My parents died when I was very young.”
“We’re very sorry to hear that,” Mom intervened, casting Dad a black look. “You must miss them a lot.”
Ryder rewarded her with a soft smile.
“I don’t remember them,” he said, just as softly. “I was raised by a cousin until I petitioned for emancipation.”
“When was that?” Dad asked.
“A couple of years ago.”
“A valiant decision, looking after your own interests at such a young age. How did you handle financing it?”
“There was a trust fund. Money’s never really been an issue.”
“Ah! That would explain the very fine cigars you brought me,” Dad smiled.
Ryder smiled back and his eyes drifted over to where I was dying, having stopped breathing about ten minutes earlier. The scrutiny was gentle and rigorous; he looked at me like he couldn’t see anything else. Like we were alone in the world. Like nothing mattered but me. My complexion took on tones and nuances no one but he could bring out in me.
“Lily told me they were your favorite,” he finally said, reluctantly turning his attention back to Dad.
The game was on, indeed. Dad proved painfully thorough. Ryder’s GPA was 3.9, which I thought was outstanding considering the level of his interest in classes. A far as college applications and future prospects went, he told us about his interest in architecture, as well as in the two schools that also made the top of my list, Ohio State and Cornell. Dad questioned him about everything, from the environment to his view on Hamas, Fatah, and the Middle East conflict, in excruciating detail. They agreed on most things, one Democrat to another, and to my supreme relief, Ryder didn’t seem put off by any of it. He had answers to every question, was respectful without cowering, and polite but firm about his own opinions.
I was considering doing a happy dance and thanking God that we’d all made it through in one piece, when Dad raised the ultimate taboo point.
“Well, Ryder, I’ve got to hand it to you, I’m impressed,” he drawled, in a way that knocked my dessert spoon right out of my hand and into the bowl of barely touched panna cotta. “It’s why I don’t want to beat around the bush. Son, why is it that my daughter can touch you with no side effects?”
“Dad!” I groaned.
He chose to ignore me, centering his attention fully on Ryder, who, for the first time since the cross-examination had started, hesitated. His eyes darted back to me for a second, as deep and mesmerizing as ever, and he let out a soft sigh.
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Dad’s voice was pure steel.
“With all due respect, I can’t talk about it.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Can’t.”
The lawyer in Dad frowned. The parent tensed. Neither of them moved. “Is it something dangerous?”
“Sir, I love Lily!” Ryder countered fiercely, stari
ng at Dad squarely. “I want her to be safe and happy.” His shoulders slumped and he let his eyes drop, almost shyly. “She’s all I’ve got in the world,” he added quietly.
I flatlined, and stayed dead for a good few moments before my pulse started again with a thundering explosion that almost punched a hole through my chest. He loved me! He had actually said the words! And to my dad’s face, no less. Way to steal my thunder, Dad, by the way!
For a moment, time stood still. Then Mom shot up like a bow string.
“If you kids will excuse us, I’d like a word with my husband. Nicholas, please join me in the kitchen. Now!”
That last word was a whip cracking and Dad winced, hurrying along. I got off my chair, too, moving to the other side of the table in a flash. I wrapped my arms around his neck, he covered them with his own, and we stayed like that, fingers entwined, no talking. Fear reared its ugly head in my chest, doubt chipped in, too, and my insides became a battlefield. But being a coward had never suited my style. Something about cringing didn’t really go with my eyes.
So I dared. “I love you, too.”
His pulse sped up under my cheek as it pressed on his neck. I heard a broken breath, half-relief, half-despair. He never answered.
Still, since no heads rolled by the end of it, I counted dinner with the folks a success. And, as the days went by, the gossiping frenzy started to die down, too. Rosemoundiers got used to bumping into us, figuratively, on the street, at the market, in the Hopscotch Café, or at the movie theater. We became yesterday’s news. Dear old Mrs. Burns stopped trying to convince me to buy boxes of condoms. Mr. Bentwood at the café learned to save two slices of blueberry pie instead of one on the days I swung, now in my “plus one” capacity, by Hopscotch after school. Dave, Ryder’s boss, tossed an old couch in the corner of the shop for me, since that was where I spent most afternoons.
Doing my homework, of course. Watching Ryder working, all sweaty and manly … that was just a fringe benefit. All in all, things were good. With one exception. Lucian.
While the good people of Rosemound learned to adjust to the idea of Ryder and me dating, I did some adjusting of my own. Not really by choice, I learned to live with running into Lucian. Everywhere. All the time. But especially when I was alone. I was beginning to think he’d implanted me with a GPS device. Nothing else could explain his sudden popping-up acts.
On Monday afternoon, I was on my way to Dave’s Garage, having stopped by The Enchanted Forest Occult Emporium, and, since Ryder had given me a ride to school in the morning, as he did every day, I was on foot. On Elm Street, passing Miss Copeland’s boutique, I stopped to check out the new lingerie ensemble displayed in the window. Miss Copeland used to live in Italy and she had ties to small businesses in the fashion industry. Ricordi, her boutique, was the hottest shopping venue in Rosemound.
The thing that caught my eye now was something I normally never noticed: ripe plum lace and satin, sexier than any of the things Mom ordered from her Victoria’s Secret catalogs. I stared at it, imagining the contrast between the dramatic color and my pale skin, and then blushed violently at the rest of the pictures suddenly taking my mind by storm. The ones involving graceful fingers removing the skimpy items in question from my body. Lobster-red in the face, I, naturally, jumped at Lucian’s unexpected materialization stunt.
“Big plans?” he asked, eyeing the outfit knowingly.
Heat pulsed in my cheeks like tiny laser beams pricking my face. I gulped and scrambled for words, which, to my dismay, didn’t come. Lucian, grinning deviously, obviously enjoyed my squirming. Figured! Wearing one of his numerous preppy outfits — seriously, where did he go before Rosemound High; prep school in England? — and doing it better than any of the Jonas Brothers ever could, he raked his blue eyes over my distinctly un-preppy threads with deliberate slowness. And yes, I blushed even harder.
“It would look great with your creamy skin,” he added, just for kicks, no doubt.
“Whatever.”
There, both classy and elaborate.
Turning my back to him, I picked up the pace, trying hard to ignore his tagging along.
“So, do you?”
“Do I what?” I grumbled.
“Have big plans?”
“None of your business.”
“Only because you won’t let me make it my business.”
“Right. Maybe you should take the hint.”
He chuckled softly. “Hints don’t work with me.”
“Apparently not.”
“In fact, nothing does when it comes to what I want.”
“Arrogant much?”
“Not really. Just honest. I usually get what I want.”
“Ain’t that nice for you.”
He stopped abruptly, planting himself in front of me, blocking my way. Forced to halt, I shot him a furious glare that wiped the light expression off his face and left him looking as serious as a heart attack.
“Why won’t you give me a chance?” he rasped.
“To do what?”
“To show you how good we can be together.”
“Argh! Change the tune already, will you?”
His eyes cooled. “Don’t mock me.”
“Don’t need to. You’re doing a good job all by yourself.”
His nostrils flared angrily, his sculpted jaw flexed.
“What does he have that I don’t?”
“Apparently, me.”
That threw him off. He looked like I’d just hit him in the head with something heavy, and I took the opportunity to scurry away.
“Have you started feeling the cold yet?” he called after me. “Tell him. Ask him what he thinks about it.”
Only my iron will kept my legs moving. How did he know that? They had started on Friday, the odd cold spells. It wasn’t something permanent; they came and went. It wasn’t a natural phenomenon, that much I’d worked out for myself. The chill began inside me, and at first it wasn’t so bad, just a cube of ice melting in the middle of my chest. But then it spread, until every inch of me felt encased in ice flakes. The other night it had lasted so long, I was literally blue in the face.
But how could he know about it?
Pointless question.
How did he do any of the things he did? How did he know to be at Hopscotch on Friday evening when, after spilling some cappuccino on my sweater and running into the bathroom to deal with the stain, I witnessed the nastiest thing? I was in the stall when Rosalie Miller and Cat Cole came in.
“If you ask me,” Rosalie yakked, “she’s done something to him.”
“What, like a spell or something?” Cat asked.
The tap water running drowned out whatever sound Rosalie made to confirm it. “I mean, really. Why else would a hottie like Ryder waste his time on a freak like her?”
“That is a good point.”
Rosalie giggled. “Can you imagine them getting hot and sweaty with each other? I mean, eww! She’d have to wear a rubber suit.”
“I don’t know. You’ve seen them, too, holding hands. Maybe —”
“Oh, please! It’s one thing to hold hands and a completely different deal to have skin on skin.” She laughed again. “Picture her covered in latex, like one of those S&M pervs!”
“Gross, Rose.”
“But don’t ‘gross’ and ‘freak’ go hand in hand?”
I’d started crying and the tears kept coming like nobody’s business. Embarrassment burned in my face; so this was what people were saying behind our backs.
The door opened and two different sets of shrieks erupted at the same time.
“Ladies,” I recognized Lucian’s voice. “How are you doing this evening?”
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Rosalie meowed.
“Yeah, but I saw you come in and I wanted to talk to you.”
“What about?”This, from Rosalie again; apparently, Cat only spoke when and if given permission.
“Do you have a date to prom?” Lucian asked in his
silky voice.
“Er … maybe,” she drawled.
Maybe? Huh! So, with just one week left to prom, Rosalie Miller was either dateless or going with someone who clearly wasn’t the right “someone”.
Ain’t karma the best?
“If you don’t,” Lucian went on, “I wanted to ask if you’d like to go with me.”
Hello, injustice!
“Sure.” Rosalie giggled. “That’d be grea —”
“But actually,” Lucian said, cutting her off, “now that I’m seeing you better, I kind of changed my mind.”
“What?”
“Think you could lose a few pounds by next Friday?”
“Jerk!”
He ignored that.
“Now, you, lovely Cat, you, on the other hand, are perfect. Infinitely lovelier than … say, what was your name again?”
“Come on, Cat!” Rosalie spluttered. “We’re out of here.”
But Cat must’ve delayed heeling because Rosalie’s shrill voice rose again.
“Cat! Now!”
There was a vague sound of protest, something between a meowing and a hiss, and then footsteps walking away.
“Actually, Cat, on second thought, you’re just as fat as she is. So forget I said anything,” Lucian called, and laughed mockingly.
The door slammed under a shower of “you jerk” and “creep” and other names I won’t repeat. Then, with the exception of the tap still running, there was nothing but silence. Lucian turned it off.
“You can come out now,” he said quietly.
Mortified, my cheeks still wet with tears, I opened the door and faced him with all the dignity of a dog carrying its tail tucked between his legs. He was leaning against the sink, very relaxed, but that changed when he caught sight of me. His body tensed and those chiseled features hardened. The blue in his eyes became ice.
