by Lori L. Otto
“Why is the basement off-limits?” I ask him angrily.
“Well, Olivia,” he says sarcastically, “in case you and Jon decide to watch a movie or something after dinner. Your room’s off-limits to you, though.”
“I know that,” I snap at him.
“Good. Glad we’re on the same page.” I roll my eyes at him. “Livvy, don’t make me regret this,” he warns me. “I can turn him away at the front door if your attitude doesn’t improve.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“Can’t you show just a little bit gratitude? I raised you better than this.”
I sigh before answering him curtly. “Sorry.” He raises his eyebrows. “I am, Dad,” I say, softening my voice. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s better, Tessa– Livvy,” he corrects himself as he directs Trey up the stairs with a handful of toys. He stops at the base of the stairway and turns around to me. “Are you nervous?”
I just nod my head quickly and try to smile.
“Don’t be. You look beautiful, and he’s just the same boy you’ve known all these years. And your mom and I won’t embarrass you, don’t worry.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” he assures me. “We just want to learn a little more about him. That’s all tonight’s about.”
“I really like him,” I tell him. “So, please, try to like him, too, okay?”
“If it will put your mind at ease, I like what I know of him so far. I don’t think you need to worry. Just be you tonight. Be the Livvy we all know and love.”
“Okay.”
“Alright.” He gives me a hug just as the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it!” I yell, bounding past my father and up the basement stairs. Trey’s already at the door by the time I reach the foyer. I look on the patio to see Jon standing just under the shelter of the patio awning. He’s wearing a striped button-down shirt and a matching tie with slacks, but he’s soaking wet, holding a broken umbrella. “Oh, my god, come in,” I tell him, pulling on his arm.
He stands firm, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t, I’ll get water everywhere. I got caught in the storm.”
“Jon, please, come in,” my dad says warmly, opening the front door wide and motioning for Jon to join us in the house. “It’s water. It’s fine.”
Jon throws the mangled umbrella on the porch and wipes his wet dress shoes on the wet doormat. His face is flushed and he shakes his head in embarrassment as he comes inside.
We all turn to face my mother when she finally joins us in front of the stairway. “Jon,” she says. “I don’t think I would have known you if I ran into you on the street. You’ve grown so much.”
“So it’s not the drowned rat look that’s made me unrecognizable?”
“Well,” she admits as she laughs, “it doesn’t help. Horrible weather tonight, huh?”
“To say the least. This isn’t the way I wanted to start the evening.” He shrugs his shoulders, defeated.
“Don’t be silly,” Mom says. “Livvy, why don’t you show him where the bathroom is. There are towels in there. I’ll go grab a shirt of Jack’s for you to put on. I’m sure it will be a little big on you, but at least you’ll be drier.”
“I couldn’t, Mrs. Holland,” he says.
“It’s Emi,” she corrects him, “and you can. I can’t send you back to your mom with pneumonia. It’s not my style.” Both of my parents start up the stairs to their bedroom.
“Fair enough,” he agrees. “So much for the tie.” He starts to unknot it.
“Dad’s got plenty, if you really want one.” Jon laughs a little as I point him to the restroom on the other side of the stairs. “Yours is nice, though.”
“I just wanted to impress them,” he tells me in earnest.
“Just be yourself,” I encourage him, giving him the same advice my dad had just given me. I know that they’ll like him if they give him a chance.
“Your parents are really important people, Livvy.”
“They’re just parents,” I tell him, shrugging my shoulders and ignoring what I think he’s implying about my parents’ social status.
“Right, they’re your parents. They have to like me.”
“It’s not good enough that I like you?” I ask him.
“Our lives will be much easier if they do, too, Livvy.”
“How so?”
“Well, I’m hell-bent on dating you, so I’d rather do it with their blessing than have to sneak around behind their backs.” I smile at him. “But don’t get me wrong, I’ll do that if I have to,” he whispers as we hear my parents coming back down the stairs.
My dad hands him a thermal henley. “I’ve never worn it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jon says politely, going inside the restroom and pulling the door shut after him. Mom proceeds to mop up the water in the hallway while Dad checks on dinner in the kitchen. I sit and wait patiently on the couch in the living room for the guy I like, the guy who looks even more attractive soaking wet. The drenched, thin shirt he had chosen to wear outlined defined arm muscles that I’m not sure I’d ever seen before. I wish my dad had given him a short-sleeved shirt.
The wheat-colored henley is too big for Jon and hangs loosely from his shoulders when he emerges from the bathroom. Even with the muscles he does have, he’s still tall and lean and can’t quite fill the shirt like my father’s fit body could. I can’t help but think he looks more boyish in this shirt, and wonder internally if that might have been my parents’ plan in choosing it.
He still looks completely adorable to me, and my smile tells him so as he walks toward me. His hair stands in messy spikes as he continues to run his fingers through it nervously.
“Hi,” he says as he leans on the couch.
“Hi,” I return nervously, folding my hands in my lap. I pat the seat next to me.
“Nah, my pants aren’t dry.” He sees a wooden chair on the other side of the fireplace and angles it toward me, sitting down. He’s at least fifteen feet away, and as much as I want him to sit beside me, I find I’m suddenly not as nervous as I talk to him from across the room.
“How were the SATs?”
I catch a hint of insecurity in his eyes before his face changes to a confident smile. “Fine,” he tells me.
“Really?”
“Yeah. No sweat.”
“Livvy?” my mom asks me quietly from the kitchen doorway. “Do you think Jon might want something to drink?”
“Oh, yeah.” I’d completely forgotten any manners I may have had when he walked into my house tonight. “Do you want something?”
“Anything with caffeine?” he asks.
“We have sodas,” I offer.
“Or we could make some coffee, if you’d like. That might warm you up, too.”
“No need to go to any trouble, Mrs.–” he corrects himself quickly, “Emi. Thank you, but a soda would be fine, please.” I follow my mom into the kitchen and grab a Coke from the refrigerator and a glass from the cabinet, filling it with ice.
“Are you tired?” I ask him when I take him the drink, thinking that maybe we should have postponed this dinner to another week. I feel bad that he had to spend his day taking tests that I know will determine whether or not he can get into Columbia–and not only that. I know his scores have to be good enough to get him a scholarship, too.
“I’ll be fine, Livvy.” He nods with assurance. “I was just up late studying and I need a little jolt to my system to wake me up. This should do it.” He takes a sip. “For now. I’m kind of hoping I’ll get another jolt a little later.” I blush when I realize he’s referring to another kiss.
“Me, too,” I whisper to him.
At the dinner table, we can see the lightning and rain continuing outside through the large windows that overlook the backyard. My brother is happily eating his dinner at the kitchen island. My parents could have added leaves to the table to make room for all five of us, but I was happy they had decided to keep my brother out of our c
onversation. It might be the first time I feel like an adult in my house.
“Jon,” my mom asks, “how do you feel that the SATs went?”
“Okay,” he answers. “I struggled more than I thought I would. I knew I’d be fine on the math and essay parts, and for the vocabulary part–I know the words. I feel like I started to over-think a few of my choices.”
“You seem like a bright kid,” Dad says reassuringly. “I’m sure you did well.”
“I hope.” Jon smiles sheepishly.
“Emi, Jon wants to go to Columbia.”
My mom’s expression is surprised. “Columbia? What do you want to study there?”
“I’m actually considering a dual degree in Social Work and Urban Planning.”
“What would you do with that?” my dad asks.
“Hopefully something that matters,” Jon answers. “I want to do something in my neighborhood; to help people get out of the depression and stagnation they seem to perpetuate from one generation to the next. I want to inspire them to have jobs, to have pride in what they do, to raise children who are worldly and motivated to make a change.” Both of my parents smile, waiting to hear more. Jon sets his fork down and addresses them. “I mean, you guys know where I come from. And I’ve had so many opportunities in my life thanks to people who’ve believed in me, and been generous with their time or their money. Mr. Holland–”
“Jack–”
“Sir, I just want you to know how much I respect how you’ve lived your life, what you give back to the community, how you are with your family...”
I stare at Jon, wondering if he’s being serious or simply trying to impress my father. It almost feels like he’s trying too hard, but then I look hard into his eyes, and see the sincerity in them. My parents both set down their silverware, too.
“I’m convinced I wouldn’t be where I am today without the opportunities you gave me when I was just a poor kid who liked to draw, you know? The Art Room isn’t just about our creativity. It built confidence in me that I don’t think I would have found anywhere else. So many kids from my neighborhood, they just feel defeated, and they’re angry with their fate, but you taught me to rise above that.”
“We didn’t do that, Jon,” my mother says.
“I know, directly, no, but the people you employ–”
“Jon,” my dad interrupts him. “You did that. We don’t just go out and find kids who like to draw, or paint, or play the piano. We find kids who stand out, who think freely and can express themselves openly, who we think may be leaders some day. Some kids shine like that. Those are the kids we pick. And we provide a safe place for you not only to explore your creativity, but to be with other people just like yourself who push you further and make you want to do better.”
“Because we want kids like that to become adults that can make a difference,” my mother says. She smiles and puts her hand on his forearm, squeezing lightly. “I have no doubt you’ll do something that matters.”
I smile, in awe of the conversation I’m witnessing. In the span of ten minutes, he’s completely won my parents over.
“I hope you’re right.”
“You know, if you get accepted into Columbia, you’ll be the first from the Art Room to go to an Ivy League school.”
“Well, it’s one thing to get accepted. It’s another thing to go there,” Jon says, his voice sounding unsure. “I’m hoping for scholarships and financial aid.”
“Do you plan to apply at any other schools?” my dad asks.
“NYU,” Jon says simply.
“No Harvard? Dartmouth?”
“I have to stay in the city,” he says. “My mom’s health isn’t the greatest. And my little brothers need me, too. I want to make sure they stay focused on school and don’t get mixed up with the wrong people. I can’t leave them behind.”
“Well, NYU’s a good school,” my mother adds. “Jacks and I both graduated from there.”
“That’s where we met.” They smile across the table at one another. “There are a ton of great programs there, and so many opportunities. Either school would be lucky to have you.”
“Livvy,” Jon addresses me. “You’ve never told me. Where do you want to go to school?”
“Parsons,” I answer quickly.
“Parsons?” my dad asks. “That’s the first I’ve heard of this. Why Parsons?”
“Because it’s a great school for fine art, Dad.” I look at my mom, who sits silently with a slight smile spreading across her lips.
“I don’t think Livvy has really spent a lot of time researching colleges–”
“I don’t need to, Dad,” I argue with him. “I know where I want to go.”
“What about Yale?” my dad asks. “They’ve got one of the best art schools in the country.”
“What about Parsons?” I counter.
“Honestly, Livvy,” my dad says evenly, “you’re right. I know very little about Parsons. I didn’t realize it was even on your radar.”
“Mom says it’s a great school.”
Dad looks at her questioningly. “Yeah?”
She shakes her head minutely, shrugging her shoulders. “Nate went there. He did pretty well.”
“Right,” my dad says. “I’d forgotten that. Well, Livvy, we should go check it out then.”
“Cool,” I tell him with a satisfied smile.
“And maybe we can check out Yale and some other options, too.”
“Parsons, Dad.”
“Okay, Livvy,” he says, exasperated.
“But your dad’s right,” Jon cuts in. “Yale’s one of the best. And for a Harvard man to suggest his daughter go there, well. He clearly doesn’t have selfish intentions, Liv.” He smiles, trying to soften his response. I don’t know why he feels the need to agree with my father. Maybe he’s still trying to impress him.
“None whatsoever,” my dad says. “Thank you.” My dad nods his appreciation across the table.
“It’s so far, though,” I tell Jon. “Connecticut?”
“It’s less than two hours from here, Livvy,” Jon says.
“And it’s only an hour away from the lake house. You love the lake house. You could go there and paint on the weekends.”
“I could still do that if I went to Parsons, Dad.”
“I guess you’re right,” he says as he stands up from the table, beginning to clear it. “We can talk about it another day.”
“Livvy, if you want to take Jon down to the media room, you can check out some movies or music or something,” my mom suggests.
“I wanna watch a movie,” Trey whines.
“We’ll watch something upstairs, Jackson,” my dad bargains with him.
“Thank you so much for dinner,” Jon says as he stands up. “After you,” he says to me, and as I pass by him, he puts his hand on the small of my back. My first glance isn’t at Jon, but rather at my dad, whose eyes are fixated on Jon’s hand. I turn around and guide him out of the kitchen and downstairs into the basement.
“Dad saw that,” I tell him smugly.
“Saw what?”
“You put your hand on my back.”
“Did I?” He looks remorseful. “Crap,” he whispers as he sits down on the leather couch, putting his head in his hands.
“It’s okay. If it really bothered him, he would have called me back in there and told me so.” I sit next to him and pull his hands down so he’ll look at me.
“Or he’s saving it all for his general assessment of me. I show up late, dripping wet all over his nice house, gush about things that make it sound like I’m kissing his ass, and then put my hand on yours.”
“Jon,” I plead with him.
“Add that to the fact that I come from one of the worst neighborhoods in the city, and I’m sure I’m at the bottom of his list of guys he would want you to go out with.”
“He invited you to come here,” I remind him. “He’s never invited another guy over here.”
“Maybe not, but I’m sure he
has ideas of guys at your school that he’d rather see you with.”
“Yes, the nice Catholic boys in my private school. Oh, wait. There are none.”
“Well, somewhere, then. He’s well connected. Isn’t there a senator’s son or something?”
“Jon, my dad is not a status seeker.”
“But if he’s a good father, he’d hope for someone better for his daughter.”
“Whatever!” I argue. “Did you hear yourself at dinner? If even a single word of what you said was sincere, Jon, you could tell that they’re impressed.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Well, I could,” I tell him.
“It was all sincere. I can’t believe I just said all that. I feel like an idiot.”
“You didn’t sound like an idiot. You sounded just like a guy they’d want me to go out with.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He lets out a big sigh.
“What kind of movies do you like?” I ask him.
“Action,” he tells me. “Suspense, I don’t know.” I pick up the remote and start scanning through our vast digital movie collection. “My god, Livvy, what movies don’t you have?” He takes the remote from me and skims through the titles.
“Yeah. That’s one thing my dad’s always had a hard time not splurging on.”
“No parental controls on this thing?”
“There’s nothing illicit on here,” I laugh. “These are my parents we’re talking about.”
“The Godfather. Have you seen it?”
“No,” I tell him.
“It’s a classic. It’s incredible. Part II’s even better. Do you think we can watch it?”
“We can watch anything, Jon. They don’t care. They’re movies.”
“Okay.” He smiles and presses the play button.
“Well, wait, is it R-rated because there’s sex in it?” I ask him quietly, starting to wonder if my parents might care what I watch down here, in the dark, with a guy... alone.
“It’s a mafia movie. We’re talking language. Violence.”
“I don’t think they’ll care,” I repeat my response from earlier. “Are your pants dry?” I ask him, feeling a chill in the room. He takes my hand in his and sets it down on his thigh. His slacks are still a little damp. I rub my hand back and forth over his leg quickly, then pull a blanket off the back of the couch and hand it to him. I get my own blanket and cover myself.
