Amber Frost

by Suzi Davis

  “Good evening, Mr. Stevenson, Mrs. Stevenson,” he greeted my parents politely as they got out of the car. They both gave him their standard insincere smiles, their bleached white teeth sparkling under the strings of lights. My father helped my mother out, taking her hand and looping it through his arm. She smiled up at him adoringly; they put on such a flawless act in public that even I, sometimes, felt fooled. I knew them too well though, I had seen too much behind closed doors. I fiddled with my clutch purse, stalling before getting out of the car.

  “Good evening, Clarke. How lovely to see you,” I heard my mother coo. “Are your parents already inside?”

  “Yes. They’ve been trying to sort out a mix-up with the seating. It looks like you might not be at our table tonight, after all,” Clarke explained, apologetically. My mother’s carefully arranged smile fell for a second, revealing the shrewd, calculating woman beneath.

  “I’m sure your father will take care of it,” my father quickly dismissed. “We’ll see you inside in a moment.” My father gave me a quick, tight smile through the darkly tinted glass, dropped the Mercedes’ keys into the hand of the waiting valet, and smoothly escorted my mother inside.

  Clarke pulled the back door to my father’s car open and in very gentlemanly fashion, offered me his hand. I reluctantly took it, stepping out from the safety of the backseat.

  “Thank you,” I said to Clarke, politely. I dropped my gaze, feeling only slightly ashamed as he looked over my outfit disapprovingly, frowning hard at the dipping neckline of my dress.

  “Isn’t that a little gothic for a Gala,” he finally asked in a sour voice. I shrugged.

  “Black is the new red,” I murmured, lightly placing my hand on his arm as we walked through the hotel’s grand entrance.

  Clarke led me into the immense and crowded banquet room. At one end of the room a small stage with a podium and microphone had been set up. In front of the stage were several long tables with open books upon them for the silent auction. In the center of the room was a large dance floor, surrounded by round tables covered in white linens, fancy floral centerpieces and set with silverware that sparkled beneath the chandelier lighting high above.

  There were several hundred people in the banquet room already and others were still slowly trickling in. Everyone was dressed in their very best, all trying to out-do one another in their fine clothes and expensive jewelry. It was a night to show how wealthy you were, to schmooze and small talk with the other elite, then turn around and gossip behind their backs. It would be an evening of dinner, dull conversation and dancing, and I would have to pretend to be enthralled and enjoy every moment of it. I felt tired already.

  “Could you show me to my table please?” I asked Clarke. He hesitated, his handsome face sliding into another disapproving frown.

  “You should come and say hello to my parents first.” I followed his gaze across the room to where our parents stood talking with one another. My mother was laughing at something my father had said. She touched his arm in feigned affection; it made me feel sick to watch. It wasn’t just her falsity that was bothering me – it was the sudden realization that that was how I must look when I was with Clarke, putting on my best adoring girlfriend impersonation. I was just as fake as my mother, perhaps even worse. Bile rose up in my throat.

  “I don’t feel very well. I’d like to sit down.”

  “You are looking a little pale,” Clarke conceded. He studied my face carefully. “Maybe you should go home,” he suggested, almost hopefully. I knew he wasn’t really concerned for my health, he was concerned over my appearance or more specifically, how he would appear if his date were pale, sweaty and nauseous. The acid in my stomach boiled.

  “I’ll be fine, I just need to sit down. Do you know which is my table?”

  “Over here,” he sighed, guiding me with his hand on my lower back. My mother caught my eye across the room; she radiated smug satisfaction when she saw Clarke touching me. She was much more enthusiastic about my relationship with Clarke than I was.

  “You’re sitting here,” Clarke announced, pulling out a chair for me at a table near the side of the dance floor. The gesture was perfectly courteous but his commanding tone irritated me all over again.

  “Thank you,” I said stiffly as I sat down in the proffered seat. “Will you please explain to your parents why I’m not coming over just now?”

  “Of course,” he agreed. “We’ll be sitting right over there. You can come over after we’ve eaten and speak with them then,” he instructed me. I nodded my agreement, my jaw clenched tight. “I hope you feel well enough to dance later.”

  “Perhaps. You should go to your parents,” I reminded him, my voice strained.

  “Yes, I should. See you after dinner then.” He quickly kissed my cheek. I forced myself not to pull away from him and to smile sweetly as he walked away.

  “That’s the fakest smile I’ve ever seen, even at a place like this,” a teasing, lilting voice said from behind me. I spun around in my seat. “You can do better than that, Gracelynn,” Sebastian told me, his musical accent inviting and a smile tugging at his lips.

  “You came,” I said wonderingly.

  “Of course,” he answered, grinning. My heart skipped a beat.

  I was surprised to see him dressed so formally. He wore a black, well-fitted suit with a crisp white shirt underneath. His tie was a dark shade of blue, very close to the color of my dress. It hung loosely around his neck though, the top button of his shirt left casually undone. It was then that I noticed the little details to his outfit that only someone like him could pull off. Upon closer examination, I noticed that his belt had a small row of metal studs along it and a thin silver chain hung from one of his belt loops to his pocket where I presumed his wallet was. Though they were buffed to a dull shine, it looked as if he might in fact be wearing combat boots under his pressed pants, and the small, black hoop earrings he’d worn to school were also still looped through his ears. His hair looked slightly different – it was no longer gelled into messy spikes but was left soft and tousled, a clean shine to it under the chandelier lights. And though he was dressed completely differently than everyone else in the room, he looked absolutely at ease, like he belonged there even more than the others. His confidence wasn’t arrogant or irritating in the way that Clarke’s was, it was natural and unassuming.

  “Grace, these are the Jensons,” he introduced, gesturing to the couple who stood just behind him. I had been so preoccupied by Sebastian’s appearance that I hadn’t even noticed them standing there. I blushed slightly as I hastily stood, offering each of them my hand.

  “It’s very nice to meet you.” I politely shook their hands, studying them curiously as I did so. They were both fairly bland-looking with brown hair and eyes, average height, average looks, average style and comparatively inexpensive clothes. There was nothing remarkable about either of them. I instantly found myself liking them though as there was something about them that set me at ease.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Grace,” Mr. Jenson greeted me as he gently shook my hand.

  “We’re so glad you convinced Sebastian to come,” Mrs. Jenson said with a warm smile. “I’m just glad we were able to get a ticket for him on such short notice. And isn’t it nice that we’ve all been seated at the same table?”

  “We have?” I looked at Sebastian questioningly. He smiled, his eyes sparkling back.

  “Of course,” he answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He looked about curiously as he sat down beside me, sliding his chair in closer to mine. “Where are your parents?”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see them making their way over. Everyone was starting to head to their seats now; apparently the festivities were about to start. Waiters were beginning to weave through the crowd, directing people to their seats and taking drink orders.

  “You’ll meet them in about five seconds,” I replied nervously as I turned back around. What would my parents think of Sebastian
? What would he think of them? I squirmed uncomfortably, inwardly wincing in apprehension of the sure-to-be awkward encounter.

  “Grace, Clarke said you weren’t feeling well,” my mother said somewhat accusingly as she arrived at our table. She fixed me with a sharp stare. “He seemed quite upset. You shouldn’t have concerned him like that,” she scolded.

  My father came up silently behind her, frowning as he sat down.

  “I’m sorry we’re not sitting with the Simons tonight, dear,” my father apologized, also not acknowledging the Jensons’ presence yet. “I know you must be disappointed. There was some kind of mix up,” he explained. My mother sniffed in disapproval as she sat down by my side. It was then that they seemed to notice the Jensons, who sat silently, patiently waiting to be acknowledged, and Sebastian, who sat on my other side and studied them with his dark, intense eyes. I was relieved to see that he didn’t look amused by my parents’ behavior, in fact, he actually looked a little angry.

  “Mother, father, this is Mr. and Mrs. Jenson,” I gestured to the Jensons with one hand, “and their foster son, Sebastian. He goes to Craigflower too,” I explained. Their gazes only flickered over the boy beside me briefly, instantly dismissing him as unimportant once they took in his appearance. My mother gave the Jensons a brief smile, my father eyed them speculatively.

  “Don and Shauna Jenson?” he asked, seeming suddenly more alert. Mr. Jenson hesitantly nodded. “My name is Gordon Stevenson, of the firm Taylor, Witt & Stevenson.”

  “Ah, a fellow defender of justice,” Mr. Jenson remarked with a wry smile. My father’s deep laugh rumbled in his chest.

  “Yes, I’m sure you’ve heard of me. And I’ve heard of you too – you’ve quite the reputation. You do mostly international work, don’t you?” my father inquired. My mother’s eyes had brightened and she looked significantly more interested upon learning that the Jensons were lawyers and had some sort of prestige in the field.

  “Yes. Don’s actually working with the UN right now,” Mrs. Jenson admitted somewhat shyly. My mother sat up straighter, a phony smile stretching across her thin, pinched face.

  “How interesting. You must tell us about your work,” she insisted. The sick feeling in my stomach was starting to return. I turned to Sebastian to see how he was reacting to all of this. To my surprise, he was now ignoring my parents just as thoroughly as they were him. He sat silently, intently studying my face, a touch of concern to his expression.

  “They’re worse than I expected,” he told me in a low, quiet voice. I looked to my parents anxiously but they obviously hadn’t heard. They were quite engaged in their conversation with the Jensons or at least my father was, my mother only listened politely. I turned back to Sebastian, wondering again why I wasn’t offended when I was fairly certain I should be.

  “The Jensons seem nice,” I told him, changing the subject. He nodded his agreement.

  “They are nice people, very hard-working and committed to their causes. I chose them well.” He smiled at me, his dimple appearing in his cheek. I couldn’t help but smile back.

  My mother cleared her throat beside me. Apparently she’d lost interest in the conversation with the Jensons, though my father was now involved in an animated debate with the two over some past case or another. Her eyes flickered disapprovingly between Sebastian and I. The smile slid from my face. I hadn’t realized how close together we’d been sitting. I automatically pushed my chair away from his, sitting up straighter and staring across the table to my father and the Jensons, pretending to listen to their debate. My mother wasn’t fooled.

  “You should be on your best behavior tonight, Grace,” she told me sternly, ignoring Sebastian once more. “You could have made more effort to prepare; you didn’t even curl your hair and I can barely tell if you’re wearing makeup! If we hadn’t been in such a rush I would have made you change into something more appropriate too. That dress would be better suited for a funeral! And with your washed-out complexion you look like you could be the corpse yourself,” she hissed. A rosy blush flamed across my cheeks in shame. Not only was I hurt by my mother’s accusation of my lack of effort but I was even more ashamed to be berated this way in front of Sebastian. “Now don’t you dare embarrass us tonight,” she continued, fixing me with a hard glare.

  “You’re embarrassing yourself enough as it is,” Sebastian murmured in a low though obviously angry voice. My mother’s sharp eyes shifted to him. I winced; this was going to be bad.

  “What did you just say?” she demanded. Her thin lips were pursed together in distaste as she glared expectantly at him, her hazel eyes were sharp and threatening.

  Sebastian opened his mouth as if he were about to answer, his expression unexpectedly apologetic. Before he could say a word though, a waiter walking behind my mother with a tray full of drinks suddenly slipped on some unseen object. The tray flew from his hands as he fell, the crystal glasses of wine launching into the air and drenching my mother as one landed right in her lap. There was a moment of shocked silence as the dark, red wine soaked into my mother’s creamy, silk dress, the wine spreading rapidly like blood from a wound. Then everything happened at once.

  The waiter jumped up and began rapidly apologizing; my mother was speechless in her rage. Others moved towards her to offer assistance and she quickly managed to compose herself, graciously accepting the waiter’s apologies and trying to laugh at the turn of events but I could see the hidden fury in her eyes. My father reluctantly suggested he drive her home so that she might change. I watched in all happen in stunned silence. I couldn’t take my eyes from the spot where the waiter had tripped. There was nothing on the ground; the rich, red carpet was smooth and flat. It shouldn’t have happened. And why were the Jensons looking at Sebastian with such exasperated disapproval? Could he possibly have had something to do with this? No, I was being absurd. But how had that glass of wine ended up in my mother’s lap? Its trajectory couldn’t have been more specific if the waiter had thrown the glass himself. And not a single drop had touched me though I’d been seated only inches from my mother the whole time. It didn’t make any sense.

  “Grace, I’m going to take your mother home to change.” My father’s deep voice interrupted my paranoid thoughts. “You should stay here; Clarke won’t want you to leave and I’m sure the Simons will keep an eye on you. We should be back in time for the dancing.”

  “Yes, father,” I automatically agreed. I tried to keep the sudden surge of excitement from showing on my face. I no longer cared how the waiter had tripped or how the wine had soaked my mother, for things couldn’t have worked out more perfectly. I might even enjoy the Gala a little with my parents absent and I would certainly enjoy Sebastian’s company once I was no longer under my mother’s critical and accusing eye. My mother stared at me suspiciously.

  “Perhaps we should move you over to the Simons’ table. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind making room for you,” she suggested.

  “No, let’s not disrupt the evening any further. We’re quite happy to entertain Grace here until you return,” Mr. Jenson quickly interjected. My father seemed pleased by this but my mother looked even more sour as my father led her away. I glanced across the dance floor to the Simons’ full table. They all wore matching expressions of disapproval; whether it was her fault or not, my mother had made a scene and they certainly wouldn’t want to be associated with it. It should keep Clarke away until at least after the speeches and dinner were through. A smile tugged at my lips as I watched my parents leave.

  “Are you pleased with the turn of events?” Sebastian asked from beside me.

  “It certainly has made for a more interesting evening,” I answered, somewhat carefully. I looked quickly at the Jensons but they were whispering together quietly, giving Sebastian and I some privacy. “You shouldn’t have said that to my mother though, it was rude,” I scolded.

  “She didn’t hear me,” he dismissed with a cheeky grin. “Besides, she was being rude to you. And she was wrong – you
look exquisite tonight. Your beauty outshines all else.” I shrugged uncomfortably. It wasn’t the type of compliment I was used to – the words sounded the same but the genuine, intense emotions behind them were unfamiliar.

  “She was just trying to look out for me. She likes me to look my best, she’s proud of me, in her own way.”

  “You shouldn’t make excuses for her, especially ones you don’t believe yourself,” Sebastian quietly replied. I tried to glare at him but there was no real anger behind the look. He just stared back at me with his soft, dark gray eyes. I looked away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I watched the waiters circulating around the room as they began to serve the appetizers. Each moved confidently, with obvious years of experience.

  “So what’s the story behind your tattoo?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “What do you mean?” He was frowning slightly as if he didn’t like the new direction our conversation had taken. I was happy for the attention to be off of myself.

  “What does it mean? How long have you had it for? Does the school know you have it? And why don’t you get in trouble for having a tattoo, or for your earrings, or the way you wear your uniform?” The questions tumbled from my lips, gaining momentum after I got the first one out. He appeared to be amused by my sudden enthusiastic interrogation.

  “I don’t want any trouble, so there isn’t any,” he answered cryptically. He watched my reaction curiously. “And my tattoos… I’ve had them for a very long time. I’m sure each has a different meaning but it’s very hard to explain…”

  “They’re personal?” I guessed, trying to follow what he was saying. I often found myself struggling to decipher his words, grasping for meaning in his convoluted statements.

  “I think so.” His eyes clouded over as he became lost in thought.

  We sat in silence for a while. Conversations around the room were beginning to die down as the first speaker approached the podium. I turned my attention to the small stage, mentally preparing myself to feign rapt attention and interest in the boring speeches that would run through the course of our meal. I was in for a pleasant surprise. Once the first speech began, Sebastian snapped out of his introspection. He leant closer to me to add his own running commentary to the speeches in his low, musical voice. His thoughts were both entertaining and intriguing and I soon found myself pulled into various whispered debates and discussions with my strange new friend. The evening flew by and before I knew it, the last speaker was being applauded as our plates were cleared and the musicians began to set up on the side of the dance floor.