“Oh. And?”
I let the baby grab hold of my finger. Her eyes get bigger, but that’s about it. Frankly, unless they’re your own, babies are kind of boring at this stage. Like goldfish but without the charisma.
“We’re—” I glance at Starr, who’s totally mesmerized by the multilimbed blob in front of us “—very different.”
“Gotcha,” Liv says. And I have the feeling she does.
The kids troop upstairs to play; a minute later, Liv’s grandmother, who’s apparently returned from wherever she’d been when Daniella was born and who tells me to call her Dolly, everyone else does, scoops the baby out of her seat and whisks her off for a bath, leaving nothing behind but a blurred impression of an impossibly red beehive and a hot pink track suit. After she’s gone, though, I catch Liv’s frown.
“Is something wrong?”
Her eyes shift to mine. “Your grandfather took care of Starr, didn’t he?”
My chest gets tight. “Yeah. Why?”
“Did you ask him to, or did he volunteer?”
I laugh. “More like he refused to even consider anybody else doing it.”
“See, that’s the way Dolly is. She lives for these guys, especially since she quit working several years ago, but I’m beginning to worry that taking care of them is getting to be too much for her. At the same time, I know she’ll be hurt if I even suggest getting someone else in to help. She was really upset about not being here when Daniella was born, but my uncle had gotten her this nonrefundable, nonchangeable plane ticket so she was stuck. Oh! Damn, I think my brain’s leaked out through my tits….” Liv carefully propels herself off the sofa, then gingerly makes her way across the room to a small roll-top desk. “It finally hit me that today’s the fifth of the month and I’d totally spaced the rent check. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I figured you had other things on your mind.” I look at the check she hands me, my gaze zinging to hers as she lowers herself back onto the sofa. “What’s this?”
“Something extra for watching the boys that week. And no arguments.” One side of her mouth lifts up. “I know you said it was no big deal, but these are my kids we’re talking about. They can be just a bit rough on the nerves.”
“I was just doing you a favor, for God’s sake—”
“I know you were. But I don’t like taking advantage of people if I can help it.” She grins. “Even landlords. And by the way, once I get the wind back in my sails, if you ever want me to, um, trim your hair or something…”
I blow my bangs out of my eyes. “Trying to tell me something?”
“Don’t take it personally. I’m so desperate to do something besides wipe poopy butts and play cow I offered to cut the paperboy’s hair today!”
Which I guess answers my earlier question. About stay-at-home moms feeling just a bit…stifled. Occasionally.
A little bit later, after I’ve gathered Starr and we head back over to our place, I think, Why couldn’t I have gotten a sister like that? A thought immediately derailed the minute we step inside and Starr says, “C’n we get a baby someday?”
“Honey,” I say, hanging up our jackets, “you were pushing it with the cat.”
She lets out one of her sighs, but she knows better than to press the issue.
Jen’s been here for about a week now and we haven’t killed each other yet. A positive sign, I’m thinking. Of course, this might be due partly to my having sequestered myself in the basement to figure out this damn bridesmaid dress (Heather’s wedding is eight weeks from today; she’s coming for her first mock-up fitting later this afternoon and if I don’t have sketches to show her, she’s going to freak), and Jennifer not being here much. All in all, a highly agreeable arrangement. Would that we’d thought of it as kids. Might’ve made childhood a tad less hairy.
Speaking of hairy, both literally and figuratively: since it’s Saturday, Jason doesn’t have school, which means he’s been over here since just before lunchtime. Which means my kindness-to-moony-teenage-boys allotment for the day is just about used up. He keeps looking at me like he wants to tell me something; I keep acting like I’m too busy to talk. Because I have a real strong feeling I know what he wants to tell me, and an even stronger feeling I don’t want to hear it. I’ve been down this path before (believe it or not), with Ricky Carver, in the ninth grade. Fleshy, myopic and pimply, Ricky trailed after me like a homeless mutt, always managing to somehow cross my path even though we didn’t have the same schedule. Finally one day he cornered me after gym class and confessed his love. I’m not sure which of us was more humiliated. I do know that I never want to go through that again.
I don’t get it—it’s not as if I’m wearing hot pants and a low-cut halter top. Or ever have. In fact, it’s kind of chilly today, so I’m in a sweatshirt and baggy drawstring flannel pj bottoms, my hair’s in a ponytail (and anyone who’s ever tried to put layered hair in a ponytail knows how attractive that is), my face devoid of makeup. I’m even wearing my glasses. Last time I caught my reflection in the mirror, I looked like one of those tabloid photos of some star under a Her Sad, Final Days headline.
And yet here Jason is, like a seagull hovering over a garbage barge.
Why can’t the kid be like any other boy his age, jerking off over some X-rated Internet site or something? How fascinating can it be, watching me swear at a sketchpad?
Actually, now that I mention it, he’s not watching me at all. Actually, he’s slumped down into one corner of the couch, eyes shut, gently nodding to whatever he’s plugged into. Frito’s on his lap—of course—kneading the baggy denim lying in folds around his knee, fang glittering in the soft light from the lamp by my desk.
Maybe the kid gets off on just…smelling me?
I spread out the sketches I’ve done. Or at least, the ones that don’t make me gag. There are twelve, six of which I’ll show Heather. The others I intend to burn. Now I remember why I didn’t major in design. I mean, really—does the world really need another sucky designer?
So why am I looking at these sketches and thinking…I want more? To do more? To be more?
“Hey, dude—what’s wrong?”
Startled, I realize Jason’s come up beside me, giving me the oh-God-don’t-be-unhappy look. I’m even more startled to discover my cheeks are wet.
“Nothing,” I say, wiping my eyes on the hem of my sweatshirt. “Just that time of month.”
Usually a guaranteed male repellent.
Except for this time.
Before I can say, “Holy crap!” Jason’s yanked me against him so hard I nearly lose my balance. Since his hoodie smells like week-old Mickey D’s, this is not a pleasant experience. Especially as my breasts are squished into his ribs. If this is giving the kid a woody, however, I have no idea, because believe you me I’ve got my butt jutting out so far you could fly a squadron of fighter jets between our pelvises.
Which doesn’t stop him from kissing me.
I allow myself precisely one hundredth of a second to debate the don’t-want-to-hurt-his-feelings vs. must-stop-this-NOW issue. Hands clamped on his shoulders, I push back, trying not to yelp when inertia keeps his mouth moving after me like a heat-seeking missile.
“Jason?” I try to sound gentle, since I doubt screaming “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” would do a whole lot for his obviously fragile self-esteem. “What was that all abou—?”
“Jason!”
That’s not good.
We both look over; Luke’s standing at the foot of the stairs, holding my grinning, blessedly clueless, daughter in his arms. Luke, however, is not grinning. He whispers something in Starr’s ear, then sets her down. She goes skipping up the stairs, leaving Luke free to glare and fume.
“Go home, Jase,” he says softly.
“I was just—”
“Home. Now.”
“Luke,” I try to get in as Jason says, “She was crying—”
“I was not!”
“—so I was just t
rying to make her feel better, was all.” Jase hangs his head like a Beagle who’s just piddled on the carpet. An apt description, considering how he smells. “Geez, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I’m not sure how to take that.
“Go home,” Luke repeats. “We’ll deal with this later.”
“Hey!” I stomp around the table to get up in Luke’s face—okay, chest—hands on hips, breasts up and out. Woman on warpath stance. “Whatever this is, or isn’t, it’s between Jase and me, okay?”
Luke lifts one eyebrow, only to immediately frown. “Jesus, Ellie, you were crying. What’s wrong?”
Isn’t this where we came in?
“Nothing, for God’s sake, I was just feeling a little blue— I’m entitled—but I’m fine now. So can we just forget the whole thing?”
“So,” Jason says behind me, “can I stay?”
“No,” Luke and I say at the same time. Understandably enough, the kid looks crushed. And confused.
“If you were on Luke’s side to begin with,” he says, shoving his stringy hair out of his eyes, “why’d you pretend you weren’t?”
Why do kids always think people have to be on sides?
I let out a little sigh, then walk over and lay my hand on his arm. “Jason, honey? Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you need a life. Of your own. And hanging out over here all the time ain’t it.”
His whole body sags. “Thought you liked it when I came over.”
“I do,” I say, squeezing his arm. “Every once in a while. But as long as you’re here, you’re not out there. Making friends and all that stuff.” I refrain from adding “your own age.” I’m not that stupid. Or mean. I angle my head to look up under the shaggy hair. “I can’t be your girlfriend, Jason. And I know we need to talk about this—”
“Forget it! Just…forget it!” Hair flying, he cuts through the room and storms up the basement stairs. When the reverberations stop, I turn to Luke. The caveman scowl is still firmly in place; his gaze remains fixed on the stairs for several seconds before it shifts to me.
“You okay?”
I go back behind my table, laying out the sketches to glower at them some more. “I think maybe you should be asking Jason that, not me.”
“He ever try somethin’ like that before?”
“No. And I doubt he’ll try it again, so unknot your boxers. No boy in his right mind would deliberately embarrass himself like that twice. Oh, for crying out loud, Luke,” I say when the scowl deepens. “It was just a kiss. From a kid who’s seventeen and confused and horny.”
“It’s the horny part that worries me.”
“Why? Because you’re afraid I might succumb to temptation and end up having a hot and heavy affair with your baby brother?”
“Don’t even say that.”
“I don’t believe this! How could you even think I’d—” For some reason—Luke’s crazed expression, my precarious emotional state, the fact that Mme. Attila has moved back in—I burst out laughing. When the hysteria subsides, I say, “Luke, sweetie? For one thing, I can take care of myself. So you can unplug the Damsel Defense System, okay? For another, you’re wasting brain cells on something that ain’t gonna happen, in this or any other lifetime. Although…” I lean across the table. “You might want to take him under your wing and give him a few pointers. His seduction technique is from hunger.”
Luke gets this funny look on his face. “Oh, and like mine’s so great?”
I am such an idiot.
But not so much of an idiot as to pursue this line of conversation.
Apparently, neither is Luke, who walks over to the sofa and flops into it with a loud, worn-out sigh. “I’m just worried about Jase, is all. Mom told me he’s been acting weird lately.”
“Lately?”
“Okay, weirder than usual. I mean, come on, El—none of the rest of us moped around like some sad-eyed mutt all the time.”
I bite my tongue. There were periods during Luke and Tina’s tumultuous relationship when Luke made Jason look downright jolly by comparison.
“He’s got a crush on me, Luke. That’s all. And he’s…sensitive.”
“You saying the rest of us aren’t?”
“You really want to go there?”
Luke makes a face, then says, “Yeah, well, he better damn sight snap out of his sensitivity before he finishes school and comes to work for Pop.”
A piece slides into place. “You’re assuming an awful lot, aren’t you?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Maybe Jason’s been acting so strange lately because he knows everyone expects him to go into the family business, only he doesn’t. And he can’t figure out how to tell you guys.”
Luke angles his head. “He say something to you?”
“No. Just speculating.”
“Well, that’s nuts,” Luke says with an incredulity usually reserved for Elvis sightings and adding three inches to one’s penis. “We’ve all gone in with Pop, why wouldn’t he? Besides, what else would he do?”
“Maybe that’s for him to decide? I mean, really, does he look like somebody who’d be happy unclogging toilets?”
“Got news for you, babe—nobody likes unclogging toilets. Except maybe J.J.”
Jimmy, Jr., Luke’s oldest brother. We both smile. Then I glance at the clock, realizing that Heather, et al., will be here in less than an hour. Terror pulls up a chair and plants its big old butt right next to me. I glance over the sketches, my heart racing, then hold one up so Luke can see it.
“Whaddya think?”
I’m too far away for him to see clearly, so he has to squint. No self-respecting Scardinare male would ever let a little thing like nearsightedness come between him and his machismo. “It’s a dress. So?”
“But do you think Heather will like it?”
His dark gaze shifts from the sketch to my face. “And I repeat—it’s a dress. What do I know from dresses?” He shrugs. “Other than it’s easier to mess around when a woman’s wearing one than when she’s wearing pants.”
I throw a plastic S-curve template at his head. Well, in the general direction of his head. Blood’s such a bitch to get out. Luke yells “Hey!” and ducks, just as Jennifer ventures downstairs.
Which is odd, because Jennifer never ventures downstairs. And never did, even when she lived here for real. Dad and I must’ve played a million games of Ping-Pong, but Jen never joined us, not even once. But here she is now.
My sister and Luke do the cold, hard look thing for a few seconds. As you may have guessed, they weren’t exactly chums when we were kids. She’s not quite all the way down the stairs, one spiked heel still poised on the step above, as if she’s contemplating flight.
If only.
She crosses her arms over something tiny and silky and expensive. “Hello, Luke.”
Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t know another living soul who actually says, “Hello.” Not around here. Hi, hey, yo…but never “hello.”
“Jennifer,” Luke says with a big, laconic grin, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. “Our rose among the thorns. How’s it goin’?”
I can tell she’s holding back a bristle. “Fine. I hear Petey’s getting married?”
“Yep. In a cuppla months.”
She nods, hesitates, then comes all the way down the stairs. “And, um…I’m really sorry about, you know. You and Tina.”
Wait a minute. This is my sister. Sounding as if she actually cares. About somebody else.
Did somebody suck out her brain and replace it with a human one?
Luke looks equally wary. With good reason. All our lives, Jennifer was only nice to any of us when she wanted something. Then the minute we’d hold out an olive branch, she’d rip a chunk out of our butts.
“Thanks,” Luke says. “But maybe it was for the best.”
“You two were so close, though. It must’ve been hard.”
“Uh, yeah.” His eyes bounce from her to me then back to
her. “It was.”
She sits beside him on the sofa, one foot tucked up under her tush, her cheek resting on her knuckles, her expression positively dripping with sympathy and genuine interest.
“What happened?” she says softly, and the hair lifts on the back of my neck.
“Lu-uke!” Starr shrieks from the top of the stairs. “You said you were going to play Nintendo with me!”
Luke shoots up off the sofa like he’s been goosed, mumbles something about “Gotta go,” and does. Taking the stairs two at a time, in fact.
“He’s really devoted to her, isn’t he?” Jen says.
It takes a second. “Oh. Starr. Yeah. He is.”
“Almost like a daddy.”
Maybe that was simply an idle comment, maybe not. Maybe she was coming on to Luke, maybe I’m reading things into what was nothing more than a simple, concerned inquiry. But I have neither the time nor energy to get into any of it with her now, not with Heather due any minute.
“Starr’s lucky to have Luke in her life,” I say.
Jen gives me a funny look, then gets up and walks over to the mock-up of Heather’s gown, which I’ve arranged on the mannequin. I can’t approximate a tulle skirt from muslin, but even so, it looks pretty damn good. If I do say do myself.
“Heather’s dress mock-up,” I say. “She’s coming for a fitting in a few minutes.”
Wordlessly, Jen skims a finger over the décolletage, then pivots, catching sight of the sketches on the table. She picks one up and studies it, her expression stony, glances at the others, then at me, then leaves without saying another word.
Not that this is any surprise. Her criticisms of my designs when we were younger were ruthless. And she had no qualms about entertaining the few friends she had at my expense: to this day, I can see Stacey McMillan and Eve Graciano, sitting with Jen on her bed and hooting with laughter over the sketches I’d thought I’d safely hidden under my mattress. What does surprise me this time is her lack of comment, since I’ve never known my sister to sidestep any opportunity to put me down.
What the hell is she up to?
chapter 18
Hanging by a Thread Page 23
