Gypsy Eyes

by Virginia Andrews

  “Thanks.”

  “No. That means you want to be with me so much that you’ll be on pins and needles praying I go over well.”

  “I’ve got to warn you,” I said, annoyed at how right he was, “my mother can smell arrogance, and she’s allergic to it.”

  He laughed. “See you at six thirty on the dot.”

  After I hung up, I went about choosing what to wear. I really didn’t have the variety of fun clothes the other girls had. I had to improvise again, matching a blouse with a skirt first and then going back to my one pair of designer jeans. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I decided I wasn’t making enough of a fuss over a dinner date, wasn’t making it seem as special as it should be, so I put on a dress, the last one my mother had approved of. It was a slip-on, rhubarb-colored, soft wool-blend sweater dress with wide ribbing at the V neck and additional ribbing at the cuffs and waist. It fell to midthigh, which was probably a little high for her taste, but I believed the thing that got her approval was the dress being labeled an angelic dress. How could you criticize angels?

  She bought it for me almost two months ago, and at the time, it was a little looser at the hips and in the bodice. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I realized that the changes I thought were subtle in my body suddenly looked more pronounced. My bra felt tighter, and my cleavage was deeper. I ran the tips of my fingers along the sides of my neck and then to the base of my throat. There was something richer about my complexion. There was a slightly rosy tint above my breasts. It was almost as if it had happened overnight. I wasn’t upset about it. If anything, it made me more self-confident.

  I let my hair down and watched how softly the strands floated to my shoulders. Even my hair looked thicker, more radiant. I felt it to convince myself that I wasn’t imagining it. Was it terrible to be so pleased with and enamored of yourself? When do you cross the line, become narcissistic and in danger of being your own worst enemy? Somehow I was sure I was wise enough to handle my budding maturity. I hoped that wasn’t overconfidence.

  I decided to wear only my pentacle this time and no earrings. Of course I wore the ring Uncle Wade had given me. It was almost a part of my finger by now. I touched it, recalling Summer’s matching pendant. Then my eyes were drawn back to my image in the mirror, and suddenly, a strange thing happened. Summer’s face seemed to emerge out of mine, his smile soft and tender but his eyes full of lust. I actually stepped back and caught my breath. The image disappeared quickly, but I felt a little shaken.

  You’re thinking about him too much, I told myself. You’re too worried about pleasing him, attracting him. It’s becoming dangerously close to an obsession. He’s your first boyfriend, Sage Healy. Get hold of yourself. You’ll only embarrass yourself. Find something else to think about.

  I had gotten myself ready far too early anyway, putting myself into an even more nervous state. I was worrying too much about how my parents, especially my mother, were going to react to him. I could easily imagine her having a change of mind and telling me I couldn’t go out with him after all. It wasn’t something I foresaw the way I saw events that involved other people. It was just a palpable fear. I tried submerging myself in homework to keep from thinking about it, but every few minutes, I looked at the clock. I decided I would go down at six fifteen, and the moment the clock’s hands indicated it, I leaped out of my chair, brushed my hair once more, ran my hands over my dress to make it look smooth, and hurried out.

  My parents were in my father’s office, but they heard me and came out. They paused in the hallway and looked at me.

  “I must say, you know how to make yourself attractive without making it too obvious,” my father said. His sincerity took me by surprise, not that he hadn’t given me compliments in the past. It was just the expression on his face. He looked like he hadn’t realized a girl like me actually lived upstairs. My mother said nothing. She just nodded, which I took to mean she approved of what I had chosen to wear.

  “Thank you, Dad,” I said.

  “I’m glad you’re wearing your pentacle.”

  He looked at my mother, who bobbed her head almost reluctantly. I wondered if this was a good time to mention that Summer’s father had given him a pendant similar to my ring and that his father had a pentacle on the wall in his office, too, but I held that back, afraid my mother would see something wrong or strange about it.

  “She really is growing up fast,” my father said.

  “Too fast,” my mother muttered.

  I saw the way they looked at each other. My father had that appeal in his eyes, that way of asking her to remain calm. How long did she want it to take? How could I be so far behind and still have any friends my age? Why couldn’t she realize that?

  I went into the living room to wait for Summer. My mother went into the kitchen to begin preparations for their dinner. My father followed me and sat in his favorite chair. I was too nervous to sit. I stood near the window that faced the front.

  “So this boy is a good student, I take it?” he asked.

  “What? Oh, yes, very good, very well read considering he was homeschooled for so long.”

  “Homeschooled? And this was because . . .”

  “He and his father traveled so much.”

  “That’s hard on someone so young,” my father said. “You told your mother recently that his mother was killed in a car accident?”

  “Hit by a drunk driver while she was crossing the street. He went through a red light.”

  “Tragic. Have you met his father?” he asked.

  Before I could respond, I saw Summer drive up.

  “He’s here,” I announced.

  My mother heard me and came in from the kitchen. She stood beside my father, both of them full of anticipation. I watched Summer get out of his car and straighten his clothes, brushing down his pants and then checking his hair in the side-view mirror. It brought a smile to my face. He looked so handsome, in a dark gray sports jacket, black tie, and black slacks. Surely he’d win them over, I thought.

  He started for the front steps and stopped as abruptly as he would have if he had walked into an invisible wall. He actually backed up, rocking on his heels for a moment. I brought my hand to the base of my throat and was unable to hold down a troubled “Oh.”

  “What is it?” my mother asked, stepping toward me and the window quickly.

  I shook my head and looked out at him again. He wasn’t moving. He was just standing there looking at the house. He brought his right hand to his temple, his left hand to his forehead, and looked down. What was he doing?

  “Well?” my father said.

  “Something’s wrong,” I told them, and went to the front door. He was still standing there with his hand on his forehead when I stepped out. “What’s wrong, Summer?”

  He looked up at me and shook his head.

  “I don’t know. I just got dizzy for a moment, dizzy and a little nauseated,” he said.

  My parents came up behind me.

  “What is it?” my father asked.

  “He isn’t feeling well,” I said.

  I started down the stairs. My father followed, but my mother remained in the doorway.

  “Hey, what’s up?” my father asked.

  “Sorry, sir. I just got very dizzy.”

  “Well, come on in and have a glass of water. Sit for a while, and let’s see. Maybe you’re coming down with something like the flu.”

  Summer looked at my mother. He saw something in her face that displeased him and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sage,” he said. “Probably best if I just go home.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t drive,” my father said.

  “No, I’ll be fine.” He backed up, spun around, and quickly got back into his car.

  “Let us call your father first!” my father shouted to him.

  “I’m fine. Sorry,” he said. He started the engine.

  “Summer!” I called.

  He looked out at me. “I’ll be fine,” he said more confide
ntly, and then he smiled and backed out. He acted like he couldn’t get away from us fast enough. It was as if a hurricane had passed right in front of our house and was gone in seconds.

  “What was that about?” my father asked as Summer drove off.

  I stood there looking after him and then turned and looked at my mother. During all of the occasions when she was upset with me or with something that involved me, she had never appeared as terrified as she did now.

  My father saw it, too. “Felicia?”

  “Come back inside,” she said, and looked ominously in Summer’s direction. “Now!” she screamed.

  Both my father and I moved quickly to the steps. She backed into the house and closed the door as soon as we entered.

  “What?” he asked her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Didn’t you feel it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Feel what?” I asked.

  “Didn’t you?” she asked my father again.

  “He probably just has the flu or something, Felicia. You’re overreacting.” He placed his hand on her right shoulder. “Relax. Calm down. The boy looked very nice. Maybe he is shier than we think—or,” he added, looking at me, “than Sage thinks.”

  She shook her head but looked like she was calming down because of the gentle way he spoke and stroked her upper arm.

  “It’s all right,” he kept saying.

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” I asked—more like demanded. “What made you so upset?” I asked her. “I’m the one who should be upset.”

  “Go up and change,” she told me, “and come down to help with dinner. Start on a salad.”

  I turned to my father. He rolled his eyes and nodded. I looked at my mother again and saw she would countenance no opposition and no more questions. Her face had that cold, stony look, a look that had frightened me to the bone since I was a little girl. Disappointed but very confused now, I headed for the stairway and then hurried up to my room, closing the door sharply behind me and throwing myself on my bed.

  What had happened to my first real date? It felt like it had been scooped out right from under me. All the excitement, the anticipation, was crushed in a few moments. The whole world seemed to spin on its head.

  Was my father right? Summer had a flu? Was he simply ignoring it to keep our date and it just got worse? And why would that upset my mother to such an extreme? Did she think he had been irresponsible? What else could it be? He certainly looked sick. His face was pale when I first stepped outside. He did appear to recuperate quickly when he got into his car, however.

  I doubted Summer was shier than I thought or than they had anticipated. I couldn’t imagine him getting cold feet when it came to meeting my parents, no matter how hard I had made it sound. Yet if he wasn’t really sick, it had to be something like that, something like stage fright. My mother’s reaction made me wonder what I was missing. What was it she saw that made her think it was something else, something threatening? What did she mean by “Didn’t you feel it?” Feel what?

  I changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then slipped on a pair of sandals, still feeling terribly confused, even a little frightened because of how quickly everything had changed. I left my hair the way it was and hurried downstairs. There was no one in the kitchen or the living room. I realized they were both in my father’s office with the door closed. It sounded like they were arguing, but their voices were too muffled for me to make out any words clearly. I didn’t want to be caught listening in on them, so I returned to the kitchen and gathered the dishware and silverware to set the table before I started on the salad.

  They were unusually silent when they came out. My mother went right to work on dinner. I stood beside her making the salad. Less than an hour ago, I’d had no idea I’d be doing any of this. Of course, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It had been very important for Summer to be able to take me out on a real date tonight. There was no way he would have backed out of it unless something serious had happened.

  A terrible new thought occurred to me. Maybe it wasn’t just the beginning of some flu. Maybe he had a terrible pain in his head. Maybe there was some health problem that he had not yet revealed. It frightened me. Could he be seriously ill? Surely he realized how shocked and disappointed I had been. He would have to tell me the truth.

  I kept expecting the phone to ring with him calling with some explanation, but he didn’t call before or during our dinner. The whole time, I was poised to fly at that telephone. My parents were talking about something else, but I wasn’t listening. I thought they had put it all out of mind by now, so I was surprised to hear my father suddenly insist that I let him know what had happened to Summer.

  “As soon as you find out,” he added, and looked at my mother, who just ate as if she already knew the answer. Right now, I hated her for that look, that arrogant assurance that she knew more than either my father or I knew or could ever know.

  “What did you mean before when you asked Dad if he had felt it, Mother? Felt what?”

  I thought she would become angry again at my cross-examining her, but instead, she looked at me curiously and sat back. “You didn’t feel anything unusual?”

  “I was concerned about Summer. It was certainly unusual for him to drive all the way here and, moments from entering, stop and get sick. Is that what you mean?”

  “Not just that, no.”

  “Well, then, what?”

  “It’s not something I can explain. You have to either know or not,” she said.

  My father looked down and shook his head gently. What was she talking about? I searched my memory to find something that might have interested her and perhaps me, too, something else besides the shock and disappointment I had felt, but nothing came to mind.

  “Why can’t you explain it?”

  “Let’s not talk about it anymore until we find out something substantial,” my father insisted. From the way he was looking at my mother, I knew he meant that for her, not me.

  I really had no appetite now, but I forced myself to eat enough not to be criticized, and then, when it was time to clear off the table, I rushed at the opportunity to escape this funeral-like atmosphere.

  “You know,” my father said, coming into the kitchen after me, “perhaps you shouldn’t wait to find out. Perhaps you should call his father to see how he’s doing. I feel I should have. Do you have his phone number?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  I was nervous about doing it, but I went to the phone in the kitchen and called. Summer’s father answered on the third ring.

  “Mr. Dante, it’s Sage,” I said. “How is Summer?”

  “Summer? I thought he was with you,” he said. “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Oh. I . . . he said he wasn’t feeling well right after he pulled into our driveway. I thought, I mean, I just assumed he went home.”

  “What was wrong?”

  “He said he felt dizzy, a little weak. My father thought he might be coming down with the flu. Now I’m worried.”

  “Well, don’t panic. He’s a very independent and resourceful young man. The moment I hear from him or see him, I’ll have him call you.”

  “Please do,” I said. I stood by the phone, thinking. Where would he have gone? Was he in trouble? Did he go off the road?

  My father waited in the doorway. “Well?” he asked.

  “His father said he didn’t come home.”

  “Really? Now I do feel bad about not calling him immediately.” He thought a moment. “Is his father calling the police?”

  “The police? No. As a matter of fact, he didn’t seem at all concerned,” I said. “Even after I explained what had happened.”

  “That’s odd,” my mother said, coming up behind my father. She had been listening to our conversation.

  “Maybe he’s just embarrassed. He might have felt better and didn’t know what to do. He knew he couldn’t come back because you’d both be conc
erned about my going out with him now.” I spoke quickly, like someone who was desperately trying to find an explanation that would satisfy them.

  “Maybe he did feel better,” my mother said coldly. She looked at my father. “Once he left here, that is.”

  Did she believe he was that shy? Was that what she meant?

  “Kids today,” my father said. “Who can understand them? Maybe it’s better not to try.”

  She shook her head. “You always were the one with his head in the sand, Mark,” she told him. “Even when something is right before your eyes, obvious, black and white. I heard the alarms.”

  “Stop it. You have nothing to go on.”

  What were they talking about?

  “Have you met his father?” my mother suddenly asked me. “You have, haven’t you?” she followed quickly.

  “Yes,” I said. “He introduced me to him.”

  “Where? Where?” she shouted before I could think of an answer other than the truth.

  “His house,” I said.

  “You left the mall with him last night,” she said, nodding, and looked at my father.

  “Sage, how could you do that?” he asked.

  “It was just a short visit,” I said, but I knew that wouldn’t justify or explain it in a way that would satisfy them.

  “Mark,” my mother said, filling the sound of his name with alarm. She stepped closer to him. Her eyes were full of panic, wide, blazing.

  My father’s own expression changed to become more like hers. “What is he like?” he asked, obviously fighting to remain calm.

  “He’s very good-looking, elegant, and devoted to his work, his writing. He was very nice to me.”

  “Where do they live?”

  I described the area. “It’s an older house. He hasn’t done all that much to it. Maybe he’s thinking of getting something more substantial. It’s not very big, cozy, but—”

  “Maybe he’s thinking he won’t stay long,” my mother interrupted. “Was there anything else about him that struck you as different, odd?”

  “Odd? No,” I said. “I could see that he and Summer have a close relationship.”

  “What did he ask you about us?”

  “About you?”