by Ruth Houston
His mother smiled and hugged him gently, murmuring some smooth Italian words in his ear. Zack gave his mom a tight smile. I stood back, melting into the background (as much as I could without forcing Zack to let go of my hand).
"And who's this, Zackary?" his father asked. His voice gave me a start – it sounded much like his son's, just as low, just as calm, just as smooth, almost as sexy (I took back this thought as soon it came into existence; thinking of Zack's father's voice as being sexy caused me to feel slightly queasy), but there was a coldness, a rigidity to it that Zack's had never possessed. I sent a quiet prayer out into the universe that Zack's voice would never have that kind of insensitive quality. Other than the voice, Zack had no physical similarities to his father at all. Mr. Crowne stood slightly shorter than his son, had straight light brown hair, a fair complexion, blue eyes, and a more muscular build – I remembered that Zack had told me that his father had once been a jock extraordinaire. Now I could believe it. Mr. Crowne looked all-American, and his features told a story of a young, carefree, handsome boy years ago.
Zack's mother was a completely different story. Every time I glanced at her (and I did this often), I was stunned by her beauty. I could easily see where Zack got his good looks; he and his mother looked very much alike. His mother had the same light tan skin, golden eyes, curly dark brown hair, and slender, graceful build, but Zack was still taller. Another thing that struck me about his parents was that they were both young – younger than my own parents by a long shot, I would wager. They couldn't have been much older than 35 or so, from the looks of it.
I was pulled out of my analytical thoughts when I heard Zack's voice. "This is Winter Bruin." My eyes snapped up to his. Oh, right. Introductions. His eyes never left mine as he said in a softer voice, "Winter, this is my mom and dad. Cascata Pastorelli-Crowne and Joshua Crowne." I broke our gaze to smile at both of them, not missing the glance that had passed between his parents when they saw our intertwined fingers. Zack didn't miss it either, and moved closer to me, snaking an arm around me possessively when his father raised his eyebrows.
"Nice to meet you," I said with as much confidence as I could muster, wondering what Zack was doing. I had put this comment out to both of them, but Mrs. Crowne was the one who smiled at me, though she said nothing. I gently disentangled myself from Zack to help them with their luggage, giving him an encouraging nod when he did the same.
We walked to the parking garage in relative silence, but on the car Mr. Crowne spoke to Zack.
"How is Victoria?" he asked.
Mrs. Crowne and I were both sitting in the back of Zack's Nissan sedan, and I could tell she was listening as carefully as I was to his response.
"She's good," he said quietly, keeping his eyes trained on the road. "Same as always."
"I suppose she's been taking good care of you, then?"
Zack nodded shortly.
Mrs. Crowne glanced at me, and a wistful expression passed over her face before she said to me softly, "Do you know who Victoria is?" Her English was nearly perfect; there was a slight European accent to it that made me smile in delight, despite the obvious tension in the car.
"Yes," I replied conversationally after the initial surprise that she was addressing me. "I've met her once before." I paused, then said, "Was your flight tiring?"
She laughed quietly, a melodious laugh. In spite of myself I was beginning to feel a slight pull towards her, even though I knew Zack and his parents had not had the smoothest of relationships. It wasn't quite a liking of her, but more a tiny desire to hear what she had to say. "Very. It has been a long time since I last flew to America."
Throughout the rest of the car ride she and I made small talk, while Zack and his father sat in the front in silence, listening to us converse. Cascata Pastorelli-Crowne had the same wonderful, subtle charisma that her son had.
Zack
Winter was making light conversation with my mother, and I felt gratitude towards her. I didn't even want to begin to imagine what this situation would have been like had she not been here. I grimaced. This was the weirdest situation I had ever been in. Picking up your parents who you haven't seen for six years is not something you do everyday.
We made it back to the house, and I managed to avoid saying a single word until after Winter and I had hauled their baggage upstairs and left them in their bedroom to settle in.
"Zack," she said as we trudged downstairs. "I think I should leave –"
I didn't even let her finish her sentence. "Please don't," I said, and the quiet desperation I heard in my voice startled me. "Please… just don't leave me here by myself." I looked away, realizing how pathetic this situation really was.
"Hey," Winter said softly, touching my shoulder. She had stopped in her tracks, and I did the same. She was a step above me, and gently turned my shoulders so we would be facing one another. I looked down at the carpeting; she didn't force me to look into her eyes, but said, "I'm always here. If you ever need anything, I'm here for you." It wasn't said aloud, but there was another underlying message as well. She was telling me that it wasn't a sign of weakness to ask for help. That it was never too late to ask her to do something for me. I understood, and finally met her eyes. Though she was standing on a step higher than me, I still had to look down about half an inch to catch her gaze.
"Thanks," I said in a low voice, truly meaning it. I don't know what compelled me to do it, but I reached out and touched her cheek. Unconsciously I stroked her skin, then ran my thumb over her bottom lip. My eyes met hers again, and in them I saw a mixture of emotions that I couldn't pick out very clearly, yet it completely swept me away. Suddenly I was aware of a lot of things that I hadn't noticed before – that our bodies were much closer than I had previously thought, that her hand was on my arm, that her lips looked so inviting I just couldn't help myself. Purely on impulse I leaned forward, my eyes closing of their own accord as Winter tilted her head up just a fraction. Our lips were less than a millimeter apart –
"Zack!"
We sprung away from each other instantaneously. Heart hammering, I peered over the edge of the railing.
It was Victoria.
"Zack!" she said again, crossly. "I've been shouting your name from the kitchen for the past two minutes. Would you get down here already? I can't set up the fine silverware for your mother and father by myself." She sniffed irritably and I was reminded again that she, too, had treated the return of my parents with nothing but scorn and anger that was just under the surface. Lately her naturally serene disposition had been traded for a highly unpredictable temper.
I cleared my throat, trying to regulate my breathing, and called over the edge, "Sorry. I'll be right there."
I turned back to Winter to see that she was clutching the hand railing of the stairs tightly, and realized after a moment that I was doing the same. I felt like if I were to let go, I would surely fall and tumble the rest of the way down the stairs – I couldn't feel my knees at all. After fruitless attempts at trying to calm my racing heart, I ran a frustrated hand through my hair and muttered, "Look… I'm sorry." 'But I'm not really sorry at all,' my mind whispered. I banished the thought at once.
"It – it's okay," Winter said. I could hear nothing in her voice, and somewhere deep in my chest if felt like something was ripping apart. "It's been an emotional day, I suppose," she said softly.
I opened my mouth to speak, but thought better of it and simply nodded. "C'mon," I mumbled instead. "Victoria's going to slaughter someone if we don't hurry downstairs."
We walked to the dining room in silence. As I handed Winter the spoons though, she whistled.
"Bringing out the nice stuff, huh?" she said.
I winced. "Yeah," I said shortly.
There was a pause, and she studied the spoons in her hands determinedly as I rummaged around in the cabinet for the matching forks, not quite meeting her eyes. "That wasn't a very tactful thing for me to say," she admitted after a silence. "I'm sorry."
&
nbsp; "Don't be," I sighed. "I hate how we're all on edge today. Too many blow ups and too many apologies."
She nodded in agreement. There was a moment of quiet again.
"You got out one too many spoons," Winter said, out of the blue.
"Really?" I said. I glanced over them. "No I didn't. One, two, three, four –"
"Five," she said, raising her eyebrows at me. "Victoria, you, your mother, your father –"
"– and you," I finished, surprised. Something occurred to me. "Aren't you staying, then?" I realized that when we had been on the steps, she had never said that she wouldn't leave.
Her sad smile was my answer. "Zack, I can't fix all your problems for you, you know? You'll have to confront them sometime. Better sooner than later, and I don't want to be there when it happens. It's not my battle to fight."
"So you're just going to leave me here, then," I said quietly. Anger flared up inside me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the irrationality of what I was saying struck me, but the idea was too far back and too vague, and I guess at the moment I didn't really want to pay attention to it.
Something like fear flashed through her eyes, but it disappeared so quickly I wondered if I had simply been hallucinating. However, she said calmly, "I think I should leave now." She turned and set the spoons down on the mahogany dining table, and was about to step away when I reached out and grabbed her shoulder roughly.
"You can't. Don't," I said, eyes flashing.
"I can, and I'm going to," Winter replied evenly.
I was too furious to argue, and anyway, my pride decided to butt in at this moment. "Leave already, then," I whispered fiercely. "Ditch me and leave me here to fend for myself. I'll be fine without you." With that, I released her none too gently, and turned around to continue my search for the damn silverware.
For the second time that day, there was an odd roaring in my ears. I sensed more than heard her leave.
I was livid. I thought she was going to stay for dinner at least. Fuming, I slammed the utensils down on the table one by one until Victoria came in to see what the whole fuss was about.
"What is going on in here?" she demanded. "Why are you treating your parent's best silverware so roughly, Zackary Crowne?"
That did it. "I don't care about my parent's best silverware, god damn it!" I blew up. "I don't care about their expensive Italian brand name clothes, I don't care that they're back, I don't want them to be back!" I was nearly beside myself. "This is crazy," I muttered. "I'm leaving."
"You will do no such thing," Victoria said quietly, dangerously. "Where is Winter?"
"She left," I spat. Just hearing her name increased my fury.
"Good," came the housekeeper's reply. "Smart girl. Calm down already and set the table –" she threw a glance at the haphazard way I had placed everything, " – neatly; when I come back here in five minutes I fully expect you to be ready for dinner. You will help me bring the dishes from the kitchen into here." She spun on her heel and stalked off, back into the kitchen.
I glared at her retreating back, and was sorely tempted to punch the wall, but decided against it after a moment's thought – I've heard that punching walls sometimes creates more trouble than it's worth. And besides, I'm not a violent person.
Somehow (someone up there must have been having kind thoughts about me, for once), I made it through dinner alive and escaped upstairs to my room as soon as was humanly possible. I couldn't stand it, the way my father made strained conversation. He actually asked me who Winter was. Just to spite him, I had said that she was my girlfriend and that we'd been seeing each other for a long time. His look of surprise and the way he became quiet afterwards made the lie worth it.
I spent the rest of the night barricaded in my room doing senseless homework, not allowing myself to think. For once I wished that I had more work to do. I usually didn't bother to turn half of my homework in (what was the use?), but still managed to bag passing grades, because tests were easy for me. All it took was one quick skim over a chapter and I could take a test. 100, every time, I never failed.
I stole out a little past midnight for a shower, after I was sure that everyone else in the house was asleep. I turned up the hot water and let it beat onto my back, forcing myself to relax. Only now did I permit my mind to turn over some of the events and feelings of the day. Staring into the small mirror posted on the wall of the shower stall, I saw someone I knew, but hadn't thought about for a long time – I saw a person, just a boy, really, with his mom's curly dark locks and golden eyes, his dad's low voice and calm disposition, and a personality and bitter past all his own. Sinking to my knees onto the slippery floor of the shower, I rested my forehead against the cool tile and cried.
Chapter 16: Hired
Tristan Friday
Payne's was on 27th Avenue in Hampton. A tiny Greek eatery was on its left, and they were neighbored by a music store on the right. The moment I pulled into one of the parking spaces along the front, I knew I would like working there. There was a nice window display of some soccer cleats and basketball jerseys, and a jaunty little sign proclaimed that the store was "OPEN", while another shouted out that they were "Hiring Now!" I smirked to myself. 'Here's the man you're looking for,' I thought as I locked up my car. A little confidence never hurt anyway, right?
A silver bell jingled as I pushed open the door, and my eyes automatically gave the inside of the store a once-over – now, I recalled that I had come in here once to buy a pair of soccer cleats a little over three years ago. I didn't play soccer anymore, at least, not competitively (I dropped it junior year in favor of basketball), but I still had that pair of cleats, and wore them when I took Anthony out to play a little on the weekends.
The inside was bigger than I remembered – it was spacious and brightly lit, with a high ceiling. The back wall consisted mainly of shoes; men's on the left, women's on the right, and children's in the center. The left wing of the store was divided between basketball, soccer, and football; the right wing was mainly for tennis, badminton, baseball, and softball, while the front of the shop had other miscellaneous sport's equipment, like volleyball, track and field, golf, water polo, etc. And sitting in the middle of it all was the check out counter – it was a rather peculiar counter that seemed to be made more or less of wood; the thing was hexagonally shaped, and there were five registers plus one line for returns, exchanges, and inquiries.
As of now, there were two people lazing about behind the counter who didn't seem very busy. They did have a few customers though – two were examining some running shoes in the back, and another four or five were scattered about the rest of the store. I walked up to the counter, and my attention was drawn towards one of the cashiers whose back was turned. From the back, I could see he had light brown hair that was tousled and damp. He looked like he had just gotten out of the showers or something – now that I thought about it, that was a very familiar head of light brown, tousled, damp hair… The person he was talking to, another guy who looked to be about our age, caught my eye and said something to the brown-haired guy, who turned around.
"Martin?" I said incredulously.
"Westley!" he exclaimed, his grey eyes lighting up and turning around fully. "'Sup man?"
I slapped his proffered hand, still gazing at him, amazed. "What are you doing here?"
He looked at me strangely. "I…don't know. What am I doing here? What do you think, Scotty T?" he twisted around to ask the other cashier, who only gave him a grin and a shrug. "Perhaps I…work here?" There was a mischievous, teasing gleam in his eye despite his serious act.
"Alright, alright, stupid question," I conceded defeat with an easy grin, even though it really wasn't a stupid question. What was Martin doing working at a store like this? He probably didn't even need the extra cash – everyone knew his family could not be that bad off if he drove a Beemer to school. But, I chose to let it slide, realizing that probing into the matter further might make him uncomfortable. So, I said instead, "Jeez, you been t
alking to Winter lately or something?" I shook my head, smirking. His sarcasm had almost been a picture-perfect imitation of hers. He even had down the way her mouth would stay in a strict line that would make you think she was biting the inside of cheek to keep from laughing if you didn't know better. Luckily, I always knew better. It was hard not to, with all the time I spent with Winter anyway.
"Actually, no," Martin said, looking startled. "I haven't talked to her in like two weeks." He shrugged.
"She's been busy, I think," I said uncertainly, realizing that I, too, had not talked to Winter as much as I usually did in the past week.
"Anyway," Martin said, pushing aside the subject easily. "Haven't seen you in here before. What brings the high and mighty Tristan Westley to this part of town?" he grinned at me cheekily.
"Well, I need to ask you a question," I said.
"Can do, as long as it's not too complicated," Martin replied cheerfully. "So, what can I do for ya on this fine Friday afternoon?"
I peered over the counter and into the middle of the hexagon. There were chairs and a computer desk – probably for easy access to a list of inventory for customers. Martin was sitting in one of the chairs, and now rested his elbows on his knees, looking at me curiously.
"Actually," I said, copying his casual stance and resting my forearms on the smooth, polished wooden surface. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not buying anything today."
"Aww, get out, West," he groaned, and I laughed.
"I was thinking more about the 'Hiring Now' sign you guys have up on the window," I continued.
"Really?" Martin said, looking extremely surprised. His hand stopped its journey halfway through his mussed up hair. Then he narrowed his eyes. "You better not be pulling my leg here, Westley, or I'll set Thatcher on you," he warned.
