by Kitty Parker
"He has," I confirmed, trying to relax into my normal nonchalant pose. I don't care, I reminded myself, if I don't care it can't hurt- the one lesson I had been forced to learn, that Troy hadn't yet. That he never would learn if I could help it. But it aided me now- any show of the rage I felt building in me would be counterproductive. "You won't be here over the holidays."
"That would be correct," he nodded dismissively, already moving past us. He had wasted enough of his attention on us already- why spend one moment more than necessary with your family?
"When are you leaving, sir?" I asked calmly, holding Troy firmly in place when it felt like he was ready to bolt. He was my best safeguard against blowing up at my father- I always have performed best for an audience. "And is my mother accompanying you?"
"OF course," he tossed over his shoulder as he left the house, his briefcase bouncing against his leg, "We'll leave on the 21st." And he was gone. Not saying where they were going, or why- just gone, as per usual.
I let go of troy and dropped to one knee again, forcing his teary eyes up to my angry ones.
"It'll be okay," I insisted forcefully, putting a hand on both his shoulders, "We'll have the best Christmas ever. I promise. It'll be better than any one you've ever had before."
"Bu-bu-but mom and dad won't be there!" Troy whimpered, tears flowing down his cheeks. This had made him seem at least 3 years younger than he was. Christmas had always been his favorite time of year- he loved being a family.
"They won't, but I will. And," I swore recklessly- but who cares about forethought when your little brother is that sad? "it'll be better than any Christmas you've ever had or ever will have."
He sniffed, but the tears slowed and finally stopped.
"Really?" he asked incredulously, dashing away the drops with an impatient hand as he gazed up at me with uncertain eyes that were nevertheless inclined to believe me.
"I swear." I stood and ruffled his hair fondly. "But you need to get in your wish list sooner, then. Why don't you go do that, if you don't have anymore homework?"
He smiled weakly and ran upstairs, shaking his head hastily to rid his face of any lingering tears. I followed at a slower pace. I was already absorbed in the minor logistics of my rash promise: I didn't know how to make a Christmas! It was the one thing I never thought I'd have to do for troy- I could act as a parent in every other respect. Hell, I had even gone to a parent-teacher conference once (skipping school to go, and I completely recognize the irony). But usually at Christmas we could do a very plausible counterfeit of a loving, happy family; I didn't need to help.
I sighed dejectedly as I dumped my bag onto my bed. I would do my best- there was never any question about that- but what if my best wasn't enough? And there were the practicalities to worry about. Alfred got off from the 20th to the 30th, Troy and my vacation began on the 19th, and I- oh shit. Brock wanted me to go to some thing on the afternoon of he 23rd. No service babysitter would work that close to Christmas, and I wasn't going to trust some random teenager with my kid brother.
But now, I had a resort in times like these. A desperate measure, because it would mean she was up a favor on me (but who was keeping score?) but a lifeline regardless. Emma rarely did anything that didn't involve school or work; she would almost certainly be free. The coffee shop was closed by then.
I had my phone out and her number dialed before I recalled her mysterious (Emma's favorite adjective) activity that had required her to get home so promptly. She wouldn't have her phone right now; I would have to wait. Well, there was no hurry- I had stuff to do. I could always get my homework done.
That phrase brought my thoughts to a screeching halt. Since when did I do homework? Since never, that's when. I ignored the sneaking suspicion that Emma's overachiever nagging had finally paid off and decided that I just had nothing better to do right now and I had just come from school, so of course that was where my mind went. For someone as popular as me, I sure had a lot of time to fill.
I wandered resolutely out of my room, only partly to rebel against the voice that sounded scarily like Emma that was chiding me to do my work, and down the hall. Troy's door was open and I paused, leaning against the doorframe, watching him.
Troy was working feverishly at his desk on what looked like homework. he was really nothing like me at all, and yet, he was too like what I could have been. Some combination of the light and the snow made a single beam light up his thoughtful, yet still smiling, face. How the hell was I supposed to give him a Christmas? I was just a screwed up teenager- why did I have to be a parent too?
I groaned and walked slowly back into my room. I might as well get what I could arrange done, however little that was. A message would be enough- Emma liked Troy enough that I could basically depend on her being there.
As I expected, the phone went to voicemail, Emma's recording so unavoidably hers that, despite my futile mood, I couldn't help but grin.
"Hey, it would be Emma if I were here. Obviously, I'm not, so leave a message and I might get back to you, if you're lucky. Later!"
A beep rang in my ear.
"Hi, Emma?" I said, pacing circles around my room, as I had done far to often, "I need a favor…"
Chapter 19
* * *
Emma
* * *
Darien's house had ceased to intimidate me. Maybe it was because I knew the people inside better, or maybe I had grown more accustomed to its garishness, but the house, while I still thought it ugly, held no fear for me. But I still needed to remind myself of that as I walked up the neatly shoveled walk (I would have bet everything I owned Darien hadn't done it). The miserable weather of the past week had abated, and the sun peaked through the clouds and reflected off the snow-covered lawn.
I rang the doorbell, hearing its mournful toll booming throughout the house. I only shivered outside for a moment- the sun may have been out, but it was damn cold- before the door was jerked open and I slipped gratefully inside, unwrapping my coat nearly before I was in.
To my well-concealed surprise, it wasn't Darien who had answered the door, or the butler. Brock grinned at me cheerfully and took my coat without my offering with instinctive courtesy. I let him have it gratefully; I could occasionally comprehend what Rhi saw in him.
"Hi!" he exclaimed happily as we walked to the den that seemed to be the center of Darien and Troy's household. I still wasn't confident of the way in this labyrinthine mansion, but Brock led with a casual skill that meant he had been here many times before. I hid a grin. Darien may have claimed he didn't have any friends- but he lied.
"hey," I replied just as cordially. Even if I was skeptical of his worth, I could appreciate him as Rhi's ex and Darien's best friend. I had to trust him, regardless of his intellect (or lack thereof); he knew too much. I hesitated a moment before I asked a question that had intrigued me since he had answered the door. "What are you doing here? Darien said he didn't invite people to his house unless it was for a party or something."
"I'm the exception," he informed me, not at all offended by my query, "Just like you." He chuckled merrily, as if at an inside joke, than sobered, studying me with as much intentness as his gentle grey eyes could summon. "You do know how rare you are, right?"
Well, I do like to flatter myself that I'm one of a kind- but didn't think that was what he was talking about. He sounded far more serious than was his wont.
"What do you mean?" I asked cautiously. I had thought I knew him as well as one could know someone like him- but I had never heard this tone from him, not even about Rhi. It was almost protective, but without the jealousy that Rhi always provoked (or so she described).
"Dar doesn't make friends easily. Real friends, I mean." Brock explained, halting in the middle of the hallway. I had a feeling he didn't want Darien to know he was telling me this. My suspicion was confirmed when his voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "And he talks to even less, but he's been talking to you. So just- don't hurt him, okay? 'Cause he's a lot more vuln
erable than he thinks and pretends."
I raised my eyebrows, impressed. Darien may not have had many real friends, but he apparently inspired intense loyalty in those he did. Come to think of it, I had never heard Allan speak badly of Darien either, despite my rants.
"We're not in love or anything," I contradicted. His speech had sounded more like a warning for a potential girlfriend than a friend. A strictly platonic friend. I wondered if Brock did this to every sort of friend of Darien's, or if I was special in that too.
He gave me a cynical half smile that sat oddly on his face, one that seemed to state that he knew something I didn't. I scowled. I did not like those sorts of smiles, never had. Too much like condescension.
"Sometimes," he told me with sad, dead eyes that had always blazed with life when they looked at Rhi, "Friends are better than loves." I opened my mouth to reply, to try to say something that would bring those eyes to life, even if I couldn't repair the damage I had done- but had it been damage?
Darien had heard us, despite our whispers. He threw open the door at the head of the hall, cutting off whatever I was going to say. We probably looked weird, standing stock still in the middle of the hallway, whispering- but Darien didn't comment.
"It doesn't take this long to get here from the front door," he observed, an odd, well-hidden, glint that I couldn't read in his eyes as his eyes swept over us, "What kept you?" I swept past him and into the room, leaving Brock to trail behind- where he usually was, poor boy.
"That's for us to know, and you to find out," I tossed over my shoulder, walking over to where Troy sat at his computer with dignified unconcern. Darien gave Brock a look, but this once; the larger boy didn't quail under his gaze. Much to my amusement, he shrugged and didn't meet his friend's gaze.
"Fine then," Darien retorted, trying very hard not to put- or so it seemed. I hid a grin. "Don't tell me." He crossed his arms across his chest and leaned sullenly against the wall.
"We won't," I assured him with effusive cheerfulness, then, ignoring his aggrieved snort, I leaned over Troy's shoulder to peer at his game. "Whatcha doing?"
He grinned up at me, his blue eyes sparkling as gleefully as the sun on the snow outside. "Playing Worms!" he said excitedly, returning immediately back to his game. I met Darien's eyes briefly over Troy's head, and for a moment our usual odd understanding was there and he deigned to shrug despite his offense. Wow. A ten year old was making me feel old. So wrong.
"What's that?" I was trying to make sense of the small squiggly things that I supposed were meant to be worms exploding on a surreal sculpture set over cartoon water. Ooh- explosions. I decided that if I liked video games, I would adore this one.
Troy hit a button and the game paused. At liberty now, he spun his chair around to face me, an incredulous look on his face.
"Worms Armageddon," he explained, awestruck at my still blank face. It was evidently inconceivable to him that someone not know what this game was. Troy was better than his brother- but his upbringing caught up to him sometimes. He had never known what it was like to have to go t the library for computer access.
"Right…" I figured it wasn't worth the effort it would take to comprehend it. I hadn't been initiated into the video game world until Allan introduced me to his system this summer, not early enough to develop the obsession I saw in many of my peers. I mean, random violence and killing people was always good, but the virtual version could only hold my attention for so long.
Sensing my inattention, Troy turned back to his game. Not at all affronted, I left him to it and walked over to the older boys. They at least could always provide amusement, even if they didn't know it. But I was too kind for my own good.
"Don't you guys have to be somewhere?" I prompted. Boys. It didn't matter how they were raised, or where, or when. If they didn't have someone to tell them their own schedules, they would be lost. Darien and Brock looked at me in surprise, not having noticed my change in focus.
"Not ye-" Brock began to answer, but Darien cut him off after a quick glance at his watch.
"Yeah, we do," he agreed, surveying his friend's jeans and t-shirt with a practiced eye, "and you need to get ready." Brock nodded diffidently and disappeared obediently out the door. I bit my lip as I watched him go. Darien wouldn't like to hear what I had to say- as if I cared.
"You should treat him better," I observed as clinically as I could- this wasn't anything personal, just a dislike of anyone being walked on. I think Darien would have gotten whiplash if he had turned his head any faster. He had been pouting slightly, still put out by my earlier snub; now his face froze into its usual arrogant sneer. I continued regardless. He couldn't intimidate me- not that way; anyway, "He's a much better friend than you give him credit for."
"I know my friend's worth," he spat. Troy gave him a frightened glance, than shrunk into his chair, making it creak slightly. Darien's eyes flicked to his brother, than back at me. He forced his face into a painful facsimile of a smile. "Sorry. What do you mean?"
I rolled my eyes. He wouldn't get what I had to say; he wouldn't be able to comprehend what I meant. But I owed Brock the effort- maybe if I told Darien enough times it would sink past his shield of pride.
"You're so condescending! And demanding," I told him, gesturing sharply with my hands. His unwavering gaze didn't falter; I wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. "He's a good friend, he cares about you. And you care about him, if you would deign to show it. Why can't you? He could do with a good friend, after all that's happened to him." I resisted the urge to clap my hand over my mouth- Rhi and Brock were not common knowledge, and I shouldn't know about them. Luckily (sort of) Darien was too angry to notice my slip. I hoped.
He glanced at Troy, who was determinedly ignoring us, and than yanked me over to a corner of the room, trapping me in the meeting of the walls. I let him, vaguely amused by the force of his emotion.
"You have no idea," he hissed, blue eyes blazing like the heart of a flame. Even I was taken aback by his coldly righteous fury. "Do not talk to me about how I treat my friends. I treat them better than you could ever know. I would- I do- do anything for them, and my real friends know that."
If I had been anyone else, I would have quailed beneath the dual weight of my incorrectness and his soft, livid voice. But I was too proud, despite the truth that burned in his words, to walk away. I may have been wrong and sanctimonious- but I still looked up and met the blue lightning of his eyes with my own cool emerald, shaded by the black of my eyelashes. Time stopped- the stalemate threatened to last.
"Dar!" Brock called as he slammed a door closed in the hallway. Darien jerked his eyes way, taking a step back and releasing me from the corner. I sidled out and around, into the middle of the room. I could have escaped from Darien- but I hated to be caged. "You ready?"
"We're leaving," Darien announced, stalking to the door with a terrible dignity. Brock met him in the hallway in a much nicer outfit (khakis and a green polo), bouncing on his feet like an eager puppy. With an inscrutable glance at me that Brock followed with complete confusion, Darien dug in his pockets and pulled out a key ring. He tossed it to Brock. "we're taking the Porsche. You want to drive?"
Brock lit up like a candle at that as he caught the ring with automatic ease, and his effusive thanks could be heard throughout the house until the slamming of the front door heralded their exit.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and turned to Troy, who finally relaxed as the tension between his brother and me dissipated.
"So," I asked as I collapsed onto the couch, feeling the regret at my confrontation now that I had the liberty to appear less than indomitable, "What do you want to do today?"
* * *
Darien
* * *
I walked into my house with unusual tentativeness. Not that I was scared, or remorseful, because of my earlier… argument with Emma; but I wouldn't put it past her to booby trap the house. And, without Alfred's implacable courtesy to stop them, T
roy would probably help her, just for kicks. I wracked my brain for every trick I had ever heard of or played as I slowly eased the front door open. An inch- nothing happened. I thrust it open and leapt back. No shower of water, no creak of some other trap; it was safe to proceed. I walked in cautiously, closing the door as gently as I had forced it open, thankful no one had seen my antics. I should have known better. Even mad, Emma wasn't childish; she wouldn't descend to that level. I hoped.
If she was anywhere to be found, that is. They weren't in the den. I strode to my room- no one. Not in his room, my parents, or any of the myriads of other rooms in our house. I was just about ready to hit the intercom to try to locate them that way- kidnapping seemed more Emma's style than immature pranks- when I finally identified the niggling feeling of not-rightness that had been bothering me since I entered, that had made me so paranoid.
A subtle, pervasive scent of something baking overwhelmed the usual sterile smell of the house. I was immediately on my guard. Not that it smelled bad- on the contrary, it smelled delicious- but I had no idea who could be baking. Alfred was the only one who entered the kitchen, except for my occasional forays for snacks- him being here couldn't be good.
I walked quickly to the kitchen, steadfastly keeping my body language neutral. Nothing was wrong, I was sure of it- I just wanted to make certain. But how much could go wrong in the few hours I'd been gone? Even Emma and Troy working in concert couldn't get in that much trouble- although I'd learned not to underestimate Emma.
The scene in the kitchen stopped me in my tracks in the doorway. Troy was seated comfortably at the counter, munching on a cookie from the tray that sat in front of him, as Emma wrestled a cookie sheet larger than her into the oven. She straightened and tossed back her white-speckled hair in triumph. I could see the flour rise off her hair when she blew it irritably out of her face. That done, she hopped onto the counter beside Troy and delicately picked out a cookie from the tray. The kitchen was coated in flour and frosting. My jaw dropped. I was not cleaning this up.
