Cloudburst

by VC Andrews

  “What extracurricular activities did you participate in at the other schools you attended?” I asked.

  “Extracurricular? Don’t you sound like a guidance counselor?”

  “What would you call them?”

  “I wasn’t on any teams, if that’s what you mean, and I didn’t join any clubs. I’m with Groucho Marx.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to belong to any organization that would have me as a member.”

  “Don’t you ever say anything serious?”

  “If I answered that, I’d have to be serious, and you’d have your answer.”

  “Okay. I call a truce for now,” I said as the bell rang for afternoon classes.

  “Great. It will give me time to take my wounded off the battlefield,” he said.

  We followed everyone into the building.

  “Hey,” Shayne Peters said. He was right behind us. Ryder and I turned. “How much are you paying her?”

  “Paying? For what?”

  “Her time.”

  “Oh.” Ryder smiled at him. “Actually, we’re doing barter.”

  “Barter?”

  “Yeah, you know, like the Indians, trading. She’ll talk to me if I will talk to you, so I guess this equals what?” he asked me.

  “You tell me,” I said. “You’re the one who decided on the rates and values.”

  Shayne stood there looking dumbfounded. “What?”

  “Okay,” Ryder said. “Let’s see. I wasted twenty seconds on him. The current exchange rate is twenty minutes of quality time for every second of moronic, right?”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said, laughing.

  “Huh?” Shayne said.

  “See your local moron translator for a translation,” Ryder told him.

  We walked ahead.

  “Assholes!” Shayne called after us.

  We sped up, laughing harder, and for the first time, I felt I had made the right decision.

  He was worth knowing.

  And more important, he wouldn’t hurt me.

  The question lingering out there now was, would I hurt him?

  7

  Meeting the Marches

  He followed me home. I glanced into my rearview mirror every ten or twenty seconds, half expecting that he would either turn off and disappear or just stop and watch me disappear around a turn, but he stayed right with me up to the gate. He smiled when the orange wall opened. I knew he would be surprised. Most people were, because Mr. March had designed it so you couldn’t tell it opened. We drove in and up the long driveway to park. It was a particularly beautiful day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. All around us, the grounds people were at work on bushes, lawns, and fountains.

  “Are they preparing for some big event?” he asked me as soon as we were both out of our cars.

  “No, this is just regular weekly maintenance, but there is something being done here daily.”

  “You could have some major event on this property. We’ve been at a few, but I don’t think the properties were this large.”

  “They have charity events here.”

  He nodded and looked up at the house. “I saw something built in this style somewhere. It’s radical.”

  “It’s called Richardson Romanesque. The house took years to build. Jordan told me her husband wanted something very unique.”

  “He got it,” Ryder said. “It looks like it should be a museum and not a home.”

  “It’s very impressive inside as well,” I said. “Beautifully decorated but too big to be exactly cozy. There’s even an indoor pool.”

  “I heard.”

  “Oh, so you did ask about it?” I hoped that indicated more interest in me than in the Marches.

  “You don’t have to ask. People just start talking about it. In fact, my mother knows about this house.”

  “Oh?”

  “Very little when it comes to the rich and beautiful gets by her,” he said, sounding a little bitter about it. “Where’s your room?”

  “Up there,” I said, pointing to my bedroom windows. “Second floor. Third floor is mostly guest rooms, and there’s an attic full of things that will probably never be used, at least by the Marches.”

  He looked to the left at the tennis courts. “You’re high enough to see over the tops of trees. I bet you see the ocean.”

  “Yes. One side of my bedroom looks out over the outside pool and cabana. It was Alena March’s room,” I added.

  “The little girl who died?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded and looked up at the house again and then toward the tennis courts. “I’ve been in great European chateaus. We stayed in some very expensive hotels in Rome and Paris. One time, we were in Vienna for three days and stayed at a hotel that had its own little park . . . Im Palais Schwarzenberg. But I think this beats it all. It’s the biggest private residence I’ve seen for someone who was not part of a royal family. I wonder if there’s anything like it in the whole state.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I haven’t been farther than Disneyland. Jordan and Mr. March have been talking about taking me on a European holiday, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

  He looked at me as if he was finally seeing me for who I was, the ward of a rich family. I was sure it was triggering dozens of questions, questions my girlfriends and any other boy I had been with had asked and were still asking. With most, I was reluctant to answer, but for reasons I had not quite yet understood, I felt like telling Ryder everything and anything he wanted to know.

  “You call her Jordan, but you call him Mr. March?”

  “Yes. I used to call them both Mr. and Mrs. March.”

  “I suppose that’s progress. How long have you been living here?”

  “Three years.”

  “I know it would sound crazy to most people for me to ask, but are you really happy here?”

  “It’s not crazy,” I said.

  “You didn’t answer.” He smiled at my silence. “You feel guilty when you’re happy, is that it?”

  “Let’s go in,” I said instead of replying. “I’ll show you around, and you’ll meet the Marches. Mr. March is supposed to be back,” I added.

  “Oh? Where did he go?”

  “He’s often away on business. He runs a major public relations firm and has clients all over the United States and in Europe.”

  I led him to the front door and took a deep breath before opening it.

  “You act like you’re going underwater,” he said.

  I glanced at him and nodded. “It does feel that way sometimes.”

  We entered.

  As if she had been waiting anxiously just inside the door of her office-den, Jordan came hurrying down the hallway and calling to us. She was wearing one of her more expensive designer suits, a charcoal skirt and a jacket, and had her hair pinned up. She looked as if she had just stepped out of an executive office. I was sure Ryder was wondering if she was in any way involved in Donald March’s business affairs. Sometimes I thought she dressed like a businesswoman just to pretend she did something more important. She did wear clothes like this whenever she went to a charity club or committee meeting and sometimes used Mr. March’s secretarial services for her personal business.

  “There you are,” she said. “Donald arrived just over an hour ago. Come in, please. I’m Jordan March,” she said to Ryder.

  “Ryder Garfield,” he replied. He looked at her hand, and then he took it and gave her what I thought was a rather exaggerated smile, his eyes wide. He looked around. “You must have quite an electric bill.”

  Jordan laughed. “We have quite an everything bill. I know you two want to explore, but just come in for a few minutes,” she urged, indicating one of the sitting rooms, as she called them. Ryder looked at me with a gleeful gleam in his eyes. It made my heart go pitter-patter to think what might come out of his mouth at any moment. We followed her.

  I was interested in how Ryder would react to everything he saw here.
Even though he was from a very well-to-do, famous family and apparently had seen many amazing things already in his life, I was curious to see what would impress him. Most of the girls I had brought here were so amazed that they couldn’t help gushing compliments about the large paintings, the oversized chandeliers, and the rich European furniture, tables from Spain, settees and chairs from France, and wall mirrors from England. I don’t think I ever stopped being overwhelmed, but perhaps because I saw so much unhappiness beneath the surface, I had become a little indifferent to it all.

  Sometimes I wished we all lived in a modest little home that made it impossible for us to ignore each other or avoid confronting each other’s worries and sadness. Here, anyone could find himself or herself on another planet, never having to confront anyone else’s dark face all day if he didn’t want to. I used to feel, and still did to an extent, that going down to dinner was like visiting strangers who lived miles away.

  Ryder went directly to the piano and ran his hand over the top.

  “It’s a beaut,” he said.

  “That’s an East Indian rosewood,” Jordan said. “Do you play?”

  “I did,” Ryder said, which took me by surprise. “My mother had me take lessons for years. She always managed to have a piano for me wherever we went to live when she or my father was on location for extended periods. I stopped about two years ago.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged and then, smiling at me, said, “I ran out of notes.”

  “What?” Jordan held her smile. She looked at me.

  “He’s kidding,” I said quickly. “You never mentioned you played the piano. Really, why did you stop, Ryder?” I asked pointedly. The expression on my face was clear. Give her a serious answer, or else.

  “I just lost interest,” he said. He shrugged. “I was never very good, and taking lessons wasn’t going to change it.”

  “That’s a mistake.” We turned as Mr. March entered. He had changed into his black velvet smoking jacket and black slacks. His light brown hair looked as though he’d had it trimmed and styled an hour ago, but that was Mr. March, always looking impeccable. Sometimes I thought he saw himself as a modern-day prince living in a palace. I thought he looked quite tanned and rested for someone who had gone on another business trip.

  “Oh, this is my husband, Donald March,” Jordan said. “Donald, this is Ryder Garfield, the young man who just entered Sasha’s school.”

  From the way she widened her eyes when she mentioned Ryder’s name, I understood that she had already discussed Ryder with him to make sure he knew who he was and who his parents were. Mr. March nodded, glanced at me, and then extended his hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ryder,” he said when Ryder shook his hand. “But I couldn’t help hearing your excuse for giving up piano. I find that most people give up on themselves before other people give up on them, especially young people today. Too often, your generation doesn’t have the staying power necessary to find success. You’ve got to work on that,” he said, wagging his right forefinger.

  “Thanks for the free advice,” Ryder said. “One thing your generation isn’t stingy about,” he added, and Mr. March’s cheeks took on a slight crimson glow.

  “Well, I wish I had listened more to my parents,” Mr. March countered.

  Ryder widened his smile as if he had won a point in a debate. “You mean you don’t feel successful enough?”

  Mr. March’s spine seemed to petrify. For a moment, I thought he had turned to stone entirely, but then he smiled. It wasn’t a smile with any warmth behind it.

  “You can always improve. Once you stop thinking that, you might as well put yourself on a shelf. Perseverance, determination, ambition . . . those are the building blocks for a successful life. And you don’t sit on your laurels and soak in your own sunshine,” he continued, still in lecture mode. Even I was surprised at how insistent he was being. “You have to be like a man walking a tightrope.”

  “How’s that?” Ryder asked, with more of a smirk than a smile.

  “You don’t look down to see how high up you are. Once you do that, you fall. You just keep going forward.”

  “It’s got to end somewhere,” Ryder insisted. They were acting like two stubborn little boys.

  “It ends when you’re willing to give up, and I say, for those who do, failure’s meant to be. I’m sure both your parents had many obstacles and overcame them with perseverance, determination, and ambition.”

  Ryder was silent. Mentioning his parents was to him like someone hitting below the belt. I could see the conflict raging in his face. His eyes were like windows revealing the tension. Jordan might have sensed it, too, when she looked at the expression on my face.

  “They’re too young for such talk,” she said, hoping to take the heaviness out of the conversation quickly.

  “You’re never too young for such talk,” Mr. March insisted. “So what are your interests, if I may ask?” He sat and nodded toward the settee across from him. “Are you inclined toward some show-business career as well?”

  Ryder looked at me with accusation in his eyes. Did he think I had led him into some sort of trap? Put him under a spotlight for a cross-examination and interrogation? I shook my head slightly.

  “Doubt it. Right now, I’m into model planes and boats,” Ryder said without sitting.

  “Pardon?”

  “I find them interesting and relaxing. What do you do for relaxation, Mr. March?”

  “That’s a good question,” Jordan said. “What do you do, Donald? I’m afraid my husband is a workaholic,” she added before Mr. March could attempt a response.

  “People always accuse other people who strive continually for excellence of being workaholics. It never occurs to them that maybe these people enjoy what they do. If I may be permitted to give you some additional free advice, it’s that you should find something you enjoy. That way, it will never seem to be work to you, and you won’t be so concerned about relaxation. My work actually relaxes me. Isn’t it the same for your parents?”

  “If it is, they’ve kept it a big secret,” Ryder said. Both Jordan and her husband looked taken aback. I couldn’t help but smile. I’d known him long enough already to know that it was a typical Ryder Garfield reply.

  “Ryder doesn’t like talking about his famous parents very much,” I offered. “People are always trying to get information out of him about them.”

  “Well, we’re not exactly working for Entertainment Tonight,” Mr. March said sharply.

  “I understand what Sasha means,” Jordan said, instantly coming to my defense. Mr. March shot a look at her that would have bowled over a bull. “Are you enjoying Pacifica?” she asked Ryder.

  “It’s all right,” he said with a small shrug.

  “Just all right?” Mr. March pursued. “It’s rated the top private school in the state. You’re lucky to be there. Take advantage of all the opportunities it offers. Are you in any sport? The band?”

  “Just navigating the rapids is sport enough for me right now,” Ryder said.

  “What rapids?” Mr. March asked. He looked at me for help.

  “Daily life among the rich and famous,” Ryder replied.

  Mr. March just stared, but when he was agitated, he had a habit of moving his tongue against one cheek and then the other, making it look as if a small animal was trying to find the way out.

  “Well, Sasha, why don’t you show Ryder around the house and property?” Jordan suggested, the way a referee might to ease tension. “Did you want Mrs. Caro to prepare a snack for you two?”

  “Ryder?” I said.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. March. In our family, eating between meals, unless it’s taking coffee with a producer, director, or agent, is a capital offense.”

  Jordan looked to me to see if he was kidding. I knew he was and thought that Mr. March might at least smile, but he continued to glare at him and then looked at me before standing. His face was full of disapproval.

  “Well, I hav
e some matters to address. Enjoy yourselves, while you can,” he added.

  “I thought your work was your enjoyment,” Ryder blurted before Mr. March could turn away and start out.

  “Yes, but I still have to pay attention to it,” Mr. March retorted in a sharp, poorly disguised tone of annoyance. “You can neglect and be irresponsible even with the things you enjoy.”

  He looked at Jordan and relaxed his shoulders. Then he offered a weak smile.

  “You’ll learn that the pleasure is in the journey. That’s why practicing shouldn’t seem like a burden, whether it’s playing the piano or the clarinet, as Sasha plays, or something in sports, whatever.”

  He left. None of us spoke for a moment, and then Jordan said she had to speak with Mrs. Caro about tonight’s dinner.

  “Will you be staying for dinner, Ryder?” she asked.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. March.”

  “Well, if you need anything, Sasha . . .”

  “Thank you, Jordan,” I said.

  She started out. Ryder looked at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I’m not really interested in seeing anything in the house at the moment. Let’s get some fresh air,” Ryder said, and we walked out, him moving ahead of me almost as if he wanted to escape. We paused on the steps. “Now I know why you took a deep breath before entering the house. Is he always like that?”

  “Actually, I don’t remember him ever being that direct and confrontational. I was as surprised as you were, believe me. He should have been that way more with Kiera’s boyfriends, the ones she brought home when I was here. He never seemed to pay much attention to anyone I brought home.”

  “I was about to say I wasn’t here to ask for your hand in marriage or something, but I didn’t want to be that impolite, even though he would have deserved it. You don’t know why he jumped down my throat like that? Was it something else that put him into that mood?”

  I didn’t want to get into the possible tension between Mr. March and his wife. I shrugged. “I’m really sorry, Ryder.”