“Sorry,” I said, directing it more to my dad than Jack.
“Nah, it’s okay. If that’s the worst thing I’m called today, then I consider myself fortunate,” said Jack amusingly. “Why don’t we get cracking on our lesson, and leave your dad in peace?”
“Sure,” I said, motioning him toward the house.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, sir,” Jack said, shaking my dad’s hand again.
“You, too.”
I went into the kitchen and pulled my books out of my satchel, laying them systematically across the table. About to take a seat, I looked around to see no one else was there. “Jack?”
“I’m right here,” he called out.
I headed over to the side door to see him still standing outside in the entryway. “Everything okay?”
He nodded. “Just waiting for a proper invitation to come inside.”
“Okay, Dracula,” I said jeeringly. “You may enter the premises.”
“It’s called being gentlemanly,” he said, taking a long stride through the doorway. “Nice digs.”
“Thanks, it was my grandmother’s, before she passed away,” I said, parking a seat at the head of the kitchen table.
“Is it just you and your dad here?” he asked, taking notice to the rest of the downstairs.
“What makes you say that?”
He shrugged. “House just seems to lack a certain... feminine touch.”
“Thanks.”
“Nah, I just mean a wifely touch. You know, little knickknacks, flowery décor, and whatnot. Men generally model their homes in accordance to their lifestyle. Efficiency. They don’t typically concern themselves with things like matching the hand and dish towels at the sink, or getting a basket to put their keys and spare coins into,” he said, pointing at the chunk of change that had piled on the counter beside three separate sets of keys. “Not to mention that there’s man cave pictures out in plain sight.”
I looked around at the displays in question, like my father’s framed original Woodstock placard and the Allman Brothers Band: Live at Fillmore East poster. He was right. The house did have a certain ‘man cave’ feel, but that’s what I loved about it.
“It kinda feels like living inside an old-time record studio,” Jack said, taking notice to my dad’s collection of Fender Telecaster Custom guitars mounted in his office just outside the family room. He sauntered back into the kitchen. “Has a good vibe. Unpretentious. And I like the whole bar-motif.”
“Yeah, well, that seems to be his thing. He actually owns Rockhouse Bar & Grill on Main Street.”
“The classic rock joint that’s under renovation?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh, I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting it yet, but I’ve heard good things.”
“How far have you gotten into our reading assignment?” I said, trying to refocus his attention on anything other than the surroundings or my private life. His peculiarly striking eye of observation was beginning to make me feel as if the house was suddenly like my underwear drawer and he had taken a tour through it. I felt... oddly exposed.
“I have the basic outline down,” he said, grabbing my copy of the book and turning it over to show me the written summary.
“You only read the back cover?” I said, clearly stating my frustration. “Let me guess, you were too busy with your new expanding social life to take the time to read?”
He looked at me with an indecipherable expression.
I threw my pencil down. “So what is this? The whole stereotypical bad-boy-who-doesn’t-care-about-anything bull? Because I really don’t have the time or patience for this.”
“It’s dyslexia, actually,” Jack replied.
A guilt-ridden knot choked at my vocal cords as I tried to think of something polite to say in return. When I finally mustered the courage to look him in the eyes, I saw him staring directly into me, but his appearance was surprisingly open.
“It’s okay,” he said, seeing me still struggling to find words. “I suppose it’s just easier for me to have people thinking that I’m indifferent verses that I’m in some way stupid. Most people don’t really understand the condition, and it’s usually viewed as a weakness. So, needless to say, I’m not one to generally divulge said information. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let word get around too much.”
“Sorry,” I muttered.
To my amazement, Jack started chuckling.
“What?” I asked.
He ruffled a hand through his hair rather exhaustedly. “That’s exactly why I don’t like telling anyone about this.”
“Because of people offering their sympathy?”
“Because of their pity,” he clarified. “Could you do me a favor and stop staring at me like I’m one of those abandoned puppies on an animal rescue relief commercial?”
I let out a gentle laugh. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flickered warmly. “And stop apologizing.”
“Well, aren’t we being domineering?” I teased.
“You like that.”
I belted him with the eraser end of my pencil.
“Hey!” he chuckled, rubbing the spot of impact. “Looks like you enjoy being a sadist, I see.”
I grabbed my book and flipped it open to the beginning, letting my hair fall into my face as I tilted my head down to hide the cherry flushes coming into my cheeks.
Butterflies manifested in my stomach as Jack’s fingers brushed the front locks of my hair gently over my ear. Goose bumps barreled down my arms with the ferment that arose from his thumb trailing down the side of my neck as it combed through the remaining strand. Once his fingers hit my collarbone, I thought to pull away out of the fear of him going further down, but he acted first. He returned his hand to the top of the kitchen table, leaving my skin to tingle in the result of his touch.
“Your parents separated?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Well, yes, they were...”
“But they’re not anymore? Then where’s your mom?”
Despite my aversion to cover the topic, I knew Jack wasn’t going to leave his sense of utter befuddlement at rest.
“They were separated, for about six months,” I said. “I lost my mom in an accident at our home back in January, along with my older sister.”
His face went pale with remorse. “I’m... I’m sorry to hear that.”
I nodded.
“I know what it’s like. I lost my dad last fall,” Jack said. “Drunk driver.”
“So it’s just you and your mom now?”
“No, I never really got to know her. She left us when I was four. I’m technically living with my uncle now, but really I’m just staying at one of his many residences. He only checks in every few weeks,” he replied.
“I’m sorry.”
“What was your mom like? A lot like you I suspect.”
I actually laughed outwardly. “Hardly. We were about as polar opposite as you can get. If it wasn’t for my dad, I would have thought I was adopted.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because my mom and I had nothing in common. We didn’t even look alike. She was a tall, blonde, blue-eyed, statuesque beauty, who was also a cutthroat business executive and former cheerleader with a voguish, high fashion sense of style. And my sister was like her twin, just on a twenty-two-year delay.”
“And personalities?”
“Well, let’s see. Both dated the star athletes in high school, loved girly movies and pop music, and were reverent in their belief of retail therapy.”
“Yet your mom married a jeans and a t-shirt ’70s throwback?” Jack chuckled. “So was it like an opposites-attract situation?”
“The hell if I know,” I said. “My sister and I were convinced for years growing up that they were secretly spies or something, and that their marriage was really just a cover story.”
“And that wasn’t the case?”
“Nah, we eventually realized that they were too boring,” I cracked.
> “They at least get along?”
“Yeah, they always did,” I said, “even after they announced their separation. It’s just that they never really seemed to be, you know, over the moon about one another.”
“Ah, I see. The common case of the bedfellow.”
I laughed. “Bedfellow?”
“Hey, it’s an expression,” he assured, beaming a brilliant white smile.
“I don’t doubt you. The phrase just seems to have a bit of dust on it is all,” I said amusingly. “Sounds rather colonial. Very proper.”
“So you’re a romantic I take it?”
I shook my head.
“And yet you feel that a couple should always be ‘over the moon about one another’?”
“There’s a difference between someone who believes in showing affection verses being a complete romantic. I don’t need some Shakespearian declaration of love. I just need to know that the person I love feels the same way,” I clarified. “Now, my sister, she was a diehard romantic. She romanticized the idea of an extremely tumultuous relationship. The more turbulence, the more epic the love.”
“You don’t believe that? I would imagine putting a relationship through the meat grinder of life and seeing it successfully making it out the other side could only prove the strength of the bond you have.”
“Tumultuous love is only for the young,” I said. “Eventually, we all grow older, and then what? I don’t want to still be fighting to hold onto the person I love decades down the road. A certain level of emotional stability is required for an aged romance.”
Jack leaned back in his seat, looking me over in a scrutinizing, yet gratifying manner. “My, my. What a rare creature you are.”
“Meaning?”
“Very few people articulate themselves as you just have. You have a certain prudence about you.”
“I can assure you, I’m not nearly as uncommon as you’d think.”
“I wouldn’t be sure to jump the gun on that if I were you,” he said.
“Maybe if you spent more time diverging from bimbos like Stacy, you could see for yourself that we females are not all as predictable as you might think.”
“Well, isn’t this a case of the pot calling the kettle black?” mocked Jack.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Trust me, I’m not arguing about Stacy. I’m talking about you being able to call her out like that and think that you can walk away scot-free, while at the same time penalizing me for the very same crime.”
“As you just said yourself, arguing that Stacy’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, not to mention her being pure evil, is about as productive as hoping for something vaguely resembling reality in reality television. There’s no argument to be had. When you make false assumptions about people you’ve just met, and then have the balls to say them out loud, you’re crossing the line. You didn’t know anything about me, but you know what Stacy’s like.”
“I think ‘pure evil’ is being a little harsh. I’ve seen worse,” said Jack.
“She pushed Heather Tillie off her crutches when they were on the stairwell yesterday!” I proclaimed.
“Yeah, I was actually there for that,” he laughed.
“It’s not funny!”
“No, just seeing someone that pitiless is. It’s one thing when you discover people being cunningly cruel, and it’s another thing entirely when they’re down right obvious about it. It scares people into giving her respect, so I suppose she’s achieved what she set out to accomplish. Power.”
“And as William Pitt would have said, ‘Unlimited power corrupts the possessor.’”
“What if the possessor was already corrupt?” he quipped.
“Then their true nature will always be revealed in due course.”
“Any chance at redemption?”
“Unlikely. Even if one has fallen from grace, it is still a true rarity for those who have sat at the throne to find humility by looking upon a commoner as their equal.”
“I have the distinct feeling we’re not talking about Stacy anymore, are we?” addressed Jack.
“You tell me.”
When my dad came into the kitchen to grab some tools from the drawer, a silence swept through the downstairs, giving Jack the break of not having to answer.
“Would you like me to begin reading?” I said, picking up Jane Eyre.
“Better you than me,” replied Jack. “I wouldn’t want to keep you here all night.”
Chapter 8
Riders On the Storm
“I’m not trying this on,” I declared.
There I was, standing in the dressing room of Bella Deboure’s Boutique with a pink satin gown hanging in front of me on the door’s hook. Either Gwen was purposely torturing me, or she was affected by the same desire as my mother that insisted I take fashion advice from Barbie.
“Stop being stubborn,” she said.
“At least get me a reasonable color.”
I could hear Gwen rummaging through the racks just outside the door. “How about blue?”
“What shade?”
“Powder.”
“Pass.”
“Navy?”
“Fine.”
She knocked on the door, and we exchanged gowns. I took a closer look at the new dress and realized that Gwen had chosen a different style, one with a much higher slit and more revealing bust line. Despite my apprehension, I figured it was worth a shot.
“So, are you going to tell me?” called out Gwen.
“About?”
“About what you think of the menu in the cafeteria,” she cracked. “What do you think? About the tutoring session. How bad was it?”
“It wasn’t terrible,” I replied.
“Ah,” said Gwen, rather pleased.
“Relax. I said, ‘it wasn’t terrible,’ not ‘start sending out the wedding invitations.’”
“Well, spill. What was it like playing teacher?”
“Playing teacher?”
“Yeah, you know. Did you spank him with a ruler for being a very, very bad boy?” she teased. “Did you make him stay after class to bang your erasers?”
“Okay! Get your mind out of the gutter before I get sick,” I warned.
I emerged from the dressing room with dread all over my face. Gwen took her attention off the white holster gown in her hands and exclaimed in exaltation.
“Damn, Foster!” she said playfully as she circled around me for the whole three hundred and sixty degree image. “I think we’ve found a winner!”
I looked over at Ian, who was across the shop trying on various sorts of gentlemen’s dress hats. He tossed on a fedora, and our eyes caught one another’s when he glanced in the mirror.
“What do you think?” I asked hesitantly.
I could see a crooked smile form as he turned and made his way toward the dressing rooms, his eyes giving me a full examination. Ian dropped down on the couch in front of us, and his smile only grew.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
Gwen’s eyes practically bulged at his approval. “There you have it!” she said. “Now, before doubt starts to sink in, go change and pay for it.”
I couldn’t help but notice a certain, indistinguishable expression on Ian’s face.
“What aren’t you saying?” I queried.
He finally let out a chuckle.
“I knew it. What? Is it the color?”
Gwen immediately deflated. “Don’t pay attention to him,” she pleaded.
“Hey, you dragged him here. I want his opinion,” I said. “Now, Callaghan, spill.”
“It’s not that it’s a bad dress, because it is very flattering. It’s just not you.”
“Oh, please, if you had your way, you’d have her looking like Morticia Addams.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ian chuckled.
“I’d be inclined to laugh along if I actually thought you were kidding,” Gwen snapped back.
“At least it’s a look she’d
be more comfortable wearing,” he rebutted. “It’s clear that you dressed her.”
“See, I told you,” I said, turning to Gwen. “Why can’t I at least get a black gown?”
She gave me one of her famous eye rolls. “In what Cinderella story do you hear of her attending the ball in black? Never! You know why? Because it’s morbid.”
“All the guys are gonna be wearing black tuxes,” I countered.
“There’s a big difference between men and women wearing black. When you see a guy in a sleek black suit, you think James Bond. When you see a girl with black hair, dark makeup, and a black dress, all you can think of is that she’s late for a Marilyn Manson concert. Don’t be that girl.”
I turned to the three-way mirror in the corner and soaked in the thought.
“This is the time in our lives when we get to define who we are. You’re not meant to be a wallflower, babe. Take the opportunity while you have it, before you end up a fortysomething year old with only twenty-seven cats to turn to for companionship, like your neighbor, Miss Gorickey.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, at first. The longer the comment processed in my head, the more clearly I could imagine myself with the same matted gray hair, sack-shaped clothing, and reflected misery in her eyes.
“Hey,” said Ian, coming up behind me. “Don’t let anyone make you conform out of fear. You’re not a cat lady in the making, so go with your gut.”
He tossed off the fedora on his head and placed it on mine, tilting it to one side so that it gave me that classic mafia edge. Finally, I smiled.
“And don’t worry about the dress,” whispered Ian. “I’ll get you sorted.”
“Really?”
“Sheila can lend a hand. She knows some people.”
I was on the road for no more than a minute when a torrential downpour ignited. Despite my windshield wipers being at full speed, I still had little visibility. Taking the back way home wasn’t exactly the safest bet, since the roads tended to be a bit slick, not to mention the constant hills and bends. Unfortunately, my brakes weren’t in the best of shape either, and the last thing I needed was for some scatterbrained soccer mom going down Main Street to phantom brake on me. So since I didn’t want the front of my Camry to end up in the trunk of a minivan, I turned onto Van Dorian Street and took the trek up into the hillsides. With much luck, most of the trees overhead still had a good amount of their leaves, providing some coverage from the pelting raindrops.
Divine Vices Page 9
