“Come on, Dad,” I say. “Live a little.”
He sticks his hands into his back pockets and sighs. “Okay.”
“Really?” I sit up.
“Yeah. Let’s do it.”
“Can we order from Wings Express?”
“Sure,” he says. He tosses one last look behind him. Is it normal to be this terrified of your fiancée?
Forty-five minutes later we’re sprawled on the couch with TV trays in front of us. The TV trays almost didn’t make it through Hurricane Harlow, but Dad managed to convince her that one of us might use it if we’re home alone. Harlow spurted something about being present during meals and eating mindfully, and Dad made a lot of agreeable grunts, but in the end the TV trays stayed. A rare victory for Team Normal.
“She means well,” Dad says suddenly in between mouthfuls of fried chicken.
“Who?” I ask. But I know who.
“Harlow. With the vegan dinners and all. It makes her feel good.”
It’s as if he’s reading my mind. I stare at the TV. “It doesn’t make me feel good.”
“Come on, that’s not true. You’ve lost a lot of weight since Harlow’s been making us dinner.”
I pause, a greasy chicken wing wedged between my fingers.
“Not that you needed to,” Dad says quickly. It leaves me cold. “I’m just saying, you look healthier. And this garbage? It can kill you if you eat it long enough.”
“We used to order from Wings Express all the time,” I argue. “We survived.”
“We didn’t know better.”
He’s including Mom in that “we,” and it makes me furious. As if we were a family of idiots until Harlow came along to enlighten us. As if Harlow could ever be superior to Mom in any way, shape, or form.
With my teeth I tear a chunk of flesh from my chicken wing. I chomp down on it, avoiding Dad’s eyes and willing myself not to cry. Thank God the TV is on, because Dad and I don’t speak for a long time.
“You finished?” he asks me after a few minutes. There’s one chicken wing remaining. It looks cold, and the barbecue sauce on it has formed a crust. I grab it and eat it anyway, just to spite him.
“Now I am,” I say with my mouth full.
He throws the trash into the take-out bag and dumps it outside, then comes back in, asking where Harlow keeps the air freshener.
“Why?” I ask.
“It smells like grease in here.”
“So?”
“So, I don’t like it.”
“You? Or Harlow?” I’m tired of tiptoeing around her. The fact that my father, a grown man, has to hide all evidence of a fried chicken dinner puts me over the edge.
“Both of us,” he says.
“The smell never bothered you before.”
“Well, now it does,” he replies. His voice grows tight.
I know I’m being difficult, but why can’t he see how much Harlow has changed him? He’s become a completely different person, whereas she has remained her annoying self. I march over to the kitchen, grab her chemical-free sage-scented air freshener, and slam it on the table in front of him.
“Oye,” he says.
I don’t answer.
“I could do without the attitude.”
“I don’t have an attitude,” I say with as much attitude as I can muster. Then I sweep by him and head back to my room.
“Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you,” he calls out behind me. Every time he’s said it to me in the past, I’ve listened. There was always an implicit “or else” in those words.
This time I don’t care. I used to think my dad was larger than life, my personal Goliath. Now I see him for what he really is—powerless.
“Analee!” he says more loudly.
I shut my bedroom door in response. Moments later I hear the spritz of the air freshener.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SEB FINISHES THE FIRST HARRY potter in a week. When he calls me early Sunday morning and asks to borrow the second one, I almost burst with pride.
“I can’t wait till you get to the third,” I gush. “It’s my favorite. Well, either the third or the sixth. It depends on my mood. Ugh, I’m so jealous of you right now!”
“Okay, calm down, you nerd. Are you free today?”
“Yes.” I answer without hesitation. To my surprise I want to see him. And talk to him about how wonderful Harry Potter is.
“Good,” he says, “because I’m cashing in on my favor.”
All my positive emotions sour. I was hoping he’d forget about our deal. He says he’ll pick me up at eleven.
“What do I wear?” I ask, throwing open my closet doors. I can barely dress myself as it is, let alone when I have no idea where we’re going.
“Your usual jeans are fine,” he says. “Don’t worry.”
And then he hangs up, leaving me to worry.
We pull up in front of the public library. I look around, convinced that Seb made a wrong turn. I have the second Harry Potter on my lap, so I’m not sure what he needs to check out of the library. Unless this is school-related . . . but I’ve never known Seb to do anything school-related on a weekend. Does he want me to tutor him? Does he realize my grades are average at best? Maybe he’s picking something up for someone and this is just a stop on our way to some other mysterious undisclosed location.
“Good God,” he says. “You’re stressing me out.”
“I haven’t even said anything!” I protest.
“You don’t have to. Your eyes say it all.”
“My eyes say nothing.”
“You look like a caged animal.”
That is surprisingly close to how I feel, but I blink a few times to relax my eyeballs. “So . . . why are we here? What’s this favor?”
“You,” he says, leaning over me to pop open the passenger-side door, “are hosting a Harry Potter read-aloud this morning.”
“I’m what?” I grip the sides of my seat like a gust of wind could knock me over. All the moisture in my mouth dries up.
“The library was looking for volunteers to read stories to kids in the neighborhood.”
I say nothing. I shake my head as hard as I can until my vision blurs.
“They’re kids, Analee,” Seb says.
“I hate kids.”
“You have a kid sister.”
“Yeah, and she sucks.” My breathing comes out in rapid bursts of air. I’m not doing this. I will stick to this seat like a chewed piece of gum, and Seb will have to physically pull me out of this car to change that.
“Come on,” he says. “You’ll feel much better about making a toast at your dad’s wedding when you have experience talking in front of people.”
“Why is this your favor? How does this benefit you in any way?” I ask.
“It doesn’t. I just want to help you.”
I would be oddly touched, but there’s no room for any other emotion inside me besides complete and utter terror.
“Will you at least come inside?” he says.
“No.”
“Really? You’re going to let down a group of little kids who want to hear a story?”
“The world is a cruel place, Seb. They’ll have to learn that lesson eventually.”
He shakes his head. “You’re being selfish.”
“You’re being pushy,” I reply. “I don’t like talking in front of people, and if I have to, I want to be prepared for it. You can’t spring this on me and expect me to go through with it.”
He sighs and turns off the ignition. “You wouldn’t have done this if I had given you a year to prepare.”
That’s undoubtedly true, but I don’t admit it. I grind my teeth together and stare at the library’s entrance. A mom pushes through the doors, holding hands with a little girl. The girl is younger than Avery, with a round face and a lightning scar painted on her forehead. I relax my grip on the seat.
“How about this?” Seb says. “I’ll read with you.”
“You read all of it,” I counter.
“You’re just going to sit there?”
“Yes.”
“But you’ll go inside?”
“If you read it all, I’ll go in,” I say, against my better judgment.
Without another word Seb gets out of the car and shuts the door. He walks toward the library, shoulders tight, eyes straight ahead. I know he’s annoyed that I’m not like his other friends who can talk in front of a crowd without sweaty palms and trembling bodies and sick stomachs. Well, I’m annoyed too. I hate that what comes so easily to everyone else is insurmountable to me.
When I walk inside the library, there’s a small group of kids seated on a rainbow-striped rug. A lot of them look around Avery’s age. Some are much too young for the series; some look big and gangly like they’re on the cusp of being too cool to hang out for library story time.
Seb settles into a fluffy armchair in front of the kids. He sits like he owns the room—legs out in front of him, arms draped casually over his knees.
“You guys ready for a story or what?” he asks.
“Yeah!” they cheer. The girl with the painted lightning scar claps her hands in delight, and I can’t help but smile at her.
“Do you guys like . . . Harry Potter?”
The kids go nuts in response. It looks like the front row of a Taylor Swift concert. And Seb is a natural at this. He’s doing a way better job than I could have.
But when he cracks open the book and starts reading . . . it’s not the best. He doesn’t change his vocal inflections at all when he’s reading as different characters. He rushes through certain moments when he should be pausing to let the story sink in.
When he gets through chapter one, a kid with curly brown hair and glasses raises his hand to ask a question.
“What house would you be in?” the boy asks.
Seb scrunches his eyebrows. “House?”
“Yeah, like Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin?”
This is a question I’ve asked myself many times. I’ve taken numerous online quizzes and mulled over my inherent personality traits. Seb thinks about it for exactly half a second.
“Ravenclaw,” he answers. “Coolest name.”
I shake my head vigorously. What is he thinking? You can’t choose a house like that. The house chooses you. Seb catches me, and his eyes crinkle in the corners.
“Do you disagree, An?” he asks. Every child-size head in the room whips around to look at me. I freeze.
“Guys,” Seb goes on, “Analee is a Harry Potter expert. Do you want to meet her?”
I’m shaking my head again, this time on purpose. He can’t do this to me. He wouldn’t.
The kids cheer again. At this point I believe they’d cheer anything Seb has to say. Hey, kids, want to try crack cocaine? Yeah! Want to form a cult that worships Bahamut and brings about the apocalypse? Yeah!
Seb waves me over, his smile widening. The kids are squirming. Lightning girl is looking at me with wide brown eyes. Damn it all.
I walk through the circle and stand stiffly next to Seb’s chair. The glint in his eyes reveals the obvious: this is all a ruse. Seb is purposely doing a terrible job. He’s making a mockery of the Harry Potter series, and he knew it would annoy me enough to want to fix it.
“Say hi to Analee,” Seb says to the kids.
“Hi, Analee!” they all shout at me. Literally shout. It’s unnerving to have your name screamed in unison from the mouths of babes. They do say it correctly, to their credit.
Seb nudges me in the back.
“Oh, um, hi,” I blurt out. If they notice my discomfort, they don’t show it. One is blatantly picking his nose, and another is playing with her shoelace.
“Kids, I’m going to let Analee read the next chapter because she’s a waaaay better reader than I am,” Seb says. He leans down to talk to the girl with the faux lightning scar. “Can I sit next to you while Analee reads?”
She nods shyly.
“Wait, Seb!” I grip his sleeve, but he gently unravels my fingers.
“You’ll be fine,” he whispers. “I promise.”
He guides me into the chair, then places the book on my lap. And suddenly I’m alone up here, with ten pairs of eyeballs locked on to me and a group of parents in the background surveying the scene. Am I supposed to say something to these kids? Ask questions? Make conversation?
I watch Seb squeeze into a small spot near lightning girl. He looks like a giant as he attempts to fold his long legs underneath him. It hits me now, what a nice thing he’s trying to do for me, even though I want to run right out of here, past the large Dr. Seuss display and the gray-haired librarian at her desk, to freedom. Away from all the kids. Away from everyone.
Seb shoots me a thumbs-up, and I make my decision. I can do this. I’m just going to read, that’s all. It’s something I’ve been able to do since I was three years old. I don’t have to work the kids into a spiritual frenzy like he did.
“Chapter two,” I start. My voice comes out normal even though my mouth is bone-dry. Lightning girl perks up, scooting closer to my feet.
I continue reading. In chapter two Harry is living a miserable life with the Dursleys, and there are hints of magical happenings here and there. If I focus on the words, I can forget about the wiggly rug rats in front of me. I give Uncle Vernon a low, growling voice, and it earns me some scattered giggles. When I look up from the book, I meet Seb’s eyes. He gives me a wide, dimpled smile, and I feel myself start to relax. This isn’t so bad. The kids are just as captivated by my reading as they were when Seb was talking to them.
I keep going. I pause at the important moments so the kids have time to digest the story. At one point the nose-picker raises his hand.
“Why are they so mean to Harry?” he asks.
“That’s a great question,” I reply. “Does anyone have a guess? Why are the Dursleys so mean to Harry?”
Lightning girl’s hand shoots up. “They don’t like magic!”
She beams when I nod in agreement. “I think you’re right. The Dursleys don’t want to live in a world where motorcycles fly and wizards cast spells.”
“But why?” the nose-picker asks.
“Maybe they’re scared,” another boy suggests.
“They might be,” I agree. “Maybe they’re used to life the way it is and they don’t want things to change.”
The kids all start coming up with a host of other reasons why the Dursleys don’t like magic. One girl compares it to when her sister could do a handstand and she couldn’t.
“Oh, so you think the Dursleys are jealous?” I ask. I hadn’t considered that angle. It’s kind of amazing what kids will come up with when you actually listen to them.
A few of the others agree. A less perceptive child insists that we’re all wrong, that the Dursleys are just mean bad guys. Throughout the conversation Seb stays quiet, his eyes bouncing from me to them.
“Do you think mean people are mean for no reason?” I ask them. I think of Matt McKinley, my own living prototype for a storybook villain. I wonder if he was born with a cruel streak or if it developed over time.
“They might be sad,” a girl says. “People can be mean when they’re sad.”
This raises a whole other topic for discussion. I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been talking when I notice the gray-haired librarian making her way toward us.
“I’m very sorry, everyone, but we’re out of time for today,” she says, and she’s met with a chorus of groans from the kids.
To my surprise, I’m feeling the same way. I got through story time. I spoke in front of people. Mini-people, but people nonetheless. And, once I got past the sweating and difficulty breathing, I even managed to enjoy it. Who doesn’t want to talk about Harry Potter for an hour? I watch the kids run to their parents. A couple of them wrap their spindly arms around my waist in a quick hug, and I melt a little bit.
“So . . . ,” Seb says as a frazzled dad pulls the last remaining child away from us. “Am I imagi
ning things, or did you actually enjoy public speaking today?”
I try to glare at him, but I can’t stop smiling. Stupid traitorous face. “Yeah, yeah.”
“It was very Gryffindor of you to conquer your fears like that.”
“Excuse me,” I say, bristling, “but I am a proud Hufflepuff through and through. And, while we’re on the subject, you are so not a Ravenclaw.”
“I could be a Ravenclaw.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why couldn’t I be a Ravenclaw?”
Before I can give him the dozen reasons I have at the ready, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Hi . . . Analee?” the librarian asks. “I just wanted to tell you what a great job you did with the kids.”
“Really?” is my instinctual response. I don’t know why I’m questioning her. What would motivate a sweet old librarian to approach me solely for the purpose of lying?
“Oh yes,” she replies. “They just adored you. We would love to have you back sometime.”
“You’re in luck—she’s free most Sundays,” Seb cuts in.
The librarian claps her hands together. “Terrific! We’ll pencil you in for Sundays.”
Whoa. Wait. This is all happening too fast. I will my mouth to move, but it hangs open like it’s missing a screw.
“Sure,” I finally manage. “Sundays are fine.”
As she leaves, the voice in my brain asks me what the hell I’m doing. My Sundays are for being Kiri and slaying worgens and talking to Harris.
Seb squeezes my arm with one hand and pushes the library doors open with the other. “Hey. Should I be insulted that the librarian didn’t ask me back?”
“Did I just sign up to read at the library every weekend?” I counter. I’m still a little stunned at what’s transpired today.
“You did. Because you’re a Gryffindor.”
“Oh my God, I’m not a Gryffindor.”
“You’re a Gryffindor.”
Walking out of the library, in the middle of a conversation about the Sorting Hat, I almost grab my phone to call Mom. I want to tell her what I did today. The urge to talk to her, the moments when I forget she’s gone . . . they always happens like this, in the middle of normal life when I least expect them. I think of my grief as a masked intruder, stealing any small moment of happiness.
Analee, in Real Life Page 15
