The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer (Mara Dyer #1)(41)

“Hold please,” he said as he covered the mouthpiece. He really was hilarious. “It’s for you, Mara,” he said. “And it’s a booooy,” he sing-songed.

I rolled my eyes but wondered who it could be. “I’m taking it in my room,” I said as Joseph erupted in giggles. Horrible.

Out of his field of vision, I jogged the rest of the way and lifted my phone. “Hello?”

“Hello,” Noah answered, mimicking my American accent. But I’d know that voice anywhere.

“How did you get my phone number?” I blurted, before I could stop myself.

“It’s called research.” I could hear him smirking over the phone.

“Or stalking.”

Noah chuckled. “You’re adorable when you’re bitchy.”

“You’re not,” I said, but smiled despite myself.

“What time shall I pick you up on Sunday? And where exactly do you live?”

Noah meeting my family could not happen. I would never hear the end of it. “You don’t have to pick me up,” I said in a rush.

“Considering you have no idea where we’re going and I have no intention of telling you, I’m quite sure that I do.”

“I can meet you somewhere centrally located.”

Noah sounded amused. “I promise to press my trousers before meeting your family. I’ll even bring flowers for the occasion.”

“Oh, God. Please don’t,” I said. Maybe honesty would be the best policy. “My family is going to screw with my life if you come over.” I knew them far too well.

“Congratulations—you just made the prospect all the more enticing. What’s your address?”

“I hate you more than you can know.”

“Give it up, Mara. You know I’ll find it anyway.”

I sighed, defeated, and gave it to him.

“I’ll be there at ten.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “For some reason I thought this was a day thing.”

“Hilarious. Ten in the morning, darling.”

“Can’t a girl sleep in on the weekend?”

“You don’t sleep. See you Sunday, and don’t wear stupid shoes.” Noah said, and hung up before I could reply.

I stood, staring at the phone. He was so aggravating. But a nervous thrill traveled through my stomach. Me and Noah. Sunday. Just us.

My mother poked her head into my room and spoke, startling me. “Dad’s going to be home for dinner tonight. Can you help set the table? Or does your arm hurt too much?”

My arm. My mother. Would she still let me go?

“Be right there,” I said, putting down the phone. Seems I’d need Daniel’s help after all.

I walked down the hallway and slipped into his room. He was on his bed, reading a book.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” He didn’t look up.

“So, I need your help.”

“With what, pray tell?”

He was going to make this as difficult as possible. Awesome. “I’m supposed to go out with Noah on Sunday.”

He laughed.

“Glad I amuse you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just—I’m impressed.”

“God, Daniel, am I really that hideous?”

“Oh, come on. That’s not what I meant. I’m impressed that you actually agreed to go out. That’s all.”

I sulked, and raised my arm. “I don’t think Mom is ever going to let me out of her sight again.”

At this, Daniel finally looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “She was supremely pissed Wednesday night, but now that you’re, you know, talking to someone, I could work some magic, I think.” His grin spread. “If you spilled the proverbial beans, that is.”

If anyone could work our mother, it was Daniel. “Fine. What?”

“Did you know it was coming?”

“My sketchbook went missing on Wednesday.”

“Nice try. How about the part where Shaw declared to practically the entire school that you’d been using him to practice your nudes?”

I sighed. “Complete surprise.”

“That’s what I thought when I heard it. I mean, really. You’ve barely left the house….” He trailed off, but I heard the things he didn’t say—you’ve barely left the house except to run away from a party, to visit the emergency room, to visit a psychiatrist.

I interrupted the awkward silence. “So are you going to help me or not?”

Daniel tilted his head sideways and smiled. “You like him?”

This was unbearable. “You know what, forget it.” I turned to leave.

Daniel sat up. “All right, all right. I’ll help you. But only out of guilt.” He made his way over to me. “I should have told you about Dad’s case.”

“Well, consider us even, then,” I said, then smiled. “If you help me set the table.”

“So what’s the special occasion?” I asked my father at dinner that night. He gave me a questioning look. “It’s, like, the third time you’ve been home this early since we moved.”

“Ah,” he said, and smiled. “Well, it was a good day at the office.” He took a bite of curried chicken, then swallowed. “Turns out my client’s the real deal. The so-called eyewitness is a hundred years old. She is not going to hold up on cross.”