In Her Skin(28)

“Oh it’s a utility closet. Maybe we’ll come across a haunted janitor. That’d be scary. I can see an evil janitor—say with no face—haunting these halls at night. Can’t you?”

“This is boring,” you say, and if it weren’t you, I’d snap back that it’s boring because it’s the kind of kicks ten-year-olds go for.

Instead, I say, “Your parents will worry. We should go.”

The elevator dings and we turn as the gold doors open slowly. The down button is unlit, we are alone, and the compartment is empty.

I shake my finger at the empty car. “Okay, that was scary!”

“Wait, I know,” you say, reaching in your back pocket for your phone and dragging me inside. “I have a better idea.” You hit M. M is for mezzanine, and this is where the lobby bar is, brass and leather and a piano even. You stride out as if we are actually legal and choose a high table for two at the edge, immediately dipping your head over the phone.

“We’re going to get kicked out,” I hiss.

You barely look up. “Meh. If you’re rich enough to be here, no one cares.”

“Who are you calling?”

“I’m not calling anyone. Okay, I’m sort of calling someone. Technically, I’m Tindering.”

“You’re what?”

You giggle, and I am getting angry but your giggle is sweet. You swipe right and bite your bottom lip. “Tindering. Calling any guy in a ten-mile radius who wants to hook up for sex.”

“Why would you ever…” I’m shaking my head, dumbfounded. “Why would you ever do that?”

“Um, because it will be hilarious when they show up and it’s you and me? And we can be like, um, we’re here with our parents having dinner, and you must have got your wires crossed, sicko.”

I shift in my seat. A waitress eyes us, wondering if we’ll try to order a drink, when in fact you just ordered a man.

“Relax,” you say, picking at a bowl of sugared nuts. “I’m kidding. It doesn’t work like that. Not exactly. You text the guy a few times first, make arrangements. I actually know him.”

“You know him?”

“His name is Andrew.”

“His name is Andrew?”

“You sound like a parrot. Mine’s Tracy. It’s fine. I told you, it’s going to be hilarious when he sees how old I am.”

“How old did you say you are?”

“Twenty-two. You only have to be eighteen.”

“I just—God!” My chest is tightening and I’m starting to realize there is no convincing you of anything and you don’t understand how dangerous men are and how can I protect you? “I mean, how long do you think we can even wait here? Your parents—”

Your eyes bulge at your phone. “He’s here.”

“What? Oh my God. Temple. Do not tell me he has a picture of you.”

“Why do you think he came?”

I scan the room fast for Horny Andrew, and although a lot of people in this showy bar look like they want some, I don’t see a single guy scanning the room for a lanky honey-haired girl. Yet.

You shove your phone under my nose. “He’s coming! Look, he’s coming!”

A commotion across the mezzanine, and there are the Lovecrafts, followed by the manager on duty. They walk-run across the lobby to us. At the same time, a pudgy guy in a work suit appears behind you with an oily grin.

“Tracy?” he asks.

You grab your earlobe and gaze at him over your shoulder innocently. “I think you have the wrong girl.”

“I don’t think so. You’re the girl in the picture,” he says, leaning too close to you. “You know: Tinder?”

“Temple!” Mr. Lovecraft booms. Andrew’s cheeks hit the floor, and if he peed his pants I would not be surprised, but there’s no telling now, because he is beelining for the exit and you are already trying the innocent lobe-tugging thing on our father.

“Daddy, don’t yell. We were just tired of that stuffy restaurant and came up here to people-watch.”

“It looked more like you were getting picked up. I ought to go after that moron,” Mr. Lovecraft says, and Mrs. Lovecraft tugs on his arm.

“Come, Henry.” She turns to thank the hotel manager in hushed tones and this dinner celebration is over.

The ride home is silent. The Lovecrafts’ anger feels like a hair shirt, at least it is what I imagine it would feel like to wear one, maybe even to touch one. I am scared of what might come, but you are sulky and defiant, and it is glorious but also puzzling, because we really were wrong to freak your parents out like that. Dinner was over the top and my belly is nicely full, and we probably squeaked out of a sketchy if not dangerous scenario. Yet you sit the whole way home, stiff with anger, legs and arms crossed, staring out at the streaming lights reflecting off the Charles.

“I only did it to entertain Vivi,” you say suddenly.

The Lovecrafts look sideways at each other across the front seat.

“She’s safe with me. You both know that,” you say, louder this time.

*

I wake the next morning expecting to meet disapproval, or at least the cold shoulder. Instead, I meet Zack, my new tutor.

Zack Turpin is a Suffolk Law student in his early twenties who seems to think I am mentally delayed, not just a little behind in school, and I have to show him, gently, that yes, I can do division and read beyond chapter books. The Lovecrafts want me to stick to the amnesia story with Zack, which is easier than explaining how I got books in the evil man’s shed, so I say I don’t remember how I learned things. It becomes clear quickly that though the Lovecrafts can afford what they want, they have not spent much money on Zack the law student, because he is working off lesson plans he downloaded from the Internet. I try not to care that they don’t seem to think my schooling is equal in importance to yours, because it’s a ridiculous thought, a jealous thought, a sibling-rivalry-ish thought, and why should I care? The day is long, but what I really mean is the day is long without you, and I didn’t see you in the morning and now it is eight p.m. and I still have not seen you, and the Lovecrafts don’t seem to mind much that you’re hardly around.