A Midsummer's Nightmare(10)

“I’m going to call him,” Mom declared, her sniffles gone, voice turned furious. “I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of this whole monstrosity. I’m—”

“No, Mom,” I said. “Just… just leave it alone. It’s my fault…. Neither of us is a phone person—I should have made the effort to call him or something.”

“Don’t make excuses for him, Whitley. He’s so—”

“Munchkin! Nate! Come on down, kids. Dinner’s ready!”

“Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

I snapped the phone shut before she had time to respond.

With a groan, I rolled off the bed and put my cell on the nightstand. As glad as I was to end that conversation, I still kind of wanted to come up with some sort of excuse—Daddy, I have a headache; I feel sick to my stomach—to get out of eating dinner with June Cleaver and her perfect children.

Unfortunately for me, I was starving.

Nathan walked out of his room just as I stepped out of mine. We both just kind of looked at each other for a weird second, then turned and headed toward the stairs. “So… munchkin, huh?” he said. “Aren’t you a little tall to be a munchkin?”

“I had a growth spurt when I was thirteen,” I replied without thinking. “Dad just hasn’t found a more fitting nickname yet.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Well, my granddad still calls Mom his Sylvie Bear, so I guess it’s a universal thing.”

I rolled my eyes and moved ahead of him, hurrying down the last few steps. I didn’t need his forced conversation. If he wanted to forget what happened the other night, we could forget in silence.

“Hey, Whitley,” Sylvia said when I walked into the dining room. “I hope you’re making yourself comfortable.”

“Sure,” I muttered. Of course I’m not comfortable, you Stepford Wife. This is, like, my worst nightmare.

“Good,” she said. “I really want you to enjoy this summer with us.”

“Whatever.” I glanced around the large oak-paneled room.

Talk about fancy. Expensive-looking paintings hung from nails or rested against the wall, waiting to be put in their proper place. Every piece of furniture—all made of sleek, polished wood—looked brand-new. Of course, it probably was new. Clearly, Sylvia was one of the rich kinds of lawyers.

“Don’t worry, babe,” Dad said, grinning at Sylvia from his seat. “She’ll have a great time.”

I started to pull out a chair, but Sylvia stopped me. “Oh, honey, Bailey wants you to sit next to her.”

“Mom!” Bailey shrieked from the other end of the dining table.

“Well, you do want her sitting by you. You just said so a minute ago,” Sylvia said, sounding a little defensive. “Can I say anything that won’t embarrass you today?”

“Only if you want to,” Bailey insisted, turning to look at me and ignoring her mother’s question. “It’s cool if you don’t. No big. I just thought—”

Without saying anything, I walked around the table and pulled out the chair between my dad and Bailey. Sitting by her would be better than being next to Nathan, who’d just plopped down in the chair beside his mother.

I glanced over at Sylvia and Nathan, expecting to overhear some Leave It to Beaver–esque dinner conversation. But their end of the table was quiet. Nathan was smiling, but Sylvia examined Nathan closely, intently. Maybe her supermom sense was tingling. I wondered just how much she’d freak if she knew about Nathan and me and the party.

“Hey, Nate, do you mind passing the mashed potatoes this way?”

Nathan spooned out an overlarge helping of mashed potatoes before passing the bowl to Dad. “Here you go, Greg. They’re awesome.”

“Anything your mother cooks is awesome,” Dad replied.

Gag me.

“Oh, stop.” Sylvia laughed, and the tension I thought I’d seen in her face moments before vanished. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. I just wanted to see a problem with this arrangement. A gap. An imperfection. “You two are too sweet.”

“Nate’s the sweet one,” Dad said. “I just agree with him and reap the benefits. It’s a wonderful job.”

Nate, I thought. They were buddies. Dad already fit in here, with this family. He was one of them.

And I wasn’t.

Looking around the table, I realized just how out of place I was. The Caulfields and Dad were smiling. They were all dressed in bright, happy, summery colors. And me? I’d been fixed with a permanent scowl. I liked cold colors—dark greens and blues. And, to be honest, I didn’t think I’d really been happy in a long time.

“So, munchkin,” Dad said, suddenly noticing me. This wasn’t really Dad, though. He sounded more mature and fatherly than the real Greg Johnson ever did. It was like his newscaster alter ego was speaking to me. A show just for the Caulfields.

My real dad was laid back. Outside of work, he was casual and uncensored and funny. He swore and sang country songs he barely knew the lyrics to—especially after he’d knocked back a few shots on the beach. I wanted to know where that man was. I wanted to know what Sylvia had done to change him.

She’d taken him away from me.

“What do you think of the house?” he asked in the TV-Dad voice. “Is your room okay?”