Wrong About the Guy(15)

“Right,” he said. “And you’re not one either. So tell her to talk to hers. And be aware that she’ll do whatever you say, even if you’re totally wrong.”

I scowled at him. “First of all, I’ve researched Elton a lot, and they like people who are creative, which Heather totally is.” She wrote a lot of fan fiction, mostly about characters from her favorite TV shows. That was creative, right? “They’re going to want her. And secondly, you’re wrong—she doesn’t do whatever I say. That’s ridiculous.”

“I’ve seen you order her around. She worships you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Which seems to be what you like best about the relationship.”

“That’s so not true! Not to mention rude.”

“Uh-huh.” He was really starting to annoy me, standing there with his stupid pants and long-sleeved shirt on the hottest day of the year, large almost colorless eyes blinking at me as he accused me of being a bad friend.

I gestured toward the door. “Aren’t you going to be late for your genius?”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding tired. “I am. Good-bye. We can talk more about this on Sunday.”

“I’m canceling Sunday,” I said even though I hadn’t thought about it before now. “I have other plans.”

“Your mother said I should come.”

“Well, she’s wrong.” I turned my back on him and went into the kitchen. Why should I let him tutor me when he had just proven that he didn’t know anything about anything?

I was kind of lying when I said I had plans, except that it turned out I really did have plans, I just hadn’t known about them. That night, Luke informed the rest of the family that he’d invited the Marquands over for a barbecue on Sunday, which was the day before Labor Day and two days before the start of school. Aaron was flying in on Saturday, so he’d be coming with them.

I spent a long time getting ready for that barbecue. I washed my hair that morning and scrunched it under a diffuser so it was just about as curly as it could get—which was pretty ridiculously curly—and used some gel that made the copper highlights catch the light. Since it was still super hot and we were planning on swimming, I put on my favorite dark-red bikini and covered that with a floaty, transparent printed dress.

As I was leaving my room, I heard Jacob calling out from his and checked on him. He was just waking from a nap. Mom had recently moved him from his crib to a small bed that looked like a race car, but he never got out of it by himself, just sat up and cried until someone rescued him, like he’d always done in the crib.

“Hey, baby dude,” I said, and picked him up. His diaper felt heavy through his shorts. He wasn’t anywhere close to being toilet trained yet—since he didn’t talk or seem to understand all that much, it was hard to explain the whole potty concept to him. “Have a nice nap?”

He rubbed his forehead against my bare shoulder and I nuzzled his sweat-damp hair. I liked him best like this, right after a nap, when he was all drowsy and cuddly.

“We’re going to have a barbecue,” I told him. “Hot dogs. I know you like hot dogs. And Daddy will be home all day. Fun, right?”

He didn’t react, just rested against me, breathing lightly.

“We have guests coming over. You remember Michael? And Crystal? And little baby Mia?” I was never sure what he understood and what he didn’t. Sometimes it seemed like your words meant nothing to him and then all of a sudden he’d go and grab something you were just talking about and bring it to you. “Let’s find you something special to wear.” I pulled a shirt out of his drawer.

Instantly he started arching back in my arms—so violently that I almost dropped him—and shaking his head and making a low moaning sound that I knew would turn to screaming in a second if I wasn’t careful.

“Sorry,” I said, dumping him back on the bed. I quickly crammed the shirt into the dresser. “It had buttons. I know. Forget that. See? All gone now.”

Jacob had a button phobia. And of course he couldn’t tell us why.

I changed his diaper and helped him into blue board shorts and a soft white T-shirt—clothing he approved of—and carried him downstairs.

Mom was in the kitchen, getting instructions from Carlos, our part-time chef, who had come in early to make a bunch of salads and marinate the meat. “If you dress the lettuce salad too soon, it will get soggy,” he was telling her when we walked in. “But you want the dressing to tenderize the kale salad for at least half an hour. In fact, I think I’ll put it on right now—it won’t hurt and you might forget.”

“Yes, do that,” Mom said cheerfully. “I’ll definitely forget.” She was wearing a navy blue maxi sundress and a pair of amazing sparkling sandals. I eyed those sandals covetously and decided I would borrow them soon.

I put Jacob down and he ran over to Mom and hugged her legs.

“Hey, baby,” she said, absently patting his head while she glanced around the kitchen. “Where are the hot dog buns?”

“In the bag on the table. Whole wheat.” Carlos was bald, but shaved bald, and his eyes were younger than his mouth and chin. He was somewhere between forty and sixty, but I had no idea where. He came twice a week and cooked lots of dishes, which he left in the refrigerator so we could heat them up whenever we wanted a meal; he also prepared food for special events like this. “I wanted to get sea bass for the fish but I didn’t like the way theirs looked, so I got cod instead. I made a romesco to go with it. All Luke has to do is grill it and then put the sauce on. But tell him not to overdo it. Fish should always be slightly undercooked. Now, let’s talk about the corn.”