Wrong About the Guy(49)

And then I hit send. And waited.

An hour later, I got an email back from him.




Re: Possible new essay?

Yes. Will discuss on Wednesday.



I spent the next hour staring at music videos and obsessing over those five words. The Yes seemed positive. Maybe that meant he liked it? Although . . . it could also have just meant he agreed that I got in my own way. And the Will discuss on Wednesday wasn’t exactly helpful feedback.

I had wanted more from George. I felt like I’d cut myself open and exposed some hidden nerve-ridden and embarrassing part of my anatomy with that essay. I’d spent years trying to convince myself that I was someone who did what she set out to do, so it wasn’t easy to admit that I wasn’t really like that.

I wanted something back for my honesty—some sense that George appreciated it and valued the courage it took. I also wanted him to see that the essay was my way of saying I screwed up with Grandma and that I was glad he called me out on it, because I really did want to be a decent person, even if I didn’t always act like it.

But as good as I was at talking other people into things, I couldn’t succeed at convincing myself that George was saying he understood all that in those five short words.





twenty-three


Ben and I needed to write an official email about the Holiday-Giving Program’s annual Thanksgiving Food drive, which would have to be approved by the head of the school before we could forward it to all the parents. We had the previous year’s letter as a template, but we had to change the dates and some other minor details.

He offered to drop by my house on Tuesday evening, which was fine—with Luke and Mom out of town, I was happy to host. When he showed up, I was surprised to see he’d brought Arianna with him. I’d thought it was just going to be the two of us.

It didn’t really matter—actually, I figured an extra set of hands and eyes could come in handy—but she kind of annoyed me right at the start by saying, “Oh my God, your house is amazing!” as they walked in the door. Not that there was anything wrong with the compliment. There was just something about how her eyes were darting around, greedily sucking in every detail, that made the words grate on me.

“Thanks,” I said. “We like it.”

“It’s so big. I can’t believe how big it is. How many of you live here?”

“Just my family. And the house may be big, but we always end up doing everything in the kitchen. Which is where we’re going now.” I led them that way. “You guys want something to drink?”

“Water’s fine,” said Ben.

“Can I see what you have?” Arianna asked, and opened the refrigerator before I could even respond. She seemed a little disappointed by the slim choices there. “I guess I’ll take a Snapple,” she said, and grabbed a bottle. She turned around. “So is there, like, a big music studio in the house?”

“There’s a small one out back,” I said.

“Can we see it?”

“No,” I said, a little more curtly than I probably should have. I softened it: “It’s kind of Luke’s private place. I don’t go in without him.”

“Are you musical, too?” she asked. “He must have taught you how to play the guitar and stuff, right?”

“He tried once, but it didn’t take.” I was totally tone-deaf, and even though I learned to strum a few chords, I never practiced and got fidgety when Luke sat down with me, so we both lost interest in the attempt. For Luke’s sake, I hoped Jacob would be more into the music thing; he certainly liked to sing along to Disney songs—always in his own language, but he nailed the tunes.

While Ben and I were working on the letter, Arianna leapt up to explore the kitchen. She kept opening cabinets and drawers, checking inside, and then closing them again.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“A snack, I guess. I haven’t eaten dinner yet. But don’t mind me.”

I got up, went to the pantry, and pulled out a bag of crackers. “Will this do?” I dropped it on the table and sat back down.

But a few minutes later, she was back on the prowl, glancing into everything she could open.

“Do you need something else?” I asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

“Uh . . . silverware?”

“Why?” We were eating the crackers with our hands. I mean, obviously.

She just shrugged and came back to the table, where she looked over our shoulders and agreed with everything either of us said, but then she must have drifted away again without my even noticing because the next time I looked up, she was over at the opposite side of the room flipping through our mail, which was stacked up on the counter for Mom and Luke to sort when they came home.

“Hey!” I said.

“What?” She turned around, after quickly dropping whatever she was holding back onto the pile.

“Are you looking through our mail?”

“Not really.” She gave a little laugh. “Honestly, I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’m just sort of wandering around. . . . Short attention span, I guess. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

I minded that a lot less than her pawing through our private correspondence. “It’s down the hallway, take a left, and then another left.”