headlights of the VW illuminate a Lexus parked in our driveway. Clay? One of those donors? As I fumble with the door latch, my hand is sticky with sweat. I’m scrambling for a plan, a Mom-acceptable excuse. She was not in the best of moods this morning. Unless the donors showered her with money, and probably even if they did, I’m in big trouble. I have to just go in the front door, because chances are my mother has already checked my bed.
“Good night, Jase,” I call hurriedly, and run without looking back. I start to open the door, but then it opens swiftly from inside and I practically fall in. Mom’s standing there, her face taut with fury.
“Samantha Christina Reed!” she begins. “Do you know what time it is?”
“After curfew. I know. I—”
She shakes the wineglass in her hand at me as if it’s a wand that will render me mute. “I’m not going through this with you too—do you hear me? I’ve done all the troubled-teenager parenting I have time for with your sister. I don’t need this, do you understand?”
“Mom, I’m only ten minutes late.”
“That’s not the point.” Her voice rises. “The point is that you don’t get to do it! I expect better from you. This summer, especially. You know I’m under a lot of pressure. This is not the time for your adolescent drama.”
I cannot help but wonder if any parents ever actually schedule in adolescent drama on their day planners. Looks like a slow week, Sarah. I guess I can pencil in your eating disorder.
“This isn’t drama,” I tell her, which rings so true to my ears. Mom is drama. Tim is drama. Sometimes even Nan is drama. Jase and the Garretts…they’re whatever the opposite of drama is. The tidal pool warm in the summer sun, full of exotic life, but no danger.
“Don’t contradict me, Samantha,” Mom snaps. “You’re grounded.”
“Mom!”
“What’s goin’ on, Grace?” asks a softly accented Southern voice, and Clay wanders out of the living room, sleeves rolled up, tie loose around his neck.
“I’m handling it,” Mom tells him sharply.
I half expect him to pull back as though she’s slapped him,which I want to do when she gets that tone, but his posture relaxes even more. He leans back against the doorway, flicks something off his shoulder, and says simply, “Seems like you could use my help.”
Mom’s so tightly wound, she’s practically vibrating. She’s always been private—would never yell at Tracy and me if we were even remotely in public—then we’d just get a terse whisper—“We will discuss this later .” But it’s Clay, and her hand shoots up to pat her hair in that silly, coy gesture I’ve only seen her use with him.
“Samantha’s late for curfew. She has no excuse for that.”
Well, she hasn’t exactly given me a chance to offer one, but, true, I don’t know what I’d say in my own defense.
Clay looks at his Rolex. “Curfew’s when, Gracie?”
“Eleven,” Mom says, her voice smaller now.
Clay lets out a rich, low laugh. “Eleven o’clock on a summer night? And she’s seventeen? Honey, that’s when we all miss curfew.” He walks over, reaches to squeeze the back of her neck lightly. “I know I did. I’m sure you did.” His hand moves to her chin, edging it so she’s looking right at him. “Give a little here, sugar.”
Mom stares at his face. I’m holding my breath. I shoot a glance at my unlikely rescuer. He winks at me, giving Mom’s chin a nudge with his knuckles. In his eyes, there’s not a trace of guilt or—and I’m surprised at how relieved I feel—complicity about what he knows I saw.
“Maybe I overreacted,” she says finally, to him, not to me.
But I’m beginning to wonder the same thing. Maybe there’s an easy explanation for the brunette?
“We all do it, Gracie. Why don’t I get you some more wine?”He scoops the glass out of her unresisting fingers and heads off to the kitchen as though it’s his own.
Mom and I both stand there.
“Your
“Good night, Jase,” I call hurriedly, and run without looking back. I start to open the door, but then it opens swiftly from inside and I practically fall in. Mom’s standing there, her face taut with fury.
“Samantha Christina Reed!” she begins. “Do you know what time it is?”
“After curfew. I know. I—”
She shakes the wineglass in her hand at me as if it’s a wand that will render me mute. “I’m not going through this with you too—do you hear me? I’ve done all the troubled-teenager parenting I have time for with your sister. I don’t need this, do you understand?”
“Mom, I’m only ten minutes late.”
“That’s not the point.” Her voice rises. “The point is that you don’t get to do it! I expect better from you. This summer, especially. You know I’m under a lot of pressure. This is not the time for your adolescent drama.”
I cannot help but wonder if any parents ever actually schedule in adolescent drama on their day planners. Looks like a slow week, Sarah. I guess I can pencil in your eating disorder.
“This isn’t drama,” I tell her, which rings so true to my ears. Mom is drama. Tim is drama. Sometimes even Nan is drama. Jase and the Garretts…they’re whatever the opposite of drama is. The tidal pool warm in the summer sun, full of exotic life, but no danger.
“Don’t contradict me, Samantha,” Mom snaps. “You’re grounded.”
“Mom!”
“What’s goin’ on, Grace?” asks a softly accented Southern voice, and Clay wanders out of the living room, sleeves rolled up, tie loose around his neck.
“I’m handling it,” Mom tells him sharply.
I half expect him to pull back as though she’s slapped him,which I want to do when she gets that tone, but his posture relaxes even more. He leans back against the doorway, flicks something off his shoulder, and says simply, “Seems like you could use my help.”
Mom’s so tightly wound, she’s practically vibrating. She’s always been private—would never yell at Tracy and me if we were even remotely in public—then we’d just get a terse whisper—“We will discuss this later .” But it’s Clay, and her hand shoots up to pat her hair in that silly, coy gesture I’ve only seen her use with him.
“Samantha’s late for curfew. She has no excuse for that.”
Well, she hasn’t exactly given me a chance to offer one, but, true, I don’t know what I’d say in my own defense.
Clay looks at his Rolex. “Curfew’s when, Gracie?”
“Eleven,” Mom says, her voice smaller now.
Clay lets out a rich, low laugh. “Eleven o’clock on a summer night? And she’s seventeen? Honey, that’s when we all miss curfew.” He walks over, reaches to squeeze the back of her neck lightly. “I know I did. I’m sure you did.” His hand moves to her chin, edging it so she’s looking right at him. “Give a little here, sugar.”
Mom stares at his face. I’m holding my breath. I shoot a glance at my unlikely rescuer. He winks at me, giving Mom’s chin a nudge with his knuckles. In his eyes, there’s not a trace of guilt or—and I’m surprised at how relieved I feel—complicity about what he knows I saw.
“Maybe I overreacted,” she says finally, to him, not to me.
But I’m beginning to wonder the same thing. Maybe there’s an easy explanation for the brunette?
“We all do it, Gracie. Why don’t I get you some more wine?”He scoops the glass out of her unresisting fingers and heads off to the kitchen as though it’s his own.
Mom and I both stand there.
“Your
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