Mystify by Artist Arthur Page A

had he gotten into the water? And why did he look like someone or something had scared ten years off his young life when the paramedics finished pumping the water out of his lungs?
    Too many questions. Not enough answers.
    I sigh and stand. “I have homework.”
    My father’s rubbing his smooth chin, looking at me as if he just met me ten minutes ago. “It’s Friday night,” he says like he thinks I don’t already know that.
    I guess it is weird that a teenager would actually want to do homework on a Friday night. But when the homework actually consists of researching astral planes and wicked dark beings, that changes things significantly.
    “Killer test on Monday,” I say, shrugging and heading toward the door.
    My mother makes this panicked-like sound and slumps into the wingback chair that just happens to be right behind her. She’s fanning her own face, and it takes everything in me not to sigh and say, “give it up already.” Instead I just shake my head and keep walking.
    “Sasha.”
    I have no choice but to stop at the sound of my father’s authoritative voice.
    When I turn back to face him, I can see he’s waiting expectantly. I swear, sometimes it’s like living with an alien family around here. “Yes, sir?” I answer in a tone that’s low and borderline exasperated.
    “I have something for you to do tonight. You can do home work tomorrow.”
    Oh no, this is not going to be good. How can I tell? Maybe it’s the bottom that feels like it’s just dropped out of my stomach. Or how about the way my mother sits up in the chair—fanning her face has ceased, and her eyes look a little brighter. Miraculous recovery or something up the parental sleeves? I’ll bet my trust fund on the latter.
    “Stephen Whitman the Fourth owns several oil rigs and a huge company in Texas. For health reasons, he and his family had to relocate here to Lincoln about a year or so ago.”
    Yes, I know Stephen Whitman IV. His parents ship him off to some private school in upstate New York all year long. I think there’s an older sister too, in college maybe. But what this has to do with me remains to be seen. So I keep quiet and wait. Not an easy task for me, so I’m shuffling from one foot to the other, anxious to have this over with so I can be gone.
    “The young Stephen Whitman is home for spring break. I told his parents you would love to go out with him tonight, show him around town a bit.”
    “You what?” The words just roll out. I don’t know who is more shocked, me or my mother. Certainly my father, by the rise of his eyebrows, was taken aback. “I mean, what does that mean?” I have a sinking feeling what it meant.
    “I’ve made reservations at Solange for the two of you. Mr. Lycanian will drive you.”
    My parents always call Mouse, “Mr. Lycanian.” But fromthe first day I met him, he’d instructed me to call him Mouse. So that’s what I did.
    “I don’t want to go to dinner with Stephen Whitman the Fourth,” I say in protest, knowing already that it’s pointless.
    “Life is not about what we want, Sasha. It’s about what’s best for us, for our family, our legacy. Want rarely comes into play.”
    What he really means is that want rarely comes into play where I’m concerned. My parents seem to have everything their chilly little hearts desire. Me, on the other hand, well, let’s just say I’m not like my parents. Some days I wake up and even consider requesting a DNA test.
    My mother’s still jabbering. “He’s a handsome boy, Sasha. I think you two will really hit it off.”
    “His father’s thinking of investing considerably in the new club,” my father adds, as if that should be enough to send me on my way.
    “Then you go out with him!” I say again on impulse. It must be the adrenaline still rushing through my system. I mean, it’s not every day a girl watches a body being dragged from the lake. I had to have some excuse for mouthing off to my parents. Especially to my