apparently forgotten.
“Oh my gosh,” she gushed. “Did I tell you what happened after school today? You won’t believe it. Josh asked me out! As if I would ever go out with some guy whose father is a musician, even if he does have a bunch of Grammies … ”
An hour later, I completed the math sheet—alone—and Gemma was still gushing.
“ … Then Pam said we should get Josh to take us all out to the movies, that it would serve him right,” she prattled. “Though I think maybe Pam has a crush on him herself. Do you think?”
I ventured a glance up from the sheet. I was nearly done re-checking the work.
“You’re right,” Gemma continued. “She probably does like him. The nerve !”
“Okay, Gemma,” I said, and cut off her monologue. Time to get back to serious business. “The math is finished. Do you have any other homework?”
Gemma snapped her mouth shut. “No. That’s it.”
“Great,” I got up from my seat. “Then we’re done.”
“Oh, o … kay,” Gemma stammered. “I still haven’t told you about Anthony, but I guess you have to meet with Xander.” She followed me out of her bedroom. “Though, oh my gosh, Tekla! I completely forgot to tell you, Maman is coming back from L.A. this weekend! Isn’t that great? Maybe she’ll take me shopping, or we’ll go to dinner or something. If she has time, that is. What do you think?”
I paused and looked back at Gemma. Mrs. Lamont was coming back to New York. That meant one thing.
Julian was coming back with her.
I grinned at Gemma, all annoyances forgotten.
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe she will.”
And maybe Julian will finally call me.
T HE WORDS, “ H EY, T EKLA , how’re you doing,” greeted me as I walked into Xander’s room and headed for the desk.
Except for a huge Pink Floyd poster plastered to the wall above the bed, the room was an exact replica of Gemma’s. Xander laid sprawled on the bed, strumming his electric guitar, a vintage 1960s red Gibson that must have cost a small fortune. Blessedly, the amplifier was off.
“Hey, yourself. And I’m doing well,” I answered.
Xander, like his sister, still wore his school uniform, but unlike Gemma’s micro-mini, Xander’s khaki slacks, red tie and navy blazer—with Harding Academy’s initials monogrammed in gold thread on the left breast pocket—bordered on Republican conservative. The getup, however, lost some of its starchiness on Xander’s lanky body. His tie was askew. The left tail of his white dress shirt hung down the front of his slacks, and Xander’s mop of black hair flowed over the blazer’s collar. The Prada loafers he probably wore to school had been abandoned by the bedroom’s door. A musky stink of socks permeated the room.
“And how are you?” I asked, still disbelieving this was the same Xander I had met during Mrs. Lamont’s forced lunch.
Xander’s attitude had undergone a complete one-eighty once I started coming regularly to his house. No longer a silent, sullen, difficult-to-talk-to teenager, Xander was friendly, if somewhat reserved. He actually talked to me, about school, his music and film aspirations. He asked about law school, my life outside NYU, and sometimes my views on social politics. He listened to my tirades against capital punishment, the inadequacy of funding for public education and economic disparities. He looked up current events and asked questions about the justice system or the gap between the rich and poor. He offered counter-arguments. He wasn’t as chatty as Gemma, but then, he actually did have homework for us to work on—in math, science or history—almost every evening.
“Cool.”
Xander stopped fiddling with the guitar, sat upright and rested the instrument against the bed’s edge. A bright red pimple fought to break through the skin of his cheek. He scratched at the surface. I winced. His hands couldn’t possibly be clean.
“But, dude,” Xander said. “We got an English essay due next
“Oh my gosh,” she gushed. “Did I tell you what happened after school today? You won’t believe it. Josh asked me out! As if I would ever go out with some guy whose father is a musician, even if he does have a bunch of Grammies … ”
An hour later, I completed the math sheet—alone—and Gemma was still gushing.
“ … Then Pam said we should get Josh to take us all out to the movies, that it would serve him right,” she prattled. “Though I think maybe Pam has a crush on him herself. Do you think?”
I ventured a glance up from the sheet. I was nearly done re-checking the work.
“You’re right,” Gemma continued. “She probably does like him. The nerve !”
“Okay, Gemma,” I said, and cut off her monologue. Time to get back to serious business. “The math is finished. Do you have any other homework?”
Gemma snapped her mouth shut. “No. That’s it.”
“Great,” I got up from my seat. “Then we’re done.”
“Oh, o … kay,” Gemma stammered. “I still haven’t told you about Anthony, but I guess you have to meet with Xander.” She followed me out of her bedroom. “Though, oh my gosh, Tekla! I completely forgot to tell you, Maman is coming back from L.A. this weekend! Isn’t that great? Maybe she’ll take me shopping, or we’ll go to dinner or something. If she has time, that is. What do you think?”
I paused and looked back at Gemma. Mrs. Lamont was coming back to New York. That meant one thing.
Julian was coming back with her.
I grinned at Gemma, all annoyances forgotten.
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe she will.”
And maybe Julian will finally call me.
T HE WORDS, “ H EY, T EKLA , how’re you doing,” greeted me as I walked into Xander’s room and headed for the desk.
Except for a huge Pink Floyd poster plastered to the wall above the bed, the room was an exact replica of Gemma’s. Xander laid sprawled on the bed, strumming his electric guitar, a vintage 1960s red Gibson that must have cost a small fortune. Blessedly, the amplifier was off.
“Hey, yourself. And I’m doing well,” I answered.
Xander, like his sister, still wore his school uniform, but unlike Gemma’s micro-mini, Xander’s khaki slacks, red tie and navy blazer—with Harding Academy’s initials monogrammed in gold thread on the left breast pocket—bordered on Republican conservative. The getup, however, lost some of its starchiness on Xander’s lanky body. His tie was askew. The left tail of his white dress shirt hung down the front of his slacks, and Xander’s mop of black hair flowed over the blazer’s collar. The Prada loafers he probably wore to school had been abandoned by the bedroom’s door. A musky stink of socks permeated the room.
“And how are you?” I asked, still disbelieving this was the same Xander I had met during Mrs. Lamont’s forced lunch.
Xander’s attitude had undergone a complete one-eighty once I started coming regularly to his house. No longer a silent, sullen, difficult-to-talk-to teenager, Xander was friendly, if somewhat reserved. He actually talked to me, about school, his music and film aspirations. He asked about law school, my life outside NYU, and sometimes my views on social politics. He listened to my tirades against capital punishment, the inadequacy of funding for public education and economic disparities. He looked up current events and asked questions about the justice system or the gap between the rich and poor. He offered counter-arguments. He wasn’t as chatty as Gemma, but then, he actually did have homework for us to work on—in math, science or history—almost every evening.
“Cool.”
Xander stopped fiddling with the guitar, sat upright and rested the instrument against the bed’s edge. A bright red pimple fought to break through the skin of his cheek. He scratched at the surface. I winced. His hands couldn’t possibly be clean.
“But, dude,” Xander said. “We got an English essay due next
Similar Books
