Amanda blinks preciously. “How am I not to speak to her?”
“As if you were better than her. You’re not.”
Joe Dubois’s spoon skewers his parfait and comes to a rest next to his glass a little too powerfully for it to be by mistake. I look over at him and he flares his nostrils. “With all respect, Knox. The girl is your chalet girl. It’sher jobto serve us.”
“She’s not here to…”
“Knox,” Paisley says, while taking Amanda’s glass. “Settle down. It’s okay.”
What I’d really like to do is jump up and yell why, no, it isn’t okay, not at all, because she is everything, simply everything, whereas Amanda is arrogant and underhanded and—as it suddenly becomes clear—just like everyone else I’ve gotten with over the last number of years. The idea of just going on like that now that I know Paisley is…impossible. The thought alone makes my stomach growl. Okay, it might be the booze, too, but I don’t think so.
“Yeah, Knox,” Big Po hisses in my ear so that only I can hear him. His bald patch has grown considerably bigger since the last time I saw him—exponentially in relation to his belly. All the same, just one more spoonful of parfait, and I’d bet the middle button of his shirt will throw in the towel. “What’s wrong with you, man? I love you, buddy, but you’re screwing this up right here. And big time.”
He only loves me because we’re related. Not really, but kind of. Big Po is the cousin of the brother of my uncle by marriage on my mom’s side. Or something like that. He works for Rockstar Energy.
“I could give a shit,” I mumble and start to tilt back in my chair. “It’s all the same to me.”
For a second, my father looks like he’s about to explode. His poker face slides as he reaches out and pulls the wooden chair back onto the ground with a thud. “Pull. Yourself. Together,” he sputters between gritted teeth.
I just can’t anymore. The evening is annoying.Amandais annoying. I am considering simply getting up and going to bed when the clacking of heels announce Paisley’s return and I decide to stay.
“So,” Paisley says and places the champagne in front of Amanda. “Here you are.” Her voice sounds sweet. Like sugar. Or honey. Or brown sugar-cinnamon Pop-Tarts.
Brown sugar-cinnamon Pop-Tarts? Oh, man. Now things are taking off. I’m becoming one of those tools who compares people with sweets. For a second I wonder what kind I’d be. Something unspectacular, something that overestimates its effect on others. A cough drop or something.
Amanda doesn’t thank her. She sips from her flute and makes such a face that it’s impossible for anyone else at the table to miss.
Mr. Spiky Hair turns to his daughter in concern. “Everything okay?”
I roll my eyes. Unfortunately, Joe notices, but I don’t care.
“No.” She blinks her eyes so forcefully, it’s as if she’d drunk the water of canned mushrooms. “I wasn’t drinking Dom Perignon, but Ruinart Rosé.”
Amanda wouldn’t be any kind of candy. She’d be a jar of mustard.
“Oh.” Paisley’s face turns red. “I’m sorry. Let me take care of that.”
Maybe it’s because of the booze in my system, maybe it’s because of too much testosterone. In any event, I’m about to totally lose my shit when I notice how uncomfortable Paisley is. I am so angry at Amanda that I would gladly pour her Dom Perignon over her far-too-short dress.
“Don’t worry about it, Paisley. Stay here.” I give Amanda an icy stare. “Drinking Dom Perignon won’t kill her.”
The atmosphere around the table is horrible. There is a heavy silence, not a trace of cheerfulness. You can see that Joe Dubois is close to losing his cool. Big Po reaches for his linen napkin to wipe sweat off his forehead. Yoda is staring holes into the air and now and again plucks imaginary bits of fuzz off his suit pants. My father is chalk white, and Paisley is uneasily shifting her weight from one leg to the other.
“I’ll drink whatever I want,” Amanda hisses. “And whatever I want, I get.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Apparently not.”
She gives a high-pitched laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, are you talking about me or you?”
Before I can respond, her father clears his throat. He loosens his bow tie and sits up straight. “Enough childishness.” He looks at me. “What’s the problem, Knox? The girl will get a new glass of champagne, and that’s that.”
“She’s got a name. It’s Paisley. And notthe girl.”
“Knox,” Paisley says, narrowing her eyes. “It’s no problem at all. I’ll bring her the Ruinart and—Oh my God! Shit! I am so sorry, I…”
At first I can’t believe what I’m seeing. And then I can and laugh out loud while all the others emit a collective gasp: Paisley has knocked over the glass and spilled the Dom Perignon all over Amanda’s white dress. She just sits there, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, while Paisley vehemently rubs the wet fabric with a napkin. In itself a good approach, it’s just that—what a shame—just a second ago Mr. Spiky Hair used it to wipe a smashed raspberry off the table. And now, said smashed raspberry is all over Amanda’s dress.Oops.
I am still laughing, and everyone is looking at me like I just announced that I was quitting my sports career to become William’s stable boy. But it stops abruptly when Amanda springs up and pushes Paisley away. Paisley is so unsteady on her heels, though, that she loses her balance, stumbles, and bangs against the table.
