With a mutinous expression, she slides silently from the seat.
As she walks with me to the door, I spot a transformation I can’t believe. The life drains out of her. With a blank-faced expression, she stands like a defendant awaiting a verdict. Gone is the self-centered brat who callously dismissed her mother’s desperate bid for attention.
The front door opens, and Arya shrinks back. The red flags are piling up.
My eyes narrow as I glance inside. The mother is hardly Medusa. She’s Caucasian, which surprises me since I expected her to be Hispanic, but otherwise she’s average-looking. Medium brown hair and eyes, too much eye makeup, thin lips pressed in a thin line, and eyebrows that have been darkened with a makeup pencil. It’s hard to tell if she was ever pretty, but she was certainly never as beautiful as the daughter she gave birth to.
“Hello. Erik, right?” One hand presses her temple, and she gives a slight grimace. Offering us a weak smile, she gestures for us to come in.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Peralta,” I say, stepping back, so Arya can go in first.
Arya walks in and hugs her mother briefly. “If you’re sick, you should lie down, Mama.” Arya’s gentle tone shocks me.
“I will,” her mother says gravely. “In a few minutes.”
Mrs. Peralta pulls her cardigan sweater tighter across her chest and leads us to the living room. The furniture is expensive, factory-made garbage for people with more money than taste.
“Erik, we’re so grateful for your help looking after Arya on campus. Terrible times there.” Her mom touches Arya’s cheek. “You look pale, Ary. No wonder you didn’t come by or tell us you were in Boston.”
“I would have come by,” Arya lies. “We were tied up yesterday.”
“Don’t tell me you’re too busy. Everyone’s busy. We make time for things that are important.”
Arya’s expression takes on a faraway look. “I know.”
My gaze cuts back to Mrs. Peralta, who sits with her face turned up to the light and moves her head in a sharp nod.
I’ve had two concussions in my life. Both came with skull-splitting headaches. The thing I remember most is the way I couldn’t look directly into bright light and the fact that any movement, no matter how small, brought on sharp pain. I kept my head as still as possible and braced it with my hands when I had to move. It’s hard to buy that this woman has a severe headache.
“Tell me about yourself, Erik. You’re obviously a tremendous athlete, but Joe tells Javier that you’re a good student as well? Honors English? Arya could use help in that department. She’s the worst at writing papers. And to make things worse, she always leaves them to the last minute. Like most things.”
“I wonder how I got into that habit?” Arya says softly.
“Dance, of course,” Mrs. Peralta says quickly. “Always such a time-suck.”
“Right,” Arya says blithely. “You’d think so… except in middle school, I only took dance lessons for two hours on the weekend. And I was done with gymnastics by the time I was eight. I wonder what chewed up so much of my time every week?”
Mrs. Peralta stands. “Well, Erik, it was nice meeting you. I think it’s best if you go now. Thank you for bringing Arya home. It’s best for everyone.”
“Can we drive you to the hospital? Or pick up medicine?” I ask, not rising yet.
“No, no.” She grimaces and puts her fingers to her temple, as though she’s just remembered how to feign a headache. “Arya can make me tea—”
“Yeah, we’ll do that.” I rise, so I’m towering over her. “You lie down.”
Mrs. Peralta blinks and then her eyes shift between Arya and me. “There’s no need for you to stay.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands. I don’t like the way she’s trying to force me to go and leave Arya behind. The mother must know Arya’s got a major dance competition coming up and needs to be on campus to practice. It would be one thing if Mrs. Peralta was hammering us on the fact that the campus isn’t safe. That I would accept. But she hasn’t mentioned Casanova once. And she hasn’t asked Arya howsheis.
“I can’t leave,” I say. “I’m Arya’s ride. And her bodyguard.”
Both sets of female eyes shift sharply to my face.
“Didn’t your uncle explain?” Mrs. Peralta’s tone is saccharine and impatient. “We need Arya here. We’ll bring her back to Granthorpe.”
“No, her staying wasn’t discussed.” I stare at Arya’s mother with an unblinking expression.
“Well, that’s what’s going on. Arya has to stay. It’s not just me. Her grandmother needs help too.”
