Hiking his backpack farther onto his shoulder, he says with a smirk, “Can’t wait until your grandparents hear about this.” My heartthunks. Mom mentioned that she’ll be taking reports from Grandma and Gramps. The first one can’t be bad if I plan on showing them I’m turning over a new leaf.
“You wouldn’t dare.” I do the power pose again. The one Mom taught me. It’s even less effective this time around.
“Wouldn’t I? Hmm.” He arches a caterpillar eyebrow. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”
Chapter 6
I think about Hector’s threat for the rest of the day.
I thought about it on the awful walk back. I thought about it as I tried to nap. I can’t even stop thinking about it now, before dinner, as Grandma asks for my help setting the table. I aimlessly lay down bowls on place mats, trying to control the mounting dread. It seems my brain has mutated into a menacing Krampus—a shadowy half goat, half demon that instead of bringing gifts brings torturous mental imbalance.
I try to focus on a fake event. But the hoedown doesn’t work, the masquerade was sullied by Hector’s abrupt appearance in it, and I’m not feeling particularly creative at the moment, so I can’t come up with anything new. Instead, I cling to the positive thoughts Krampus hasn’t stuck his horns through and deflated yet, which in fairness are few and far between.
Hector is rude, sure, and surly and brusque, but he’snotvindictive.
At least I don’t think.
It was probably an empty threat. Grandma and Gramps scolded us, and he dutifully folded his flannels for storage in the entertainment unit. He can be agreeable to my whims when he wants to be.
“Do you know where everything goes?” Grandma asks me, while taking a call on the cordless landline phone. Distorted words come out of the receiver. “No, not you, Jack. Matthew.” Beat. “MygrandsonMatthew.” Another beat. “Yes, myonlygrandson. Theonlychild of myonlydaughter.” An excruciating beat where Jack can be heard soapboxing on the other end of the line about the state of capitalism, the downfall of man, and how Mom has disowned this town for the umpteenth time. Grandma looks at me, covering the speaker. “He says hello and happy holidays.”
My eyes roll so fast and so hard they may just roll right out of my head.
“Oh, and soup spoons go on the right side of the bowl, dear,” Grandma says, watching my every move even though she’s midconversation. “What? Were you raised in a barn?”
I want to say:No, I was raised in a world where people do this menial stuff for me. Thank you very much. But I know that’s the kind of arrogance that got me sent here in the first place. I simply shake my head as if to saysilly meand reset the spoons.
Hector arrives, fresh from the shower. His hair hangs in damp strands around his tanned face. Even tousled, he’s a vision, and I hate that.
I work hard to perfect and maintain my image. I’m photographed enough to make the expense worth the investment. I use the best skin creams and conditioners and get the occasional tasteful tan, but I’ve never been a natural looker. I may have inherited wealth, but I didn’t strike gold in the gene pool like he apparently did.
“Dear, Hector usually sits there,” Grandma informs me. I didn’t even notice I’d sat. Hector stands over me wearing a curt smile, like he’s ready to spill any second. I don’t even argue that it’s where I sat last night because I don’t want to upset him into tattling on me.
Gramps ladles us each a hearty serving of leftovers—more of Grandma’s famous chicken noodle. This is what my life has come to: leftovers. A never-ending parade of recycled soup.
I must admit the steam alone, for a second time, sends me floating away on a memory cloud back to my childhood. Grandma and Gramps would babysit me while my parents attended book-launch parties and office gatherings. I’d slurp down this soup with world-record-setting speed and always ask for seconds.
But, I’m no longer a soup guy. I’m a bisque man now.
My spoon hovers over the bowl. The utensil is a bit rusted, water stains on the handle. This isn’t the highly polished stuff set out for me at my favorite Upper East Side French bistro where the escargot is to die for.
My palate has changed.I’ve changed.
The phone clangs back into its holder. “I just heard the absoluteworstnews,” Grandma cries as she takes her seat. “Jack, from the music shop down on Spruce, has the flu. He’s dropping out of being the point person for the annual Holiday Charity Gala. It’s a little over two weeks from now. We’re never going to find someone to replace him.”
“Wouldn’t someone on the town council be able to fill in?” Gramps asks.
“No. They’ve got their hands full. I could never ask Pat or Jude. Maybe Alma, but with the grandkids on the way, it would be wrong. It’s Christmas. Nobody wants to be running around like a chicken with their head cut off when they could be present shopping and spending time with family. But somebody must!” She scratches her head. “Unless we cancel…”
“You can’t cancel. Especially since you worked so hard to have the Small Business Association as the beneficiary of this year’s event. There are too many struggling Wind River businesses holding out hope for that grant money,” Hector says between slurps.
I’m happy there’s a distracting topic of conversation. Hector seems too engrossed in this to even remember he ran into me in town today. I’m the last thing on his mind, and that’s the way I like it.
“What is this gala exactly?” I ask, anticipating a lull. I need to keep them talking.
“It’s a huge community event,” Grandma chirps, broth trickling down her chin. “The gala committee chooses a town-wide initiative each year to raise money for. One year it was the underfunded school music program. Another year it was the agricultural society. It’s always a worthy, close-to-home cause. There are a theme, a red carpet, a silent auction, some kind of performance, and a sit-down dinner.”
“So, like a low-budget version of the Met Gala?” My question is met with blank, unblinking stares. “Hello? The Met Gala? Do none of you know what I’m talking about?”
