“Of course we know what you’re talking about, Matthew,” Grandma huffs.
“Yeah, it’s the big party they throw after the opening game of a new season for the New York Mets, isn’t it?” Gramps asks.
Oh dear Lord. I’m in hell. I have to be. There’s no other explanation. Just the thought of the Met makes me miss Manhattan more than I already do. What I wouldn’t give for an afternoon in the Temple of Dendur or the Greek and Roman Sculpture Court. I suppress the feeling as best I can, the anxiety spiraling out once more.
To ward off the panic, I explain it in simple terms to them, getting swept up in blissful memories of before. “The Met Gala is a high-profile fashion event that takes place at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Designers and models and celebrities all attend to compete for media coverage and raise money for the Costume Institute, which is the only self-funded department in the museum.” I smile longingly. “I’ve been a few times. It’s divine…”
Grandma goes from downright depressed, sighing into her napkin, to excited, eyes ablaze. “Matthew, you know all about big, fancy parties. Couldn’t you lend a hand?”
My whole body stiffens. I’m looking for a way out of this town, not to get embedded in its local politics. While towns surrounding Wind River host summer arts festivals with New York’s biggest stars and house impressive skiing and tubing resorts, Wind River doesn’t traffic in flashy upscale events. There’s absolutely no way I’m stooping that low.
“While I’d love to, I just don’t think I’m the right person for the job.” I haven’t even touched my soup, and now my stomach doesn’t want me to.
Grandma’s persistence grows stronger. “Oh, come on now, dear. What else do you have to do while you’re here?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Soul-searching? Journaling? Maybe I’ll record bedtime stories for one of those calming sleep apps people seem so enamored with. I always come up with something.” Any excuse in the book would usually work, but Grandma’s not buying them this time.
“It would mean a lot to us if you’d consider the gala as that something,” Gramps says. “Think about what good you could do for the small businesses.”
I feel my chest start to tighten, cutting off my ability to protest. The sweating. The labored breathing. I’m a ticking WebMD checklist.
“Yeah,” Hector starts.Oh no.“Like the small business you tried to frequent today…”
It’s clear what’s happening here. He’s using blackmail to make me fall in line. Admirable. Inspired, almost. But wholly annoying.
Grandma looks surprised. “What small business did you try to frequent today, Matthew? I didn’t even know you were in town. You should’ve stopped by the bookstore.”
My eyes signalDon’t you dare, but Hector’s eyes signal back with equal gall,Try me.
“No, he was at the inn,” Hector says. His tone conveys everything his words don’t.
“Getting afternoon tea like we used to?” Grandma smiles, remembering simpler times.
“No, actually…” Hector starts, staring me down as if waiting for me to grow a heart and interrupt. He and I both know the truth will only hurt my grandparents. I wasn’t just running away from him. I was running away from them. This. A holiday season stuck in their humble (majorlyhumble) abode.
I don’t want to care. Idon’t.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” I cut in despite myself. “I needed a place to sit. I had a scone. It passed.”
Hector relaxes back, satisfied. Anger bubbles right up to the surface when I realize how he’s got me under his thumb. And I can’t spend another hour—let alone another night—in his presence, no matter how it makes my grandparents feel. I can make it up to them later.
This is not my world. This is wrong. I shouldn’t be here sharing and playing pretend and taking the heat for doing something so innocuous, so unworthy of punishment.
Island or not. Inn or not. I’m out of here.
“Actually, will you excuse me?” I ask as politely as possible, pushing my bowl away. “I think I’m gonna be sick again.”
Chapter 7
Back downstairs, safely out of earshot, I start repacking everything. Hector can have his precious closet back. If I’m making a run for it, I’m doing it stealthily in the cover of night and leaving nothing behind.
Folding and managing space are not in my skill set, so everything gets rolled or bunched and shoved inside a suitcase. I’ll buy new stuff when I get back to reward myself for surviving the past twenty-four hours. Look out, Bergdorf Goodman!
I put my entire body weight on top of one suitcase just to slide the zipper closed. I pray the Louis Vuitton gods forgive me for these sacrilegious acts.
After an hour or so, I hear footsteps at the top of the stairs. I assume it’s Hector come to gawk at me some more, but I’m surprised to find Grandma. She knocks on the wall to signal her entrance.
I sit up—more likecrouchup—in bed. I’d shoved all my packed bags under the bunk, so she doesn’t suspect anything. I pull a random book from the dog-eared stack on the TV tray next to Hector’s ladder and pretend to be reading.
