Prettywas the word that came to mind, which was the worst possible thing she could think of. It would be humiliating, having a boy like that hanging around all summer. The idea of him following her,handlingher—seeing her at her ugliest, her meanest, her most utterly depraved—was undignified beyond imagination.
A bead of resentment lit in her chest and she kicked reflexively at the ground. Her outburst sent a loose pebble skittering horrifyingly across the gravel, where it collided into the scuffed heel of Thomas Walsh’s shoe. He glanced mildly down at it before turning his gaze toward hers.
“Good morning.”
His eyes were some indefinable sort of hue. Blue. Or maybe green. She didn’t plan on getting close enough to determine which. He had a slightly hunted look on his face, though he tried his best to conceal it with a smile.
“Your father asked me to drive you today,” he said when the silence between them stretched into something uneasy.
P-h-i-l-i-p is not my father, she signed, and then cursed herself inwardly. She’d meant to say nothing at all. Her plan was to ice him out until she could decide how best to dispose of him, the way one put a dead hamster in the freezer until spring came along and softened the ground enough to dig a little grave.
“Oh.” He pawed at the back of his neck. “Okay. Your, uh, stepfather, then.”
Philip was clearly paying him an exorbitant fee to play nice. It wouldn’t be enough. She’d learned, in her eighteen years on this earth, that everyone had a limit. She’d find his soon enough.
I’m going to the studio, she signed.I’ll be alone. I won’t need an interpreter.
He didn’t seem to know what to say to this. Not without admitting he was nothing more than a glorified minion. Finally, and with some hesitation, he landed on, “I was told you don’t have a license.”
She shook her fist open in provocation.So?
“So, everyone else is out of the house,” he shot back, vehement.
Immediate regret swam into his features, and he took a steadying breath through his nose. She could practicallyhearhim counting down from ten inside his head. She bit into the beginnings of a smile.
So, he had a short fuse. She could use that to her advantage—bend him until he snapped. Edge him on, just a little, until he grew angry enough to quit.
She’d sat up all night worrying for nothing.
Getting rid of Thomas Walsh would be child’s play.
Across the yard, several sprinklers kicked on, scattering droplets across the driveway in a chilly rainbow mist. She slipped her phone out of her dance bag and checked the time.
“If you want a ride,” said Thomas, “I’m all you’ve got.”
In her first stroke of luck all morning, he was answered by the rumble of an approaching motorbike. Exhaust popping, Frances Lefevre’s glossy red sport bike rounded the corner into view. Her former schoolmate veered to a stop a few feet away, leaving a black rubber skid across the driveway that was sure to send Vivienne’s mother into apoplexy.
The helmet came loose, and they were met with a matted blonde shag and a peach-pale complexion, complete with Frankie’s signature scowl.
“It’s too early to be awake,” she griped when Vivienne waved. “Don’t ever tell me I don’t do you any favors.”
Thomas didn’t wait for an introduction. “Who are you?”
“I’m her ride.” Frankie pulled one eye shut and sized him up. “Where did you come from, Planet Krypton?”
“Close,” said Thomas. “Worcester. AndI’mher ride, actually.”
“Oh?” Frankie peered around at Vivienne. “Viv?”
New babysitter, she signed.
“Interpreter,” corrected Thomas, twisting his hands flat in the corresponding sign.
Vivienne shot Frankie a wordless look and swung her leg over the back of the bike. Buckling the extra helmet under her chin, she met Thomas’s gaze head-on. His eyes were flinty, his jaw wired tight. It didn’t take a mind reader to know that he wasn’t sure what to do—how hard he was expected to push. How much authority he had.
None, she wanted to tell him.Give up. Go home.
The engine kicked over. She wriggled her fingers in a jeering goodbye.
