“Still coming together, obviously.” He puts an arm around Lark. “But I’ve got my princess here on the job.”
One hundred percent of the sentences in my head now start with his name. Cameron is the worst. Cameron would never bring Lark a sandwich. Cameron probably doesn’t know what a poem is. Cameron: ugh.
I nod and smile.
Lark ducks from under his arm, goes back to her stool. “Meg and I were looking over some things,” she says, her voice cool. I get the sense she’s trying to tell him to find something else to do, maybe to go put saddle soap on his bracelets or something, but instead he goes to the other side of the island and leans over my sketches. I go back to my seat next to Lark, giving her an encouraging smile.
“This for a kid’s room, or something?” Cameron says, looking at the pink and green treatment. Another piece of jewelry has come loose from underneath the neck of his T-shirt. It’s a shark tooth. On a thin rope of leather. Reid woulddie.
“Cam,” Lark whispers sharply.
I give an airy, unbothered laugh, even though I’m thinking about weaponizing that thin rope of leather. “It’s no big deal! I was explaining to Lark that these are helpful for seeing how we might set up the quote you choose for—”
“Yeah, the quote. I’ve got so many ideas about that.”
“Great!”
Not great. I have the feeling that Lark’s assertion that Cameron prefers her to deal with the house is not strictly true. He probably has tons of (terrible) opinions but wants her to execute them all.On the job, he’d said, as though she were his employee.
Beside me, Lark is shooting laser beams out of her eyes at Cameron.
“We’re working on composition today, not the quote,” Lark says. “I think I—”
But Cameron speaks over her.
“Do you know Nietzsche?”
“Not personally!” He absolutely doesn’t get that I’m insulting him. That’s how good I am at customer service, at putting on this act. I’ve picked up my pencil again, my grip on it overfirm, my palms clammy.
“He’s a philosopher.”
“Cam,” Lark says. “I’m sure she knows that.”
“So you’ve heard that quote, ‘God is dead’?”
Lark runs two fingers along her hairline.
“You want ‘God is dead’ on your bedroom wall?” I ask.
“I want somethingtrue, you know?”
How about YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE. Not enough letters inGOD IS DEADto hide that, but I could think of something to get the job done.
Lark says, “We’re not doing that.”
Cameron looks at me as if we’re in on something together, rolls his eyes, and says, “She’s kind of a lightweight, this one.”
And oh, man. It is so awkward. It’s the kind of flippant, cruel remark that has ten layers of complication hiding inside of it. It’s every time my mom said to me, during family dinners, “You know your father, he justloveshis work,” or every time my dad jokingly said to his employees at some boring holiday party, “My wife’s favorite pastime is taking the fun out of things.”
For a second, the room goes as silent as a grave. Lark’s body is basically a headstone beside mine. She has not moved. It is unbelievable that I have not snapped my Staedtler in half with the force of my silent, suppressed anger.
Then Cameron laughs, clueless, turning to the refrigerator. I blink at his back, longing for laser beams, but I can’t stand the silence. Can’t stand that Lark’s sitting there, probably humiliated.
“You know what?” I say to her, and to her only. I’ve kept my voice in the same register it’d been in before Cameron’s little performance, as though nothing at all has happened to disturb our fun. “This is my favorite, too.” I set my finger to the sheet of paper she’d been reaching for when Cameron interrupted her with his “God is dead” garbage.
Lark’s face is flushed, but she smiles at me gratefully. “We made some progress today, right?”
I can tell she wants to wrap up, to get me out of here before Cameron does or says something else that’s rude and patronizing.
