“I hear you call her that all the time,” Wanda remarks, “but you never told me why.”
“It’s actually a funny story,” Dad says.
I groan as I pour our tea, but my dad is already in storytelling mode, and I can hear him from the kitchen.
“?is is how it came about. When Bailey was younger, fourteen years old, she was in the hospital for a couple of weeks.” I glance back brie y to see him giving Wanda a lift of his brows that tells me they’ve had this conversation, so she knows about the shooting. “?e entire time she was there, the TV was stuck on the classic movie station. You know, with all the old movie stars—Humphrey Bogart and Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn. Night and day, that’s all that was on. We were so worried about her, that by the time anyone thought to change the channel, she’d already started to actually like some of the movies and wouldn’t let us change it.”
I sigh dramatically as I walk back through the doorway onto the porch and set down our glasses of tea.
“Anyway, for a few days, after surgery, it was a little touch and go. And being a dad, I was worried, of course. I told her if she healed up and made it out of the hospital, I’d buy her whatever she wanted. Most girls her age would probably say, I don’t know —a car? A pony? A trip to Florida with her friends? Not Bailey. She saw those glamorous actresses wearing all those fur coats before it wasn’t PC to do so anymore, and she said, ‘Daddy, I want a mink coat.’ ”
Wanda guffaws. “Did you get her one?”
“A fake fur,” Dad says. “It was just the attitude I never forgot. And she still loves those old movies. Is everything all right, Porter?”
As I’m scooting my chair back under the table, I glance up and see that Porter has a peculiar look on his face. He looks like someone just told him his dog died.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He’s staring at the table and won’t look at me. He was just laughing and clowning around a minute ago, now all of a sudden he’s clammed up and his jaw looks as if it’s made of stone and might break off.
Everyone’s staring at him. He shuffles around in his seat and brings his hand up with his phone. “I got a text from my mom. Gotta go, sorry.”
No way. ?e old I got a text trick? ?at’s an Artful Dodger maneuver. He just pulled my own con on me?
“What’s wrong?” I say again, standing up from the table with him.
“Nothing, nothing,” he mutters. “It’s no big deal. She just needs my help and it can’t wait. Sorry.” He seems agitated and distracted. “?anks for dinner and stuff.”
“Anytime,” my dad says, worry creasing a line through his brow as he shares a look with Wanda. “You’re always welcome here.”
“See you, Grace,” Porter mumbles.
I can barely keep up with Porter as he strides toward the front door, and when we’re outside, he bounds down the steps without looking at me. Now I’m freaking. Maybe he really did get a text, but it wasn’t from his mom. Because there’s only one person that makes him this intense, and if he’s avoiding my dad and Wanda, I’m worried it might have something to do with Davy.
“Porter,” I call as he heads down the driveway.
“Gotta go,” he says.
?at just makes me mad. He can avoid my dad all he wants, but me? “Hey! What the hell is wrong with you?”
He spins around, and his face is suddenly livid with anger. “Was this some sick game?”
“Huh?” I’m completely confused. He’s not making any sense, and his gaze is shifting all over my face. “You’re scaring me. Did something happen?” I ask. “Is this about Davy? Did he do something again? Please talk to me.”
“What?” Bewilderment clouds his face. He squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head, mumbling, “?is is so screwed up. I can’t … I gotta go home.”
“Porter!” I shout to his back, but he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t look my way again. I just stand helplessly, cradling my elbows in the driveway, watching as his van rumbles to life and disappears down the street around the redwood trees.
“?e time to make up your mind about people is never.”
—Katharine Hepburn, ?e Philadelphia Story (1940)
25
I text.
I call.
