“It was very boring,” I tell him, though the words are just as much for my grandmother’s benefit.
“The boyfriend?” he asks. “Or the breakup?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “The wedding. We went to the courthouse and then to a restaurant. For lunch.” With my middle school gym teacher and her wife as witnesses. I see no reason to add that part. Making small talk about whether I’d “kept up my badminton game” was painful enough the first time.
“Well.” Mrs. A shifts uncomfortably. “I hope your mother picked out a fun dress for herself.”
“It was knee length. Three quarter sleeves. Not a lot of frills. Sort of a pinky-beige.”
“And the cake?” Mr. Namura asks.
“Banana bread,” I mumble.
Mrs. A tuts in sympathy. “No buttercream to soothe the pain of a broken heart?”
“Nobody’s heart was broken.” It comes out in a rush, like I’m dumping water on a smoking pan.
“You don’t have to be brave.” Felix gives me puppy-dog eyes. “We’re all family here. Talk to us.”
He probably expects me to tap out and change the subject, so of course I have to do the opposite.
“John didn’t technically break up with me at the wedding. That happened after.” What would I say if this was a murder mystery?It was John, in his driveway, with the garlic breath.I let the suspense build before going on. “I assume he wanted to get the free meal first. And a ride home.”
“No car?” Felix asks.
“No license,” I correct.
The official excuse was that John couldn’t take time away from his studies to learn how to drive. A more likely reason was that he enjoyed having his mother chauffeur him around town. It was almost like a limo service, with the chilled water and snacks she kept in a cooler for him.
I picture my sort-of date at the wedding lunch, inhaling far more than his share of garlic knots, the lower half of his face shiny with oil as he holds up his plastic tumbler for another Sprite refill, like a low-rent Roman emperor.
“So what was it?” Felix asks, like we’re girlfriends gossiping over bubble tea. “You grew apart? Or was theresomeone else?” He delivers the last part in a dramatic whisper, like he’s doing voiceover on a reality dating show.
“I guess you could call it a love triangle,” I admit.
Mrs. A obligingly gasps.
“It came down to a choice. Between me—and my stepfather.”
Felix swallows wrong and has to pound himself on the chest to catch his breath. “Your boyfriend was in love with your stepfather?”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though it sounds like the plot of one of our murder games. “More like hero worship.” And being a suck-up, but that might make me sound bitter. “Mr. Ghabbour—my stepfather—is moving to the high school next year. He’s the new AP Calc teacher.”
“Are you going to be in his class?” Felix asks, horrified all over again.
“No, because I’m not taking AP Calculus.” I don’t love math (or hate myself) enough for that. Bad enough Mom wants me to carpool with my teacher stepfather next year. “John felt likehe had to choose between me and Mr. Ghabbour. He decided it ‘didn’t feel right’ for the incoming president of Mu Alpha Theta to stay with someone who got a B in precalc.”
“Wow.” Felix shakes his head. “So that’s the third thing.”
Mrs. A glances between us, clearly eager to know more.
“Skeletons in my closet,” I tell her.
“Everyone has them,” Malia says darkly, scraping more chimichurri onto her empanada with the side of her knife.
“Good riddance,” Grandma Lainey huffs. “Men like that are a wart on the backside of society. So much entitlement with so little effort. He was almost as bad as—” She catches herself, but it’s too late.
Unease spreads through the room like a bad smell as we realize who she’s talking about. It’s a rare faux pas for my grandmother, who always seems to know exactly what to say. Maybe she forgot for a second, caught up in the game—or was thrown off her stride by all the talk about Mom’s wedding, which I’m guessing bothers Grandma Lainey more than she lets on.
