Wrong About the Guy

  “How much did you drink?” I asked her.

  “Not that much,” she said. Above her head, Luke mimed tossing drink after drink into his mouth.

  “A fine example you set,” I said with mock superiority.

  “It’s not my fault. They kept refilling my glass.”

  “I can’t wait to use that as my excuse when I come back from the next after-party.”

  “I’m putting her to bed,” Luke said, tugging her toward the doorway. “Good night, Aaron. Really great to see you.” He ushered Mom into the hallway and I could hear her giggling a little on the stairs. Well, at least she sounded more cheerful than she had earlier.

  “I should probably go,” Aaron said, standing up. “I only came by to tell you that I wish I could have spent the whole evening with you, like we’d planned. And also that my new home is one weird place.”

  “Whose home isn’t?”

  He shook his head. “You have no idea how good you have it. Your mom and Luke—they actually like each other. My dad’s never been married to someone he liked. He clearly can’t stand being home with Crystal and he was the same way with my mother.”

  “If they ever really drive you crazy, feel free to come hang here.”

  “I wish. The problem is they both want me around as much as possible—I’m like their buffer. Which is about as much fun as you’d guess.” He stopped and studied me. “Why is it so easy to talk to you? I don’t normally tell people private stuff like this.”

  “I feel the same way,” I said. “Maybe it’s just that we have such similar situations. Not many people get it. And if I told anyone else something private about my parents, I’d be terrified of seeing it in the tabloids the next day. Let’s make a pact to just unload all this stuff on each other.”

  “It’s a deal.” He held out his hand and we shook and then he leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek. “I am very glad I came back to LA for this year,” he said softly.

  thirteen

  The school activity fair was that Tuesday. Ben and I manned a booth to get people to sign up for the Holiday-Giving Program. Riley and Skyler circulated around the crowded gym with flyers and pointed people in our direction.

  Arianna came over and asked if she could help. Ben suggested she reach out to the juniors she knew and encourage them to come talk to us, and she obediently ran off.

  Things were quiet at our post, so I was idly watching the crowd when I spotted Arianna targeting two girls from her class and walking them toward us. They were staring at me, and as they got nearer, I heard one of them say, “Luke Weston? Oh my God!”

  They signed up to help at the Christmas party, and after they left, I said to Arianna, “Please don’t tell people Luke will come to the party. He might not and I’d rather people signed up because they actually want to be involved.”

  “Oh, I’m not!” she said with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry! Everyone’s just really excited about helping out.” And she went running off to collar some more people . . . who all stared at me as she whispered something to them.

  And I was pretty sure I could guess what she was whispering.

  Heather couldn’t join me for tutoring that Wednesday night. She had a drill team practice. I didn’t get drill team—it wasn’t cheerleading and it wasn’t dance and in all honesty, the videos I’d seen of her doing it were pretty lame—but she loved it and I’m guessing it appeased her mother’s thirst for extracurriculars to put on her college app.

  Anyway, it was just me and George that night. As soon as we sat down in the kitchen, he asked me why I hadn’t emailed him any of the work I’d said I would.

  “About that . . .” I said. “The dog ate my homework?”

  “No dog,” he pointed out. “And it was all on the computer.”

  “If I had a dog, I’m pretty sure it would have eaten my homework. Speaking of which, I’d really like to get a pug. Don’t you like pugs? They’re so cute with their old faces and sad eyes. What’s your favorite breed?”

  “Nice try,” he said. “But since you didn’t do the work this week, you’ll do it right now, while I’m here.” He brought it up on my computer and then stood behind me.

  “You’re looming over me,” I said, glancing up at him. “That can feel very threatening, you know.”

  “Really? Good. Consider yourself threatened.” He pointed at the screen. “Get it done, Ellie. Oh, and I’m taking your phone.” He scooped it up and stuck it in his back pocket. “I can’t compete with it.”

  “Damn right you can’t,” I said, but I let him keep it.

  It took me about ten minutes to answer all the questions he’d assigned and another fifteen to write a five-paragraph essay on the subject “Does social media affect our interpersonal relationships for better or worse?” The writing section of the SATs was theoretically optional now, but the counselor at my school had said anyone who wanted to go to a decent college had to take it.

  I looked up from the computer to tell George I’d finished and caught him using his phone. “No fair!” I said.

  “Why not? You text all the time.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not getting paid to be here.”

  “I’m not getting paid enough.”

  “Really? How much are you getting?”

  “That’s between your mother and me.”

  “She paid my driving instructor a hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”

  “Let’s look at your work,” he said, sitting and pulling the laptop toward him.

  “You’re not getting anywhere near that much, are you?”

  “I’m not letting you drag me into a conversation about this.”

  “Anything less than a hundred and you’re being robbed.”

  “Just shut up, will you, and let me read?”

  “On the other hand, that driving instructor never once told me to shut up.”

  “He or she must have been a saint. Or deaf.”

  I watched him reading through my answers, his grayish-greenish eyes darting swiftly across each line. Something buzzed. “You got another text.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “It might be important.” I peeked at his phone. “Is Carson a girl or a boy?”

  “I’m trying to think of how that might be your business and I just can’t.”

  “You kept asking me about Skyler! Exact same thing.”

  He shrugged and looked up. “You got all of the questions right.”

  “Of course I did. And I already know that Carson’s a girl. First of all, most Carsons are girls, and second of all, she wrote ‘Can’t wait,’ and no boy would ever write that to another boy, even if they were both gay and in love.”

  “Do you ever stop talking?”

  “You took my phone away,” I said. “What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and watch you read? As riveting as that might be—”

  “Reflect on your flaws,” he said. “Resolve to be a better person.”

  “It’s not possible. I’m already perfect.”

  “Are you though?”

  “How about Carson?” I said. “Is she a good person? Or a flawed one?” I was only teasing, but my curiosity was genuine. If George was in love, I wanted to know about it. I felt a little proprietary after all the time we’d spent together this summer, like I should get a chance to review and approve anyone he dated. Besides, talking about his personal life was a lot more interesting than studying for the SATs. “Do we like her?”

  “She’s a goddess among women,” he said. “If I give you back your phone, will you stop talking long enough for me to actually read your essay?”

  “If you give me back my phone, I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the afternoon,” I said. “Maybe even the rest of the decade.”

  “You get ten minutes with it.” He pulled it out of his back pocket and handed it to me, then bent over the screen again.

  I sent a couple of texts and checked my Instagram feed. Aaron had posted a selfie with Mia. She was tiny and adorable in
his well-muscled arms.

  “Okay, done,” George said, looking up. “Why are you smiling?”

  I showed him the photo.

  “Right,” he said. “Let’s talk about your essay.” He swung the laptop around and hitched his chair closer to mine so we could both see the screen. “So you got the format right—everything’s there, from the introduction to the conclusion. And it’s a good length—you got a lot of words down on the page. You even made some decent points. It’s just the way you supported them that I’m not sure about. You’re a little glib.”

  “Glib?” I repeated.

  “Slick. Easy.”

  “I know what glib means. I’m just hurt you think of me that way.”

  “Look at this.” He pointed to a sentence. “You’re essentially making fun of the topic.”

  “Just trying to keep it entertaining for my reader. I wouldn’t want to bore him.”

  “I want you to take this seriously.”

  “I did! I mean, for the most part. Come on! It’s a perfectly fine essay and you know it.”

  “It’s not bad,” he said begrudgingly. “What’s this book you reference here? The Smith Saga? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “That’s because I made it up.” I grinned. “Smith is Heather’s last name. A little homage to my best friend.”

  He groaned. “I should have guessed. That quotation is too perfect. You can’t do that on the actual test. It’s dishonest.”

  “The teacher who ran the SAT workshop at school said we could. She said that the readers don’t have time to check all the references so we should just make some up if we can’t think of anything.”

  “That’s a really bad idea,” he said. “If she’s wrong and someone does look it up, you’re going to be docked a ton.”

  “Says you.”

  He shoved the laptop away. “If you’re not even going to listen to anything I say—”

  “Relax.” I touched his arm. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I promise I won’t do that on the real test.”

  “Good.” He moved his arm away. “I want to help you do well on this. But you have to actually work with me a little bit.”

  “I will. I’m going to be a good student for the rest of the evening, okay? We can even do the most miserable math problems and I won’t complain.”

  “Thank you.” He held his hand out, palm up. “May I put your cell phone away again?”

  “Only if you’ll put yours away, too. I want your undivided attention.”

  “Deal.” He took the two phones and left them on the counter side by side.

  It was easier to dodge work and get us off track when Heather was around, which she was for our Sunday session. Heather was always willing to talk about something—anything—other than what we were supposed to be doing, and while George had no problem telling me to shut up and get back to work, he wasn’t so blunt with her. In fact, he was nicer to her than he was to me in general—gentle when she got frustrated, patient when she was slow, quick to reassure her and build up her confidence. When she got an answer wrong, he always found something encouraging to say about it—like that she was on the right path or had “some good ideas.” When I got something wrong, he just told me to be more careful and to try harder.

  After he snapped at me for not paying attention, I called him on it. “Why are you so much nicer to her than to me?”

  “I’m not.”

  I appealed to Heather. “Isn’t he?”

  “He’s nice to both of us,” she said. “Just in different ways. He knows you’re smarter than me so he expects more from you.”

  “Ellie’s not smarter than you,” George said. “She’s just more confident than you. We need to build up your confidence.”

  “And tear mine down?” I asked.

  “Someone’s got to.”

  “See?” I said. “That was mean.”

  He ignored that and pointed to the multiple-choice answers on the screen in front of us. “A, B, C, or D, Ellie? And tell me why.”

  “B.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “Because it’s right.”

  He let out an aggrieved sigh. “Fine. How about the next one? Try to be systematic: eliminate the obviously wrong ones and narrow your choices down before jumping to a—”

  “It’s C.”

  “You need to slow down or you’re going to get tricked into picking the wrong answer.”

  “But it is C,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said wearily. “It’s C.”

  “Wait, why isn’t it B?” asked Heather.

  fourteen

  The Friday before the SATs, Mom ordered me to stay home to study and get a good night’s sleep.

  I said sweetly, “Exactly how much studying did you do for the SATs?”

  “I wish I’d had your opportunities! It’s a luxury to get tutoring for the SATs. It’s a luxury to go to college. It’s a luxury—”

  “To have someone else do your hair and makeup?” I suggested, because she was waiting for Roger to come.

  She shrugged. “So we’re both a little spoiled these days.”

  “Where are you guys going tonight anyway?”

  “It’s an autism fund-raiser.”

  I had been idly clicking through some Facebook photos of a friend, but now I glanced up at her. “Really? How’d Luke get involved with that?”

  “He didn’t. I was looking at their website and read that this thing was coming up and I offered to come with Luke. They were thrilled. As you can imagine.”

  “Why were you on their site?”

  She leaned against the counter and threaded her slim fingers together. “I was looking for some information. I’ve been wondering about Jacob.”

  “Seriously?” That made me feel a little sick to my stomach. Jacob couldn’t have autism, could he? He was just a late talker. With some weird habits.

  “Yeah. A lot of it fits: the late talking, the rigidity, the way he stares off into space. . . . I want to take him to someone to get diagnosed, but Luke already thinks I’m being over-the-top with the speech therapy and I can’t face plunging into something this big without his support. So I’m still trying to figure it all out.”

  “You don’t really think he’s autistic, do you?” I tried to picture what that meant. Someone silent, rocking in the corner, ignoring the world? That wasn’t Jacob. He loved being held and listening to music and watching videos.

  “I don’t know. I don’t want him to be. I want someone to tell me I’m wrong. But he’s still barely talking, even with the speech therapy.”

  I stood up and hugged her. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Jacob’s still really little. He just needs time.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But something doesn’t feel right to me.”

  “He’s a late bloomer. Like the lion in that book you used to read to me when I was little.”

  “You loved that book. You used to ask for it every night—you could ask for it. You were talking so much by Jacob’s age.”

  I stepped back with an exaggerated toss of my head. “Well, I’m extraordinary. You can’t judge Jacob by me. That’s not fair.” I was hoping to make her laugh, but her smile was sad.

  Roger showed up a couple of hours later—I guess his car had been repaired—and made Mom look fancy; then he left, and Mom and Luke got picked up by a limousine.

  Mom had asked Lorena to babysit so I’d be free to study. Lorena made chicken and rice for dinner, and the three of us ate together. I taught Jakie to clink his water glass with mine before we drank. He loved that and wanted to do it over and over again.

  The speech therapist he was now seeing a couple times a week said we should get him to say words whenever possible, and had suggested a few she knew he could do. So I made him say “more” before each click. It sounded kind of like “mah” when he said it, but it was close enough. The second he’d say, “Mah,” I’d click my glass against his and cry out, “Cheers!” or “Skol!” or a couple of times “Cheese—I mean, c
heers!” which totally cracked him up. I started laughing because he was laughing—Jacob’s laugh was like bubbles and puppies; you couldn’t resist it.

  Mom couldn’t be right: no way was this happy, adorable kid autistic.

  Eventually Lorena whisked him away for his bedtime bath and I settled down to work on some practice SAT questions. But I kept checking my phone for texts. I wasn’t expecting any—I just didn’t feel like studying.

  The doorbell rang, which meant it had to be someone who already knew the gate code. I ran into the foyer and opened the front door.

  “If you’re checking up on whether or not I’m studying, I am,” I told George, who was standing on the front step with a bag in his hand.

  “Why do you assume I’m some kind of study cop?” he said. “I actually think you should just relax and go to sleep early.”

  “Oh. Well, Mom wanted me to pound the books. So why are you here?”

  “I brought you some stuff.” He handed me the bag. “Nothing big. I just wanted to say good luck and let you know I’m rooting for you. Even if you haven’t always been the most cooperative student.”

  “Let’s not start with the postmortem. Mom still wants you to help me with my applications, you know.”

  “Terrific,” he said. “Lots more opportunities to get on each other’s nerves!”

  “And I’ll take advantage of every one of them.”

  “I’m sure you will.” He started to turn and stopped. “Oh, can you do me a favor and text me Heather’s address? I have a bag for her, too.”

  “You know she lives in the Valley, right?”

  “That’s okay. It’s a nice night for a drive.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said eagerly. “I’m going crazy stuck at home and it’s hard to find her house.” The second half was sort of a lie, but the first half couldn’t have been truer.

  He hesitated. “Your mother—”

  I cut him off. “She’s going to be out late. She’ll never even know I left. She and Luke went out and left me here alone the night before the SATs. How mean is that?”

  “I’m calling social services.”

  “You should.” I clasped my hands. “Please, George? I’ll bring my notes in the car. I’ll read them out loud and we’ll discuss anything I don’t understand. That will be better than studying by myself—my attention drifts when I’m alone. You’ll help me concentrate. Anyway, you just said I shouldn’t study anymore and I should relax!”