“Then they won’t like me. I don’t have enough money even to look.”
“I do.”
“Lucius . . .” But I’ll admit, I was kind of intrigued. It was a beautiful dress. I’d never even tried on anything like it. It was so . . . sophisticated. It was the color of fresh cream, with tiny, black, embroidered flowers scattered here and there across the whole thing, not really in any kind of pattern, but that only made it prettier somehow. It reminded me of chaos theory: random but beautiful in its simplicity. The neckline was more daring than anything I’d ever worn. You could see the swell of the mannequin’s plastic breasts peeking out above the fabric. The expensive fabric. I tugged Lucius’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Lucius pulled back, and of course he was stronger. “Just look. Every woman needs beautiful things.”
“I don’t need that.”
“Of course you do. You could wear it to, say, this ‘carnival’ you’re attending with Squatty Boy. It would be perfectly suitable for affairs like that.”
“He’s not squatty.”
“Try on the dress.”
“I have plenty of clothes,” I insisted.
“Yes. And you should throw them all out. Especially the T-shirt with the white horse, the heart, and the letter I on the front. What is the purpose?”
“To show that I love Arabians,” I said.
“I love rare steak, but I don’t sport the image of raw beef on my chest.”
“I already picked out an outfit.”
Lucius scowled. “Something shiny from ‘the mall,’ I suppose?”
I flushed. I hated when Lucius was right.
“Believe me,” he said. “If you wear that dress, you won’t regret it. That was made for you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know about dressing girls?”
“I don’t know about dressing girls. I know about dressing women.” Lucius smiled archly. “Now come along. Indulge me.”
Lucius led the way into the store, and I had to follow. As I’d predicted, the sales lady looked less than thrilled to see two high school students in her showroom. But Lucius was oblivious. “That dress in the window, with the embroidery.” He pointed to me. “She’d like to try that.” Crossing his arms and leaning back slightly, he mentally measured my body, head to toe. “Size eight?”
“Ten,” I mumbled.
“The ten is in the window on the mannequin,” the saleswoman noted. She jammed her skinny, red-fingernailed hands on her hips. “It’s very troublesome to bring it down. If you’re not serious about it . . .”
Uh-oh. There wasn’t much that I understood about Lucius Vladescu, but I knew for a fact that the saleslady’s tone would not sit well with him.
Lucius arched an eyebrow. “Did I not sound serious?” He leaned forward, reading the woman’s name tag. “Leigh Ann?”
“Come on, Lucius . . .” I started for the door.
“We’re in rather a hurry, so if you could get it now, please,” Lucius said, holding his ground. It was suddenly very easy to imagine him ordering around servants in a castle.
The saleswoman narrowed her eyes, assessing Lucius. Apparently she sniffed at least a hint of money in his cologne, heard it in his accent, or saw it in his swagger. “Fine,” she huffed. “If you insist.” She crawled up into the window and came back out a few minutes later with the dress. “Here,” she said, draping it across my arms. “The dressing rooms are in the rear.”
“Thank you,” Lucius said.
“Whatever.” Leigh Ann moved behind the counter, proceeding to ignore us.
Lucius followed me back toward the dressing rooms. I stopped him at the entrance with a firm hand on the chest. “You wait here.”
“Let me see, though.”
In the privacy of the dressing room, I kicked off my Chucks, wriggled out of my jeans and T-shirt, and slipped on the dress, wishing I was wearing a nicer bra. A bra that would do the dress justice.
Although it looked delicate, the fabric was heavier and softer than anything I’d ever owned. I zipped up the back as far as I could, the dress fell into place around me, and suddenly all the places I hated most on my body transformed into my best assets. My breasts filled out the bodice even better than the mannequin’s angular, skimpy little peaks. Looking at myself in the mirror, I remembered what Lucius had said about “pointy” girls and the benefits of having curves. In that dress, I understood what he meant. The hem swirled around my knees, and I twirled a little, staring at my front. My back. The fabric swept close to my full hips and draped perfectly across my butt. Lucius had been right. I looked good. It was like a magic dress.
“Well?” Lucius called from outside the dressing room. “How is it?”
“It’s pretty,” I admitted, understating how I really felt. Which was beautiful.
“Come out, then.”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .” I was kind of embarrassed to show him. I glanced down at my chest. Skin usually covered by shirts was peeking out. The swell of my breasts—breasts I usually tried to de-emphasize—was visible for the world to see. For Lucius to see. It wasn’t obscene, by any standard. But it was revealing for me.
“Jessica, you promised.”
“Oh . . . okay.” I tried to pull up the bodice a little but to no avail. My curves refused to hide. “Don’t laugh or anything. Or stare.”
“I will not laugh,” Lucius promised. “There will be no reason to laugh. But I might stare.”
Taking a deep breath, I shoved aside the curtain.
Lucius was lounging in the chair set out for bored husbands, his long legs stretched in front of him. But when he saw me, he shot straight up. Like I’d jolted him. And I swore I saw appreciation in his black eyes.
“Well?” I resisted the urge to cross my arms over my chest as I spun to look in the mirror. “What do you think?”
“You—you look amazing.” Lucius stood, coming up behind me, never taking his eyes off me.
“Really?”
“Beautiful, Antanasia,” he murmured. “Beautiful.”
Before I could remind him not to call me by that name, Lucius stepped even closer to me, slipped his hand under my long, unruly hair, and pulled the zipper all the way up. “Women always need help with the last few inches.”
I swallowed hard. How experienced was he? “Um, thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Then, to my intense surprise, Lucius snaked his fingers into my curls and gathered them up into a big, loose twist on top of my head. Suddenly, my neck looked very long. “Now that’s how a Romanian princess should look,” he said, drawing down to whisper in my ear. “Don’t ever again say that you are not ‘valuable,’ Antanasia. Or not beautiful. Or, for god’s sake, ‘fat.’ When you get the urge to indulge in such ridiculous, misplaced self-criticism, remember yourself at this moment.”
No one had ever paid me a compliment like that.
For a minute, we stood there admiring me. I met Lucius’s eyes in the mirror. In that split second, I could almost picture us . . . together.
Then he released my hair. It tumbled down my back, and the spell was broken. I glanced down at the price tag. “Oh my gosh. I have got to take this off. Right now. Before I sweat on it or something.”
Lucius rolled his eyes. “If you must refer to ‘sweat’ in reference to yourself—and I strongly discourage it—use the word perspire.”
“I’m serious, Lucius. I’m about to start perspiring over the price.”
Lucius bent to read the number on the tag and shrugged.
I hurried back to the dressing room, yanking on my jeans and lacing up my battered Chucks. The princess effect was definitely gone. Reluctantly, I handed the dress to the saleslady, who was waiting, holding a beautiful black cashmere wrap. “I’ll box these up for you.”
I glanced around for Lucius and found him standing at the sales counter, tapping a credit card against the glass countertop.
“It’s too much,” I whispered, hurrying over.
“Consider it a thank-you for
your shopping guidance today. My gift for your gala.”
I searched for irony or sarcasm in his eyes, saw none. What does that mean? That Lucius Vladescu was giving up his courtship of me? Doubtful. Maybe? “Thanks,” I said uncertainly.
Leigh Ann carefully packaged the dress and the wrap in two boxes and handed them to me. “Enjoy.” She had warmed considerably after the credit card had been approved.
“Have a nice day, Leigh Ann.” Lucius placed a hand on the small of my back, guiding me out of the store.
“I really don’t know what to say,” I stammered when we were outside. “It’s such a huge gift. The dress alone cost a fortune, and the wrap is cashmere.”
“It will no doubt be cool at night, and you can’t wear a ‘jean jacket’ with that dress.”
“Well, thank you.”
“I told you. Every woman deserves beautiful things,” Lucius said. “I just hope Squatty Boy appreciates you in this.” He paused outside, scanning the storefronts. “Couldn’t you go for a Strawberry Julius about now?”
Chapter 17
“SO, JAKE, HOW WAS the hay crop this year?” Dad asked, trying to make conversation.
“Good, I guess.” Jake seemed uncertain about even that simple answer, probably because he was on the spot, under inspection by my parents.
“I’d be happy to show you some of the chemical-free pest control methods we use, if you’re interested—”
“Dad,” I interrupted. “You promised. No environmental lectures.”
Why had my parents been so intent on having dinner with Jake, anyway? They were all about personal space and learning autonomy—until it came to me actually going out with a guy. Then suddenly they’d gone all Seventh Heaven on me, insisting that Jake have dinner with us—even though he’d grown up just down the road and delivered hay to our house every few weeks. It was totally awkward. And the fact that Lucius was in a nasty mood wasn’t helping.
“More soy milk?” Mom offered.
Jake held up a hand, a little too quickly. “No thanks.”
“It’s kind of an acquired taste,” I sympathized.
“Uh, yeah. I guess I’m used to the regular kind of milk.”
“Which exploits cows,” Dad added, jabbing a fork in Jake’s general direction. “Poor animals, lined up in a row, their teats attached to cold metal—”
Teats? “Dad, please. Don’t say that word—”
“What?” My dad tossed up his hands, all innocence. “Jake lives on a farm. I’m sure he is familiar with a cow’s teats.”
Every drop of blood in my body rushed to my face. Leave it to Dad to bring up a cow’s personal anatomy during my first dinner with Jake and then accuse him of being “familiar” with the bovine equivalent of breasts. Like Jake went to second base with livestock or something. I glanced at Lucius, expecting him to smirk, but he simply picked at his salad, examining one of Dad’s prized cherry tomatoes like it was a mucus-filled alien lifeform that had somehow become stuck on the end of his fork.
“Ned,” Mom intervened. “Perhaps we could change the topic.” I experienced one brief moment of relief, until my mom turned to Jake and noted, “I understand you’re reading Moby Dick in your literature class.”
“Um. Yeah.”
“I loved that book when I was your age,” Mom said. “The whole idea of adventure at sea. And so thought provoking. What are we to make of the white whale? What, ultimately, does it symbolize?” she mused, still addressing Jake. “God, nature, evil—or is it simply a symbol of Ahab’s very straightforward, very human pride?”
There was a moment of silence while poor Jake tried to think of a response to my mom’s question, which, from the look on his face, was about as digestible as the soy milk. “Um . . . all of those things?” he finally ventured.
“We’re only reading the abridged version,” I pointed out stupidly. I was used to living with a professor—there was usually some sort of quiz at dinner—but did Mom have to torment Jake? “Maybe they cut out some of the metaphors—”
“The whale represents the hidden forces of destruction that long to break through the surface of a complacent world,” Lucius broke in, speaking for the first time, causing all heads to swivel in his direction.
“Huh?” Jake blurted out, clearly baffled. Then he caught himself and shot me a sheepish glance.
“I like the whale,” Lucius added glumly, still staring at his plate. “And Ahab. They understood persistence. They understood how to bide their time.” He lifted his black eyes and gave me a look as pointed as his “fangs.” “And they accepted their mutual destiny, however grim.”
No. My stomach clenched. If Lucius starts talking about the betrothal, Jake will run for the hills. And why is Lucius referring to a destiny with me as “grim,” anyway? Is he implying that being married to me would be as bad as being strapped to a dying whale?
“Hey, Lucius. How was basketball practice?” I asked, trying desperately to harpoon the conversation and bring it under control.
“I’ve seen you in the gym, man,” Jake noted. “You’re, like, NBA-bound. You could take the team to states with that jump shot. You nailed every one in drills.”
“Ah, yes, drills,” Lucius said, clearly bored.
“Drills build skills,” Jake offered. “You gotta do the drills.”
“Drills are dull,” Lucius countered, not really looking at Jake. “I prefer competition.”
“You’re a wrestler, right, Jake?” Dad asked, passing Jake more saag. My parents were in an Indian food phase. The evening’s entrée consisted of limp spinach. God forbid we’d throw a few burgers on the grill and just have a barbecue when guests came over.
Jake gave the bright green, mushy contents a wary glance but accepted the bowl. “Yeah. I wrestle. I’m captain this year.”
“How Greco-Roman of you,” Lucius said dryly, lifting a glob of spinach and letting it drip, slowly, from his fork. “Grappling about on mats.”
Jake shot me a confused look. I shrugged an ignore-the-moody-exchange-student shrug.
Mom slapped her napkin onto the table. “Lucius, may I see you in the kitchen?” Except it wasn’t really a question.
Oh, thank god. I made a mental note to clean my room or do an extra load of laundry. Even Lucius’s boxer shorts. I owed her one.
Lucius slunk out behind my mother. There was an uncomfortable lull in the conversation at the table, during which we all pretended like we didn’t hear the phrases “take part in polite conversation,” “feeble-minded nincompoop,” and “remove yourself,” coming from the kitchen in stage-whispered tones.
A few minutes later, the kitchen door slammed shut. Mom came back alone. “Who wants more flatbread?” she asked, smiling grimly, not offering an explanation for the loss of one very irritable Romanian teenager.
Across the table, Lucius’s saag congealed on his abandoned plate.
After Jake left, I wandered out to the garage. Lucius was shooting foul shots, using a rusted old hoop that the rest of us had forgotten even existed. Dribble, aim, swish. I watched him make about ten in a row before I interrupted him. “Hey.”
He turned around, tucking the ball under his arm, looking incredibly like an average American high school student in the Grantley College sweatshirt Mom had bought for him. Until he spoke. “Good evening, Jessica. To what do I owe this visit? Aren’t you entertaining this evening?”
“Jake had to go.”
“What a shame.” Lucius tossed the ball over his shoulder. It dropped through the rim.
“What was wrong with you tonight? You know we could hear you insulting him in the kitchen.”
“Really?” Lucius looked a little crestfallen. “I didn’t intend that. That’s just boorish.”
I crossed my arms. “Do you have something to say about me and Jake? Because if you do, just say it to my face. Don’t give a cryptic dinner table lecture about whales and destiny.”
“What could I have to say? You’ve made yourself quite clear.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” I said honestly. “When you bought me the dress, I thought that was your way of saying you didn’t care if I went out with Jake.”
The ball rolled near Lucius’s feet, and he bent to scoop it up, then traced the worn seams with his thumb, avoiding my eyes. “Yes. I did think that . . . but this evening, when I saw him looking at you . . .”
“What?” Was Lucius actually jealous?
“I just don’t like him, Jessica,” Lucius finally said. “He’s not good enough for you. Regardless of how you feel about our tenuous relationship at this point, don’t sell yourself short with any man. Any boy.”
“You don’t know Jake,” I said, growing angry. “You didn’t even try to get to know him. He tried to be nice to you at dinner.”
Lucius shrugged. “I see him in school, struggling to understand basic concepts in English literature. That’s very telling, don’t you think?”
“So Jake doesn’t like Moby Dick. Who cares? I don’t like it, either.”
Lucius looked disappointed with me. Or sad about something. Or both. “I find that I’m in a very unusual mood tonight, Jessica,” he said, avoiding my eyes again. “I’m not the best company. Perhaps you’ll excuse me—leave me to my solitary pursuits.”
“Lucius—”
“Please, Jessica.” He turned his back on me and launched the ball with a flick of his wrist. It swooped through the hoop without touching the rim.
“Fine. I’ll go.”
Lucius was still shooting hoops when I went to check on him an hour later. It was dark outside, and he played in a small circle of light from a floodlight mounted on the garage. He’d switched to layups. I started to call out a greeting then changed my mind. Something about the single-minded way he was drilling shot after shot after shot, never missing, rising over the rim with ease to slam the ball through the hoop, like he was punishing the ball, sort of freaked me out.
Chapter 18
DEAR UNCLE VASILE,
Best wishes as we approach All Hallows’ Eve. You would so enjoy the universally naïve but ubiquitous depictions of vampires the Americans somewhat compulsively display at this time of year. One would think our entire race consisted of pale, middle-aged men with a genetic tendency toward “widow’s peaks” and a penchant for the overapplication of hair gel.