For Asha,
who always remembers her pants,
most of the time.
When the doorbell rings at nine AM on a Saturday morning at the Marvil Manor, I expect the bringer of early morning hell to be one of three people:
Merri-Lee Marvil, the mother. Or so she claims. When America's favorite talk show host isn't off hosting lavish after parties and attending swanky meetings with advertisers, she remembers that she, you know, has a seventeen year old daughter still at home. And in that case, she'll amble in at an unreasonable hour, still in her outfit from the day before with her hair mussed and red-eyed, asking me how's middle school going. Lovely.
Layne Abeley, the best friend. Perhaps my favorite anarchist found out that the beloved Westchester Mall has multiple health code violation or that our school doesn't offer male rhythmic gymnastics? Expect her to be at the door, fresh picket signs in hand, ready to coerce me into fighting the power with her. Even if I'm fighting to keep my eyes open.
Katerina, the cleaning lady. But she has a key. She only rings the doorbell to make sure I'm aware that it's her vacuuming the living room, and not some neat freak burglar.
Either way, I can't stand being woken up before noon on the weekends. Come on, I wake up at five AM five days a week. All that missed sleep needs to catch up with me somehow.
It was a Saturday morning, a blissful, perfect Saturday morning. The sky was a blinding gray, with snowflakes falling lightly and carelessly from the sky. From the window, the sound of children having snowball fights and a choir practicing "Winter Wonderland" blasted into every home on the block. Yes, the holidays were here and it seemed like all of Westchester was out, welcoming the return of the most wonderful time of the year.
Well, except for me. Of course, I was practically passed out in my room, wrapped in about five different blankets and pillows. My movie from last night, Titanic, was paused on the iconic scene where Jack and Rose are in the water, pledging to never let go. Except, in my dream, I was Rose and I had moved over to let Jack share the door-float thing with me. And we both survived. And live happily ever after.
And then, between Rose-me and Jack deciding whether or not we should go to Spain or India for a honeymoon, the doorbell rang.
Yes, the worst sound in the world: the doorbell on a lazy Saturday morning. The shrill bell echoed louder in my empty house, sending shock waves of irritation in my system. Was there no injustice in this world? Would I ever get to finish my dreams?
Letting out a swear, I threw the layers of blankets off of me in a rage. "All I ask," I grumbled to myself as stomped out of my room and down the stairs, "is to not be bothered at this hour. Not world peace. Not a billion dollars. Sleep. That's all I want, dammit." Needless to say, I was pissed.
If it was my mom, I'd give her a stern talking-to about the importance about keeping a house key. If it was Layne, I'd tell her she's not allowed to hit me up for protesting because I can't make myself care about the rights of male rhythmic gymnasts this early. And if was Katerina, well, I'd try to communicate in the bits of Polish that I picked up from her that I just don't give a crap if someone breaks into our house unless they do it to wake me up.
The doorbell rang again. The absolute nerve of the person! Unless you happened to be on fire and my house is the only one with water or you're running from gun wielding mobsters, you do not ring the doorbell twice. Ever.
"What?" I couldn't help but growl as I swung open the heavy wood doors. I regretted opening the door so fast, a burst of cold hair hit me hard, goosebumps popped up all over my body.
I was so ready to lecture, scream, or attempt to speak Polish, I really was. Except it wasn't my mom, Layne, or Katerina.
It was Landon Crane. Landon effing Crane.
Landon Crane, the resident enigma. Step-brother of Kristen and Derrick Harrington, the blond dynamic duo who practically own Octavian Country Day and most likely your soul. He's the classic black sheep. Tall, dark, and mysterious, of course. Nobody at school really knows much about him except for the fact that he moved to Westchester from New York City after his mother's marriage to John Harrington and shows up to classes only when it suits him to unleash his inner smartass. When he's not the subject of outlandish rumors (banged the hot art teacher, stole the dean's car, deals drugs on the side), he can NOT be seen at the front door of my home. Smiling.
If that name doesn't have a Voldemort-level effect on you, please go get yourself checked out at the nearest mental rehabilitation center. Because you better believe I gasped loudly and nearly fell over from the shock when I realized it was him at my house.
"Hey, Dylan," Landon greeted casually, like he did this thing all the time. Almost giving girls heart attacks, that is. He had a ridiculous Santa hat over his disheveled dark hair, carrying a box of cream colored envelopes. So many questions raced through my mind, like how did he know where I live? What was in the envelopes? Wait, Landon knew my name? We don't run in the same circles, let alone the same similar shapes.
"Landon?" I wanted to say, but it actually turned out to be a string of nonsensical babbles. Maybe it was the Polish getting out?
And then something even stranger happened. It was like Landon took a closer look at me, and then his gray eyes widened. And looked like he was stifling a laugh. And he averted my (confused) gaze.
"Uh, Dylan?" he said with a nervous chuckle, gesturing at my bottom half. Nervous? Landon Crane? I furrowed my brows, perplexed before looking down at my bare, pale legs. Funny, I don't remember wearing shorts this short...I thought, and then it hit me.
Holy shit. Holy shit on a stick. I'm not wearing shorts. I'm not even wearing pants.
It was like the cliched humiliating dream, finding yourself only in underwear at the worst possible time. Except this wasn't a dream, because Jack Dawson wasn't in it. Landon Crane was.
So, I did what any logical, sensible person would do in a situation like this.
I slammed the door in his face.
"SHIT!" I screamed, looking down at my bright yellow underwear. God, couldn't I have at least worn the nice blue ones? Instead of the obscenely neon ones with a cartoon lion right on the crotch. I was a liability to myself, not just society anymore.
And then another thought hit me. I slammed the door in Landon Crane's face after he saw me in my unmentionables. I could redeem myself, right? I mean, there was literally a 0.05% chance of Landon Crane ever showing up at my door again. All I had to do was make up a lie of some sorts, calmly explaining why I was in my underwear in a rational manner.
Oh, screw it. I'll wing it.
Sprinting to the laundry, I practically threw myself in the hamper in search of pants. I prayed that I could find my cute plaid pajama bottoms or even my yoga pants, but instead I was met with nothing but suspiciously dirty sweats. Groaning in anguish, I closed my eyes and grabbed the first pair of pants and threw them on.
Ugh. They also happened to be the obnoxiously baggy black ones, which a weird barbecue stain from last week. But, it was better than nothing.
Inhaling deeply, I tried to calm the frenzy of nerves in my stomach as I ran back to the front door. Logically speaking, there was no way this could possibly get worse. Landon saw me in my underwear, he's hot: he probably sees plenty of girls in their underwear. At least from what Olivia Ryan and her bunch mentioned. This was most likely a very typical day in the life of Landon Crane, in that case. Except he doesn't have to kick said girl with only underwear on out of bed.
Good lord, help me.
I opened the door meekly, the creak of the door magnified in my ears. Then, I had an even worse realization. What if he left? What if the sight of me in my unmentionables freaked him out, and now he's going to go back to his cool friends and be all, "yeah, that Dylan Marvil? Epic fail of a human being"? And then his cool friends would most likely call me crude and untrue names.
I peered out of the crack of the door. He was still there, just texting somebody on a beat up cell phone, still holding the box envelopes like he was simply waiting for me to come outside again.
Damn him.
Another inhale of oxygen; what did I have to lose anymore? "Hey," I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I opened the door all the way. Landon raised an eyebrow at me curiously before putting his phone away.
His expression was virtually unreadable. Relaxed mouth, heavily lidded eyes, no visible flush in his cheeks. It looked as though he may have taken the Mother Teresa route, and will forget he ever saw me in that yellow monstrosity called underwear. How saintly.
"I see you found your pants," he replied sharply, with a wolfish sort of grin. I take it back. He was no Mother Teresa at all.
My face instantly reddened, and the cool winter air felt even icier against my hot cheeks. "Yeah, I try," I mumbled, darting my eyes to the ground.
Landon let out a loud, hearty laugh, a reaction I was most definitely not expecting. "Got someone up there?" he asked, eyes sparkling in a rakish way. Oh goodness, Landon Crane thought I'm some sort of seductress. Dylan Marvil and seducing don't mix, at all.
"Yeah, Ben and Jerry," I managed to deadpan, silently admiring myself for the quick comeback. To make it even better, I remembered that I actually had some Cherry Garcia ice cream in the freezer. Success!
"Sounds scandalous, Red," Landon responded. Red? Usually, I couldn't stand that stereotypical nickname based on the color of my hair. But from him, it didn't sound so bad.
"Typical Saturday morning." I attempted to smooth out my wild curls, but like most of my attempts to do anything, it didn't work.
Landon suddenly snapped to attention. "So," he began as dug out a cream colored envelope with D. Marvil embossed in gold, "I'm here to invite you to the annual Harrington Holiday Extravaganza. Exclamation point." Don't let the words fool you, he sounded like he was selling root canals for minimum wage.
I peered curiously at the envelope and back at him. "Is it really called that?"
"It's actually called The Yearly Excuse To Show Off How Much Money We've Made Christmas Party," he said dryly, "but yeah, Harrington Holiday Extravaganza for short."
I let out a chuckle. "Sounds enticing."
"Totally enticing," Landon repeated with a grin, "so you coming?"
You didn't think three simple words could temporarily turn your brain off and send your heart racing a mile a minute. But to be fair, it could've happened to anyone.
"Ah, oh the party?" I stammered once more, "I'm Jewish. Well, my dad's Jewish. Or at least that's what my mom says, I'm not actually sure. But she's kinda into Buddhism at the moment and my sister's engaged to a Muslim and my other sister's studying Taoism. And my housekeeper is also Jewish, just remembered." Oh, goodness. Kill me. Just let me choke on my word vomit and die a slithering mess on my front door step. Please.
Landon's eyes widened, so I quickly added, "But we celebrate Christmas." Frack, was that last spiel even necessary?
But he smiled and said, "Wow, lots of different beliefs, eh? That's cool, I'd like to check out other traditions too but Old Man Harrington is kinda traditional." He was being genuine, it was obvious by his amiable eyes.
"Old Man Harrington?" I questioned, trying to take the subject off of me and back to the oh so mysterious Mr. Crane.
Landon's smile fell slightly, but was still there. "Yeah, the mastermind. Time to spread a little holiday cheer after ruining everyone else's through the year." I had to admit, he had guts for being so blunt about Mr. Harrington. If Layne's speeches on the Harrington Company were to be believed, he was nothing more than a "power crazed monopolist." Nice to know someone kind of agreed with her, even if that someone was his new step-son.
"That rhymed," I noted lamely, "so you got roped into helping out?"
"But of course, mademoiselle," he snorted with a posh French accent, "gotta make the Harrington name proud, seeing as dear Derrick and Kristen are slacking a bit," he finished sarcastically. He had a point: when it came to overachieving , his step-siblings put everyone to shame.
"I forgot you were the golden child. Hell, I forget we go to the same school," I said dryly, forgetting who exactly I was talking. I was being sarcastic to Landon Crane, the mystery that everyone at school was dying to figure out. And were talking, just speaking (semi, for me) normally like two (semi, once again for me) normal people. It was like an out of body experience.
But then again, he's seen me in my underwear. We've got a special bond now.
Instead of moodily turning away like most people do after being insulted, he laughed in a self-deprecating sort of way. "You've got me pegged, don't you, Red?"
"As what?"
"As something," he decided after pausing for a few moments. "I bet you believe all the rumors about me engaging in illicit affairs with teachers and grand theft auto."
"Drugs," I added, "you forgot the drugs."
"Of course," he agreed, nodding his head seriously, "it's how I've made my fortune, after all. Gonna retire at nineteen at this rate."
There was another pause between us, mostly because I couldn't think of anything quite snappy enough to respond with. Just when I was about to make a comment about other bits of gossip he was the star of (specifically, did he really hook up with Olivia Ryan?) , Landon's phone started buzzing loudly.
Checking it quickly, his face soured. "It's Kristen, probably wondering why I'm not done yet. You know, for someone as smart as her, I'm surprised it hadn't occurred to her to just mail these invitations."
"Not as festive," I explained with a shrug.
"Ah, well, you do what you can." He adjusted his Santa hat, his hair flopping around in different directions. "I've got to jet, but promise you'll tear yourself away from Ben and Jerry to come to the party? I could use some sane company."
Sane? Me? Did he miss my grand entrance or something? But then, my insides went all tingly and my face started to heat: he wanted me to go to the party. He wanted me to hang out with him. Not bad for a Saturday morning at all.
"Yeah, I'll definitely try," I responded coolly, trying to sound nonchalant and harried by the thought of making plans. Except I probably just squeaked those words out.
Landon beamed, and I couldn't help but smile a bit back. "Great, just one thing though?" he asked as he made his way to step off the porch.
"Yeah?"
"Don't forget to put on some pants."
author's note: The next chapter is the party, so expect some more Dylan/Landon cracky holiday goodness! I know I've had a story titled Stark Raving Red before, but I deleted that because the plot was too wonky, but the title fit here so much better :p
I'm going to be updating "You, Me, and the Great Inbetween" soon, so watch out for that! :)
Hope you guys all enjoyed this (especially you, Asha!)
xo,
Ren