Chapter 3 – The Cute Meet

I made my way to French class somewhat revived from my dose of all natural sugar. Emilee escorted me before traipsing off to her advanced algebra class with the Lame Pick-Up Lines King. Ms. Girard signed my paper, and I swiftly sat down in the only available seat in the back row. I pulled out my notebook and pens having enough energy to want to color coordinate my notes. Who am I kidding? I wanted to add color to my doodles. Ideas had begun percolating in my mind for how I wanted to paint the Hearse.

I became so engrossed in this that I nearly missed Ms. Girard instructing us to greet, in French, our semester's conversational partners. I looked around trying to figure who was mine, when a throat cleared to the left of me.

"Merde," and of course, there went the erupting fireworks across my ever so pale complexion, while he remained stupefying-ly gorgeous. He was tall and lean except for his very broad shoulders. He had curly black hair that made one's fingers twitch to play with, and odd golden eyes surrounded by long sooty looking eyelashes. "Um, I mean, mon nom est Cadie Darby."

"Evan Keegan," he simply said in a lilting Irish accent as he half-smiled and half-grimaced. I was about to ask him if he was alright (or if he had tried the cafeteria's special, because, if so, I was gonna recommend he go to the hospital and get his stomach pumped), when Bubba from pre-calculus re-adjusted his desk in front of me so much that it bumped mine, knocking my collection of pens to the ground. I dove for them, my hands brushing up against his as we both tried to reach them.

"Um, sorry…" I apologized, somewhat stunned at the shock that was produced by that smallest of contact.

"No problem," he tersely replied handing me the rest of my pens and abruptly facing forward.

I hope he is a more talkative person than he was today, or we are going to be the worst conversation partners Ms. Girard has ever seen, especially since it seems that I have inherited Ian's gift of articulation. I let out a soft sigh. Well, I've embarrassed myself in at least two of my classes and P.E. is next. I'm doomed.

As I got into the Hearse, I reflected on the last hour of my life. I am unsure of what I did exactly to earn the wrath of Tiffany, Emilee's friend; unless it was because she heard my snort at her two-year-old tantrum over a broken nail. I know they hurt, but she acted exactly like Lottie or Simon when they would bump their head against something – stop, look around and judge the reaction of those around them, and then cry if they think someone is watching them. After that she tried absurdly hard to hit the volleyball in my general direction every time, hoping, I guess, to embarrass me with my obvious lack of physical adeptness. However, at this point I don't give a fiddle-dee-dee about my deplorable skills in this department, and I was able to make another friend, one who seemed to share in my misery – Maggie Stefano.

"I see you have two left feet too," A voice giggled behind me as I crammed my gym clothes into my bag.

I turned around to see a girl with black spiked hair with pink tips, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, and hoop lip ring. She was the one who had spiked the ball straight at Max's nose earlier. "I'm normally not so clumsy, unless of course I walk into a gym, onto a football or a baseball field, or onto a tennis court…"

"Ha ha. Me too, and somehow they still let me in the marching band," she crinkled her nose in laughter. "The name's Maggie Stefano, but I have no Italian blood whatsoever. Go figure."

"Cadie Darby. I'd stay and chat but I have to run to the office to drop off this form…"

"No worries. I'll see you in class tomorrow." At my quizzical expression, "Ya know, French?"

"Oh, sorry. I didn't see you at all."

She chuckled at this, "No, I imagine you didn't. It's very hard to see around Rupert."

Poor guy, a mountain of a man, with a prissy name like that. I couldn't help but think as I pulled into the drive way. Thankfully, when I went into the office, Mrs. Tyler was busy talking with someone in the back room, so all I had to do was drop off my paper in the basket and hightail it out of there.

But it looks like I won't be so lucky with avoiding Ian, I couldn't help groaning to myself. He was rocking in the chair on the porch whittling away at his thirty-thousandth chess piece.

Here goes nothing, "Hi, Dad!"

"Hey kiddo." Creeeak, creak. Creeeak, creak went the chair. Time to implement Plan B: delay tactics. "So what's for dinner? I'm starved. All I had to day for lunch was fruit. You should have seen the slop they called the special. Never mind. I don't want to ruin your appetite or mine again. Do we have anything to make for spaghetti? I met this girl today who mentioned having an Italian last name but not being Italian, which made me crave garlic bread and pasta – "

"Okay, Cadie. I get the drift. Feed you first, and then ask the questions," he said as he stopped rocking to get up and head into the house.

"Thanks, Dad," I sighed in relief.

He ignored that and continued, "We have stuff for garlic bread just not spaghetti. How about homemade macaroni-and-cheese?"

"Sure, that sounds fine, if a bit unhealthy," I replied.

"Yeah, sorry about that mon cher, but after, well ya know, I just haven't been feeling like cooking as elaborately as I used to. I'll make a salad to go with it."

I snorted, "No, need to apologize. You are talking to the girl who was raised by Gabby Laurel who couldn't tell you the difference between cayenne pepper and paprika to save my life, let alone hers."

"Yeah, the art of cooking would most definitely be lost on your mother," he agreed as he stuck his head in the refrigerator.

After that we didn't say much, except to ask for this or that as we made the meal together and then consumed it together. I was so emotionally exhausted, and for once one of my parents could pick up on my mood and respect it. My mother is usually the more intuitive of the two, but she likes to pester and nag until she pries everything out of me. It usually is never even worth the effort she invests in the process. Ian, however, is generally clueless and ends up doing as much damage as my sensitive mother does.

He must have recalled this aggravating habit of my mother's because he opened with, "Cadence, you know it's probably best if you tell me now and get it all out of your system before you get a phone call from your mother later tonight."

"I know." It's not that I didn't want to talk about the phone call this morning or my long day. I did. It's just that I didn't want to tell either of my parents. My mom, because she didn't understand why nor want me to come up here in the first place, and I didn't want to tell my dad because he would suggest I go back and then I would have to tell him why I came. He would not appreciate it either.

I sat there for a few minutes, took a deep breath, and then began, "So you know who little Lottie and Simon Matthews are? The kids I have been babysitting for the past four years? Well, their mother who has custody of them lost her job about six months ago due to budget cutbacks. She was an assistant to a big CEO of some emerging business franchise. She was really proud of that job… Anyways, she has had a hard time finding employment, and she's been relying on Tyrone's child custody payments to meet the bills, and that's really gulled her. From what the kids have told me, I think, she began drinking pretty heavily a few months back. I still keep in contact with them, and occasionally I went over there for free when she had a job interview, but those have been less and less…"

"Cadie…the phone call…?"

"Right, well, before I left I told them if they needed anything they could call or text me, and if it was an emergency, they should text me and my phone will go off so loud that it will be impossible for me to sleep through it," I chuckled self-deprecatingly. "They took me up on that offer this morning." I got up and started to make some tea. "When I called Lottie back, she was crying. Her mom was passed out on the floor of the kitchen where she had tripped and fallen while chasing Simon around the house with a…" I stopped and gripped the counter hard. I felt so scared for those children. This couldn't have been the first time this had happened. Why hadn't they told me sooner? Why hadn't I noticed that it was this bad? I felt Ian brush passed me as he got the tea off the stove and poured me a cup. I sat back down and began again, "With a poker from the fireplace." I blew on my tea, "So I asked them where they were and Lottie said the laundry room ready to 'book it' through the doggy door like we planned, if there ever was a burglar in the house." Ian smiled at that. "I three-way called the cops and stayed on the line until they got there. I don't know who is taking care of them now. I'd call Mom, but I know she wouldn't know either…"

While I sipped my tea, I watched Ian out of the corner of my eye. I could tell he was gearing up to suggest something that he didn't want to. He started to drum his fingers against the table. He surprised me though with the next question, "So how was the rest of your day?"

"Eh, considering." I shrugged. "I met some really nice people."

"Like the Stefano girl?" He asked as he got up to wash the dishes.

"How'd you …?"

He chuckled softly, "It's a small town. There aren't very many people with Italian last names."

"Oh. Yeah, I met her in P.E. We have a similar issue with sports-like activities."

He stopped washing and turned around to face me, "I'm glad you are making friends, but, Cadie, if you want to head back to Quebec, there will be no hard feelings here. I lived by myself quite fine after your mother left and before my brother moved in. I can do so again now that he is gone."

I set down my tea cup and faced him squarely, "Dad, I did not come up here because I thought you incapable of living a happy and contented life on your own. In fact, I'm probably being a hindrance to your now completely free bachelor lifestyle." He waved that off. "But I know that I'm less of a burden here than I am at h- back there. Mom's just gotten married to Mark, and I don't want to get in their way." I grinned up cheekily at him, "There's a reason that it's traditional for couples to get married and then have children." I paused for dramatic effect.

"Oh?" he played along.

"Yep, and I've learned it from personal experience. The traditional way saves the children from being scarred for life by the honeymoon phase." I couldn't help but laugh at his astonished face as the mental images of Gabby and Mark flashed before his eyes.

When he finally recovered, he suspiciously asked, "That's all, huh?"

"That's all," I stated with as much confidence as I could.

Either it was too much or not enough because he shook his head and said, "You probably gave a similar speech to your mother, didn't you? And how much of it did she buy?"

"Enough. I'm here aren't I?" I said impishly as I hopped off the kitchen barstool to make my way to the sink to rinse out my cup. "Do you need help with the rest of this or can I go off to bed?"

"Don't you have any homework?"

"Probably, but it's not anything I can't do after a good nap."

"Alright then, see ya later kiddo," he waved me off. "Oh, and don't forget to call your mother!"

I paused at the bottom of the stairs to shamelessly ask, "As the resident expert in marital relations, should I call her now or wait 'til later?" as I wiggled my eyebrows up and down. Not that he really was an expert considering he and my mom only lasted a month as a married couple. They had realized that they had different life and career goals and were better off just as friends. She had just moved to Québec when she discovered that she was pregnant with me.

Ian turned beet red and stuttered, "I-I don't know. You do what you think is best," and turned back to finish the dishes.

And on that exceedingly amusing note, I ran up the stairs to seek oblivion for the second time in the past three days.

AN:

French to English Translation:

Merde = Shit

mon nom est = my name is

mon cher = my dear

Next chapter - Dealing with Demons