Thanksgiving Day the Kilbourne family scatters. It isn't surprising. When are we ever together? Meg Jardin's parents are having a big Thanksgiving party at their house, so that's where Mom and Dad head at eleven. In separate cars, which makes sense. They lead separate lives, why arrive anywhere together and continue the charade? Besides, Dad might meet a caterer who looks like Kathleen Turner. It would be pretty awkward for Mom to sit in the backseat while Dad drives them to a motel.
Across the hall, Tiffany and Maria are readying for the Thomas-Brewers. I am, of course, preparing for Wes and meeting his parents. I'm so nervous my hands shake as I pull my violet silk dress up over my hips. I haven't eaten all morning. If I eat, I may throw up.
Kristy knows I'm not coming to her house. And she isn't happy about it. I lied to her, of course, another lie in a long string of lies. I never used to be a liar, but now they flow from me, effortlessly, and fall into a perfect line. Sometimes even I believe them and that scares me.
"Are you sure you don't want to come?" Tiffany asks me, leaning against my doorway, arms folded. She looks much better these days. She's brushing her hair again and no longer moping. And although Tyler's called all week, she hasn't once answered.
"No. I'm going to Allie's. We have that huge project we're working on," I tell Tiffany, running a brush through my hair. Allie and I are in European history together. She's a junior and has never, ever spoken to Kristy. Allie is my safest lie.
"Homework on Thanksgiving? Yeah, right," Tiffany says, then turns and walks away.
I frown at her retreating back. I would tell her the truth, but she wouldn't understand. I wish I had a better lie to tell. Lindsey would cover for me, but the Duprees left yesterday for Hartford. That's where they're originally from. So, I couldn't claim to be spending Thanksgiving with them. There really is no one else. No one else who would understand and protect my secret.
At eleven-thirty, I stand at the front door and wave to Tiffany and Maria as they cross the street. Maria, wearing all her new make-up, smiles at me and waves happily. Tiffany just narrows her eyes, suspiciously. I keep waving, pretending not to notice.
Across the street, there's no one home at the Stevenson house. I watched from our dining room window yesterday afternoon as Abby and Mrs. Stevenson loaded their suitcases into the back of Mrs. Stevenson's minivan. They're off to Long Island for the long weekend. I haven't spoken to Abby in days. Yesterday was the first time I saw her. I've had no verbal confirmation, but I know that Mrs. Stevenson told Abby the truth. The truth about herself and Mr. Stevenson and Michael Bergman and their baby. I know this because Abby hasn't been to school all week. She's been locked in her house, not answering the door or returning phone calls. Mrs. Stevenson hasn't been to work either. I only know this because Tuesday after school, I saw her in the front yard dressed in jeans and stepping through the flowerbeds. I have no clue what she was doing.
I haven't spoken to Anna either. I call her dorm, but she won't come to the phone. I've spoken twice to Adelaide. The plan to track down Michael Bergman's still on, which Adelaide's not thrilled about at all. I can't imagine how it will turn out. Not well, I suspect.
The phone rings in the kitchen and I hurry to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Shannon!" Kristy exclaims. "Have you changed your mind yet?
"No. I'm sorry, Kristy. I already made plans," I reply. Why must Kristy be so persistent?
"But Charlie's here and we're going to organize a big football game. Charlie and Watson are in the backyard picking teams right now. Look, I know you and Janet have some kind of beef, but you can't let her keep you away from my house forever. I know she's annoying - " Kristy says "annoying" very loud, then there's grumbling in the background. Janet must be listening in - "but there are a lot more interesting and less grouchy people here. And Janet's parents and grandpa are on their way over for lunch, so they can all sit together in a corner and you won't have to worry about Janet bothering you."
"Kristy, I - "
"Oh, wait," Kristy interrupts. "Janet has a message for you. She says you're behaving like a child and that that proves her point."
"You can tell Janet - "
"You can come over and tell her yourself. I'm not a telegram service."
I bite my lip and pull on the phone cord. "Maybe later. But I promised Allie."
Kristy sighs. "Oh, all right. Mary Anne's coming over later, too. I think she's going to her grandma's or something. I don't know. She was really vague about it."
"Mary Anne's become kind of...odd."
"She's not the only one."
There's a brief, awkward silence, then we say our goodbyes and hang up. I feel bad. I feel guilty. But not nearly enough to swallow my pride and walk across the street. Not nearly enough to give up Wes. So, I walk upstairs and collect my coat and purse, checking my reflection once more to ensure that I am perfect. I don't want to just please Wes. I want to please his parents, as well.
I'm supposed to be at Wes' by noon. It'll be about a thirty minute drive to his parents' house in Greenvale. There's no traffic through downtown Stoneybrook. Everything except the movie theater closes on Thanksgiving. I pull into the parking lot of Wes' apartment complex a few minutes before noon. It's a very gray day and the complex is eerily quiet as I step out of the car. I slide my purse strap over my shoulder and begin up the walkway toward Wes' building. When I turn the bend to building F, I see two little girls in lilac-colored coats and lacy white dresses and stockings, matching white headbands in their brown hair. They're sitting on the bottom step of the stairs that lead to the apartments above Wes'. The littler girl has a Barbie in her hands, twisting its head around and biting her lip. The other girl is striking matches and tossing them onto a pile of dried leaves, then stomping out the flames with her white patent leather shoes.
I stop in front of them, staring. "Are you...are you Jenny Prezzioso?" I ask the older girl.
She glances up and strikes another match. "Who the hell are you?" she demands.
"I...I..." Of course, Jenny doesn't recognize me. I rarely ever baby-sat for her. Plus, that was years ago. "Does your dad live upstairs?" I ask her.
"Yep," Jenny replies and stomps on a flaming leaf.
It all makes sense. Upstairs Guy and his screaming brats. The refrigerator that somehow fell through the window. Who could they have been but the Prezziosos? "Um...does your dad know you're down here, playing with matches?" I ask.
"Nope. He's upstairs on the phone with his whore."
His whore? I stare at Jenny, aghast.
Andrea's still twisting around her doll's head. She mumbles something.
I bend down. "What was that, sweetie?"
"I don't want to live in the basement," she whispers.
The basement?
"Shannon!" Wes exclaims, opening his front door.
"Nice seeing you girls again," I say, quickly, and grab the matches from Jenny's hand, then hurry passed.
"Hey!" Jenny shouts after me. "Doucheface! Yeah, run away and get on your knees!"
Wes pulls me inside and shuts the door. "Never talk to those little girls," he tells me. "They're the reason I can't let Darth into the courtyard anymore."
I'm still staring at the closed door, absolutely appalled. Dear Lord. What has happened to those poor children?
Wes kisses me and encircles my waist with his arms. "I can't wait for my parents to meet you," he tells me, smiling. He kisses me again. "They're going to love you. Just like I do."
"I hope so," I reply, although there's a knotting in my stomach. Maybe this isn't such a good idea.
"You look so beautiful," Wes says, releasing me and stepping back. "You know how much I love that dress on you. I'm so glad you wore it. I have something for you!" Wes disappears into his bedroom. He returns carrying a small jewelry box. "This is for you," he tells me.
"Oh! Thank you!" I say, surprised, taking the box from his outstretched hand. I open the box slowly. Inside is a pair of oval-shaped earrings. "Oh, thank you, Wes," I gasp. "Tanzanite, right?" I ask, touching the pale violet gemstones.
Now Wes looks surprised. "You recognize it?" he asks.
"Of course. Geology is one of my passions, you know," I answer, removing one of the silver flowers from my ear. "Tanzanite's mined in Tanzania and it's actually zoisite, which is a mineral."
"Oh, well, they were purple," Wes tells me. "Do you like them?"
"Yes! Thank you so much! I love them," I assure him, sliding one of the earrings into my ear. "They're perfect." When both earrings are in, I pull Wes in for a kiss. "Later, I'll show you how much I love them," I promise.
Wes' cheeks turn slightly pink, but he looks very proud of himself. I am lucky. I can't believe how lucky.
The Prezzioso girls are gone when Wes and I leave the apartment hand-in-hand. Wes holds the car door open for me, like always, then we drive away from the Birch Street apartments and eventually from Stoneybrook. It's a nice, quiet drive, except for when Wes decides to sing to me. He's so silly sometimes. But he keeps me laughing despite the fact that my stomach becomes knottier and knottier the closer we come to Greenvale. At least Wes is excited.
I don't know why Wes seemed so impressed with my house. His parents' house is ten times more impressive. I think my mouth may gape momentarily when we make a sharp turn around the hill and the house comes into view. The Ellenburgs live in the middle of nowhere, among the lush green hills of Greenvale, isolated from the rest of the town. The house is surrounded by tall wrought-iron gates and the house itself is a sprawling Tudor-style with a pitched roof and mullioned windows. Wes pulls around the circular driveway, coming to a stop near the front of the house. I remember when we first met and Wes called Mick's grandparents' house "disturbing". I wonder now if Wes has ever taken a good look at his own house.
"There must be a lot of money in sailboats," I comment, still staring at the house.
Wes shrugs.
"It's beautiful."
"It's all right."
I take that as a cue to not say anything more about the house. I've never known anyone who's self-conscious about having money. But Wes can be shy, so maybe the subject simply embarrasses him. I unlatch my seatbelt and reach over to squeeze his hand.
Wes squeezes back. "Before you meet my parents, there's something you must know," he tells me.
My stomach knots a little tighter.
Wes laughs. "Don't look at me like that! It's nothing bad." He laughs again. "I just want you to be forewarned that my father will be wearing a captain's hat and he will request that you call him Skipper. You really, really don't have to. In fact, I sort of prefer that you don't." Wes sighs. "My father can be so embarrassing."
I laugh. That's it? Does he remember my father and my father's hooker? "That isn't a problem," I tell him and open my door.
As we walk up the stone-paved steps, Wes slips his arm around my waist. "And my mother will ask you a million questions and I apologize in advance for any discomfort she causes."
That really doesn't help the knots. I worry silently as we approach the door. I don't need Mrs. Ellenburg asking a million questions. I would prefer she ask no questions at all. I manage a cheery smile as the front door swings open and Mr. and Mrs. Ellenburg appear. They're both beaming.
Mrs. Ellenburg throws open her arms as she steps across the threshold. "Welcome!" she cries. She's tall and slender with short, perfectly coifed white hair that sweeps over her left eye. She's dressed very elegantly in a black and white pin-striped pantsuit with chunky jade jewelry. "Wesley!" she exclaims and takes his face between her hands and kisses both his cheeks, then she turns to me and throws up her arms again. "And Shannon!" Mrs. Ellenburg pulls me into a hug. When she releases me, she holds me at arms-length, studying me, still beaming.
"She isn't a bug under a microscope, Mom," Wes says, a little irritably.
Mrs. Ellenburg releases her grip on my forearms. "Of course not," she says, breezily. "I apologize. I'm just so ecstatic to meet you!" she cries and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the doorway. "Come on, dear, let's get you inside. It's far too cold out here. This is the Skipper, of course," she says, as we move passed Mr. Ellenburg, who's standing just inside the foyer.
I recognize Mr. Ellenburg from the Ellenburg Marine Supply commercials. He looks exactly the same, except there isn't a parrot on his shoulder. He's a big, beefy man with a bushy white beard. He's wearing khaki pants and a white polo shirt and - as Wes promised - a captain's hat. He looks very jolly, sort of like a mall Santa.
Mr. Ellenburg grabs my hand and shakes it in a tight grip. "I'm Wesley's dad," he tells me in a deep, cheerful voice. "No need to call me Mr. Ellenburg. Everyone calls me Skipper."
Behind him, Wes closes his eyes, looking very exasperated.
Mrs. Ellenburg playfully swats Mr. Ellenburg on the chest. "His real name is Dennis," she tells me, "but everyone really does call him Skipper. And I'm Molly. Molly Ellenburg, Wesley's mother."
"I think she figured that out, Mom," Wes says.
Mrs. Ellenburg laughs. "I certainly hope so! No, I'm just some crazy lady who accosts the guests at the front door!" Mrs. Ellenburg laughs again and Mr. Ellenburg joins in.
It's all a bit overwhelming.
"Your home is marvelous, Mrs. Ellenburg," I say, politely.
"Oh, please, it's Molly," she replies. "Wesley take her coat, please. Then I'll show Shannon the rest of the house. What do you call it, Wesley? An appalling centerpiece to the greed and self-gratification of Connecticut spoiled society?"
"Something like that."
Mrs. Ellenburg chuckles. She has a lovely laugh. "The house was my Great Aunt's," she tells me, touching my arm, lightly. "Wesley has always detested it. Even when he was a little boy. Come now, I'll give you the grand tour." She links her arm through mine and pulls me away from Wes and Mr. Ellenburg. "My Wesley is positively enchanted by you," she whispers as we sweep into the formal sitting room.
How am I supposed to respond to that?
"I'm very fond of him, too," I say, lamely.
"Good, good!"
We tour the ground floor with Wesley trailing behind us. The house is truly breathtaking. I've never been interested in architecture, but even I recognize the house as a masterpiece. I would adore living here. I don't understand what Wes finds so appalling.
Mrs. Ellenburg shoos Wes away at the bottom of the staircase, instructing him to track down Mr. Ellenburg and keep him out of the kitchen and the food. Wes looks a bit warily at his mother before turning and walking away.
"I don't know what he's worried I'll say to you," Mrs. Ellenburg says, starting to climb the steep staircase. "You're a junior at Stoneybrook University?" she asks me.
"Yes."
"It's a wonderful school, although we so wanted Wesley to go away for university. It's such a growth experience. And he was so shy back then. But the Skipper was diagnosed with that kidney disease and Wesley insisted on remaining here. He's such a good boy." Mrs. Ellenburg looks at me over her shoulder. "I'm a Vassar girl myself. From back when it was still a women's college, of course. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but the Skipper's a Harvard man. So, do you plan to stay in Stoneybrook or will you be moving on to greener pastures?"
We've reached the landing and Mrs. Ellenburg has turned to watch me, intently, probing me with her eyes. "I really don't know," I lie, although Wellesley's still on my mind. I'll likely be there in less than a year. I haven't told Wes. Like I haven't told him many things.
"Oh, well..." says Mrs. Ellenburg with a weak smile. "If you don't know, you don't know. Come now, here is Wesley's room straight across the hall."
I follow her, brow furrowed. What exactly was she asking me? Did I answer incorrectly?
"Oh..." I say when I enter Wes' bedroom and glance around. It is...not as I expected. "I guess...Wes really enjoyed Star Wars," I observe, hesitantly.
"Yes, and Star Trek," Mrs. Ellenburg replies, gesturing to a display case filled with action figures.
It's difficult to hide my surprise. Wes - my handsome, sweet Wes - was...a nerd. I pick up a photo off the desk. I barely recognize Wes standing between his parents at his high school graduation. He's very skinny with a mouthful of braces and black horn-rimmed glasses.
"The braces were removed the summer after graduation," Mrs. Ellenburg explains, watching me. "Then he had laser eye surgery and after that he just - " Mrs. Ellenburg holds out her hands, "blossomed before our eyes."
I smile and return the photo to the desk.
"Let us return downstairs now," Mrs. Ellenburg suggests, taking my hand, leading me out of the room. "The Skipper will consume the entire turkey if Wesley doesn't pay attention."
We find Wes and Mr. Ellenburg in the den. Mr. Ellenburg's lounging on the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table. Wes is perched on the edge of a high-backed, uncomfortable looking chair. He rises when Mrs. Ellenburg and I enter.
"I saw your bedroom," I tell him.
Wes groans.
"You knew that's where we were going," Mrs. Ellenburg admonishes him. "Don't act so shocked and put out. Certainly she's been to that teeny apartment of yours. Nothing can be very surprising after that."
Mr. Ellenburg turns around on the couch. "I bet you've been unfortunate enough to meet that damn cat, too! Molly and I danced through the house in celebration the day we dumped that thing off at his place. He didn't even try to return it!"
I smile, slightly. "Yeah, I don't like the cat either," I say in a whisper.
"Ha! I told you, Wesley!"
Mrs. Ellenburg presses gently on my back. "Come, let us see about lunch, Shannon. Wesley, set the table with Aunt Betsy's china. The one with the blue aster pattern. Skipper, stay here."
As I follow Mrs. Ellenburg into the kitchen, I hear Mr. Ellenburg say, gruffly, "Poor girl probably can't get a damn word in edgewise."
The Ellenburgs seems like perfectly nice people, but I'm beginning to see why Wes was so hesitant to tell them about me.
Mrs. Ellenburg sets me to work mashing the potatoes while she moves the rest of the food from the stoveand oven onto serving plates. All the serving spoons are silver with intricate floral and heart designs. Polishing them must be a pain. I know Mrs. Ellenburg doesn't do it herself. Wes told me there's a full-time housestaff, but the Ellenburgs let them off for holidays.
"I am very pleased to meet you, Shannon," Mrs. Ellenburg tells me, spooning the dressing onto a crystal serving plate. Tiny flowers are etched along the sides. "It is so rare that Wesley introduces us to the girls he dates. I'm not sure if there's been anyone since Chelsea." Mrs. Ellenburg looks up for confirmation and I shake my head, assuming Chelsea was Wes' serious girlfriend. They broke up a year and a half ago. He never told me her name. "Wesley has always been so shy," Mrs. Ellenburg continues. "He didn't start dating until his junior year of college. And unfortunately, it was that crazy Cory. Oh, that girl." Mrs. Ellenburg shakes her head.
I don't allow my face to reveal that I am in the dark. I know Wes dated some girl on-and-off throughout his junior year. He never told me her name either. He never said anything about her. I wonder if she's the one who liked to throw things at him. "Mrs. El - I mean, Molly," I say, tipping the mashed potatoes into a clean bowl, "I assure you, I'm not crazy."
She laughs. "Oh, I hope not! Certainly you can't be any crazier than crazy Cory. Oh! All the time, breaking up and getting back together! Every day it was something new. When she gouged his neck with her fingernails, that's when the Skipper and I said, 'no more, you either break it off once and for all or we're moving you out of the dorms and back home'. It took him a few years to completely recover from her. Then he met that Chelsea and she was a real piece of work. Has he told you about her?"
"Not too much."
"Well, he wouldn't and he doesn't want me to tell you either," Mrs. Ellenburg says, wagging her finger. "I know my son. But I also know that you need to know. That Chelsea ripped his heart out and stomped all over it. She destroyed him. She's a nurse over at Stoneybrook General and she slept with the entire male staff of the ER. The Skipper and I fretted that he'd never move on. And now, here you are."
"Here I am," I echo, feeling the lowest I've ever felt in my life. She doesn't know it, but Mrs. Ellenburg has effortlessly reduced me to dust. "I love him," I tell her because really that's the only truth I can offer. And I'm not even convinced it is the honest truth. I need him and that may be the same as love.
"I'm so pleased," Mrs. Ellenburg says in her breezy voice and smiles. "I hope he makes you happy, Shannon." Her smile sort of flickers. "You are very young though. Please don't hurt my son." Mrs. Ellenburg picks up the serving plate and leaves the kitchen, leaving me alone to feel wilted and nauseated.
I force a smile onto my face as I carry the mashed potatoes into the dining room. Wes and Mr. Ellenburg assist in carry the dishes to the dining table, although Mr. Ellenburg appears to be doing more eating than anything else. The dining table seats sixteen, but Mrs. Ellenburg has us set up at one end of the massive table. When the four of us are seated and served, we say grace, then begin eating.
"So, Shannon," Mr. Ellenburg says to me, "what do your parents do?"
I freeze in mid-bite of a piece of yam. I lower my fork, my mind turning. I can't tell the truth, can I? Mom's a real estate agent. Her picture's in the real estate sections of every newspaper in the area on every Sunday. Her face is on a billboard outside Mercer. How easy for them to ask around about Kathy Kilbourne's oldest daughter. And Dad. Most of his friends live right here in Greenvale.
"Well, my dad drinks a lot," I answer. I don't think before I say it. It just slips out.
Mr. and Mrs. Ellenburg stare at me, stunned, forks poised to their mouths.
But they don't ask anything else about my family.
The rest of Thanksgiving lunch passes uneventfully. Wes loosens up, apparently deciding that his parents won't say anything too embarrassing and that I won't think they're freaks. I like the Ellenburgs. I understand why Wes - usually - speaks highly of them. If circumstances were different...if I could allow myself to imagine it...I could see a future with Wes, in this house, with his family. I think we would be very happy.
After lunch, Mrs. Ellenburg serves coffee and pumpkin pie in the formal sitting room. Wes and I sit on the love seat, close together with Wes' arm draped around my shoulders. He sets his plate on his lap, so he can eat his pie without letting me go of me. Mrs. Ellenburg sips her coffee and smiles at us, sort of vacantly. I'm wondering if she likes me.
"So, Shannon," Mr. Ellenburg says, setting his empty plate on the coffee table, "does Wesley call you twenty times a day?"
Wes chokes on his pie.
"Dennis!" Mrs. Ellenburg exclaims, sharply, swatting him on the leg.
"Well, the last one - "
"Dad," Wes says, agitatedly.
I pat Wes' knee. "Wes doesn't call me any more than I want him to," I assure Mr. Ellenburg.
Mr. Ellenburg doesn't appear convinced. Mrs. Ellenburg sips her coffee again, her face revealing nothing.
"Hey, Mr. El - um, Skipper, where's the parrot?" I ask to break the silence. "From the commercials?"
"At the store," he answers and jerks a thumb toward Mrs. Ellenburg. "She won't let him in the house."
"Oh, that bird is a menace!" Mrs. Ellenburg exclaims. "It's worse than the cat!"
Wes and I stay another hour. It's mostly pleasant, although Wes is obviously still peevedat his dad. I wish I could tell Wes I understand because his mother explained about Chelsea and I am nothing like her. But am I? I'm not sure. Maybe I'm no better. But maybe I'm no worse.
I assure Wes on the drive back to Stoneybrook that I enjoyed myself and liked his parents. He assures me of the same, then gently quizzes me about what his mother said to me upstairs and in the kitchen. I don't tell him what I know. He can tell me on his own, if he chooses. The day is still gray when we reach his apartment complex. Gray quickly turning black as night falls. It's cold out and I walk with my arms wrapped around Wes' waist. I try to not worry about his parents and what they may learn about me. Do they even know my last name? I never said it. I made a point not to.
I worry still that our time is short. Wes may learn the truth and hate me. What will I do then? I can't even consider him not loving me. I don't forget my earlier promise and as soon as we're inside the apartment I pull him into the bedroom. I intend to thank him properly for my gift. I intend to show him how much I love him and hope he'll remember when he needs to.
I don't mind sex so much anymore. It's gradually getting better. I enjoy certain aspects of it. I like that I excite Wes and that he wants to be with me. I like feeling protected underneath him. I like the gentle way he touches and kisses my breasts. And I especially like afterward when it's over and he holds me tight. But most of all, I like knowing that the more times I let him make love to me, the deeper he becomes committed to me, and with that, it becomes harder and harder for him to leave.
Wes is on top of me, thrusting inside me when the pounding starts on the ceiling. Little feet running back and forth. Only for little feet, they make an awfully loud noise. Wes pauses and looks up at the ceiling. "What's going on up there?" he asks, breathlessly.
"Who cares," I reply, just as breathlessly. "Keep going," I tell him because as awkward as it sometimes feels, it also feels pretty good.
Wes obeys and continues. He makes those odd little grunting noises I've come to love and I match them with my own.
Then a piercing ring comes through the ceiling and someone screams.
"What the hell?" Wes shouts, looking up again.
I sit up on my elbows, also staring at the ceiling. "I think...I think it's a fire alarm."
Wes rolls off me and grabs his boxer briefs. "Those little girls!" he yells, stepping into the underwear. "Just what I need. Those kids burning my apartment down. Stay here. I'll go check it out." He zips up his pants and picks his shirt up from the floor as he hurries out of the bedroom.
The alarm is still ringing. I press my hands over my ears and fall back onto the pillow. This is so predictable. Just when I was starting to almost enjoy myself. The alarm switches off. In the distance, I hear a siren wailing toward us. Then I hear the front door open and Wes sweeps back into the bedroom.
"Okay, I have to move," Wes tells me. "That little girl upstairs set her father's bed on fire."
I sit bolt straight up. "She what?" I demand.
"She told me it was a bed of lies and sin. The fire's out, but the fire department just pulled up. I don't think we'll have any peace and quiet for awhile."
I sigh, heavily. What a wonderful end to Thanksgiving.
"Want to go outside and watch?" Wes asks and from the expression on his face, I know he's dying to go back outside.
"Sure," I answer, swinging my legs out from under the comforter. I slip into my panties. "Do you have a shirt or robe I can borrow?" I ask Wes. I'm tired of wearing that dress.
Wes tosses me a shirt from the closet and I slip into it, buttoning the buttons as I follow Wes out of the bedroom. Wes flicks on the patio light and we step outside, the evil cat rushing through the sliding glass door after us. Outside, there's a fire truck parked at the edge of the parking lot, its lights spinning in the darkness. All Wes' neighbors are out on their porches and balconies, standing around and staring. Suddenly self-conscious, I try to smooth down my hair, which I realize is quite disheveled. Wes stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. He kisses my neck.
"Isn't this exciting?" he asks. "See what you get with me? Dinner and a show."
I giggle, then discreetly shield my face when Mr. Prezzioso rushes passed with the fire marshall. I hear him say, "Can we keep this quiet? I don't want my girlfriend to know."
Surely, that is the least of his problems.
"Maybe they'll lock those brats up and I can let Darth into the courtyard again," Wes whispers in my ear.
I giggle again. Then I glance out across the courtyard. My giggles die in my throat.
On the other side of the courtyard, bathed in the bright glow of the balcony light, there's a girl leaning against the railing with a pair of binoculars poised in front of her eyes. She isn't watching the Prezziosos or the firemen. Her binoculars are trained on me. From behind the binoculars, all I see is her shoulder-length blonde hair and her white and purple-checked headband. That's all I need to see. My breath is still caught in my throat as she lowers the binoculars.
She smiles and waves.