Fuck this guy, for real, Luke thinks, leaving the library with a notch between his eyebrows he can feel pushing at the nosepiece of his glasses.
“Mrs. Maddox,” he says, when he reaches the kitchen, and she holds up the whisk she’s using to halt him. Little globules of beaten eggs run down the tines.
“What did I say about that?”
“Sandy,” he corrects, shoulders slumping. “I’m gonna head out, but Mr…Willsaid to come back this afternoon.”
She nods and resumes whisking, eyes trained on him rather than what she’s doing, because she’s obviously a kitchen ninja. “He gets his second wind just after dinner, gets all chatty again. You and Hal can stay for dinner and then talk after. We’re having beef stew and cornbread.” She halts her mixing and upends the bowl of batter into a greased cast iron skillet.
Luke can’t remember the last time he had something as delicious as cornbread, so he says, “Okay.”
“I look forward to it.” She shoots him a smile. “You two getting anywhere?”
“Um, well…who knows.” He shrugs and she looks sympathetic. “Thanks. I’ll be back.” He ducks out before he can get roped into further discussion.
He’s halfway down the front steps when he hears, “Psssstttt!” from somewhere above, and he grinds to a halt.
Tara Maddox hangs out of a second floor window, dyed hair flapping in the breeze. “Hey,” she calls down in a stage whisper. “Hold up a sec.”
“What–” he starts, but the window closes and she’s gone.
First off, who knows what the hell that means. Second off, like hell should he listen to some wannabe-Goth brat senator’s daughter who told him to “wait a sec.”
But for some stupid reason, he hits the sidewalk and just stands there, waiting, like an idiot. “Fuck,” he says, under his breath, because he doesn’t know how he ever got to be so woefully stupid.
A moment later, he hears the low squeak of metal hinges and the garage door opens by about a foot. Tara rolls out, stands, and pushes the door back down in a few quick moves, then hustles toward him. She’s wearing all black: jeans, boots, t-shirt, leather jacket; and has a black backpack studded with buttons slung over one shoulder.
“Go!” she hisses when she reaches him, grabbing his arm and propelling him down the sidewalk with a surprising amount of force.
“What the hell?” he asks, but he falls into step, because he doesn’t want Sandy looking out the window and seeing them together. Him, being the adult, will be the one blamed, because in his experience, the parents of kids like Tara never believe what their little angels are capable of.
“I’m skipping school,” she says, as they put distance between themselves and the townhouse. She checks over her shoulder, black-rimmed eyes wild with excitement.
“Right. Because that’s cool. Nothing like being an uneducated dumbass to prove you’re hot shit.”
“Oh my God,” she groans.
“I mean, the public education system’s bad enough, but if you don’t even go at all…”
She still has hold of his arm and sends him a withering look. “You still think I’m in high school?”
“Well, what’s the fun in skipping out on college?”
“I have no interest in poli sci,” she says.
“Says the girl who could have an incredible career the moment she graduates. I was the first person in my family to go to college. Trust me, I dragged my ass into class when I had the flu and passed out in the hallway.”
She bites her lip, a fast flash of contrition. “But you’re doing what you want to do with your life.”
“Wrong. I’m writing a meaningless story about your grandfather for a magazine I don’t care about, living in an apartment the size of a pizza box.”
“But you’re a writer,” she persists.
Luke sighs. It’s cold out, and his breath puffs out in a white, vaporous cloud. “Yeah, I’m a writer.”
She glances away, down the sidewalk, nodding. The wind catches her hair, and he thinks it would look so much better its natural color. She has a lovely profile; classically pretty. The kind of face women pay tens of thousands of dollars to acquire.
She’s a brat, and trying to look like a punk just to spite her family, but Luke – in his own leather jacket, with holes in his socks – takes pity on her. It’s not much fun to be twenty and hate who you are.
