Lock and Key (36 page)

“How do you know that?”

“Will you be prepared for it?”

Upstairs, I heard Cora laughing. A good sign. “Define prepared,” I said.

“Scoring a ninety or higher.”

“No,” I said. Which was, sadly, the truth. Even with all my studying and preparation, calculus was still the one thing that could take me from zero to panicked in less than thirty seconds.

“Then you should let me help you,” Gervais said.

“Help me?”

“I’m very good at calculus,” he explained, pushing up his glasses. “Not only doing it, but explaining it. I’m tutoring two people in my class at the U right now. And that’s college-level calc, not that easy-schmeezy kind you’re doing.”

Easy-schmeezy,
I thought. He hadn’t changed entirely. “You know,” I said, “that’s a very nice offer. But I think I’ll be okay.”

“It’s not an offer,” he said. “It’s a proposition.”

Suddenly, I had a flash of him in the car that day, drawing in his breath. Plus the staring at lunch in the green, and the weird way he’d acted at the Vista 10.
Oh, God,
I thought, finally getting it. Nate was right. He
liked
me. This was just what I needed. “You know,” I said, reaching behind him for the door, “you’re a nice kid, Gervais, but—”

“It’s about Olivia,” he said.

I stopped, mid-sentence, not sure I was hearing him right. “What?”

He coughed. Then blushed. “Olivia Davis,” he said. “You’re friends with her, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Why?”

“Because,” he said. He coughed again. “I, um, like her. Kind of.”

“You like
Olivia
?”

“Not like that,” he said quickly. “I just . . .”

I waited. It seemed like a long time passed.

“. . . I want to be her friend,” he finished.

This was kind of sweet, I had to admit. Also surprising. Which brought me to my next question. “Why?”

“Because,” he said as if it was simple, obvious. When it became clear this was not the case, he added, “She talks to me.”

“She talks to you,” I repeated.

He nodded. “Like, at the theater. And when she sees me in the hall at school, she always says hello. Nobody else does that. Plus, she likes the same movies I do.”

I looked down at him, standing there before me in his heavy coat and glasses. Sure, he was annoying, but it did have to be hard for him. No matter how smart you were, there was a lot you couldn’t learn from books. “Then just be friends with her,” I said. “You don’t need me for that.”

“I do, though,” he said. “I can’t just go up and talk to her. But if I was, you know, helping you with your calculus at lunch or something, then I could just hang out with you guys.”

“Gervais,” I said slowly. “I think that’s really sweet—”

“Don’t say no,” he pleaded.

“—but it’s also deceptive.”

He shook his head, adamant. “It’s not, though! I don’t like her that way. I just want to be friends.”

“Still, it would be like I’m setting her up. And friends don’t do that.”

Never in a million years would I have thought I would be offering up a primer on friendship, much less to Gervais Miller. Even less likely? That I would feel sorry for him after I did so. But as he regarded me glumly, then stepped back to the door, I did.

“All right,” he said, his voice flat. Defeated. “I understand. ”

I watched him as he turned the knob, pulling the door open. Once again, I found myself torn as to what to do, but this time, the stakes weren’t so high. Maybe I couldn’t do anything for Nate. But I could help someone.

“How about this,” I said. He turned back to me slowly. “I’ll hire you.”

“Hire me?”

“As a tutor. I pay what everyone else pays, you do what you do. If it just so happens we meet during lunch and Olivia is there, then so be it. But she is not part of the deal. Understood? ”

He nodded vigorously, his glasses bobbing slightly. “Yes.”

“All right then,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he replied, stepping outside and starting down the stairs. Halfway there, he turned back to me. “Oh. I’m twenty dollars an hour, by the way. For the tutoring.”

Of course he was. I said, “Am I going to pass calculus?”

“It’s guaranteed,” he replied. “My method is proven.”

I nodded, and then he continued down the steps, grabbing his helmet from his scooter and pulling it on. Maybe this was a big mistake, one among many. But sometimes, we all need a little help, whether we want to admit it or not.

“Come in, come in,” Jamie said as yet another group came bustling in, their chatter rising up to the high ceiling of the foyer. “Welcome! Drinks are in the back, and there’s tons of food. Here, let me take your coat. . . .”

I leaned back against the doorjamb of the laundry room, where I’d been hiding out with Roscoe ever since Jamie and Cora’s post-Christmas, pre-New Year holiday open house began. Officially, it was my job to keep the ice bucket full and make sure the music was audible, but other than doing this on a most perfunctory level, I wasn’t exactly mingling.

Now, though, as Jamie, with his arms full of coats, glanced around him, I knew I should show myself and offer to help him stow them upstairs. Instead, I slid down into a sitting position, my back to the dryer, nudging the door shut with my foot. Roscoe, who’d been exiled here for his own mental well-being, immediately hopped up from his bed and came over to join me.

It had been two days since Christmas, and I hadn’t seen or talked to Nate. Once, this would have seemed impossible, considering our very proximity—not to mention how often we crossed paths, intentionally or otherwise. Maybe it was just that school was out, we weren’t riding together, and we were both busy with our respective jobs, where things hadn’t slowed down, even after Christmas. But even so, I had the distinct feeling he was avoiding me.

This was surprising, but even more shocking was the fact that it was bothering me so much. After all, this was what I’d wanted once—more space between us, less connection. Now that I had it, though, I felt more worried about him than ever.

Just then, the door opened. “One second, I just have to grab another roll of—” Cora was halfway inside, still talking to someone over her shoulder, when she stopped in mid-stride and sentence, seeing me and Roscoe on the floor. “Hey,” she said slowly. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said. She shut the door as Roscoe got up, wagging his tail. “Just taking a breather.”

“But not in the closet,” she said.

“This was closer.”

She reached over the washing machine, pulling down a roll of paper towels. “Already a spill on the carpet,” she said, tearing them open. “Happens every year.”

“Sounds like it’s going well otherwise, though,” I said as some people passed by in the hallway outside, their voices bouncing off the walls.

“It is.” She turned back to me, the towels in her arms. “You should come out, have some food. It’s not that bad, I promise.”

“I’m a little low on cheer,” I told her.

She smiled. “You’ve been a real trooper, I have to say. Christmas with Jamie is like an endurance trial. My first year I almost had a total breakdown.”

“It’s just weird,” I said. “I mean, last year . . .” I trailed off, realizing I didn’t even remember what I’d done last year for the holidays. I had a vague recollection of delivering luggage, maybe a company party at Commercial. But like everything else from my old life, this was distant, faded. “I’m just tired, I guess.”

“Just make an appearance,” she said. “Then you can come back here, or hit the closet for the rest of the day. All right? ”

I looked up at her, dubious, as she extended her hand to me. But then I let her pull me to my feet and followed her out into the hallway. Two steps later, as we entered the kitchen, we were ambushed.

“Cora! Hello!” I jumped, startled, as a petite woman in a flowing, all-white ensemble, her dark hair pulled back at her neck, suddenly appeared in front of us, a wineglass in one hand. “Happy holidays!”

“Happy holidays,” Cora replied, leaning forward to accept a kiss—and a shadow of a lipstick stain—on her cheek. “Barbara, this is my sister, Ruby. Ruby, this is Barbara Starr.”

“You have a sister? ” Barbara asked. She was wearing several multicolored beaded necklaces that swayed and clacked across her chest each time she moved, as she did now, turning to face me. “Why, I had no idea!”

“Ruby just came to live with us this year,” Cora explained. To me, she said, “Barbara is an author. Best-selling, I might add.”

“Oh, stop,” Barbara replied, waving her hand. “You’ll embarrass me.”

“She was one of my very first clients,” Cora added. “When I was working in a family law practice, just out of school.”

“Really,” I said.

“I got divorced,” Barbara explained, taking a sip of her wine. “Which is never fun. But because of your sister, it was the
best
divorce I’ve ever had. And that’s really saying something.”

I looked at Cora, who shook her head almost imperceptibly, making it clear I should not ask what exactly this meant. Instead, she said, “Well, we should probably go check on the food, so . . .”

“Everything is just wonderful. I love the holidays!” Barbara said, sighing. Then she smiled at me and said, “Is the rest of your family here, as well? I’d just love to meet your mother.”

“Um,” I said, “actually—”

“We’re not really in touch with our mom these days,” Cora told her. “But we
are
lucky to have so many great friends like you here today. Would you like some more wine?”

“Oh,” Barbara said, looking at her glass, then at us. “Well, yes. That would be lovely.”

Cora eased the glass from her hand—still smiling, smiling—then passed it off to me, touching the small of my back with her other hand. As I took this cue, moving forward, I looked back at her. Barbara was talking again, her hands fluttering as she made some point, but my sister, even as she nodded, was watching me. Awfully smooth, I thought. But then again, she’d been away from my mom a lot longer than I had. Practice does make perfect, or close to it.

Glass in hand, I made my way through the crowd, which had grown considerably since the last time I’d checked the ice and music. Jamie was still in the foyer, answering the door and taking coats, when I finally reached the bar area to get the white wine.

“Macaroons!” I heard him say suddenly. “You shouldn’t have.”

I turned around. Sure enough, there was Nate, in jeans and a blue collared shirt, his hands in his pockets. His dad was beside him, shrugging off his jacket and smiling as Jamie admired his offering. “They’re Belgian,” Mr. Cross said. “
Very
expensive.”

“I’ll bet,” Jamie replied, clapping Nate on the shoulder. “Now, let me get you a drink. What’s your poison, Blake? We’ve got beer, Scotch, wine . . .”

He gestured toward the bar, and as they all turned, Nate’s eyes met mine. Mr. Cross lifted a hand, waving at me, but I just picked up the glass, quickly folding myself back into the crowd.

When I returned to the spot where I’d left Cora and Barbara, however, they were both gone, a couple of Jamie’s
UMe.com
employees—easily identified by their so-nerdy-they’re -cool glasses, expensive jeans, and vintage T-shirts— in their place, jabbering about Macs. I turned slowly, scanning the crowd for Barbara. Instead, I came face-to-face with Nate.

“Hey,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”

I swallowed, then took in a breath. “Merry Christmas.”

There was a pause, which then stretched to an awkward pause, even as someone laughed behind us.

“So I brought you a present,” he said, reaching behind him and pulling out a wrapped parcel from his back pocket.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Macaroons.”

“No,” he replied, making a face as he held it out to me. “Open it up.”

I looked down at the gift, which was wrapped in red paper decorated with little Christmas trees, and thought of myself standing at his door that night, my own small offering in hand. “You know,” I said, nodding to the glass of wine I was still holding, “I should probably—”

“Never delay opening a gift,” Nate said, reaching to take the glass from me, putting it on a nearby counter. “Especially one that’s already belated.”

Emptyhanded, I had no choice but to take it from him, turning it over in my hands and running a finger under the tape. Two women passed by us, chattering excitedly, their heels clacking, as it fell open to reveal a T-shirt. On the front, in that same familiar block lettering: USWIM.

“Your personal philosophy,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “I looked for one that said ‘If you expect the worst you’ll never be disappointed,’ but they were all out.”

“I’ll bet.” I looked up at him. “This is really nice. Thank you.”

“No problem.” He leaned back against the wall behind him, smiling at me, and I had a flash of us in the pool together, how he’d grabbed my hand and pulled me under. The memory was so close, I could see every bit of it. But just as clearly, there was the other night, how his face had looked, retreating through the crack in that door. Two opposite images, one easing me closer, another pushing away. “So,” he said, “how was your Christmas?”

“How was yours?” I replied, and while I didn’t mean for there to be an edge in my voice, even I could hear it. So could he. His face immediately changed, the smile not disappearing, but seeming to stretch more thin. I cleared my throat, then looked down at the shirt again. “I mean, you had to expect I’d ask.”

Nate nodded, glancing across the kitchen to the living room, where I could see his dad was talking to a stout woman in a red Christmas sweater. “It was fine,” he said. “A little stressful, as you saw.”

“A little?” I asked.

“It’s not a big deal, okay?”

“Sure seemed that way.”

“Well, it wasn’t. And it’s ancient history.”