Swept Away (2 page)

Amber stands there for a moment, stuck, awkward. Finally her limbs start moving again and she’s halfway down the hall before Michael’s distinct baritone is bellowing out her name, “Hey Alice!”

Well. Close enough. He got the first letter right at least. She knows he’s talking to her because he’s heading her way and she feels his eyes on her like a physical weight. “Umm… I think that’s your name?” Unsure has never looked more adorable on anyone Amber is fairly certain.

“It’s Amber, actually,” she mumbles through numb lips. And it’s absolutely ridiculous this crush she has. She knows better than this, she’s the school debate
Queen;
words are her friends and confidantes. She is almost fluent in Latin (as fluent as you could get with a dead language anyway) and she in a short few weeks has paved the way for their school to remain in the top five tier of debating championships. She shouldn’t be so freaking tongue tied over a boy who probably thinks she’s mentally slow and goes out of his way to say hello but still doesn’t know her name.

“Sorry, Amber then. I just wanted to ask…” He trails off, distracted by the crash of something that was probably expensive clattering to the floor overhead. “Fuck, not my mom’s glass vases,” he moans. And before she can ask him what he wanted he’s dashing away. Again. Just like their first non-conversation.

Amber sighs and heads for the kitchen, following her father in his retreat.

“They want more of some sort of sausage…?” She asks. Dad is in the middle of flipping what looks like very thin pancakes though she’s sure he has another word for it that’s half a mile long and unpronounceable.

“The Sautéed Chorizo?”

“I guess?” There’s an array of edible delicacies lining the counter top and as quickly as her father puts them down there’s someone sweeping them up and out the double doors.

“Did they say what it looked like?” He’s flipping the pancakes with short jerky motions of his hand and the smell of cinnamon and fried meat lingers heavily on the air.

“Just sausage thingies, quote unquote.”

Dad’s frown gets bigger and deeper around the creasing of his mouth and she knows he’s finding this whole ordeal beyond insulting. He used to be a cook for a high-class restaurant when she was little but ever since the move it’s been harder and harder for him to find work. People only hire those in their inner circle and there’s no doubting the fact that David Moore sticks out like a sore thumb that’s bleeding and oozing pus, with the Beverly Hills crowd.

She feels sorry for her dad sometimes. He keeps trying when the saner option is just to let it go and accept the fact that they’ll always be on the bottom of the totem pole.

“There should be some more over there by the second oven.”

Amber refrains from gawping and just shakes her head. Who ever heard of more than one oven in someone’s actual house? It’d been too noisy and she’s been too nervous about coming to help out that she hadn’t really got a change to look around. It’s pretty much a mansion and just setting foot in here makes her feel tiny and awkward and clumsily out of place, but other than that she hadn’t given a thought to exactly how much money his family had to have until she was confronted with the second oven.

“Take them out for me?” Dad asks but his back is turned and it’s more a thoughtfully worded demand than a real question.

“Sure,” she answers anyway. They’re right where he said they’d be and there’s a trail of steam still rising from them so they’re ready to eat. She gingerly picks the tray up and is careful not to burn her hands. And returns to back through those double doors to the noise beyond.

Three hours later the party is still in full swing despite the increasingly drunk state of the teenagers that are partying. The music is blasting, the full body thumpa thumpas shuddering through her very soul, and as the night approaches the lighting dims too until it’s rather like what she supposes a club would be and not someone’s house. Granted, someone’s huge, mammoth, gigantic, mansion-sized house.

Her feet are killing her and she’s stumbled upon no less than four couples making out in varying states of undress.

Her father’s mood has soured as the night drags on and he’s fairly grunting orders at her and sending her out with plate after plate with barely a chance to stop and breathe in between. By the time another hour and a half passes, so very slowly, Amber isn’t bothering with asking what they want any more, people take what she has or they go bother some other poor server because she’s through with this entire thing.

Somebody bumps into her from behind and makes her drop a whole tray of steamed shrimp and red cocktail sauce down her shirt.

“Christ!” She yelps as the whole mess squelches in her bra and red spreads across her crisp white blouse like a blood stain. It’s cold and smells like vinegar and she feels tears prickling at her eyes.

The person doesn’t bother to stay and help her clean up and that is it. She’s done. Amber dumps the tray in amongst the others they’ve set to the side to wash and retreats to a bathroom she saw earlier during her rotation around the mansion halls in search of hungry guests.

She locks herself in when she finds it, uncaring if there’s someone out there that might need to use it. She deserves it more because this day has been absolutely horrible.

Amber wipes off the most of the mess under cold water and then waves at her shirt in the vain hope it’ll dry enough so she can go back outside without looking like she’s the unfortunate victim of a drive by wet t-shirt contest. With red paint.

Her father takes one look at her when she escapes to the kitchen and his annoyed frown melts away into soft eyes and a pitying sigh. “Aw, kiddo,” he says, “what on Earth happened to you?”

Amber shrugs. “Am I allowed to go home now,” she moans, “is this nightmare finally over?”

Dad chuckles and busses a kiss on her forehead. Her eyes close for a moment and she breathes in the scent of garlic and oregano, flashes of memory springing to life from those two particular blends of aromas. It always smells like home when her father cooks, even when they’re so far away from it.

“Yeah, go on home. I just have to wrap up and I’m heading out too.”

Amber gives him a quick hug—he hugs her back after a moment’s shocked hesitation, they haven’t been very affectionate lately—and leaves before he can change his mind.

* * * *

As soon as she steps onto the front porch and shuts the door behind her, Amber feels a thousand times better. Brilliant fresh air lovingly sweeps the night way. It’s dark and cold and awesome. Amber puts her arms out like she’s an airplane and lets the breeze wash over her.

She’ll have to catch a bus back home but it’ll probably be mostly empty at this time of night, no fighting and squirming for a decent seat that’s not cramped and crowded with the stuffy aroma of sweat and grime.

She can still hear the muted noises of the party going on behind her but its far enough away that she can ignore it in favor for the steady clomp of her own steps on the concrete path.

Mom and Dad both say she lives too much in her head and needs to learn to let other people in. It’s about the only thing they both agree on. Her own company is just so much less confusing than the wild noisy masses.

Anyway, she sees what letting someone else in did for her parents. They’re both so happy now, aren’t they?

As she passes the line of trees that border the property, she can hear a soft voice coming from within them. Amber rolls her eyes. She’s pretty sure it has to be some couple giving in to their raging hormones. Like it would have been such a hardship to have kept it inside in one of those dozens of rooms that house contained.

Amber pauses with no good reason why except that she’s kind of curious. She blushes even though there’s no one around to call her out on being a big old perv, sneaking around and waiting for hormonal teenagers to appear half clothed.

It’s just as much of a shock when she realizes it’s not a couple at all, just Michael sitting there in a half-hidden gazebo apparently talking to himself.

Amber approaches hesitantly. “Are you okay?”

Michael looks up, startled. She’s pretty sure she’s not making this up even though just standing in his presence makes it hard to breathe, but his green eyes glitter at her bright as emeralds. “Oh hey, Amber.”

He says it sure with no stutter or trip or pause between syllables and Amber glows inside knowing he’s remembered her name.

“I’m good,” he responds belatedly. “It was just getting kinda, you know…” he waves his hand around in an aborted wave that ends with his palm patting the empty bench and motioning for her to sit.

At least she thinks that’s what he intends. Apparently he wasn’t trying to use sign language on her all those weeks ago, he just talks with his hands.

Amber sits down, as close to the metal arm of the bench on the other side as she can, careful not to touch Michael at all. Still there’s only a couple of inches between them and she can the feel the heat of his presence sizzling in the air.

“You ever think about what happens after high school?”

Amber shrugs. Every day.

“Yeah, well, I graduate this year, you know? I have no clue what I want to do. I don’t even know if I want to go to college. My parents want me to but you know what? It’s not their life, its mine.”

Amber nods along. She knows what he means, she hadn’t wanted to move here, she hadn’t wanted a new family or a new house or a new school or any of it but no one asked her. It’s her life and no one cares they just expect her to go along with everything like she doesn’t have a say. Because she doesn’t get a say and how fair is that?

“It’s so stupid too,” Michael continues, “everyone makes this huge deal about being in high-school. You’ve gotta make good grades and be on every freaking little everything and then it’s all over and they’re like ‘now what’ what are you going to do with the rest of your life? How am I supposed to know? This
has been
my whole life.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out harshly. An arm comes up and his fingertips brush against her elbow. Amber shivers.

His eyes narrow suspiciously, “How old are you anyway? You’re a freshman right? Fifteen?”

Amber nods and looks down. “14.”

“Yeah,” Michael sighs, “you’re just a kid. You don’t have to worry about any of this for another couple of years. Everything is all bright and new and shiny for you now, right?”

She shrugs because what is she supposed to say to that? She hates high-school and she hates this neighborhood and she hates everything since her Mom and Dad broke up.

Michael must see it on her face because he pauses and really stares. “What do you worry about, Amber?”

She shrugs again, her shoulders getting more of a work out than her mouth. She worries about everything but she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to tell him that without sounding dramatic.

“My mom and dad are divorcing,” she says instead and hopes that those words convey the entirety of everything she wants so desperately to tell him. It’s their divorce but it’s her life and no one ever asks her what she wants or if she’s okay or anything at all. In all of this Michael is the only one who’s even asked her what she worries about.

“Mine did when I was your age too,” Michael admits.

They sit with that quietly and she knows her hope is not in vain. He does understand.

Finally Michael stretches, both arms coming up over his head and his back arching. “You’re really cool to talk to Amber, thanks.”

She smiles at him, the warmth of his words settling inside comfortably. “I gotta get home,” she says as she stands.

“Hey, I’ll take you.”

Amber almost says yes. She really wants to be as close to him for as long as she can but—

“You’ve been drinking all night.”

“Nope, not me, just everyone else. I promise.” He crosses his heart and smiles guilelessly.