A La Carte (7 page)

I bite my lip, considering. Mom is still bugged by the whole Sim thing, and I can't tell where she's going with it. Does she think I need her to come with me to see him?

“Maybe another time,” I say uncomfortably. “I really should work on this paper.”

Mom turns back around, fiddling with an eyelash curler. “All right,” she says absently. “Another time, then. It was just a thought.” She closes the closet door and does a turn. “Do I pass?” She gestures at her outfit.

I nod. “You look fine.”

“All righty, then. See ya.” My mother gives a quick wave and steps out.

I drop my chin into my palm and frown at the door.

My mother is driving me nuts. She's constantly saying I don't have enough friends, then the minute one comes over, she starts making rules about how we can hang out. Now she's taking a huge interest in Simeon—and wants to hang out and watch him work? I can't say I like how this feels. I have no idea what my mother's up to. But when it's my mother? It can't be good.

6

“Hey, so, was your mom okay last night? You're not in trouble with her or anything, are you?” To my happy surprise, Sim is waiting at my desk in physics the next day.

I can barely keep a smile off my face. “No. Mom's cool. You know how she is.”

“Yeah.” Sim nods, relieved. “Look. You know that stuff you guys got when your grandma died? Think your mom would care if I took some of it?”

“No…” I make a face, imagining the boxes crammed into the guest room closet. “Why?”

Sim grins and lowers his voice. “I got my place last night.”

“No way!”

“Way.” Simeon leans close. “It's two blocks from Soy, and until Dad gives back my car or I buy one, I can take the bus from a block away. It's gonna happen, Laine.”

“That's amazing! I can't believe you set this up so fast!”

“Incoming,” Cheryl interrupts quietly. Mr. Wilcox is advancing on us with his usual jovial expression of good cheer.

“Mr. Keller, how nice of you to join us today,” Mr. Wilcox booms. Sim rolls his eyes and moves over to the next aisle as Mr. Wilcox continues, “If we could get started, people…”

For the rest of class, I've got a little glow. I'm really happy for Sim, and I can't wait to see his new apartment. He is so lucky. Even though I love my room and my house, I know it'd also be cool to have my own place for real. I can't believe Sim's parents are cool enough to let him do this.
My
mother would have a conniption fit.

I'm halfway home after school when Sim catches up with me again.

“Hey, you!”

“Hey!” I turn around and give a ridiculously pleased smile.

“So, I'm already packed.” Sim grins back, dropping a companionable arm around my shoulders. He picks up the conversation where he left off this morning. “I'm trying to decide if I should wait to leave until my mother comes home and conveniently remembers it's almost my birthday, or should I just sort of vanish before anyone's looking for me?” He gives a wicked laugh. “I should be taking bets on how many days it'll take for them to figure out that I'm not home. What do you think, Laine? Two days? Or three?”

Sim's arm is still around me, and I look up into his face. “Wait, what? Your parents don't know you're moving out?”

“What did I just say?” He's still grinning, with that manic light in his eyes.

I stop. “Man,
that's
going to freak them out. Your mom's going to start calling hospitals and morgues. Then your dad's going to call his friends on the police force.”

“The cops won't do anything for something like twenty-four hours.” Sim smiles angelically. “And I'm not breaking any laws; I'll come home once a week so they can't say I've actually moved until I fill out the emancipation paperwork or I turn eighteen. As far as they're concerned, I'm not a missing person—I just…moved.”

Shaking my head, I fish out my keys, unlock the lobby door, and begin the climb to our floor. “You totally screw with your parents' minds, Sim, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, they shouldn't have started screwing with me. It's not like they don't deserve it.”

“Jeez, Sim…” I drop my backpack and close the door behind us.

Simeon rolls his eyes, his mood evaporating lightning-quick.
“Jeez, Sim,”
he imitates me. He flops onto the couch in our front room and takes out a battered brass lighter, flipping open its lid and spinning around the small canister so that the flame appears as a blur. Even though he says he quit smoking, Sim still has tons of what I call stupid lighter tricks. He does one while he talks.

“My mom's going to get back from her retreat or whatever, and then, at the last minute, she'll remember it's almost my birthday, and then she'll make a big deal of it, and then she'll start talking about what a beautiful baby I was and how I was such a lovable little fellow and all the neighbors were jealous, and then she'll get all emotional because I'm such a disappointment to her now, blah blah blah.”

“Well…” I don't know what to say. I plop down next to him, feeling uncomfortable, as I always do when I think about Sim's family. His parents really don't get him. He's sensitive and artistic and unique, but he's not a perfectionist or all into grades and “achievements,” so they don't know how to treat him.

“It's not like they haven't been pushing for this, Laine,” Sim continues. “They probably want me to leave anyway…and you know what? One of these days, I'm just gonna go.”

Flip. Flip. Sim's flipping the flame on and off. On and off.

Every single magazine or novel or movie about high school has kids in it being mouthy, and parents putting up with it, until suddenly the kids are off to college and everyone misses each other and the credits roll for the Family Channel holiday movie. How come it's never really like that in real life?

“That would suck,” I say finally.

Sim shrugs.

“I would miss you,” I admit, and Sim shrugs again.

“And,” I continue, ignoring his lack of response, “no matter how crappy they treat you, I think your parents would miss you too, Sim.”

“Right.” Sim's voice is lifeless, his eyes flat. “Since I'm not ‘living up to my potential' and I'm such a ‘big disappointment,' I'm sure they would be dying for me to come back. Right.”

“Remember at the seventh-grade science fair, when you got disqualified for not having your whole project with you? And then you walked home to get the part you'd left, and your parents thought you'd been kidnapped?”

Sim cracks a smile at that. “Seventh grade. Those were the days, man.”

“Your parents freaked, Sim. Your mom cried when you came back. Remember?”

Flip. Flip. Simeon looks at me and shrugs. “That was a long time ago, okay? My parents can't do anything to stop me from going,” he continues, flipping the lighter faster in some complicated, over-the-knuckles move. “I already know that I'm not what they want, so why not make it easier on everybody and go?”

There's nothing to say to that. His parents are messed up, and that's not going to change, but I know that saying this won't help. I fumble to change the subject.

“It's almost four. We'd better get to kindergarten.” I put my hand on the lighter, grabbing his arm when he tries to shake me off. “Let's go see what food Emeril is shouting at today.” Anything is better than watching Sim get depressed.

Simeon shrugs again, then stands, shoving the lighter into his pocket and fiddling with his silver snake ring. “Nah…Let's go see if your grandma had any decent curtains.” He smiles wryly. “She's got to have something better than the pink flowery ones I saw at the Catholic thrift shop.”

“Grandma's stuff is in the guest room,” I say quickly, relieved I can do something to help. “Come on.”

When I crack open the first box, I can smell Grandma Muriel's perfume—a kind of powdery lavender smell. I stop and breathe it in, feeling almost guilty giving her things to Sim—I know she meant me to have them, and Mom said I should keep some of this stuff for college. But I don't need it right now, and Sim does.

As it turns out, Simeon hasn't thought much about rugs, sheets, or towels, not to mention the curtains he was after. Or pots and pans, either. He doesn't even have a couch, but he has found a double mattress and a box spring, and he figures he'll use his camping gear—a little gas stove and a sleeping bag—until his paycheck from Soy kicks in.

“You're using a gas stove? Your apartment doesn't have a stove?” I squeak.

“I think it has one,” Sim says, “it just doesn't have an oven. I'll get a microwave. It'll be fine.”

“I couldn't live without a stove.”

“Sure you could. You could say, ‘Hey, it's camping!' And you'd be fine.”

“We can do better than you camping,” I tell him.

I pile a couple of sets of sheets, some plain brown curtains, two of Grandma's rag rugs, and some old, but still reasonably thick, towels on the floor. Simeon, sitting on the bed, gives me the thumbs-up or thumbs-down on everything I pull out.

“No, Sim, that bedspread is hideous,” I argue as he gives me a thumbs-up on some tufted chenille thing and puts it in his pile. “No one in their right mind would actually be able to sleep under that. Here. Put it in the ‘to go' pile. Maybe someone can make a quilt out of it.”

Simeon thinks Grandma's stuff is great—his word is
retro.
I think it's hilarious.

“You just don't understand art when you see it,” Simeon insists. “That, tacked to the wall, would make a killer background for posters or something. Trust me on this, Lainey. You have no idea how much I'm feeling this.”

I sigh. I know I have no idea. My room is what reflects my mom's idea of décor. Up until now, that has worked out okay, because I don't usually care what things look like as long as there's enough light to read by and plenty of pillows for when I want to prop up and watch TV. Now the navy blue sheets, denim accent pillows with their white buttons, and white-striped duvet and matching window seat look hopelessly buttoned down and little girlish. Even the signed picture Pia got me of Saint Julia and Jacques Pépin, framed and in the place of honor above my dresser, seems kind of babyish.

Sim reads my thoughts. “I'll do your room next,” he consoles me, and I make a face.

“Oh no, you won't. I don't do chenille.”

“Just wait. You'll be begging me,” Sim says cheerfully. “Better say yes now,” he adds. “After next week, I'll start charging.”

“Whatever!” I throw a pillowcase in the direction of his head.

We pack up two boxes of stuff for Sim and lug them downstairs. “You want anything to eat?” I ask him as he flops on the couch in the den and picks up the remote.

“Whatcha got?” he asks. He has his phone in hand, punching numbers.

“Just some leftovers from the restaurant,” I say, investigating the contents of the refrigerator. “We've got soup and rolls and half a cheesecake.”

Sim grunts and starts talking on the phone. I bring him a slice of dessert and a fork. He keeps talking, arranging with someone to pick up the boxes, gossiping about someone at school, taking bites, and nodding. He keeps his hand on the TV remote, flipping channels and talking. He flips past a cooking show.

“Hey!” I grab the remote.

Sim rolls his eyes and keeps talking.

It's another chef with a band in her kitchen (where do they get these people?), but I watch the cooking show anyway and learn how to make grape focaccia. Unbelievably, Sim stays on the cell phone the whole time. He talks until he's finished the rest of the cheesecake and the credits are rolling down the screen. When he hangs up, I'm a little annoyed.

“So, I guess the cheesecake was good,” I say, indicating the empty pan.

“What? Oh yeah, it was great. Listen, Jared's on his way over, and he's going to drop me home, so I'll see ya, okay?”

“Oh.” Disappointment coagulates in my stomach. “Um, okay. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Sim leans over and gives me a one-armed hug. “Thanks, Laine. As soon as I get settled, I promise I'm making you dinner. You'll be my first guest.”

“Really?” I laugh and hug him back, disappointment lifting a little. “What, so, we're having toast?”

“I can cook!” Sim insists. He taps his finger on my nose, eyes narrowed in mock anger. “You'll be sorry you doubted me.”

I can't stop smiling. “Fine. You cook, but I'm making dessert.”

“Oh, can you make some of that cheesecake?” Sim brightens. “Is it hard to—”

Simeon's eyes leave mine at the sound of the downstairs buzzer, and he's off the couch and heading for the door before I can recover.

“'S'up, Jared?” he says into the intercom. “On my way.”

I stand in the lobby with my hands in my pockets, looking at the little SUV pulled up on the front walk. I've seen the girl in the car at school. Her name is Serena or something. She gives me a little nod from behind her sunglasses. She is skinny and glamorous, her blond-streaked hair razor cut and tousled. I feel immature with my ponytail and jeans.

Sim opens the back door. “Okay, thanks, Lainey, see ya,” he says.

“No problem,” I say, swallowing. Sim and his friends head off down the street, and I go back inside with a little sigh. I wish Sim would've stuck around a little longer, but if I'm being real, I know he only came over here for Grandma Muriel's stuff anyway. That and the leftovers he ate. I pick up the empty pie plate and stare at it. Whoever said that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach doesn't know Sim. He's been eating over here forever, and I'm not any closer to his heart, especially not lately.

And then I remember that he's making me dinner.

I smile and set the cheesecake pan in the sink. It won't take me long to cook up another one.