Wrong About the Guy (8 page)

H
eather's mother called around seven and said, “Don't you have a Spanish quiz tomorrow?” and Heather said she did, but it wasn't a big deal, and her mother said that she would like Heather to come home and study. So she left, apologizing profusely for abandoning me.

But I was fine. I read a book while Jacob watched TV and then I put him to bed. The thing about Jacob was that so long as you didn't change his routine, he was super easy to babysit. I read the five picture books he loved in the exact same order that Mom always read them in, and he curled up after the last one and let me leave without a single complaint.

I crept out of his room, went to my own, and changed into sweatpants and a soft old Dire Straits T-shirt that had been Luke's when he was a teenager, then got into bed with my laptop; I decided I would do some of the
homework that George had assigned me. He expected me
not
to do it, and I liked to be unpredictable.

But first I had to check my email. And then my Tumblr, Instagram, and Twitter feeds.

Riley had posted a link to a music video on her Tumblr page, so I watched that, and that reminded me there was another music video I'd been wanting to see, then I clicked on a link to another video . . . and that led me to some others. . . .

It was past ten when the wall monitor beeped: someone was at the front gate. I touched the screen and said, “Who is it?”

“It's Aaron. I was texting you but you didn't answer—I'm right outside.”

“Cool! Come on in.” I hit the gate button and ran downstairs. I opened the front door just as a minivan came crunching through the gravel in front of the house. We had a pretty long driveway: Mom and Luke had deliberately chosen a house that was set far back behind high gates to keep paparazzi from getting any shots from the street.

“Hi!” I called out as Aaron swung his car door open. I was happy to see him, even if it was late and I had already gotten ready for bed.

He looked much more elegant than I did. He was wearing slim black pants and a V-neck sweater over a collared shirt. “Hello!” He ran up the steps and kissed
me on the cheek. “Look at how adorable you are. I didn't know you were a Dire Straits fan.”

“I'm a huge fan—of this very soft T-shirt. You're coming in, right? Luke and Mom are still out, so you're stuck with just me.”

“Exactly who I wanted to see. Sorry about ditching you earlier.”

“No worries. What happened?”

He followed me into the house and down the hallway into the kitchen. “My father was working late and he gave me this whole guilt trip about keeping Crystal and Mia company. As if either of them cares. So . . . awkward evening trying to make conversation with the ice queen.” He sighed. “Family duty. It's a bitch.”

“Want a cup of tea? Or something to eat?”

He sat down at the table. “Tea sounds good.”

I spun the coffee pod Christmas tree so I could see what kinds we had. “Chamomile okay?”

“Whatever. It's all disgusting as far as I'm concerned.”

“Then why do you want some?”

“I just like seeing you bustle around the kitchen. You're so cute when you're domestic.”

I smiled at him sweetly as I gave him the finger.

“Ah, a feminist,” he said jovially.

“Don't you forget it.” I put in a chamomile pod for him. “What did you do for dinner?”

“Crystal's never cooked a meal in her life, so she
dragged me out to some fancy Beverly Hills steakhouse, where she paid seventy-five dollars for a plate of food she only pretended to eat.” He glanced around. “So why are you home alone? I'd have thought you'd be out doing something spectacular.”

“Nah,” I said. “I got invited to a birthday party, but—” I shrugged.

“Not interested?”

“I barely know the kid. He only invited me because I'm Luke Weston's stepdaughter. You know what I mean?”

“Are you kidding?” Aaron said. “People wanting to get close to you because your father's famous? That's like my middle name. Like last summer—this older girl in my film program made this ridiculous pass at me. She showed up in my room wearing a coat with nothing on underneath. I'm sure she'd seen it in a movie.”

“Or twenty.”

“Exactly. Total cliché. Anyway, somehow I got her to sit down and just talk to me—and of course it turns out that she's a budding songwriter who's wondering if she can make it worth my while to pass her CD on to my father.”

“Seriously?” I said. “Were you tempted?”

“Nah,” he said. “A naked girl in my room does nothing for me.”

“Why not?” I picked up the mug of tea and turned to look at him. “Oh, wait—are you gay?” I hadn't gotten the vibe . . . but he
was
awfully good-looking and he dressed well. It kind of made sense.

“No, just a liar,” he said cheerfully. “I like naked girls in my room.”

“Oh. So did you really send her away?”

“We talked for a while. . . . She left on her own but it was all friendly. My point is, I know what it's like to have people look at you and only see a stepping-stone to your famous father. The trick is to use that to your advantage.” He grinned at me. “There are perks.”

“Yeah, I know. No one's going to be playing the tragedy violin for either of us.” I brought the tea over to him. “What's it like at your school? Are kids all over you?”

“Here they are. In New York, it was less of an issue. People are cooler in New York. So far, I'm not impressed with the kids at Fenwick anyway. I'm only here for the one year, so I'm not looking to make a ton of friends.” He tilted his head at me. “I have you, right?”

“Definitely.” We were interrupted by the sound of the garage door, followed by the appearance of Mom and Luke.

There's always something a little less polished and put-together about people coming home from a party
than when they leave for one. The twist in Mom's hair was maybe just a little less tight and her dress was the slightest bit crumpled and Luke's sweater had a pull or two in it—maybe that's why it was clear that they were at the end of an evening and not at the beginning of one. Or maybe it was the way Mom's face was tinged pink and she was walking too carefully but not quite straight, despite Luke's guiding arm.

“I was wondering whose car that was,” Luke said as he steered Mom into the kitchen. He released her so he could shake hands with Aaron. “This is a nice surprise.”

“I just dropped by for a quick visit,” Aaron said. “Hope it's okay that it's so late.”

“Of course!” Luke nudged Mom with an annoyingly meaningful glance at me and Aaron. “Come on, Cassie. They don't need us here.”

“Oh, okay.” She took a sudden step back, right onto Luke's foot. He steadied her.

“How much did you drink?” I asked her.

“Not that much,” she said. Above her head, Luke mimed tossing drink after drink into his mouth.

“A fine example you set,” I said with mock superiority.

“It's not my fault. They kept refilling my glass.”

“I can't wait to use that as my excuse when I come back from the next after-party.”

“I'm putting her to bed,” Luke said, tugging her
toward the doorway. “Good night, Aaron. Really great to see you.” He ushered Mom into the hallway and I could hear her giggling a little on the stairs. Well, at least she sounded more cheerful than she had earlier.

“I should probably go,” Aaron said, standing up. “I only came by to tell you that I wish I could have spent the whole evening with you, like we'd planned. And also that my new home is one weird place.”

“Whose home isn't?”

He shook his head. “You have no idea how good you have it. Your mom and Luke—they actually like each other. My dad's never been married to someone he liked. He clearly can't stand being home with Crystal and he was the same way with my mother.”

“If they ever really drive you crazy, feel free to come hang here.”

“I wish. The problem is they both want me around as much as possible—I'm like their buffer. Which is about as much fun as you'd guess.” He stopped and studied me. “Why is it so easy to talk to you? I don't normally tell people private stuff like this.”

“I feel the same way,” I said. “Maybe it's just that we have such similar situations. Not many people get it. And if I told anyone else something private about my parents, I'd be terrified of seeing it in the tabloids the
next day. Let's make a pact to just unload all this stuff on each other.”

“It's a deal.” He held out his hand and we shook and then he leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek. “I am very glad I came back to LA for this year,” he said softly.

T
he school activity fair was that Tuesday. Ben and I manned a booth to get people to sign up for the Holiday-Giving Program. Riley and Skyler circulated around the crowded gym with flyers and pointed people in our direction.

Arianna came over and asked if she could help. Ben suggested she reach out to the juniors she knew and encourage them to come talk to us, and she obediently ran off.

Things were quiet at our post, so I was idly watching the crowd when I spotted Arianna targeting two girls from her class and walking them toward us. They were staring at me, and as they got nearer, I heard one of them say, “Luke Weston? Oh my God!”

They signed up to help at the Christmas party, and after they left, I said to Arianna, “Please don't tell people Luke will come to the party. He might not and
I'd rather people signed up because they actually want to be involved.”

“Oh, I'm not!” she said with a wave of her hand. “Don't worry! Everyone's just really excited about helping out.” And she went running off to collar some more people . . . who all stared at me as she whispered something to them.

And I was pretty sure I could guess what she was whispering.

Heather couldn't join me for tutoring that Wednesday night. She had a drill team practice. I didn't get drill team—it wasn't cheerleading and it wasn't dance and in all honesty, the videos I'd seen of her doing it were pretty lame—but she loved it and I'm guessing it appeased her mother's thirst for extracurriculars to put on her college app.

Anyway, it was just me and George that night. As soon as we sat down in the kitchen, he asked me why I hadn't emailed him any of the work I'd said I would.

“About that . . .” I said. “The dog ate my homework?”

“No dog,” he pointed out. “And it was all on the computer.”

“If I
had
a dog, I'm pretty sure it would have eaten my homework. Speaking of which, I'd really like to get a pug. Don't you like pugs? They're so cute with their old faces and sad eyes. What's your favorite breed?”

“Nice try,” he said. “But since you didn't do the work this week, you'll do it right now, while I'm here.” He brought it up on my computer and then stood behind me.

“You're looming over me,” I said, glancing up at him. “That can feel very threatening, you know.”

“Really? Good. Consider yourself threatened.” He pointed at the screen. “Get it done, Ellie. Oh, and I'm taking your phone.” He scooped it up and stuck it in his back pocket. “I can't compete with it.”

“Damn right you can't,” I said, but I let him keep it.

It took me about ten minutes to answer all the questions he'd assigned and another fifteen to write a five-paragraph essay on the subject “Does social media affect our interpersonal relationships for better or worse?” The writing section of the SATs was theoretically optional now, but the counselor at my school had said anyone who wanted to go to a decent college had to take it.

I looked up from the computer to tell George I'd finished and caught him using his phone. “No fair!” I said.

“Why not? You text all the time.”

“Yeah, but I'm not getting paid to be here.”

“I'm not getting paid
enough
.”

“Really? How much are you getting?”

“That's between your mother and me.”

“She paid my driving instructor a hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”

“Let's look at your work,” he said, sitting and pulling the laptop toward him.

“You're not getting anywhere near that much, are you?”

“I'm not letting you drag me into a conversation about this.”

“Anything less than a hundred and you're being robbed.”

“Just shut up, will you, and let me read?”

“On the other hand, that driving instructor never once told me to shut up.”

“He or she must have been a saint. Or deaf.”

I watched him reading through my answers, his grayish-greenish eyes darting swiftly across each line. Something buzzed. “You got another text.”

He didn't respond.

“It might be important.” I peeked at his phone. “Is Carson a girl or a boy?”

“I'm trying to think of how that might be your business and I just can't.”

“You kept asking me about Skyler! Exact same thing.”

He shrugged and looked up. “You got all of the questions right.”

“Of course I did. And I already know that Carson's a girl. First of all, most Carsons are girls, and second of all, she wrote ‘Can't wait,' and no boy would ever write
that to another boy, even if they were both gay and in love.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“You took my phone away,” I said. “What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and watch you read? As riveting as that might be—”

“Reflect on your flaws,” he said. “Resolve to be a better person.”

“It's not possible. I'm already perfect.”

“Are you though?”

“How about Carson?” I said. “Is
she
a good person? Or a flawed one?” I was only teasing, but my curiosity was genuine. If George was in love, I wanted to know about it. I felt a little proprietary after all the time we'd spent together this summer, like I should get a chance to review and approve anyone he dated. Besides, talking about his personal life was a lot more interesting than studying for the SATs. “Do we like her?”

“She's a goddess among women,” he said. “If I give you back your phone, will you stop talking long enough for me to actually read your essay?”

“If you give me back my phone, I'll leave you alone for the rest of the afternoon,” I said. “Maybe even the rest of the decade.”

“You get ten minutes with it.” He pulled it out of his back pocket and handed it to me, then bent over the screen again.

I sent a couple of texts and checked my Instagram feed. Aaron had posted a selfie with Mia. She was tiny and adorable in his well-muscled arms.

“Okay, done,” George said, looking up. “Why are you smiling?”

I showed him the photo.

“Right,” he said. “Let's talk about your essay.” He swung the laptop around and hitched his chair closer to mine so we could both see the screen. “So you got the format right—everything's there, from the introduction to the conclusion. And it's a good length—you got a lot of words down on the page. You even made some decent points. It's just the way you supported them that I'm not sure about. You're a little glib.”

“Glib?” I repeated.

“Slick. Easy.”

“I know what
glib
means. I'm just hurt you think of me that way.”

“Look at this.” He pointed to a sentence. “You're essentially making fun of the topic.”

“Just trying to keep it entertaining for my reader. I wouldn't want to bore him.”

“I want you to take this seriously.”

“I did! I mean, for the most part. Come on! It's a perfectly fine essay and you know it.”

“It's not bad,” he said begrudgingly. “What's this
book you reference here?
The Smith Saga
? I've never heard of it.”

“That's because I made it up.” I grinned. “Smith is Heather's last name. A little homage to my best friend.”

He groaned. “I should have guessed. That quotation is too perfect. You can't do that on the actual test. It's dishonest.”

“The teacher who ran the SAT workshop at school said we could. She said that the readers don't have time to check all the references so we should just make some up if we can't think of anything.”

“That's a really bad idea,” he said. “If she's wrong and someone
does
look it up, you're going to be docked a ton.”

“Says you.”

He shoved the laptop away. “If you're not even going to listen to anything I say—”

“Relax.” I touched his arm. “I'm sorry. You're right. I promise I won't do that on the real test.”

“Good.” He moved his arm away. “I want to help you do well on this. But you have to actually work with me a little bit.”

“I will. I'm going to be a good student for the rest of the evening, okay? We can even do the most miserable math problems and I won't complain.”

“Thank you.” He held his hand out, palm up. “May
I put your cell phone away again?”

“Only if you'll put yours away, too. I want your undivided attention.”

“Deal.” He took the two phones and left them on the counter side by side.

It was easier to dodge work and get us off track when Heather was around, which she was for our Sunday session. Heather was always willing to talk about something—anything—other than what we were supposed to be doing, and while George had no problem telling
me
to shut up and get back to work, he wasn't so blunt with her. In fact, he was nicer to her than he was to me in general—gentle when she got frustrated, patient when she was slow, quick to reassure her and build up her confidence. When she got an answer wrong, he always found something encouraging to say about it—like that she was on the right path or had “some good ideas.” When
I
got something wrong, he just told me to be more careful and to try harder.

After he snapped at me for not paying attention, I called him on it. “Why are you so much nicer to her than to me?”

“I'm not.”

I appealed to Heather. “Isn't he?”

“He's nice to both of us,” she said. “Just in different
ways. He knows you're smarter than me so he expects more from you.”

“Ellie's not smarter than you,” George said. “She's just more confident than you. We need to build up your confidence.”

“And tear mine down?” I asked.

“Someone's got to.”

“See?” I said. “That was mean.”

He ignored that and pointed to the multiple-choice answers on the screen in front of us. “A, B, C, or D, Ellie? And tell me why.”

“B.”

“Yes, but why?”

“Because it's
right
.”

He let out an aggrieved sigh. “Fine. How about the next one? Try to be systematic: eliminate the obviously wrong ones and narrow your choices down before jumping to a—”

“It's C.”

“You need to slow down or you're going to get tricked into picking the wrong answer.”

“But it
is
C,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said wearily. “It's C.”

“Wait, why isn't it B?” asked Heather.