August sighs. ‘Don’t freak out now.’ She’s on her feet, brushing close as she passes. ‘I won’t let them eat you. We’ll just devour lasagne and then I have to show you something spectacular outside before you dash off.’
For once there is no rush. No Maestro at home. No one cares where he is. No one would come looking. But it doesn’t feel free. It feels forgotten.
Beck isn’t sure how dinner at the Freys’ will unfold. Do they pray to a tree? Do they even sit at a table? Is the lasagne actual real lasagne? He’s never seen August eat meat, so is the lasagne pinned together with dreams of animal freedom and air?
It smells divine, though, and his stomach knots with anticipation. When was the last time he ate food that wasn’t cereal?
Turns out the Freys do have a table and they cluster around it like any average family. It’s squished in a corner, so wedging another chair in for Beck is an art form. When seated, everyone’s elbows nearly touch, and the dishes of food take up so much space, Beck’s plate is nearly in his lap. Tiny hand-painted daisies decorate the plates and the cutlery is mismatched. It’s cramped but, somehow, cosy.
‘We have a larger table,’ Shane says. ‘Around here somewhere.’ He turns to Tammy, who’s slicing an orange into the salad. ‘Did we lose the big table?’
‘How do you lose a table, Dad?’ says August.
‘Well,’ Shane says defensively, ‘your mother lost a horse before.’
‘It had legs.’ Tammy shuffles the huge dish of lasagne, the basket of garlic bread, the salt and pepper shakers, to try and squeeze the salad on to the table.
‘Tables have legs,’ Shane says.
August helps herself to bread and pesto. ‘But they don’t run away. That horse ran.’
‘She should know,’ Tammy agrees. ‘She was riding it.’
‘Which kind of bothers me –’ August reaches for the salad and digs around for oranges and olives ‘– because you still refer to that escapade as “the time you lost the horse”. Not “the time you lost your nine-year-old daughter”.’
‘But you’re like a pigeon, darling. You’d find your way home eventually.’ Tammy procures a massive knife from nowhere and cuts the lasagne. It explodes with melting pasta sheets, vegetables and rosemary tomato sauce. Beck keeps his mouth shut in case he drools on his plate.
‘Or we could just adopt another child and buy another horse.’ Shane passes Tammy his plate. ‘Maybe we would’ve gotten a discount?’
Tammy pauses, red-smeared knife raised disturbingly high. ‘Oh, Shane. That’s so true. Why didn’t we think of that instead of chasing them across the state?’
‘I think you liked my face,’ August says.
She notices Beck isn’t moving, so she plucks his plate and passes it to her mother. He can’t function properly with the smell of food drugging his addled brain. Plus the Freys are terrifying him with banter. They don’t seem real.
Tammy cuts a massive slice and slaps it on to his plate with a plop. ‘Presentation isn’t my forte,’ she says, ‘but I didn’t make it so it’ll definitely taste delicious.’
‘That is such a comforting fact.’ Shane leans to kiss her cheek.
‘Dad,’ August says, warningly, ‘she’s still got a knife.’
‘Too true.’ He retracts. ‘Careful with that, honey. Remember the echidna.’
‘Oh, I remember Goliath.’
‘I try not to,’ August mutters.
Beck decides to let the confusion wash over him and give full attention to the feast on his plate. A quick poke with his fork reveals the lasagne is meatless. But the pasta sheets are gooey with sauce and the vegetables have bathed in a heaven of olive oil and herbs. He can’t shovel it in fast enough.
It’s easier to think of food than the fact the Freys love each other.
‘So,’ Shane says, pleasantly. ‘No personal questions, I understand. But your favourite colour is an allowable topic, right, Beck?’
‘Don’t ask about his full name either.’ August grins wickedly around the salad dressing at Beck.
Beck would like to stab her right now.
‘Um, blue, I guess?’ He feels like an idiot. Favourite colour? Are they mocking him or genuinely trying to please August? She’s so much like her parents. All the jokes, the unreasonable big words, the quick retorts – she’s a carbon copy of her folks.
It scares Beck –
how much he might accidentally resemble
the Maestro.
‘Is your full name Beckham?’ Tammy says. ‘Like the soccer player?’
Beck is saved from answering by a mouthful of pumpkin and lasagne.
‘Maybe it’s Becktrove,’ she says absently, twirling lettuce on her fork.
August groans. ‘Mum. Firstly, no one’s name is Becktrove. Where on earth did that even come from? Secondly, I just said it’s not a good topic.’
‘Well what is a good topic?’ Tammy says.
What about nothing? What about silence, so they can pay the proper homage to the delicious lasagne? He’s nearly finished his piece before he realises everyone else has barely gotten through a corner.
‘Beck is a musician,’ August says.
Beck chokes. This serves him right for never being honest. If she knew about the piano, knew everything, then she wouldn’t touch the subject. But he can’t be honest.
‘He’s also in love with Twice Burgundy,’ August says, ‘although, strictly, he’s a classical man.’
‘I am a classical woman,’ Tammy says, holding her fork over her heart. ‘Do you like Bach? Chopin? Beethoven?’
August gives him a conspiratorial kick under the table and he whacks her right back. She yelps and then smothers her laughter with a huge forkful of lasagne. This girl is maddening.
Beck’s mouth is dry. ‘I like Grieg.’
‘Grieg!’ Tammy pokes her husband – with her fork, no less – and grins at him. ‘Most teenagers don’t even know who Bach is, let alone Grieg! He knows things, Shane, this one knows things.’
‘That was pointed,’ Shane says.
‘Yes, dear, it’s a fork.’
‘No, I mean the comment.’ He frowns at her over his half-full wine glass. ‘I was nineteen when we met and, fine, I didn’t know who Bach was. I thought you liked dogs. That’s why I kept hanging out with you. I liked dogs. You liked Bach, or whatever. We got married and I realised my mistake.’
‘You were both studying to be vets, Dad,’ August says. ‘The mistake was pretty acceptable.’
‘Thank you.’ Shane cuts his lasagne majestically. ‘See? That is why we traipsed across the state to find you, instead of adopting another child. We like how positive and encouraging you are.’
Tammy pops out of her chair. ‘Let me dish you up some more, Beck.’
He tries to say no thanks, to be polite, because he’s pretty sure he could polish off the dish, but his plate is already piled high.
‘Yes, feed him up,’ August says. ‘He gets super cranky when he’s hungry – I survived an attack once.’
‘You’re seriously mean to me,’ Beck says.
‘That’s why you like me.’
No, he likes her because there’s sunshine in her eyes and she knows the secrets to smiling.
Beck sets to work on his second piece and doesn’t answer.
‘Now, Beck,’ Shane says seriously. ‘I would just like to extend the invitation of dinner here, whenever you need it. I would also like to, well, if we could have a little talk before you go about your, ah, face and—’
‘I’m fine,’ Beck says. ‘This was just a stupid misunderstanding with some … guys.’ Could he be a more unconvincing liar? ‘I am really sorry for disrupting—’
Something in Shane’s eyes say he doesn’t buy it, but he merely holds up a hand and says, ‘Do not be. I refuse to hear apologies for gracing our fine home with your waif-like presence.’
‘Dad,’ August says, ‘that’s not very nice.’
‘Well, he reminds me a little of Oliver Twist,’ Shane protests. ‘Plus it’s nice to see some of August’s friends once in a while. She never brings them around.’
August starts clearing plates. ‘Because they’re all terrified of you. And your food. And our dogs.’