“Whatever she finds interesting or whatever she’s assigned.” He shrugged. “She’s freelance, part of the AP, so she does all kinds of things.”
A member of the Associated Press? She was the real deal. So many questions, none of which I could voice, and most involving worst-case scenarios.
What if this is a setup? Unlikely. His mother’s birth date wasn’t something Abram’s sister had any control over.
But, what if his sister knows who I am? Or, I’ve met her before now? What if she’s interviewed me? What if this benign birthday party leads to exposing Lisa’s arrest? Like most professions, the world of professional journalism was a lot smaller than people realized.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Marie Harris. She’s awesome, and I told her she wasn’t allowed to ask you anything on the record.”
“Hmm . . .” The name didn’t sound familiar, but that didn’t mean anything.
“Also, she just broke up with her boyfriend recently, a few months ago. He was a chef in Chicago, kind of a dweeb, actually. She deserves a lot better. Don’t bring up anything related to that. I think she’s still sensitive about it.”
I was only half-listening to him. Leo had been right. My family had a love/hate relationship with the media. According to my parents, none of them could be trusted. Ever. But they served a purpose.
For my part, I hypothesized that there were three types of journalists: those who wanted to do another fluff piece on music’s most beloved power couple’s “odd-ball, genius daughter” (say that ten times real fast), or those who wanted dirt, or those who wanted both.
Having been interviewed countless times, the interviewers always seemed content to follow the same, predictable path, painting me using the same brush, prosaic questions the brush strokes: What’s it like to be so smart? What’s it like to have DJ Tang and Exotica as parents? Are you dating anyone? Blah blah blah.
However, having been interviewed countless times and having never been surprised meant I rarely remembered the interviewers’ names. In summary, I’d never met a journalist who pleasantly surprised or impressed me.
“Any stories on, uh, the children of celebrities?”
Abram shook his head. “No. Politicians are more her speed.” His gaze lost some of its focus as it moved over my shoulder. “She also writes some weird stories too. Stuff that gets her in trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“Yes.” His gaze came back to mine and he smirked. “Ask her about bodybuilders.”
“Bodybuilders.” I relaxed. A tad. My gaze flickered over him. “Okay. So . . . what are we going to tell her? What’s the story?”
“The story?” He turned a little in his seat. His hand slipped from my leg and he pushed his fingers into his hair, moving the dark mahogany strands off his forehead.
“What’s the story about why I’m here? With you? What are we telling your sister and parents?”
“Uh . . . the truth?”
I sat up straighter while having a minor heart attack. “The—the- ”
“That you’re Leo’s sister and you came home while I was house-sitting your parents’ place in Chicago. We’ve shacked up together for the summer, you’re my muse, and I’ve fallen madly in love with you over the last—” he grabbed his phone from the dash, glancing at the clock “—forty-eight hours.”
With that tornado of an esoteric suggestion, Abram opened the passenger door and exited the car. Unhurriedly unfolding his long form from the Civic, he stretched. I stared at the band of back, side, and stomach skin (and muscles) left exposed as he lifted his arms over his head and twisted at the waist—first left, and then right.
In love? Muse? Is he . . .?
He’s . . .
I shook my head in an effort to rouse my brain. Tearing my stare from his body, I chuckled and rolled my eyes.
He was joking, of course. Oh, Ahab.
I decided right then, that whenever Abram said or did anything nutso, I would think of and refer to him as Ahab.
“Ha ha ha,” I said to myself, adding for good measure, “And then the wolves came.”
I guess we were winging it. I didn’t like the idea of winging it, but I trusted Abram . . . insomuch as I was capable of trusting anyone I’d just met two days ago.
Finished stretching, Abram sauntered around to my side while I turned my attention back to the likelihood of having met Marie Harris in the past, talking myself into, and then out of, a freak-out.
Worst-case scenario: She’d interviewed both Lisa and me at some point, but so what? If she had, it had been only once. How much could a person remember from a ten-minute interview? And what could she do? Call me Mona and sew a scarlet M to my chest? Nah.
As Abram opened my door and extended his hand, which I accepted distractedly, and then allowed him to pull me from my seat, I reasoned that—even if his sister was a journalist of the dirt-digging variety—she couldn’t expose me as Mona in the span of an afternoon. I would just . . . not talk much. Speak only when spoken to.
Keep my answers polite, but vague.
Yes. Good plan. I can do this.
9
Introduction to Two-Dimensional Kinematics
“Ah!” Glancing between the bundle Marie had placed in my hands and the woman herself, I added the apt anytime-phrase “Is this why fate brought us together?” because it was perfect for the situation and needed to be said.
Marie tossed her head back and laughed. And then Abram’s mom was also laughing. And then I was laughing, because the Harris women’s laughter was contagious. For reals, it was an airborne illness of awesome.
Marie reminded me of my friend Allyn in some ways—how open she was, how friendly and engaging—but without the na?ve awkwardness I found so charming in my friend. Marie was . . . well, she was a woman. Or, how I thought a woman should aspire to be: Knowledgeable. Confident. Kind. Reasonable. Empathetic. Inclusive. An adult. There was so much I could learn from her. Basically, Marie was who I wanted to be when I grew up.
But Pamela reminded me of no one. I’d never met anyone like her, and therefore I felt like I could learn a lot from her as well.
Perhaps I should have been disappointed in myself for not sticking to the plan. But try as I might, I could not stop talking. I was having too good of a time to care about the logical path forward. It was official: I loved both Abram’s mom and his sister and I wanted them both to adopt me.
Here’s how it happened: Abram and I had walked in, and I’d been determined to be on my best rigid behavior. But then Pamela—Abram’s mom—pulled me into a hug, kissed my cheek like I was something precious, and slipped me a cookie under the premise of wiping lipstick from my face. She also winked. Stunned, I ate the cookie. It was shortbread and it was so good I wanted to cry.
I handed off the present I’d brought to Abram and, with her arm around my waist, Pamela walked me into the kitchen where Marie—who was Abram’s opposite in coloring and willingness to show her smile—also gave me a hug and gave me a cookie. Another shortbread.
Is this all it takes to earn my trust? Cookies and smiles?! Can I be bought for so little?
Apparently, yes. Which I felt was the right answer. Besides, who is to say cookies are cheap? Cookies are priceless! (Don’t @ me.)
Anyway, Marie promptly confided that both she and Pamela were Hufflepuffs, but that Abram was a Gryffindor with Slytherin tendencies, and then asked me which house I was in.
It all happened so quickly. One moment I was discussing how I preferred the blue and bronze scheme from the book to the blue and silver combo in the films (for the Ravenclaw house colors), and commiserating on the absence of Peeves in the movies, and in the next moment—really, six hours later of near constant enthralling conversation—Marie was showing me her hand-knit collection of fingerless gloves and asking me if I wanted a pair.
Which brings us to now.