A loud knock. Her heart leapt into her throat. She exhaled sharply, breathing rapidly for the air that she had denied herself, and rolled her eyes. She was instantly irritated by her reaction. Only then did she notice Beatrice beside her.
“Well?” her younger sister said, hand poised over the doorknob.
“Go ahead,” Clara said, her tone sharp and agitated.
“Don’t act like you’re not excited to go get frozen yogurt,” Beatrice snapped.
“Be quiet, Beatrice.” She was afraid Evan could hear every word through the door.
Beatrice raised her head in defiance and opened the door.
“Hi!” she squealed.
“Hello, Beatrice,” Evan said.
“I’ve decided you can call me Bea. I mean, sometimes I let people call me Bea even if I don’t really know them all that well. But I think that I’ll get to know you pretty well since you like my sister—”
“Bea!” Clara interrupted, her face flushing crimson. She never felt an urge to slap her sister until that moment.
“What?” Beatrice asked turning to look at Clara. “He invited you out. I thought that meant he—”
“Stop talking,” Clara demanded.
Beatrice turned back to Evan. “My sister says I talk too much.”
“Well, I like people who talk a lot. It means they’ve got something to say. And that means they’re always thinking,” Evan replied. He winked at Beatrice, drawing a giggle from her.
“So do you?” Beatrice asked, a wicked grin plastered on her face.
Evan smiled. He knew what she was asking but decided he wanted her to be more specific. He enjoyed watching Clara squirm. She was adorable standing there flustered.
“Do I what?” he asked, feigning confusion.
“Do you like my sister? Is that why you invited her to go get yogurt?” Beatrice replied.
“Beatrice Greenwich!” Clara yelled. Her crimson face turned an even darker shade.
Evan decided to pretend Clara wasn’t standing there.
“I do,” he answered Beatrice. “And that’s exactly why I invited her to get yogurt with me.”
Clara was beside herself. She couldn’t ignore the explosion of feelings inside her heart and mind: humiliation and anger and delicious warmth.
“Well, I expect you to be nice to her,” Beatrice said. “Always,” she emphasized pushing past Evan and walking towards the car parked at the street. “I mean it, Evan!” she called behind her. “Now unlock these doors and let’s go!”
“I . . . I’m mortified,” Clara whispered.
“Why?” Evan asked. “There’s nothing like a direct person to get it all out there front and center. I like it. And I like you. Is it okay that I tell you that?”
Clara turned the purple shade of the fat heirloom tomatoes her grandmother used to grow in the back garden.
“Are you going to answer me?” Evan pressed. She heard a smile in his voice and wondered how smiles could have tones.
“Yes,” she said quietly, looking at her shoes. “It’s okay that you tell me.”
“Good,” Evan replied. “Are you ready?”
She nodded and they made their way to his car. Beatrice was hanging around outside the back door waiting impatiently.
Evan knew he made Clara feel uncomfortable, and he couldn’t deny the gentle power he felt making her flush, making her squirm in discomfort. He thought he should be ashamed to like that feeling, but he wasn’t. He looked down at her hand as they walked. What would she do if he took it? Just like that? Entwined his fingers with hers before she had the chance to pull away? He looked at her face again and decided against holding her hand. It would be too much too soon.
“Move,” Clara hissed at her sister once she approached the car. “I’m riding in the back.”
“Are you mad at me?” Beatrice asked.
“No, Beatrice. I’m not mad at you,” Clara snapped, but it was a lie, and she was sure that Beatrice knew it.
She climbed into the back of the car as Beatrice sat down tentatively in the front passenger seat. Beatrice looked over at Evan who shook his head slightly, then she mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.
“Clara, are you comfortable back there?” Evan asked. He turned to face her, a playful smile on his lips, and she replied with a grunt. “All right then,” Evan said, chuckling as he started the car.
Evan asked Beatrice a flood of questions about school as he drove the girls to YoTreats. Beatrice answered happily enough, making sure to avoid any topic related to Clara. She knew she was in trouble, and she wished she could make Clara forgive her for being so outspoken. It wasn’t her fault she tried to tell Clara again and again. God made her that way.
“Oh, is that the case?” Clara had asked her months ago after she discovered that Beatrice told her best friend that their mother wouldn’t come out of her bedroom for three days straight because she was “sad.”
“That’s exactly the case, Clara,” Beatrice replied. “Exactly.”
“You told me you didn’t believe in God,” Clara said flatly. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for an answer. She knew Beatrice would have one.
“Well . . . perhaps I was too quick with that decision. Perhaps God does exist. He would have to if he made me like this.”
Clara wanted to wring her sister’s neck. Instead she bent down until she was eye level with her. She made sure to emphasize every word. “Stop telling Angela about our business. Do you understand me?”
Beatrice nodded slowly. She crossed herself then scrunched up her face letting out a few pitiful whimpers.
“For God’s sake, Bea. Stop trying to make yourself cry. I don’t believe your contrition for a second,” Clara snapped. “And what’s with crossing yourself? You’re not even Catholic.”
Beatrice relaxed her face and looked up at her sister. “What’s ‘contrition’?”
“Regret. Remorse,” Clara explained.
“Contrition,” Beatrice said to herself. “Very romantic. I’ll have to remember that.”
“Remember this,” Clara warned. “Stop running your mouth or you’ll be sorry.”
“I’ll try, Clare-Bear. I’ll really try.”
Clara scowled, her brain split between remembering the “contrition” episode and listening to the conversation up front.