“They weren’t taking photos of Jake, were they?”
“Oh, who cares?” she said, and I glanced up at that because I wasn’t used to hearing that bitterness in her voice. What made Mom great—what had made our lives okay even when we lived in a crappy apartment and never had enough money and what had probably made Luke fall in love with her—was that she brought the fun. She laughed easily and saw the bright side of most things and didn’t fret about the future. For someone who looked small and delicate and refined, she had a raucous laugh and a raunchy sense of humor. But now her face was taut with worry and it occurred to me that lately it was like that more often than not. “Photos aren’t the issue here. The issue is that Jacob doesn’t act like the other kids at the park.”
“He marches to his own beat.” Luke squeezed her shoulder. “That’s good. Being different is good. I was the weird kid in all my high schools, and I haven’t done so badly, have I?”
“It’s not that kind of different,” she said, shifting away from his touch. “You wore eyeliner and had an earring. He’s not talking. It’s not a fashion choice—he literally can’t talk.”
“You’re making too big a deal out of this,” Luke said, letting his hand drop by his side. “He wanted to swing and he got what he wanted. More power to him.”
“It’s not that simple,” she said. “I’m worried.” She appealed to me. “Right, Ellie? You see it, too, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. Jacob’s a little weird, but he’s just Jacob, you know?” I hated this conversation. I hated that she and Luke weren’t agreeing, and I hated the thought that there could be something wrong with my little brother, and I just wanted her to agree with Luke so I didn’t have to sit there hating those two things.
Mom’s shoulders sagged like I had disappointed her.
I glanced around and realized that Heather and George had both retreated to the other side of the kitchen and were quietly talking to each other and giving us some space.
“Ellie gets it,” Luke said. He moved toward the doorway. “I’m going to go do some work.” He had a small recording studio in the back of the house, lined with a bunch of expensive guitars on stands.
“Can you put a video on for Jacob in our room first?” Mom asked. “I’ll be right up.” He carried Jacob out. Mom turned to me. “You still okay to babysit tonight?” she asked wearily.
“Yeah, no problem.” There was a babysitting agency Mom used when I had plans and Lorena wasn’t available, but she preferred one of us to watch him. Jacob didn’t always like strangers, and even though everyone at this agency knew CPR and had advanced degrees and had been handpicked from some heavenly sphere, sometimes Mom would come home after hiring a new babysitter to find Jacob curled up in a corner sobbing inconsolably.
For a while she just stopped going out at night—“They only really want Luke anyway,” she said—but then Luke’s publicist said he was getting calls from bloggers trying to confirm the rumor that the Westons were getting a divorce because no one had seen them out together lately, and she felt bad. Plus Luke said he really didn’t like going out without her.
So Mom went back to having a social life, but she begged me and Lorena to babysit as much as possible. I didn’t mind. Heather was usually willing to come over to keep me company, and we were both happy just to watch movies in the screening room and eat popcorn.
Mom’s phone buzzed and she read the text. “Crap. Roger’s car isn’t starting. He loves that stupid vintage Ford, but it’s always breaking down. He’s supposed to come tonight.” A couple of years ago, Mom saw some bad photos of herself in a tabloid and decided she needed to take her public appearance more seriously, so she started hiring a hair-and-makeup stylist to get her ready before big events. “Oh, wait! George?” she called across the room.
He came back to the table, trailed by Heather.
“Could you pick Roger up for me?” she asked. “He doesn’t live that far away. No rush—you can finish up with the girls before you go. I just need him here before six. I’ll pay for your time.”
“No problem,” George said. “And you don’t have to pay me.”
“Yes, I do. Don’t argue with me.”
“Can George pick up some food, too?” I asked. “There’s nothing decent to eat in the house.”
“Good idea,” Mom said. “Is that okay, George?” He nodded and she said, “What do you want him to get, Ellie?”
“Maybe some sushi? Oh, and smoothies from Pressed Juicery. And ice cream from Sweet Rose.”
She waved her hand. “Just get whatever Ellie wants. Within reason. I’ll text you Roger’s address.” She got up and left the kitchen.
“Um, Heather?” I cocked my head at her. “What was that my mother just said? Something about how George should get me whatever I want?” I smiled sweetly at him. “I think I may have a hankering for a lot of different foods from some very far places.”
“She said, Within reason,” he pointed out. “I’ll go to three places, max, and they have to be within a two-mile radius of one another.”
I pouted. “You make a really bad errand boy.”
“I’m okay with that,” he said.
Once we’d made the list, George successfully hunted-and-gathered everything—sushi from Sugarfish, drinks from Pressed Juicery, and ice cream from Sweet Rose Creamery. He also picked up Roger, who tore upstairs clutching his hair and makeup toolkits like he was a fireman entering a blazing house. He was a tall, ridiculously thin guy with bleached-blond hair parted on the side and combed flat against his head. He wore eyeliner and had three piercings in his left eyebrow and dressed in tight pants with loose tank tops, and was—according to Mom—a total “genius” with hair and makeup.
George entered at a more normal pace, carting the take-out bags.