Uh-oh.
Now we were both horrified. He released my head. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“Yep-yep-yep, so sure,” I said.
“Did you find your film-fanatic guy? What’s his name, Alex?”
I made a face, because just the mention of his name stings. “I’m not speaking to him at the moment. I think he’s got a girlfriend now, because he blew me off. And no, I haven’t found him yet.”
“Bailey—”
“Dad, just . . . please don’t.”
“Let me say this, okay?” he said, suddenly irritated, which is really unlike him, so it took me aback. And it took him a moment to calm down enough to finish. But when he spoke again, he was serious and eerily fatherly. “You have grown into a beautiful young lady, and people are going to take notice of that, which I don’t particularly relish.”
Oh, brother.
He raised a hand. “But I accept it. However, what I want to talk about is you. Because the thing is, Mink, sometimes when traumatic things happen to people, they retreat until they feel comfortable. Which is okay. But when they’re finally ready to step back into the world, they can be overconfident and make mistakes. Which is not okay. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Not exactly.”
“Do you remember when your mom had just won that big divorce case for that state senator and was driving too fast on that icy road in Newark on the way to Mr. Katter’s party and the car slid, and then, instead of easing us back on the road, she yanked the wheel and oversteered in the other direction, and we overturned into the ditch?”
“Yeah,” I said. We all nearly died. It was a nightmare. Hard to forget.
“Think about that.”
Cryptic, but I got what he was saying. He thought I was whoring myself out with some stranger just for kicks. For a brief moment, I wanted to break down and tell him everything about Porter, that I wasn’t oversteering and throwing caution to the wind. And for the love of guns, it had been four years! How long did I have to be in “trauma” mode? Wasn’t I allowed to make some decisions for myself and enjoy life? I appreciated his heartfelt concern, but I knew what I was doing . . .
Mostly.
Anyway, that’s all he said about it. Still, my dad may be the nicest guy in the world, but he’s no dummy. The day before I was scheduled to eat dinner at Grace’s house, he suggested driving me over there so he could personally meet Grace’s parents. What could possibly go wrong? When I told her, she laughed so hard and long, I worried she was having a stroke.
In the meantime, though my kiss-stung face has returned to normal, my heart and all working body parts are absolutely not normal. Because every time Porter so much as even walks within ten feet of me at work, I have the same reaction. Four knocks on Hotbox door? I flush. Scent of coconut in the break room? I flush. Sound of Porter cracking jokes with Pangborn in the hallway? I flush.
And every time this happens, Grace is there like some taunting Greek chorus, making a little mmm-hmm noise of confirmation.
Even Pangborn notices. “Are you ill, Miss Rydell?”
“Yes,” I tell him in the break room one day before work. “I’m apparently very ill in the worst way. And I want you to know that I didn’t plan for this to happen. This was not part of my plan at all. If you want to know the truth, I had other plans for the summer!” I think of my boardwalk map, lying folded and abandoned in my purse.
Pangborn nods slowly. “I have no idea what you mean, but I support it completely.”
“Thank you,” I tell him as he walks away, whistling.
Half a minute later, Porter pulls me into a dark corner of the hallway, checks around the corner, and kisses the bejesus out of me. “That’s me, destroying all your other plans,” he says wickedly. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he sounds jealous. Then he walks away, leaving me all hot and bothered.
I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.
Tuesday night at the Achebe house comes. Grace’s family lives in a swank part of town, in an adobe-style house with a perfectly manicured lawn. When my dad and I ring the doorbell, my pulse rockets. Why oh why have I been using Grace as a cover for my time with Porter? That was so stupid, and now that everyone is meeting, I feel like we’re going to get caught—which is the last thing I want to happen, for obvious reasons. And because I don’t want to mess up what I have going with Grace. She’s the first decent friend I’ve had in a while.
Footfalls sound on the other side of the door. I think I might vomit.
The door swings open to reveal a willowy woman with long ebony curls and dark skin. Her smile is warm and inviting. “You must be Bailey.” Not Grace’s tiny voice, but definitely her British accent.
I say hello and start to introduce my dad when a broad-shouldered man appears behind her, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “This is her?” he says in a big, booming voice full of cheer. He smiles big and wide. “Hello, Bailey girl. Look at that hair of yours. It’s like an old-fashioned Hollywood star. Which one? Not Marilyn Monroe.”
“Lana Turner,” I provide.
He makes an impressed face. “Lana Turner,” he says slowly, with a cool African sway to his words. “Well, well, Miss Turner. I am Hakeem Achebe. And this is my wife, Rita.”
“Pete Rydell,” my dad says, shaking his hand. “We’re both fond of Grace.”
I see Grace poke her head down the stairs in the distance, smiling but gritting her teeth at the same time. She’s nervous we’re going to get caught in a lie too. Crap!
“We’re fond of Grace as well,” Mr. Achebe says jovially. “We think we’ll keep her.”
My dad laughs. I can already see him planning to hit up Mr. Achebe for board game night—but I really want this conversation to be as short as possible, so I hope he doesn’t.
“She’s gone on a lot about working with Bailey in that dreadful Hotbox,” her mom says with a smile.
“I hear complaints about that too,” my dad says. “But I’m glad they’ve been spending more time together outside work.”
Double crap! Please don’t bring up the fake story I concocted about Grace and me “wrestling” in the grass, Dad. Would he do that? Surely not. I glance at Grace. She backs up one step on the stairs. Don’t you dare abandon me! Just in case, I prepare to flee the scene. Where I’ll run, I don’t know. Maybe I could pretend to faint.
“Well, tonight, it’s work before play,” Grace’s father says, pointing the dish towel in my direction. “We have much preparation to do in the kitchen before dinner. Miss Turner, are you up for the task?”
Oh, thank God. Mr. Achebe: my new hero.