Ethan’s house was insane, not in the floor-to-ceiling photo shrine way of a secret serial killer, but in the columns-in-the-front, pool-in-the-back way of a secret rich kid. It looked more like the houses I was used to seeing in L.A., set back from the street, with a sprawling lawn and a circular driveway. His mom, a New Yawk–accented redhead who looked tired but significantly younger than her husband, met us at the front door and immediately ushered us into the kitchen, where she’d laid out bowls of candy and chips alongside trays of cheese and salami and cut-up vegetables arranged in rainbows.
“You can each have a beer if you want,” she said, leaning against the pristine counter with a smile. “And Dave, let me know what you like on your pizza.”
“Can we take this stuff downstairs?” Ethan asked, grabbing a fistful of M&M’s. “I want to show Dave the basement.”
I reached for the offered beer, figuring I’d need it to dull my jealousy. Ethan had you and his own wing of a mansion? It was like he was fucking Batman.
“Come on,” Mrs. Entsky—“call me Audrey”—said, with a playful frown. “I put this stuff out as bait to keep you up in the sunlight with the rest of the humans for a few minutes. Humor me.”
“Dad embarrassed me enough in the car,” Ethan said, shoveling some pretzels into his mouth.
“Well, at least tell me what you talked about,” she said. “What’s the latest at school? How’s the play going?” Her eyes lit up and she turned to me. “Dave, do you know Liv?”
“Mom!” Ethan said sharply.
“I’ve been hearing about her since Day One,” Mrs. Entsky beamed. “Ethan’s been smitten with her from when he was—” she lowered her hand to waist height “—and now they’re together. I mean have you ever heard of a sweeter thing?”
“Nope.” I hung my head, staring into my beer.
“You know I’ve never met her,” Mrs. Entsky said. “I almost thought he made her up.”
“Mom,” Ethan growled again. “This is exactly why I want to take Dave downstairs, you sound like a drunk morning talk show host.”
“If you’re going to insult me you can make your own food,” she snapped. “And since when do you not want to talk about her?” She turned to me. “I swear, he wants to sit here and chat like we’re girlfriends most of the time.”
“Jesus Christ, Mom,” Ethan said. “OK, I’m sorry. But can we please just go? Dave and I need to work on his new scene.”
Great, I thought miserably. The only thing that sounded worse than gossiping with Ethan’s mom about you—or watching another old movie while he provided a steady stream of commentary—was learning a new scene. I was only interested in the play if you were in it. Reading lines with Ethan would feel like banging my head against a wall.
“Well, of course, honey,” Mrs. Entsky said. “The play’s the thing, right?”
“I guess, if you take that line completely out of context,” Ethan sighed.
My phone buzzed again; I’d slipped it into my back pocket when we’d gotten out of the car.
Send pics! you’d texted. I glanced at Ethan. He hadn’t looked at his phone since we’d gotten on the ferry. Which meant you were only texting me.
“Is everything OK?” Audrey asked.
“Oh, yeah, just my dad checking in,” I lied.
“Tell him we’ll take good care of you,” she said. “I’m making popovers tomorrow morning.”
“You coming?” Ethan called. He was already standing by a door down the hallway, beckoning impatiently. I turned my phone off. I didn’t know what to write back just yet, and besides, I’ll admit, it felt good for once to be the one keeping you waiting.
? ? ?
“Don’t worry, there’s no new scene,” he said once we were safely out of earshot, down the stairs and around a corner into a carpeted, windowless den with a big leather sofa and a huge television sandwiched in between two bookcases lined with DVD box sets and collectible action figures staring out stoically from their original packaging.
“Cool,” I said, “I wasn’t sure if you asked me out here to work or just hang.”
“I wouldn’t make you come all the way out here just to rehearse,” Ethan said, crouching down to open a cabinet under the TV. “I’m not that much of an asshole, am I?”
I walked over to a frame hanging on the wall. It was a Little League portrait, one of those preprinted cardboard things with the team photo in the middle and then a little oval picture of the kid by himself inset at the top. Ethan had a bowl cut, a missing tooth, and glasses that looked like goggles. You’d told me a few times that he’d been shy as a kid. Not like me. Mom always said I’d walk into a casting office at six years old like I owned the place. If one of us was an asshole, it definitely wasn’t Ethan.
“Who do you want to be?”
“Huh?” I spun around to see Ethan holding two Xbox controllers.
“Destiny,” he said. “Ever played it?”
I shook my head. “My parents never let me have a system,” I said.
“Jesus.” Ethan stared at the TV, pressing buttons and switching between screens with lightning speed. “My parents gave up when I was like seven. My dad had a hip replacement and they were desperate for me to do anything by myself. Hence my lair.”