Rachel let go of me and pulled away swiftly. She was looking at the ground next to her sneakers, like she didn’t want to look at me. Rachel: clearly not thinking what I had been. Thank goodness I hadn’t gone through with that one. I tried to will my body not to do something stupid like blush. Or worse.
“Cool,” she mumbled. She started twisting the bottom of her shirt between her fingers. “So . . . now what happens?”
“That’s the best part,” Mary said, voice bright and shiny. Mary’s exterior: thrift sale leftovers. Mary’s interior: polished chrome. “We have some really exciting things planned for the two of you. Do you want to talk inside?”
“My mom’s not home. And my dad is busy, I’m not sure . . .”
“Oh, don’t worry, hun, we spoke to your mother when we were setting this up. And I believe she should be . . . ah, yes.” Rachel turned as a woman who looked remarkably like her, but older, and in more hippie-ish clothes, walked up behind her. Rachel frowned and her mom reddened slightly. Before Rachel could open her mouth, her mom reached over her head to open the door wider.
“Come on in.”
Mary plowed through, beaming so hard you didn’t even notice the sloppy work shirt and rips in her jeans. She was already chattering at full speed. Eddie followed, camera hanging at his side now. I was just about to walk in after them when Rachel’s mom came up beside me.
“You must be Kyle,” she said. Her hair was even curlier than Rachel’s, poofing out from her head in a kind of wiry triangle. Her smile was warm, but she barely looked at me. “You are even more adorable than in that picture.” She walked into the house, calling out, “What can I get everyone to drink? We have milk, and pop, and wine if you want that.”
Everyone seemed to have forgotten about me. It felt strange after the last few days. Unsure what to do, I awkwardly placed the bundle of fries on the ground and walked into the house, closing the door behind me.
chapter twenty-three
RACHEL
FRIDAY, 5:25 P.M.
“Well, that’s everything,” Mary said, standing up and smiling perfunctorily at me. Mom squeezed my shoulder. I shrugged out from under her.
“We’ll just look these over as a family and get back to you. Is that all right?” Mom’s voice turned worried. “I know you folks have tight deadlines, but these are big decisions.”
“Of course that’s all right. We won’t be moving forward before midweek. If you could have them signed and back to us by . . .” Mary scrunched up her nose and looked at the ceiling, like she was fishing for an answer. It seemed contrived. Her whole “look at me, I’m so disheveled because I’m doing creative stuff all the time” vibe felt contrived, actually. She was nice enough, but I didn’t really trust her. Or Mom. Or Mo. I glared at her, sitting on the edge of our brick hearth, just outside the circle discussing my fate. Mo knew better than to make eye contact with me, though.
“. . . Sunday evening?” she finished. “Pacific time, of course. That should give us enough time to come up with material for the next segment. And, of course, if you decide not to move forward, we’d like to know as soon as possible so Laura can plan an alternate segment for Monday’s show.”
“Sure, that shouldn’t be a problem,” Dad said. He was nodding slowly, like he was still taking this all in. I wondered what all Mom had told him. Probably not much; Dad was terrible at keeping secrets. “We’ll talk it over tonight as a family.”
“Shoot, depending on when your flight leaves, we might have an answer to you before you even land in L.A.!” Mom laughed nervously. Mary smiled but didn’t join in.
“Great, then Eddie and I will just get out of your hair,” she said, standing and brushing off the front of her pants. Eddie rose from the love seat he’d been dominating—it was kind of amazing how easily you forgot he was there, since he was approximately the size of an eighteen-wheeler—and they started getting their things together.
“Kyle,” she said, not looking at him. “Do you need us to drop you home?”
He looked around awkwardly from his position against the wall beside the front door. I’d been sneaking glances at him throughout the conversation, but he’d just seemed really ill-at-ease, his arms folded, his head down. It confirmed the nasty, slimy feeling I’d been trying to ignore while Mary talked and Dad furrowed and Mom nodded, wide-eyed: that I was nothing but a setup to him. A chance to be a little more famous a little longer. It was stupid that it hurt. What had I thought, that he planned this whole thing on his own? Of course it had been a producer’s idea.
He couldn’t even look at me.
“That’s okay, I can call my mom or . . . somebody. But do you need the tux?” Suddenly he looked so nervous, like a little kid who wasn’t sure if he’d broken the rules, that I couldn’t help but smile. Kyle definitely wasn’t into me, but he was adorable. No wonder he was so much better on camera than I was.