Contessa (25 page)

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Authors: Lori L. Otto

Tags: #Fiction, #Coming of Age

BOOK: Contessa
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There is no

just you.

Like I told you, I don

t think you

re always aware of your surroundings. Did you know there were pictures in the society pages this morning of your birthday party from last night?


No there weren

t,

I say, shocked.


You were wearing a red sweater, and your hair was pulled back.


We were in a private room.


Must have been a waiter or something,

he says.


How did you see it?

I ask him.


My mother follows your parents. She says she

s indebted to them, but really, she

s just fascinated with their lifestyle. She

d always hoped for something better for herself. For us.


They

re pretty normal,

I tell him.

I swear, they

re not newsworthy.


Said by a true insider.

He shakes his head, joking with me.

They really do shelter you, though, don

t they?


He
does.


Miss Holland? Mr. Scott? Your table is ready,

the hostess carefully interrupts our conversation. She takes us to a small booth toward the center of the restaurant.

Happy belated birthday,

she says to me, handing me a menu before she walks away.


Thanks.

I watch Jon across the table, slightly uncomfortable, now feeling multiple eyes trained on me.

I suppose you didn

t tell them it was my birthday either, huh?

He simply shakes his head.

Are you okay?

I put my elbow on the table and shield my face from the onlookers.

Why couldn

t they just seat us in the back? I feel like I

m on display or something.


We can move,

he offers, scanning the room.

Or go somewhere else, if you want.


No,

I tell him quickly.

I

m fine.

I take a deep breath and put my hand in my lap. When I glance around the restaurant, it looks like the only people watching me are the
wait staff
. We shouldn

t have to worry about poor service.

This place is beautiful. I

ve never been anywhere like it.


Good,

he says.

I had a hard time coming up with a place I thought you

d never been.


Welcome, welcome,

an older man in a pristine suit says to us quietly. He introduces himself to us as the manager of the restaurant. He gives us a brief history of the place before offering drinks.


How about a virgin rum and Coke?

he asks me.


What

s that?


Just a Coke,

Jon says with a laugh, looking at me for an answer. I shrug and nod.

Make it two.


Yes, sir,

the manager, Morris, says, delivering the order through his own microphone.


Can I offer you two the chef

s special tonight?

He points to the special menu, and before I even have a chance to read it, Jon answers for me.


She

s allergic to horseradish.


Of course,

Morris makes note.

We can work around that. Let us surprise you. Yes?


Ummm...

Jon stalls and shifts in his seat uncomfortably, looking up at me and smiling nervously.

I was thinking the prix fixe, if she sees something she likes. Would you mind if we looked over the menu?


Of course, Mr. Scott. Although the cost of the chef

s special is not stated on the menu, it

s the same price,

the manager speaks more quietly to Jon, but I can still hear him. I look at the price of the prix fixe menu and immediately feel guilty. Even with my allowance, I would never spend this much on a meal. I can

t imagine what Jon

s thinking.


We can go somewhere else,

I tell him quickly.

Anywhere, it

s fine.


What do you mean?


Did you see the price?


I don

t want to talk about how much this is going to cost, Livvy.

He shakes his head seriously.

Don

t worry about that, okay?


I
couldn

t even afford this,

I tell him reassuringly, trying to convince him to take me somewhere else.


Please. Let me do this for you. I

ve put money aside for this night. I want it to be something memorable for you–and for me.


But where did you...?

I feel rude asking, but I know he doesn

t have a job and I

m afraid we

re spending his mother

s money, which could undoubtedly be used on a million more important things than a fancy dinner.


My mom didn

t get her degree,

he confesses quickly.

She didn

t get a better job, Livvy. When my dad died, he had an insurance policy, and he left it to me. It

s not much, but I

ve been very careful with how I spend it. I pay for my art classes, which count towards college credit. I paid for the SAT prep courses. I get groceries once a month for my family. I bought my brother

s football uniform. I got this suit, which better serve multiple purposes this year: graduation, interviews... I haven

t splurged at all, until tonight. And if this is what I want to spend it on–if
you
are what I choose to spend it on–please let me.


It

s too much, though,

I whisper to him.


It

s not.


I could pay for my part.


Your dad already offered that, and I

ve already declined that offer. Just because you have money doesn

t mean you have to get stuck with the bill.


I just think there are probably better things for you to spend the money on, that

s all.


My dad probably wouldn

t have thought so. I guarantee you, he

s up there right now cheering me on. I

m on a date with the prettiest, smartest, most talented girl in the city. He wouldn

t want me to screw this up.


But–

He presses his finger to my lips.

Shhh.

I wrap my fingers around his, eventually holding his hand in the middle of the table.


I just want you to know that we could have gone for that four block walk and I would have been happy. I don

t need this, okay? I

m not accustomed to some privileged lifestyle. I like people who like me for who I am as a person, and not because I was adopted by some wealthy philanthropist and his wife. My life isn

t perfect. My
dad
isn

t perfect. I guess most people think I

m lucky that he found me, but he has a lot of flaws that people don

t see. I don

t always feel so lucky.


I don

t think you

re lucky. There

s nothing lucky about a little girl losing both of her biological parents before she was even old enough to retain memories of them.


Right,

I whisper.


Jack and Emi, they

re the lucky ones.


Right,

I laugh sarcastically.


No, you

re right. They

re not lucky, either. They were smart. They saw something special in you, and they chose you to be in their lives.


Choisie
,

I say to him.


Choisie
,

he repeats, glancing only briefly at the necklace.

I

m the lucky one.


How so?


I

m the only guy in the city you

re on a date with tonight. That seems pretty lucky to me.


Well, for the record, I feel pretty lucky tonight for that, too.


So we can stay and have dinner?


Yeah, we

ll stay,

I tell him, looking back down at the prix fixe menu.


Good.

Morris comes back over once we

ve both set the menus in the middle of the table. We tell him our orders and our drinks arrive just as he walks away.


Two virgin rum and cokes,

the waiter says, setting them down.


Why do they keep calling them that?

I ask Jon.


I don

t know. Maybe
it

s
to elevate the ambiance. Doesn

t it make you feel older?


Maybe. Why do they call it virgin, anyway?

My voice gets softer as I say the word.


It

s pure,

he answers.

Untouched. In this instance, by alcohol.


It just seems like there are better words.

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