Personal Demons (10 page)

Frannie’s mom takes a step forward and lays a hand on the rail. “Why don’t you and your friend study at the kitchen table? I’m done in there and you’d have room to spread out.”

Frannie looks at me, her eyes narrowing. “Um, sure. Okay.” She shrugs at me and turns to head back down the stairs.

Picture those old fifties TV shows they always run late at night on Nickelodeon. You know . . . the ones where the moms all stay home and clean the house in sensible high heels and makeup. Like
Leave It to Beaver.
That’s my life. The Cleavers got nothing on us.

In the ten years since my brother died, I’ve never seen my mother upset—about anything. It’s like she’s completely numb, humming through life pushing a vacuum cleaner. Sometimes it’s enough to make me want to do something totally outrageous just to see if I can get a rise out of her. Wake her up. But maybe she doesn’t want to wake up. Maybe it’s too hard.

The closest I’ve ever come to seeing her upset was two years ago, on the day the call came from St. Agnes Parochial School that I was being removed for disciplinary reasons. I actually believe her jaw clenched a little, and her blue eyes might even have been a little moist while she listened to Sister Maria explain I was a disruption in religion class. But when she hung up the phone she smoothed her hair—like that minute jaw clench might have displaced one—then her skirt, smiled, and said, “We’ll have to get you registered at Haden High School this week.”

So this whole “studying at the kitchen table” thing is a little weird. I’ve had boys in my room to study before and it’s never
been a problem. Even Reefer. I guess Luc wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t make a great first impression.

We spread out at the kitchen table, and Dad meanders by the door, peering in at us. It’s totally embarrassing. Why did he pick today to decide to ruin my life?
Go away.

I thumb through my composition book and open it to a blank page. “What should we focus on for this outline? Maybe the whole thing with Ma and Tom?” I glance up at Luc as Dad walks by again and cringe at the annoyed set to Luc’s face.

Go away, Dad.

But, as I stare at Luc, the creases around his eyes smooth and a smile ticks at one side of his mouth. “Sounds good to me.” He raises his voice slightly. “Any thoughts, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

Dad slides around the corner with pink cheeks and suspicious eyes. He sort of stares Luc down, something I’ve never seen him do before, nods at me and leaves.

“What happened?” I whisper.

He just shrugs.

I shake my head and start writing.

I’m surprised when my sister, Grace, shuffles through the kitchen door on her way to the fridge. She rarely ventures out of her and Maggie’s room, which is why Maggie’s never in it. She pulls a Coke from the fridge, pops the top, and stares at us from under her blond bangs as she sips. It’s a little creepy, actually, how Grace can make you feel like she’s looking right into you with those pale blue eyes. She’s always been like that.

“Is there something you needed, Grace?” I ask pointedly when her staring starts to get weird.

“No.” But she doesn’t leave. She just sips her Coke and stares.

I try to ignore her, but it’s impossible. “You know, we’re trying to study . . .”

She leans against the fridge like she’s settling in for a while. “Go ahead.”

I scowl at her. “It’d be easier if you left.”

“Whatever.” She shrugs off the fridge and shuffles back out to the family room, eyeing Luc the whole way.

“Sorry about that. She’s just a little . . .”

“Intense?” Luc is watching after her with a raised eyebrow.

I smile. “That wasn’t the word I was going to use, but yeah.”

When we finish I kinda want to invite him up to my room to listen to my new Fray downloads, but I figure that’s pushing my luck.

Then again, pushing my luck is what I do best.

We meander toward the door, but I look over my shoulder when we get there and grab Luc’s hand. “C’mon,” I say and tow him up the stairs.

He looks a little surprised when I pull him through my door and close it.

“So, you have no clue what happened?” I ask, climbing onto my bed. “ ’Cause I’ve never seen my parents act like that before.”

“No clue.”

I tuck my legs under me and lean on my outstretched arm. “Well, that was really weird. They’ve all turned into aliens.”

He scans my room and cracks an amused smile. “Like
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
. . .” His gaze shifts to me as his eyebrow quirks. “Could happen.”

He turns back to my walls and takes a lap of my room.
“Interesting wallpaper,” he says, slowing to read some of Riley’s and Taylor’s captions. He gets to the Mona Lisa and lets out a mirthless laugh. “She did—a lot,” he mumbles under his breath.

“What?” I ask.

He looks at me for a second. “Nothing.”

And then I remember what Taylor wrote on that picture. “Mona Lisa needs to get laid.”

His eyes drop to my dresser, and he picks up a picture frame. He looks at the picture for a long time. Running his finger over the glass, he says, “Who is this?”

“Me and my brother.” I look out the window into the swirling storm clouds collecting on the horizon.

He sounds surprised. “Your brother?”

“He’s dead,” I say flatly.

“When?”

I look back at him, and there’s sympathy in his eyes I don’t deserve. My insides churn and bile burns my tightening throat. I really don’t want to have this conversation.

“Ten years ago.” I pull my government book out of my book bag.

“I’m so sorry.”

I thumb blindly through the book, pretending to be finding my page, and breathe back the threat of tears.

He eases into my desk chair. “Do you want to talk about it?”

God, no.
“Not really.” I spring off the bed. “So I downloaded some cool stuff,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the thick sound of my voice. I grab my iPod off the dresser and stick it on the speakers. “What do you want to hear?”

“Depends on what you’ve got.”

I breathe deep and feel my chest start to loosen. “The Fray, always,” I say and smile up at him, “but also some new Saving Abel and Three Days Grace.”

“Put it on shuffle. I like surprises.” A playful smile dances across his face, making my heart skip.

I hit the play button, but I so can’t pay attention to the music, ’cause Luc pulls himself out of the chair and saunters toward me. I’m not sure what I’m seeing in his eyes—something seductive and oh-so-dangerous. When that wicked smile curls his lips, the tingle low in my belly explodes through my whole body, making me gasp. But just as he reaches me the door swings open.

And Mom is standing there with fire shooting out her eyeballs.

Shit.
I let my hair fall across my face, hoping to hide the color in my cheeks, and turn to her. “Hey Mom.”

“I need a word, Frannie,” she says without actually moving her jaw. “In the hall,” she adds when I don’t move.

I turn to Luc and widen my eyes in mock horror.

He chokes back a laugh, disguising the bit that escapes as a cough.

I step out into the hall and close the door. “What?”

“I thought we had an understanding.”

“What understanding?”

“I don’t want him in your room,” she says under her breath.

“How about if we keep the door open?”
Please let him stay.

She looks at me for a long minute. “With the door open,” she says glancing at it, “for a little while.”

I work to keep the grin from spreading across my face. I’ve
pushed my luck enough for one day. “Thanks,” I say, pushing the door open.

She looks at me a moment longer then glances in at Luc before turning for the stairs.

I step through the door and Luc has my iPod in his hand. “You’ve got a little of everything in here,” he says. “Jimi Hendrix, Mozart, Nickelback.”

I pick my fingernail and grunt my affirmation, embarrassed.

He presses it back onto the speakers. “So, since I’m not being dragged out of here by my ear, I take it you were able to negotiate a truce?”

My stomach turns inside out as he moves slowly toward me. “I guess. Door open was my concession,” I say with a shake in my voice, gesturing to the hall.

“Hmm . . .” He stops in front of me—too close—and glances out into the hall as my giggling sisters slither past. “Which, it seems, would have the desired effect of limiting our physical contact.” He lifts his hand and strokes a finger along the line of my jaw.

Suddenly, my heart is totally erratic. I feel kinda buzzy and numb. “Yeah . . . well . . .” I snatch my government book off the bed. “Did you finish Coach Runyon’s homework yet?”

He quirks a smile. “Nope.”

I pull my notebook from my book bag and spread out on the floor. He eases in next to me and leans against the bed. And I try to ignore my sisters as they take turns peering in the door at us as we do our homework.

When we’re finished I walk with him to his car.

“So, I guess I’ll see you Monday.”

“Monday,” he says sliding into his car and closing the door.

I lean in the open window and the music surprises me. “What are you listening to?”

“Vivaldi.”

“Really?”

He grins and leans closer. “I’m full of surprises.”

My heart thumps in my chest, and I smile a shaky smile back. “I’m sure.”

His eyebrow arches. “Have fun at church tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

He starts the engine, but I’m still leaning on his window. And he’s staring at me. I lean in more, close enough to feel his heat. He starts to lean toward me, and my heart feels like some wild thing trapped in my chest, struggling to get loose.

Then my front door swings open, and my parents are standing on the porch. I pull a deep breath, will my vital signs out of the critical range, and stand up, blowing out a frustrated sigh.

Luc’s lips pull into an amused smile, sending my heart racing again. “See ya,” he says and waves. I watch him back out of the driveway and drive slowly down my street till his taillights disappear around the corner. When I turn back to the house, my parents are still standing there.

“Holy God! What was that?” I say, exasperated, storming up the walk.

“Language, Frannie,” Mom scolds.

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. So what’s the deal?”

Dad looks at me with concerned eyes. “You’re not . . .” he starts, but blushes and trails off.

“What?”

Mom takes my hand and leads me into the empty family room. I can hear my sisters scuffle at the top of the stairs, angling for better listening position. “You’re not romantically involved with that boy, are you?”

“You mean, are we dating?”

“Yes.”

“No. He’s my essay partner.” And the object of my fantasies.

“We don’t think you should spend any more time with him than you have to.”

“Why?”

“He just concerns us, Frannie. There’s something not right about him.”

“Wow. Okay. So is it the piercings?”

“No, just something in his . . . vibe.”

“You don’t like his
vibe?”

I hear Kate and Maggie giggle.

“Just trust us, Frannie. Please. I don’t think he’s the type of person you should be spending time with.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my parents?”

She smiles despite herself and then gives me a hug. “We just worry about our girls, that’s all.”

So, I guess this is how to get a rise out of Mom. But the truth is I shouldn’t be surprised, ’cause Luc definitely does have a vibe. And let’s just say it’s not likely to impress too many teenage girls’ parents.

I haven’t been able to think about anything but Luc since he left yesterday afternoon. Or obsess would be a more accurate term, I guess. The look in his eyes . . . no one’s ever looked at me that way before. An aching tingle starts low in my belly just thinking about it, and I glance at Mom, in the front of the family van. If she hadn’t come in when she did, I’m not sure what would have happened.

I sit in the back of the van and crank my iPod, looking out the window the whole way to church, hoping for a glimpse of a ’68 black Shelby Cobra. But instead, the first thing I see when we pull into the church parking lot is Grandpa’s midnight blue ’65 Mustang, glimmering in the sun, top down and ready to roll.

“No way!” I squeal.

Mom smiles. “Looks like you’ll be riding back to Grandpa’s in style today.”

“I don’t get what the big deal is. It’s just some crappy old car. Who’d want
that
when they could have a brand-new one?” Grace says with her usual pragmatism.

“Grandpa would, and I would,” I say.

She rolls her eyes and shrugs.