Rolling Dice (17 page)

“Yup. See ya.”

And with that, we part ways: I go one way, and he goes the other.

“Now, be
nice
,” I instruct my parents.

“Are we ever anything but, Dice? Anyone would think you’re ashamed of us.” Dad tries to keep his poker face, but he’s not doing a great job. I roll my eyes.

I smooth out a nonexistent crease in my black tank top. I haven’t taken any special trouble with my clothes. I mean, I showered and fixed my hair, but I’m just in a pair of thin jeans with a tear in the knee that wasn’t there when I bought them, and a plain black top. Nothing special at all.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous … It’s a different kind of nervous from when Bryce made his surprise visit earlier this week. That was very different: it was my boyfriend meeting my parents for the first time, and I’ve never been in that situation before.

This is much simpler: a friend coming around to work on a project. But I’ve never been in any kind of situation like this, either. I haven’t had a friend, period, so there was never anybody to meet my parents. And I’m just (more than slightly) worried they will embarrass me.

I fidget with my belt buckle and look at the clock. The second hand has moved on an entire eight seconds since I last looked. Why is time going so slowly all of a sudden? It’s like when you’re in a dream and your limbs won’t move as fast as they should, and you can’t run or anything. It’s frustrating, because you know there’s nothing you can do about it.

I glance up again. Five seconds. I squeeze my eyes shut until bright spots of light dance across the inside of my eyelids. Then I look again at the clock. Six seconds.

I wonder, if I take the clock off the wall and shake it, will that make it move faster?

Dinnng-donnnng …

The doorbell sounds, followed by four rapid knocks. Mom starts, making a move and opening her mouth to say that she’ll get the door, but I’m there before she has a chance to say anything.

I pause, run my fingers over my hair, straighten my tank top. Then I open the door wide, a smile ready on my face.

“Hey!” Dwight greets me with his lopsided, warm smile. A backpack is slung casually over his shoulder—the zipper is not done up properly, and I recognize the corner of
our Physics textbook poking out.

I step back and gesture for him to come inside. I notice that he wipes his feet on the welcome mat outside on the porch, though. Mom would approve.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” I tell him. “If you want to just dump your stuff down there for now …”

“All right.”

We’ve decided to do our project on Isaac Newton. Dwight wasn’t too enthusiastic about this at first—he wanted to do someone more obscure, but since I know next to nothing about scientists, we agreed that someone well-known would be better.

Mom suddenly appears around the kitchen door. She’s been dying to meet Dwight. “Oh! You must be Dwight! It’s so lovely to meet you—Madison’s told us a lot about you.”

Dwight smiles and says, “Thanks for having me to dinner, Mrs. Clarke.”

“Oh, please, call me Carrie.”

“Carrie.” Dwight nods politely. “All right.”

“And it’s really no trouble at all, no trouble. I hope you’re hungry—we’ve got a heap of food.”

I don’t think Dwight picks up on it, but the enthusiasm in my mother’s voice is bordering on hysterical. Sure, Jenna brought home plenty of friends (and guy friends, and boyfriends), but this situation is different, because it’s me, and not Jenna. Mom’s excited and nervous about me having a friend over to do a school project; she’s more anxious than I am, actually.

And that’s why I’m so terrified she’s going to embarrass me.

“You may as well come and sit down,” Mom tells us, waving a hand to usher us forward. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

I nod and say, “Okay,” and Dwight bends down to unlace his battered Converse. They’re almost as worn as mine.

“So,” he says with a hint of laughter in his voice as he straightens back up to look at me. “You talk about me a lot, do you?”

I bite the insides of my cheeks. “I guess I mentioned you a couple of times …”

“Only a couple?” he teases.

“Fine, fine—you got me. I’ve been totally stalking you ever since I met you in the café, okay? I can’t help myself.”

He laughs. I like his laugh. Just hearing it makes you feel happy. “Come on—your parents won’t be impressed if we let dinner get cold,” he tells me.

As we enter the kitchen, I see that Dad is plating up dinner. It’s a chicken casserole, with extra vegetables in a dish on the table and a basket of bread and butter. My parents have put in just a little extra effort because Dwight’s here.

“So what’s this project you kids are working on? Madison hasn’t told us much about it,” Dad says, when we’re all settled down.

I roll my eyes. I should’ve expected something like this. I’ve told them everything I can be bothered to about the project; they know the basics. But I have to hand it to them: it’s a clever way to initiate conversation with Dwight without seeming too intrusive.

I glance sideways at him, and even though he isn’t looking at me, I catch the gleam of enthusiasm in his eyes as he begins talking about our project.

“You’re interested in physics, then?” Mom asks.

He nods. “Yeah. There’s something truly amazing in discovering how the universe works. Trying to re-create the Big Bang, learning all the intricate little details of a single particle …” He trails off and takes a mouthful of chicken, ducking his head down.

“So is it just physics that interests you, or science in general?”

He looks back up, swallows and clears his throat. “Science in general, but I’ve always liked physics in particular.”

“Guess what,” I say. “Tiffany texted me earlier and suggested I go to cheerleading tryouts, since they got postponed to next week.”

“Well, why don’t you give it a shot?” Mom asks.

“Yeah, Madison,” Dwight says. For some reason, I get the impression he’s mocking me—just a tad. “Could be fun.”

“As if.” I snort. “I am not—no way, no how—trying out for the cheerleading squad. I have some sanity left.”

Mom sighs. “You should give it a shot, Dice—it’s not that bad. Jenna always loved it.”

“Dice?” Dwight picks up on my parents’ nickname for me. There’s a small line creasing his forehead, drawing his dark eyebrows just a touch closer together. When he frowns like that, there’s a little wrinkle on either side of his nose, like it wants to scrunch up.
It’s cute
, I think, before I can stop myself.

“Oh,” Dad says. “It’s just what we call her.”

“Dice.”
It’s like he’s testing out how it sounds, how it tastes. “That’s unusual. Why not Maddie?”

“I hate that name,” I snap, a bit too sharply.

There’s a heavy heartbeat of silence hanging over the table. Then, “Dice is cool, though.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, because I don’t know what else to say.

“Do you play any sports, Dwight?” Dad asks him. “Soccer, tennis …?”

Dwight laughs, as if the idea is entirely ridiculous. “No, I’m not much of a sportsperson, really. I do surf, though. My … my dad used to surf. He got me into it when I was younger.”

“Ah.”

“The great thing about surfing is that I can apply physics to the waves—there’s a difference between waves in shallow and deep water … it’s all to do with refraction—”

He cuts off midsentence, then laughs sheepishly. “Sorry, I really shouldn’t get started on this, or I could go on forever. My sister hates it when I talk science at dinner.”

“I always thought surfing looked really cool,” I say. “I never got the chance to try it, though.”

“Really? Maybe I could teach you sometime. I taught Carter one summer. Unless you’re afraid of getting your hair wet, or breaking a nail?”

“Ha ha,” I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes. He chuckles at me. “Sure. That’d be great.”

We finish dinner with a little more easy conversation, and just as I’m helping Mom load everything into the dishwasher, the phone in the hall rings.

“I’ll get it,” I offer, and hold up a finger to signal “one minute” to Dwight. I dash into the hallway and snatch up the phone. “Hello?”

“Aloha, baby sis!” Jenna all but yells down the phone at me, and I have to hold it away from my ear briefly.

“Tone it down, Jen!”

“What’s up?”

“Uh, you called me.”

“Yes, and I called with the purpose of asking what is up. And I ask this because I know for a fact that you have a study
date
.”

I roll my eyes, even though I know she can’t see me. I walk around the banister and sit on the stairs. “Would you calm down already? It’s not a ‘study date,’ okay? We’re just working on a physics project.”

“Mm-hmm,” she says doubtfully. “Sure, Mads, whatever you say. This is the cute guy who asked you to the beach party, though, right?”

“Yes, and that doesn’t matter because it’s purely platonic—and are you forgetting Bryce?”

“Sexy football-player boyfriend? Of course not.”

“He plays soccer, not football.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry! How’re things going with him?”

“Good. No different from when I spoke to you … what was it, Wednesday?”

“Yeah. Aw, I am happy about that. Now I absolutely
have
to tell you about this guy I met yesterday on campus. His name’s Henry. He’s British. How cool and sexy is that, Mads? He’s
British
! His accent is adorable. He asked me out for coffee.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“No, when are you going for coffee?”

“In about an hour. He’s in my art classes, but he’s majoring in history.”

“Aw,” I say, smiling. Jenna vowed to Mom that she won’t let any guys get in the way of college work—at least for the first semester—unless she thinks they’re worth it. And a year in, she’s been true to her word. But there’s something in her voice that makes me think she already likes this guy.

“Is Mom there?”

“Uh, she was in the kitchen …” I stand and lean over the banister, peeking into the kitchen, but there’s no sign of my mom. In fact, there’s no sign of Dad or Dwight, either.

“Mom?” I call.

“Don’t worry,” Jenna says. “Tell her I’ll give her a call later, yeah?”

“All right.”

“In the family room, honey!” Mom calls in reply to me.

“Okay!” I yell back. To Jenna I say, “Have fun on your date.”

“Ditto to you,” she giggles. “Bye!” And she hangs up before I can sigh and argue that
it’s not a date
.

I find Dwight sitting in the middle of the couch, a familiar big fat photo album on his lap. Mom is beside him and stretches an arm to turn the page, and they look over at me as I walk in.

“Who was on the phone?” she asks.

But I just stand there, horror slowly creeping over me, as I stare at the photo album. It’s the one that Jenna and I put together for Mom’s birthday last year, with all her favorite photos—ones from her wedding, from when we were born, various birthdays and
Christmases and Halloweens, and even as far back as her college graduation.

It’s a great photo album.

But it isn’t meant for other people to see.

What I should be thinking is:
Oh, gosh, how clichéd of them. They’ve gone down the old-baby-pictures route of embarrassing me. How predictable
.

But that’s not what I’m thinking.

The page Dwight’s on at the moment shows a photo of me and Jenna at the beach when I was about five. But I know that the next one was taken at Jenna’s high school graduation: it is a photo of the old Madison.

Then the panic sets in and overtakes the horror that froze me in place.

I pounce onto the couch, half tumbling over Dwight’s shoulder and knocking the album away. Mom gets up hastily and catches it before it hits the floor. I balance precariously for a second, and then collapse onto the space Mom just vacated, an arm splayed across Dwight.

“Madison!” Dad exclaims as I sort myself out and sit up. “What are you doing?”

I turn to Dwight. “Sorry.”

For a split second I catch the confusion on his face—and then it vanishes and he’s perfectly composed again. “Don’t worry.”

“Madison,” Mom admonishes.

Still looking at Dwight, I say, “I just don’t like people looking at old photos of me.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

I give him a sort of fleeting half-smile. He smiles back for a moment to let me know it’s okay.

Mom lets out a sigh, but it’s not one of frustration or irritation at me. It’s more of a tired, sad sigh. She moves over to the bookcase and slides the photo album back into its slot between her
Collected Works of Shakespeare
and the
Complete Charles Dickens Collection
.

“Right—we’ll leave you kids to work on your project, then,” Mom announces, as though I didn’t just attack her photo album in a completely crazy way. “We’ll stay out of your way, don’t worry.”

They close the door behind them. I hear the TV in the study, and the low hum of voices is the only noise.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Dwight again. “I … It’s just—”

“Don’t worry about it.” He gives me a gentle smile, one that tells me he won’t ask about it and he doesn’t think I’m a complete freak.

I let out a sigh of relief. “So … should we get started or what?”

“Yup. I’ll just grab my bag.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a second—I have to get my laptop and books.”

I’d put my laptop and textbooks and a notebook and pen ready in a neat pile at the foot of my bed. I snatch up my laptop charger as well, just in case, and head back downstairs.

I’m almost at the bottom of the stairs when I hear: “Dice.”

I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and taking a slow, long breath. In … and out.

I poke my head around the door of the study. Dad’s reading the newspaper and Mom’s surfing the Internet—she’s looking at winter coats. There’s a rerun of some soap playing on the TV.

“What?”

“You didn’t have to overreact like that.”

“You didn’t have to show him a photo album,” I snap back, only just remembering to keep my voice low. “I know it’s your job to be embarrassing and whatever, but not—not … You just can’t
do
that, okay?”