Summer of the Geek (16 page)

“They’re wonderful, dear,” Peyton said smoothly, although I hadn’t seen her take a single bite. “Thank you for making dinner.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for setting the table,” Dad said.

“Happy to help,” Peyton replied.

Hannah and I glanced at each other. They were being bizarrely polite. It was the nicest they’d been toward each other in ages.

“Are you excited about your first modeling assignment tomorrow?” Dad asked Hannah.

“It’s just the casting call. I haven’t been hired yet,” Hannah said. But her smile and the small wriggle gave away how excited she really was.

“What time do you have to be there?” Dad asked.

“Nine o’clock. And it’s down in West Palm, so we’ll have to leave early,” Hannah said. “Right, Mom?”

“I think we’ll be fine if we leave by eight,” Peyton said.

Dad frowned. “Don’t forget there’ll be heavy traffic. You’ll be right in the middle of the morning rush hour.”

“I know how to drive, Richard,” Peyton said, in the cold tone I was more used to hearing her speaking in.

“I
know
you know how to drive. But I don’t think you’ve ever had to drive south during the morning rush, have you?” Dad asked. There was a definite edge to his voice.

Peyton’s eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth, clearly getting ready to blast Dad with a stinging retort. But instead, she closed her mouth, drew in a deep breath through her flared nostrils, and said in a very calm voice, “When you say I’ve never driven in rush hour, I feel like you’re implying that I’ve never had a real job. And that makes me feel as though I’m being criticized.”

Hannah and I both stared at her. It was such an oddly un-Peyton-like thing to say.

Dad cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to diminish what you do. I very much appreciate all of the hard work you do running our home. I’m just concerned that you won’t give yourself enough time to get there, and will end up rushing. I don’t want you getting into an accident.”

Hannah’s and my heads swiveled from my father back to Peyton, as though we were spectators at a tennis match. I wanted to ask my dad what exactly he was talking about in regard to Peyton’s hard work in running the house. She didn’t really do anything, other than writing out checks for the various housekeepers and gardeners she employed. But I figured this wasn’t the best time to bring it up.

“I appreciate your concern. Would it make you feel better if Hannah and I leave at seven thirty instead?” Peyton asked.

“Yes, it would,” Dad replied.

“All right, then, we’ll leave at seven thirty, Hannah,” Peyton said. She took a sip of water and pretended to nibble on a black bean.

“Um, okay,” Hannah said, shooting me another confused look.

“That was weird,” Hannah said, walking into my room without knocking after dinner. I was sitting on the floor, rubbing Willow’s stomach, while she lay on her back, all four legs waving in the air. Willow grunted with bliss.

“Very weird,” I agreed. “I guess they learned to talk like that in therapy.”

Hannah sat on my bed. “Do you think it’s working?”

“Probably too soon to tell,” I said. “But at least it’s better than listening to them yell at each other.”

“That’s true.” Hannah looked around my bedroom, which was very white and very modern. There was a low platform bed covered with a white duvet, a dresser, and a boxy white chair that was too uncomfortable to sit on. Before I’d moved in, it had been the guest room, and when Peyton was feeling particularly malicious, she still called it that. “Why don’t you redecorate in here? I’ll help. We could paint the walls. Blue maybe. Or do you like purple?”

I glanced around. “I don’t know. When I first moved in, I didn’t think I’d be here long enough to personalize it. And then I guess I got used to the whiteness.”

Hannah wrinkled her nose. “It’s just so cold and impersonal.”

I was about to point out that the whole beach house was cold and white and impersonal—much like Peyton’s personality—but bit back the remark. Despite a bumpy patch when I first moved in, Hannah and I had been getting along pretty well in recent months. I didn’t want to ruin our good mojo by making mean comments about her mom, no matter how truthful they were.

“And you’ll be here next year, too, right? Didn’t you say your mom was staying in London?” Hannah asked.

I hesitated—I still hadn’t told anyone but my dad about London—but I decided I could trust Hannah.

“Actually, my mom wants me to move to London to live with her,” I said.

Hannah’s mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”

I nodded. “I probably won’t go, though. I mean, I haven’t decided. But I probably won’t.”

“Are you
insane
?”

The force of Hannah’s words took me by surprise. She was looking at me as though I’d just announced that I’d just been asked out on a date by Robert Pattinson and had turned him down.

“You have a chance to get out of this hick town and go live in a glamorous, international city and you’re not going to take it?” Hannah continued.

“You would go if you were me?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Of course I would!” Hannah said. “That’s, like, the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“Even though it would mean leaving behind all of your friends and Emmett?” I continued.

“Well, sure, that would be hard. I mean, I do love Emmett,” Hannah said, tossing her hair back. “But he’s going away to college in a year, and let’s face it—most high school couples break up as soon as one of them leaves for college. And if by some chance we are meant to be together, well, then, we’d be together even if I moved to Paris, right?”

“Paris?” I frowned at her. “What do you mean Paris?”

Hannah flushed, a pretty pink tinge covering her cheeks and the tip of her nose. “That’s where I would move if I could live anywhere,” she said. “I’d go to Paris and be a model. It’s the fashion capital of the world.”

“Okay, well, that makes sense. You’d be moving to follow your dream, right? But that doesn’t really apply to me. I want to be a writer, and I can write here as well as in London,” I said.

“But isn’t part of being a writer having amazing life experiences, so you have something to write about?” Hannah said.

“I guess,” I said slowly. “But I’d be giving up a lot.”

I didn’t have to mention Dex by name. Hannah immediately knew what I meant.

“If Dex and you are meant to be together, you’ll be together,” Hannah said. “Trust.”

“And if we’re not?” I asked.

Hannah shrugged. “Then you’re not. And it won’t matter if you’re here or in London.”

I nodded. I still wasn’t sure what I should do, but Hannah was—shockingly enough—making a lot of sense.

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” I said. “I haven’t told anyone other than my dad, and now you. I don’t want Dex or anyone else to know until I’ve made up my mind one way or the other.”

“Really? You told me, but not your friends?” Hannah asked, her eyebrows rising in two perfect blond arches.

“Yep.”

“Why me?” she asked.

“I trust you,” I said simply. And I couldn’t help but feel a glow of goodwill when I saw how pleased she was to hear me say it.

W
hen I arrived at the Fishers’ house Monday morning, I could hear someone inside—I was pretty sure it was Amelia—shouting. I hesitated for a moment, not sure whether I should interrupt. Then, finally deciding I had to—it was my job to be there, after all—I pressed the doorbell. The shouting stopped. There was the sound of advancing footsteps in the hallway, and then the door swung open.

Mrs. Fisher stood there, smiling at me as usual. The smile was a bit tense, and Mrs. Fisher’s cheeks were very red, but she said, “Good morning, Miranda,” in a calm enough voice.

“Hi, Mrs. Fisher,” I said, walking inside and dropping my knapsack by the front door.

Mrs. Fisher winced as a door on the second floor of the house slammed shut.

“Amelia’s upstairs. She’s a bit upset at the moment,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“We decided to engage a new piano teacher for Amelia—someone who has more experience with advanced students. Amelia is rather attached to her old teacher, and so, naturally, she’s unhappy at the change.” Mrs. Fisher sighed and ran a hand through her short, wiry bob, causing the bangles on her arm to jingle together. “Maybe you could talk to her, Miranda. I know she looks up to you.”

She does?
I wanted to say. Because even though Amelia had ratcheted down her hostility toward me since I started taking her to the pool, I thought we were a long way off from her looking up to me. I was pretty sure I was someone she barely tolerated.

The phone rang, and Mrs. Fisher turned toward the kitchen, tapping down the hallway in her heels, calling back over her shoulder to me, “Go ahead upstairs, Miranda. Amelia should be in her room.” A moment later, I heard her answer the phone. “Hello? Oh yes, hello, Janice. I’m glad you called. I need to talk to you about the fabric samples I got in for the window treatments for your living room. . . .”

I trudged up the stairs. I hadn’t been on the second floor of the Fishers’ house before. There was a long central hallway, carpeted in beige, with framed family photos hanging on the walls. The pictures were mostly of Amelia taken at what looked like piano recitals and concerts, with Amelia up on a stage, wearing a full-skirted dress and sitting at a large black piano. There was one shot of all three Fishers, standing on a dock with boats behind them, smiling at the camera. I hadn’t met Mr. Fisher yet, but I could see Amelia in his face—he had the same stubborn chin, the same large brown eyes. Mr. Fisher had an arm slung around Mrs. Fisher’s waist; she had her hand on Amelia’s shoulder. They looked like a happy family, I thought.

I continued down the hallway, passing the master bedroom and a bathroom, until I reached the only closed door. By process of elimination, this had to be Amelia’s room. I knocked softly.

“Go away!” Amelia called through the door. Her voice sounded ragged, as though she’d been crying.

“It’s me. Miranda,” I said.

I wasn’t surprised when she said, in an even louder, more aggressive tone, “I said,
go away
!”

I considered my options. I could go back downstairs, but then I might have to talk to Mrs. Fisher some more when she got off the phone. That wasn’t so bad in itself—Mrs. Fisher had always been nice to me—but she would realize that Amelia and I weren’t nearly as close as she thought we were. She might even decide that I was a terrible au pair and fire me. I didn’t know why this would bother me so much—taking care of Amelia hadn’t exactly been fun. But I didn’t want to be a failure at my first official job. So I knocked on the door again.

“Look, I’m not going away, so you might as well let me in,” I said.

I didn’t expect this to work, but after a brief pause, the door swung open. Amelia stood before me, her face pale and streaked with tears, her dark hair falling messily over her shoulders, her hands fisted at her sides. She was wearing a pink T-shirt with a glittery rainbow on it. This was unusual for her. Amelia didn’t normally wear a lot of pink, or sparkles, or anything so overtly girly.

“Hi,” I said. “Can I come in?”

Amelia shrugged, but stepped aside. I took this as an invitation and stepped into her room. Much like the pink T-shirt, Amelia’s room didn’t look like Amelia to me. The walls were pale blue, and the furniture—a bed, a dresser, a small desk—was white and edged with gold. The bedspread and curtains were both navy blue. On the wall, there was a series of framed black-and-white photographs of ballet shoes. I looked at these, surprised.

“Do you dance?” I asked.

“No,” Amelia said. “My mom picked those out.”

“Oh,” I said. “That makes sense. She’s an interior decorator, right?”

I thought it looked like the sort of bedroom you’d see in an advertisement—pretty but impersonal. I was suddenly reminded of my own room, back at the beach house. Maybe Amelia and I were more alike that I’d thought. We could both live in rooms and fail to make any impression on them.

In fact, the only bits of Amelia I saw in her room was a stack of sheet music piled up messily on the desk, a cuddly stuffed monkey propped against the pillow, and a book on the bedside table. I looked closer. It was
Anne of Green Gables
. I touched it, and remembered telling Amelia that the book had been one of my favorites.

“Are you enjoying the book?” I asked.

Amelia shrugged again, but then she nodded. “It’s okay, I guess.”

My spine stiffened. Who could possibly read
Anne of Green Gables
, and call it just
okay
? But then I reminded myself that Amelia was upset, and took a few deep breaths to keep my temper in check.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

Amelia looked at me strangely. “The book?”