The Faery Keepers (22 page)

             
“Will it be a black tie event, or can he just wear jeans?” I mutter, fingering a tiny piece of cucumber still stuck to my plate.

             
“Don't sass me kid, or I'll have to ground you. But jeans and a nice shirt are fine. Remember, six thirty. I won't be kept waiting.”

             
What brought all of this on? I think to myself later. Maggie and I had been going to his house for almost a month now for the lessons and now all of the sudden she wants to meet him? It's not like we're
dating
for God's sake! Granted, he hadn't shown up at either of our houses once in that entire time, but that was more because that's how we wanted it. It would have been easier to not get the families involved in this mess. Besides, if he stayed away, wouldn't the other
Fey
?

             
Broaching the subject of the matter with Derek is a whole other playing field, though. What will he think? I mean, it's not like it'll be a date or anything. My mom just wants to meet him, nothing more. Unless she's planning something more Spanish Inquisition-like he has no need to worry and nor do I. But thinking this is much different than actually
doing
anything.  How do you explain to your Faery keeper teacher that your
mom
wants to have him over for dinner? Especially since he hasn't had the best of luck in the parental department.
Awkward
.





             
“
Derek? Can I speak with you for a moment?” I chew on my thumb nail nervously as I wait for him to respond. I had talked to Maggie yesterday, after my mom had come up with her insane idea that had unfortunately stuck through til today, about what I should do about the whole situation. This was her solution; leave the two of us alone while she feigns a stomach ache in the bathroom so I can ask Derek about Saturday. I admit, not one of her most clever ideas but it gets the job done. What's that saying? When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. This is the lemonade.

             
“Sure, what's up?” he looks over at me, brushing his wavy dark bangs out of his eyes. “You're nervous, why are you nervous?”

             
“Just don't freak out OK?”  I say, sucking in a breath and wishing for the last time that Maggie would come out of the bathroom and I would have to abandon this crazy plan. I know it won't happen, but a girl can try, can't she?

             
“Spit it out, the suspense is killing me.”

             
“Well. . . My mom has this crazy idea that she wants to meet you and she wants you to come to dinner at our place this Saturday at six thirty in the evening and it's not like a big deal or anything but can you show up and wear a nice shirt or something?” I say the whole thing in one breath and pant trying to get the wind back in me when it's finally all out.

             
“Six thirty? In the
evening
? Well this won't do, I have my supper promptly at four o' clock every day!” he deadpans.

             
It takes me a fraction of a second to realize that he's joking.

             
“You were worked up about
this
?” he asks when I say nothing more.

             
I shrug noncommittally.

             
“And what's so bad about meeting me? Am I really that grizzly that I can't meet your folks? I mean it is only
dinner
after all, not like we're being betrothed or something. . . Are we? Because if so I must say that I won't have my bride to be stressing about such mundane things. The
nerve
! I will talk with the cook immediately!”

             
I shake my head, “Derek this isn't the time to be joking about this.”

             
“Who said I was joking?” his brown eyes are serious and there's a flicker of anxiety for the briefest second before it's gone. He
is
worried. All the teasing and bravado is just a cover, a protective shell, to what is really going on inside that curly haired head of his. He actually seems scared of meeting my mom.

             
Who can blame him?
He hasn't got his real parents. He hasn't for
nine
years. Maybe even before that.

             
“But you seriously don't mind?”

             
“No I don't, you want me there, right?”

             
I nod meekly at him as the bathroom door creaks open across the room.

             
“Then I'll be there,” he says easily as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Maggie appears then and walks with a straight face to stand next to me. She flashes a tiny smile at me when Derek isn't looking and then that's that.  Game, set, match.

             
When Saturday rolls around I'm up with the birds. And I mean that quite literally because the sun has barely began to rise when my eyelids open and through my open window I hear the raucous caws of the jays and sparrows.

             
When evening arrives I'm quite literally going crazy. Mom may have the day off, but it doesn't mean that her being there really gave me anything to do. I guess I should be thankful that she isn't making me do a long list of house work or anything.

             
I had been lounging around in my sweat shorts and an old tank top that has a pinky sized hole in
its
hem, but at about four thirty I realize that I should probably change into something more suitable. A shower wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

             
Thirty two minutes later I'm showered and dressed in a deep sapphire blue sleeveless blouse and a nice pair of white slack shorts with black ballet flats. The shirt has a high neckline so it won't be considered too flirty. Besides, with my lack of what one would call curves I don't really have a chance at
anything
close to flirty, I'll probably be mistaken for a twelve year old. My hair is being too misbehaved and wildly curly to really do anything with it other than pulling it up into a high ponytail. As I look in my full length mirror on the back of my bedroom door, at my knee length shorts and impossibly prominent freckles, I decide that this is as good as it's gonna get.

             
An hour passes and the
doorbell
rings.

             
“I'll get it!” I yell, bounding down the stairs towards the front door before the final chime rang.

             
Unfortunately, mom was already downstairs and much closer, therefore she was already there and admitting Derek through the door.

             
“Hello Mrs. Moore,” he greets. “Hello, Kate,” he adds when he sees me. His eyes appraise me as I look him over. His hair is freshly washed and surprisingly smooth for once and he has on dark washed jeans that appear just bought and a button down short sleeve shirt that's, hilariously, almost the same shade as mine.

             
“Oh, how cute, you kids match.” Mom smiles at each of us. She reaches her hand out and Derek shakes it easily. It's then that I notice that he's holding a small white box in his other hand. “You may call me Abigail. That “Mrs.” stuff makes me feel so old.”

             
“What's in the box?” I ask, peering curiously at the object in his grasp.

             
He opens it and pulls out a red carnation
boutonniere
. “For you.” He gestures to my shirt front, “may I?”

             
I nod and he moves fluidly to pin it there. “Thanks,” is all I can manage when he's done.

             
“Well, if you two are ready,” mom prompts, motioning to the door.

             
“We're going out?” I ask, bemused.

             
“Yes, I made reservations at Benaggio's.”

             
Wow. I thought she was going to cook for this
momentous
occasion. “Why?” I voice. “I thought we were staying in tonight.”

             
“We were. But this is far more fun. How often do I have a day off, anyways?”

             
Touché
I think. But dinner at an Italian diner is altogether a different playing field. A
fancy
Italian diner at that.

             
“Off we go.”

             
“Hold on, let me get that,” Derek opens the door for us. Either he's
really
trying to impress her or chivalry actually isn't dead. Or aliens have kidnapped him and left some kind of clone in his place. That seems like a more logical reason to me.

             
When we get to
my mom’s
Silver Prius Derek opens the door for my mom and I and we all pile in. It takes about ten minutes for us to get to the restaurant but it's an awkward, silent ride.

             
Benaggio's is nice and has that carefully placed homey feeling. There are dozens of square wooden tables and antique looking chairs strategically placed with votive candle holders already lit on each table center. They vary in colors, casting red, orange, green, and yellow colored light on the occupants. Small shaded chandeliers hang from above radiating a soft glow to the room. It seems more like a place one would go on a date at than somewhere to take the kids to.

             
We walk up to the podium and an olive skinned man in his thirties greets us. “'Ello,” his deep voice is heavily accented. “You 'ave reservations, no?”

             
“Yes,” mom steps forward. “Under 'Abigail Moore.'”
 

             
“Ah, very well,” he says after finding her name on his chart. “I am Dante I will be your Waiter tonight. This way, no?” he waves a hand for us to follow him to our table. “Drinks?”

             
“I'll have one glass of red wine and then water after that please,” mom starts after looking at her menu for a moment.

             
“Very good. And you?” he looks at me then Derek.

             
“Um, water is fine, thanks,” I say.

             
“Same,” Derek says.

             
“Ya. I be back in a moment with your drinks.”

             
“Well, this is cozy.” Mom looks between us as she lays out her napkin in her lap, smoothing her skirt down. I'm seated next to her and Derek is across the table peering nonchalantly at his menu. “So, Derek, tell me about yourself. How long have you lived in Hawthorne Hollow?”

             
“Nine years.”

             
“Really? And, ah, who do you live with? Your parents?”

             
He struggles for words, his knuckles growing white as his grip tightens on the red leather cover of his menu.

             
“It's quite all right, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to,” my mother's voice softens.

             
“No, it's not that,” he drops the menu and locks eyes with me as he says; “my parents, I don't exactly know where they are. I ran away from them when I was
eight
and I'm never going back. They had . . . experiments done on me when I was a kid and I . . . nearly died from one of them.

             
“They didn't want me anyways. Who would want a freak for their child? No offense to you of course,” he amends, glancing between us.

             
Her hand flies to her mouth and shock lines my mother's face. “How
horrible
.”

             
My hands clench into fists below the table and I look down at the balled up napkin there.

             
“I never mentioned that before, did I?” he asks me. “I don't know why I have now and I'm sorry if I've upset either of you. Truly, I am. Let's move on to a lighter topic, shall we?”

             
“Very well. Is this Nyla you live with a Faery?” she whispers the last part so no one at the nearby table can overhear her. “Such a strange name, she must be.”

             
“Yes, she is but . . .” 

             
I zone out a little after that, just staring at the whorls on the table and occasionally glancing up to Derek's eyes as he talks animatedly about his life to my mom.

             
Our drinks come and after a while we order our food. Pasta, of course, is a given at a place like this. I get something that's hard to pronounce, but when it comes, has lots of vegetables and a thick Alfredo sauce that is quite literally to die for. And they didn't skimp out on the mushrooms or the amount of garlic on our bread.