Smart, Sexy and Secretive
Page 35

“How did that work out for you last year, sir?” I ask. I force myself to relax. “I’m not asking for your permission. I’m telling you how it’s going to be. If you get Trip out of her apartment, she’ll go back there. If you don’t, she’ll live with me. Because I won’t let her go back there again, not while he’s there harassing her.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you understand, Mr. Madison?”
His face is turning red now, and his pupils narrow. He’s angry, so angry he can barely take in a breath. “Do you presume to tell me what my daughter will and will not do, Mr. Reed?”
“I don’t presume anything, sir,” I bite out. “I’m just telling you what you need to do if you’d like to have your daughter back in her own apartment.” I get up, adjust my jeans. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Madison.”
I walk toward the door. But that’s when I see my notebook, the one I was carrying at their party yesterday. It’s by Mr. Madison’s elbow.
“I believe this is mine,” I say. I reach for it.
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Madison says. “This belongs to Trip.” He chuckles and taps his temple. “Smart boy that one. It’s a shame you don’t have any of his talent.” He flips open my notebook and shows me my own drawings. “That boy came up with a way to change my ad campaign. And it’s damn good, if I do say so myself. I’m rather proud of him.” He smiles at me and flips through my drawings, showing them to me one by one.
“When did he give you these?” I ask.
“This morning. He worked on them all night last night.”
Just then, Trip walks in the door. His smile falters when he sees me looking at my own notebook, at the drawings I made, at the plan I came up with. “Mr. Madison was just showing me your drawings,” I say. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Trip.”
“It’s funny what you can do when you have a few hours alone to think, isn’t it?” Trip adjusts his suit coat, looking nervous as hell. “I did it last night when I was waiting up for Emily to come home.” He shoots me a glare. He’s daring me to deny that Emily was with me. I won’t deny anything, and I won’t claim anything. Not today.
Trip smiles at me when I don’t respond. He thinks he’s won. But I can’t help it. I have to do it. I rear back and hit Trip in the f**king face as hard as I can. He falls to the floor like a stone, and Mr. Madison rushes from behind his desk. He calls for security, but they don’t need to come. I’m done here.
“Mrs. Madison,” I say as I walk past her. I refuse to run. I’m feeling too damn good right now. That fucker is stretched out on the floor not moving, and I put him there. I’m feeling lighter than I have since he came to town.
Mrs. Madison smiles at me. “Logan,” she says, inclining her head. A smile tickles her lips, but she refuses to let it break. “Thanks for dropping by.” She covers her mouth when a laugh tries to burst forward.
“Anytime,” I reply. I let myself out. I’m done here. So f**king done.
But I stick my head back in at the last minute. “We’d like to have you for dinner tomorrow night, if you’re available.”
“What time?” she asks.
“Eight? I’ll have Emily send you the address.”
“We’ll see you then.” She nods at me again as I slip out the door. I shake out my hand. It hurts like a mother fucker. But it was so worth it.
Emily
It’s late but I can’t leave yet. I haven’t finished listening to my textbook so I can get my homework done. I paid attention in class, and I even took some notes, but I have to listen to my textbooks, unlike most students. I sit in the library and have my text-to-speech program read to me. I am a good listener, and I can remember most things. It just takes me twice as long to listen to someone else read than it does for most people to read it themselves.
When I have a firm grasp on the material from today’s classes, I finally take the headphones off. I look over my notes and smile. I can do this. I am smart. And I have kept my secret long enough. All of my instructors are aware of my dyslexia, and while they’re not going to make anything easy for me, they are willing to work with me. It turns out that many musical prodigies struggle to learn in the traditional sense—or so says one of my teachers. He even confessed that he has an “undiagnosed processing problem” that makes learning hard for him. That’s why he turned to music in the first place. I like Dr. Ball a lot. He kept me after class to talk about my limitations. Or lack of limitations, as he termed it.
I tried to assure him that I can do anything he puts before me, and I think he got it. I want this. I want it so badly. I want to excel at something even though I read, in a traditional sense, at a first-grade level. I’ve kept my secret long enough. It’s time to let it be known. So that’s what I’m doing.
Dr. Ball is helping each of us plan our individual pieces for the showcase. I explained to him what I want to do, and he seemed intrigued by it. Logan can’t understand music. He can’t understand the rise and the fall of the notes, and he can’t understand the tempo or the beat, unless there’s a heavy bass. I want to translate music into something he can understand. Dr. Ball hooked me up with one of his other students who does audio-visual work, and he’s going to help me make a multi-layered presentation. I already know the song. I have had in my head for years. I wrote it when I used to watch my dad sleep. I would wonder why I didn’t measure up in his eyes. I know the song, and I know the notes. Now I just need to work on the actual presentation.
I look up when a man sits down across from me. Logan smiles, his breaths heavy. He props his head on his chin and blinks his pretty blue eyes at me. “Would your boyfriend be mad if I sit here with you?” he asks, his grin almost contagious.
“My boyfriend would kick your ass,” I say as seriously as I can. But a laugh escapes me. I look around when the librarian raps her desk with a ruler. I sign to Logan instead.
My boyfriend will kick your ass, I say again. You might want to get out of here. He’s a mean SOB when he’s provoked.
He laughs with no sound. God, he’s so handsome when he smiles. And when he’s not smiling. And when he’s sleeping. And when he’s awake. And when he’s breathing.
He takes my hand and swipes his thumb across the back of it. Heat shoots straight to the center of me. I pull my hand back so I can avoid melting into a big puddle on the floor.
What are you doing here? I ask.
He shrugs. I thought you might want a ride home.
Really?
He nods.
I smile. That’s so sweet.
Completely self-serving, he corrects.
I narrow my eyes at him. How so?
Maybe I just wanted your legs spread around me on my bike. He waggles his eyebrows at me.
I lean forward as if I need to tell him a secret. Maybe I want my legs spread around you, too.
He groans and grabs my hand. He tosses my book bag over his shoulder and pulls me toward the door. This time, he has two helmets, and he helps me fasten mine. I love that he tries to take such care of me.
My apartment or yours? I ask.
He brushes the hair back that’s hanging around my face, pushing it under the helmet. I don’t want you going back to your apartment while Trip’s there. He looks closely watching my face. That okay with you?
Fine, I say. I kind of like it when you go all Neanderthal. I grin, and he straddles the bike. I climb on behind him and wrap my hands around his waist. He hisses playfully when I lift his shirt and lay my hands against the tender skin of his belly. We zoom through the streets and into the parking deck beneath his building. He bends at the waist and tosses me over his shoulder.
“You haven’t seen Neanderthal yet,” he warns as he carries me up the steps.
Logan
I’m more nervous than I should be. My brothers have been cleaning all day, and Sam has been cooking like a Top Chef. He’s wearing an apron spattered with tomato sauce, and Emily cleans up behind him as he moves from task to task. Sam loves to cook. He’s never happier than he is when he’s making something for someone to eat.
I should have done a better job planning this dinner. None of our dishes match, but we set the table with them anyway. Hell, our chairs don’t even match at our tiny, scratched-up table. It was our mom and dad’s, and I love it. It has years of abuse and love etched into its rough surface. There are tracks from Matchbox cars and scuffs from science-project disasters.
Stop worrying, Emily says. It’s just dinner.
It’s not just dinner. It’s so much more.
I’m not worried. Your mom will love the food. And your dad won’t be able to complain about anything Sam has made. Of that, I am one hundred percent certain. He might not like the company or the accommodations or the jelly jars that we use as glasses, but he will love the food.
Emily rushes to the door and opens it when the bell rings. Her parents come in, and her dad looks around our apartment, his nose in the air. Her mom exclaims over the smell of the food.
“Mom, Dad,” she says. “This is Paul, and Sam, and you’ve heard all about Matt.”
Matt steps forward and shakes hands. “I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude,” he says.
“You don’t owe us a thing,” her mom gushes. She pulls Matt to the side so she can fuss over him.
Sam takes his apron off and declares, “The chef is done. It’s time for the serving committee to take over.”
“You’re not staying?” I ask. What the fuck?
I have to go and find Pete, he says. He should have been home hours ago.
Is something wrong?
He shrugs. I don’t like it—he won’t look me in the face.
I’ll be back as soon as I find him. Save me some lasagna. He nods toward Mr. Madison. That one looks like he can put away some food. He grins and sneaks out the door before Paul can catch him.
“Mr. Madison,” I say, extending my hand. He takes it and shakes, his grip tight.
“Logan,” he says. “Thanks for having us.”
“Thanks for coming.”
“Shall we eat?” Paul asks.
###
Conversation is stilted, our plates are now empty, desert has been consumed, and I’m just about convinced that Mr. Madison doesn’t have a soul at all when Sam runs in the door. He’s filthy, his shirt is torn, and he smells like he’s been in a Dumpster.
I’m so sorry, he signs to Emily. He shoots an apologetic glance at her. But we have a problem. Pete has been arrested.
For what? Paul asks, but he’s already crossing the room to get his coat. I’m right behind him.
We were with Bone, Sam admits. He avoids Paul’s gaze. And the cops showed up.
Where is he now?
At the police station.
They put him in cuffs? Paul asks.
Sam nods.
Emily saw the entire conversation. I’m going with you, she says.
I nod. What about your parents?
Emily asks her parents if they can give us a ride to the station. I think we’re done with them, but their driver parks the car and they get out with us.
“I’ll know what my daughter is involved in,” Mr. Madison says when I tell them that they don’t have to go in with us. I nod. If she was my daughter, I would go too.
Paul rings the bell on the desk and waits for the officer to help us. I can’t follow what they say, but I know Paul will tell me when they’re done.
Paul hangs his head in his hands and turns back to us. “They’re not going to let him go home. He needs an attorney.”
Emily goes to her dad and tugs on his jacket. “Dad, can you call someone?”
He shakes his head. “It’s time to go home, Emily.” He takes her elbow, but she jerks out of his grip.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“If you go with me now, I’ll find representation for him.” He looks smug, and I want to punch him in the face like I did Trip. I rear back, and Paul grabs my arm.
Let me do it, he signs. I won’t regret it later.
Neither would I.
Emily steps back from her father and stands with Matt, Paul, and me. “You should go home,” she says. “I’m staying here.” She turns her back on her parents, and we start to plan how to find an attorney for Pete.
This is really bad. It’s not a hold-him-for-twenty-four-hours kind of thing, Paul explains. He’s really in trouble.
It’s okay. We can work this out. We always do.
Only it’s not so easy this time. Pete’s waiting for arraignment.
I sigh, and Emily’s parents leave. She stays with us, of course, and helps us plan. She’s family now. I draw her to my side. They’re keeping my brother, but I’m taking Emily home with me.
She helps me undress, and then she shoves me onto the bed and helps me forget all the shit that Pete’s gotten into. At least for tonight.
Emily
My mom is waiting for me outside the school after my last class. She wants to go and get pedicures, but that’s usually code for “let’s talk.” I take a deep breath and slide into the car.
She pats my knee. “I won’t torture you with a pedicure today.” She smiles at me as though she’s waiting for me to talk.
“Mom,” I start. She waits, smiling patiently at me. I never thought I’d be in this predicament with my mom.
She holds up a finger to stop me. “How’s Peter?”
“Still locked up,” I mumble.
She purses her lips.
“I don’t want to hear about it, Mom. He made a mistake. That doesn’t mean Logan’s a mistake.”