Chapter Eight

       “Monica!” I yelled, slamming the front door behind me.

       “Mom,” I heard her correct sternly. From the volume level of her voice, I guessed she was in the kitchen, or that general region of the house. 

       I climbed up the steps, gliding my hand over the railing as I did so, and crossed the front room, entering the dining room to an atypical sight. My mother was in the midst of setting the table. 

       My mother may have enjoyed cooking, but she wasn’t exactly what one would call “The Biggest Fan” of cleaning or setting the table. Most of the time, we ate on paper plates, using plastic utensils. It was quicker to clean up, though may have been a tad bit worse from an environmental standpoint.

       “Monica,” I began, “what’cha doing?”

       “What does it look like?” she asked, placing a neatly folded napkin down on the table next a real, actual, porcelain plate.

       “Well, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were setting the table; but, considering I’ve known you all of my seventeen years of life, that can’t possibly be it!” I said, observing her unusual actions.

       “We’re having guests over,” she announced, explaining her strange behavior.

       “Oh, who?”

       “Kit, Ashton, and your new best friend, Trevor.”

       I smiled, happy that I’d actually get someone to speak with from the same planet. I had been to dinners before with Kit and her husband, Ashton, but they never brought along Trevor. It was odd, really; in all the years that my mother had worked with Kit, I never once met Trevor. I had known the Lawson Family since about the time I was three or four, when my mom first got the job, and yet I was only now acquainting myself with Trevor.

       I glanced at the dining room table we had yet to use since moving in, and something didn’t click. “Mom, why are there eight places set for five people?” I inquired.

       “Oh, and you know that sweet family two houses over?” she asked. I shook my head, unsure of what direction she was referring. “The Wilson’s; they’re coming over as well.”

       “Huh,” I said, biting on my bottom lip.

       “Is there a problem? I thought you liked their son, Aaron. Or maybe it was Ethan…”

       “Eric,” I said. “His name is Eric.”

       “So, you’re friendly with him; there should be no problem.”

       “Yup,” I sighed, knowing that she would never understand. “Are you going to force me to wear something girly?”

       “Yes,” she said immediately. I sighed, waving to her to go get changed and chill in my room until I was needed to make an appearance.

       “Oh and Liz,” she said, as I approached the entrance of the hallway.

       “What?” I called back.

       “They’re coming at six.” Fuck. It was five thirty. Did she honestly expect me to get changed and mentally prepared in the time span of thirty minutes? Seriously? Who thought like that?

       Normally, getting dressed was easy for me, but with this particular dinner I knew it was going to be a hassle. I not only had to be up to Kit Lawson’s standards, but I also couldn’t wear anything that may give away an insight as to who Kit actually knows me as because of Eric. 

       I entered my room, and began a scavenger hunt in my closet. I knew I wanted to wear pants, but picking the actual pair was going to be a pain. 

       Shuffling through the folded garments, many with tags on them, I pulled out something that felt soft to the touch. They were black pants, and I wanted say of a material that started with a V… or maybe a K…

       Turning around to place the article on my bed, I noticed a complete outfit, jewelry and all, already resting on my Red Sox comforter adorned bed. Monica had picked out my outfit. Damn, she was good!

       I looked more closely at the clothes that had been assembled, and didn’t really have an opinion about them. I trusted they were an okay selection based on the individual who had compiled them. It was a simple dress and a sweater. 

       The dress was a mix of white and navy. It had a design imprinted on it in the dark indigo color, and the sides were of a pearl tone. It eluded the addition of sleeves, which gave the matching navy sweater a use. Matched with the actual clothes was a pair of silver heels. Why my mother had the need to punish me, I did not know. There was a silver necklace with my initials engraved on it lying on the dress. Overall, it didn’t look like the most comfortable outfit, but I would deal.

       I stripped myself of the attire I had been wearing for the duration of the day, which consisted of a pair of “designer” jeans (as my mother called them) and a gross, flowery tank top. I slipped into the dress, putting the sweater on over it. Once I had walked over to the full-length mirror in the place I had wanted to install a basketball hoop, I adjusted the dress so it looked somewhat adequate. After doing so, I fastened the necklace around my neck in the same manner I had seen my mother do so many times before, and returned to my bed to retrieve the shoes.

       Picking up the two shoes, I glanced at the sole quickly, and understood why Monica was making me suffer. The label read: Kit Lawson. Of course. They were Kit’s shoes. Duh. Sometimes I was such an idiot… I slid the shoes on, and mentally apologized to my feet for what they would endure for the next three or four hours.

       A shrill sound I still hadn’t gotten used to met my ears. “Someone’s here!” my mother called, as if I hadn’t been able to hear the doorbell.

       Lugging my feet, I stumbled out of my room and down the monotonous hallway, until I reached the front area where my mom had already begun ushering in a family of three.

       “And there’s my daughter, Elizabeth,” she crooned, spotting me. “I believe she and Eric are in the same grade.”

       “Hi, Liz,” Eric greeted, as his eyes raked over my body. I noticed he had changed into a marginally nicer look for the evening, going with the khaki, polo, and boat shoes look. It fit him.

       “Hello,” I smiled at him.

       “You look nice,” he complimented.

       “As do you,” I returned.

       “Thank you.”

       “Liz,” my mother summoned. I looked up at her, waiting for her to go on. “Come meet Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.”

       I went over to where she and the two other adults were standing, and shook their hands politely, uttering a simple, “Pleasure to meet you.”

       They exchanged acknowledgements with me, and I then returned to Eric. “So,” he said, “do you know the other family coming?”

       “Yeah,” I replied, “relatively well.”

       “Uh huh.”

       “They’re always late,” I said fondly, thinking back to the numerous times that Kit and Asher somehow always managed to arrive later than intended.

       “Oh,” he said, stuffing his hands nervously in his pockets. “Well, you’re mom seems nice.”

       “Depends who she’s talking to,” I commented.

       “Right,” he said for lack of another word to fill its place. 

       The distinct melody of the doorbell ran into my ears once again, causing me to slightly jump. “I got it!” I announced, rushing away from Eric to answer the door.

       I clinked against the steps, and came to the landing, opening up the door. “Liz! You look so grown up!” Kit said, attacking me with a hug.

       “Thank you,” I said, returning the gesture. Kit was like an aunt to me. I had known her forever, and we shared a special bond as cheesy as it sounded.

       “Liz, I’m sorry for your loss,” Ashton said once his wife had entered the house, releasing me in the process.

       “It’s okay, but I don’t know how you can possibly be okay with all that you’ve had to face these past few days,” I said, smirking at him. Since about the age of seven, Ashton Lawson and I had had a joke: any time the Red Sox lost a game, he indirectly commented on it, and any time the Yankees lost a game, I did the same. Currently, the Sox had recently suffered the losing of a game, oppose to the Yankees, who were going on their third, consecutive defeat.

       “I’m holding up,” he said, bumping his fist with mine, as he passed by.

       “Oh my goodness! Elizabeth Turner! Look at you! You’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you!” Trevor said, embracing me, much like Kit had.

       “I know, Trev! I’ve missed your face so much! How long has it been? Two weeks? A week and a half?” I questioned.

       “I don’t know, but the time spent away from you has been wasted time,” he said, not letting me go.

       “Trevor,” I whispered into his ear.

       “What?”

       “Please don’t bring up sports, basketball, or who you think I am during dinner,” I requested quietly.

       “What? Why? I don’t understand,” he started to object.

       “I’ll explain later, just please, don’t bring anything like that up.”

       “I’ll do it… if you do something for me,” he bargained.

       “And what would that be?” I asked, noticing that we were still hugging.

       “I’ll let you know at the end of the night,” he said, smirking. Dipshit. 

       “Yeah, whatever, dickhead,” I muttered, pulling away from him. I walked up the steps, Trevor following close behind as I did so.

       “Who’s the kid?” Trevor murmured.

       “Trevor Lawson, I’d like you to meet Eric Wilson. Eric Wilson, this is Trevor Lawson,” I introduced.

       “Hey bro,” Trevor said, nodding at Eric.

       “Hi,” Eric said, offering up a hand intended for Trevor to shake. Trevor stared at Eric’s hand for an outstretched second, before accepting the act of friendliness.

       “Trevor goes to Westchester University,” I shared, hoping that it would somehow spark a connection between the two.

       “Oh?” Eric said. “You liking it so far?”

       “For a jail, it’s pretty nice,” Trevor said, shrugging. Eric laughed, though the whole prison metaphor still didn’t make sense to me.

       “So I’ve heard,” Eric said. “How long’s your sentence?”

       “Four years, unless of course I get out early for good behavior and transfer to either Columbia or NYU.”

       “Well, I wish you luck on that. What were the charges you were sent away for?” Eric questioned.

       “Excessive partying, underage drinking, and, uh, crashing a car,” Trevor said, mumbling the last part.

       “I don’t understand,” I said, not following how the conversation was completely normal.

       “I’ll explain it to you another time, Liz,” Trevor promised.

       “Kids!” my mom called.

       “Mom, we’re all at least seventeen; I don’t think you’d classify us as ‘kids’,” I shook my head.

       “Technically,” Ashton began, “Trevor is the only adult, assuming that Mr. Wilson is seventeen as well.”

       “Oh! Does that mean I don’t have to sit at the kiddie table?” Trevor asked, as we started to head over to the dining room.

       “Son,” Ashton said, “with a reputation like yours, you’re at the kiddie table for life.”

       “Ashton,” Kit said firmly, giving him a pleading look to stop.

       “Fine,” her husband said, putting up his hands in defeat.

       After everyone found a place at the table, I evaluated the seats chosen, and concluded they were for the best. I was in between Eric and Trevor. Eric was to my left and Trevor to my right. Across from us were Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, and Ashton who sat opposite his son. At the end, closest to Eric, sat my mother, across from Kit, who was in between her husband and son at the other end. Everything worked out.

       “I’d like to thank everyone for coming this evening to be here with Elizabeth and me,” my mother said, sounding much like she was accepting an Academy Award.

       “Thank you for having us,” Mrs. Wilson said politely.

       “Any time,” my mom said, smiling. “I made dinner, so let’s hope that you’re all hungry!” A light laughter was heard, and then arms began moving about the table, as manners were being used. Considering the circumstances, I took only salad, and resisted the tender looking chicken that had been prepared, knowing that I could stuff my face when Eric eventually left.

       “Can you pass the dressing?” I requested, hoping to add some flavor to the flavorless food. Salad was stupid. Yes, it was healthy, and yes, it had barely any calories, but it tasted like nothing; a gross nothing. I didn’t know how some people did it— only eating salad. I’d rather die of starvation, or overdose on Twinkies.

       “Here you go,” Eric said, handing me the metal container of vinegar, herbs, and whatever the hell else was found in salad dressing.

       “Thank you.” I poured it over the green leaves I had served myself, conscious of how much I was putting on.

       “So, Eric, do you play any sports?” Ashton questioned, as I put a fork full of greens into my mouth.

       “Yes, actually, I do. Baseball and football,” Eric said proudly. I refrained from laughing, the two sports standard and cliché of someone of Eric’s caliber.

       Trevor, however, caught the connection right away, and let a small smirk slip from his lips. “What positions?” Trevor asked, trying to recover from his omission in expression.

       “Quarterback and pitcher.” Eric’s parents both smiled at their son’s athletic accomplishments, though, personally, I find a point guard much more impressive.

       “How about you, Trevor, do you play or used to play any sports?” Mr. Wilson asked courteously.

       “Basketball. Forward.” I tried to hide my smile as my ears met some of the most beautiful words in the English language.

       “Aren’t you a little… short?” Eric inquired.

       “When you’re in prison, they take who they can get,” Trevor said, earning a horrified look from Kit.

       “Liz, how about you, how’s—” Ashton started, though was cut off my foot making contact with his shin. I shook my head fiercely, and he nodded, understanding that he was not to bring up the topic he had in mind. “How’s the new school?” he corrected.

       “Good,” I said respectfully.

       “Eric tells us that you’re in the majority of his classes,” Mrs. Wilson said, as I took a sip of water.

       “All of them, I believe,” I said.

       “Are you making friends?” Kit asked.

       “Yes,” I replied simply, not wanting to go into details.

       “Liz, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” my mother said, in a tone that told me she already knew the answer to the question, “are you dating anyone?”

       I almost chocked on the piece of flavorless nastiness that had been placed in my mouth as I contemplated how to answer. Before I could say anything, Mrs. Wilson stepped in, asking a question of her own, “That reminds me, Eric, are you seeing anyone at the moment?”

       Eric opened his mouth, about to reply, when Kit was next to ambush the ‘kids’. “Are you two dating each other?” she accused. Trevor spit out the piece of succulent chicken that he had been eating, and began coughing in reaction to his mother’s inquiry.

       “…No,” I said, standing up.

       “Will you excuse us?” Eric asked, mimicking my stance.

       “Me too,” Trevor said, fearing that we would leave him to deal with the remnants of awkwardness the moms had brought upon the night. The three of us exited the dining room, and I led the boys down the passageway to my room.

       When we got into my room, they both took a minute to take in the fixtures— or, lack of fixtures placed about. I still hadn’t fully unpacked yet. My desk was set up with the bare essentials, my closet was fully stocked (by my mom, no less), and bedding had somehow made its way on my bed. Other than that, there were still a ton of brown, cardboard boxes waiting to be opened.

       “Uh… Liz, where can I wash my hands?” Eric asked suddenly.

       “Down the hall, the first door on your right should be a bathroom, unless of course of my mother did some major remodeling while I was in school and she was at work,” I said, making him smile.

       “Thanks,” he said, leaving the room.

       “Nice kid,” Trevor commented once we were alone. “He wants you too badly, but nice kid.”

       “Ha. There is no way that kid ‘wants’ me. Besides,” I said, “he doesn’t play basketball.”

       “I play basketball,” Trevor said, approaching me.

       “As do I, but he doesn’t know that, and I intend to keep it that way.”

       “Why aren’t you telling him you play?”

       “I’ll tell you another time,” I said, putting it off, though I knew I would eventually have to tell him.

       “Fine, but I kept up my end of the deal this evening, so I believe it’s your turn,” he said smugly.

       “Oh? And what Mr. Lawson would you like?”

       “For you to kiss me,” he said, as the door to the room creaked open. Fuck.