Sway

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

My audition with Maestro Sauvin was a breeze. I played Rachmaninoff to perfection and he accepted me into the California Philharmonic on the spot. The income was small, not enough to get my own place, but it was something. And I’d get to see Lexi a lot.

Aunt Rose settled everything between the Crofts and my dad. They agreed to his rental terms—even his crazier demands like never watching Marlon Brando movies and banning no-name brands inside the house—signed the contract and set the move-in date.

I was starting to panic about my own living situation. Malibu with Beth and Dad was an option, in the same way that moving to Siberia was an option. I had hoped for something, anything, else. Since I didn’t have a job yet, the bank wouldn’t approve me for an apartment. I hated to rely on someone else for my living arrangements, but I had to go somewhere until I could afford my own place.

Lexi was out of the question—she had enough on her plate—but I didn’t feel the same reluctance when it came to family. I dug through my bag for my cell phone but couldn’t find it. It wasn’t on my dresser, or inside any of my other purses.

I poked my head inside Beth’s room. She was lounging on her bed reading a magazine. Shelby sat on the divan at the foot of the bed with her knees up to her chin. She was painting her toenails bright yellow.

“Beth, have you seen my phone?”

Beth didn’t look up. “It’s on my dresser.”

I walked over and grabbed it. “Why is it on your dresser?”

“Because it rang earlier. I answered it for you.” I opened my mouth to again ask her why when she cut me off. “You’re welcome.”

Yes, I was really grateful that she’d probably gone through my emails and voicemails and used up my lives in Candy Crush. I checked the call history. The only call from this morning was Aunt Rose. She would call again. I retreated from the room, dialing a different number.

“Hello?” I heard on the other end of the line.

“Hey, Mari.”

“Ava?” My sister’s voice sounded rather nasal. “Took you long enough to you call.”

I hadn’t known I was supposed to call her. “Why? What’s wrong?”

The nasally tone got worse. “I’m so sick. My head hurts, my body aches, my throat is sore. I feel really hot. I think I have a fever.”

“You were fine a couple days ago.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not now,” she snapped.

“Did you take something?”

“I’m not going to just take some random drug when I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Mari said. “I think you brought something from New York. Or maybe I have the bird flu. Or West Nile! I did get a mosquito bite yesterday.”

“I’m sure it’s not any of those,” I said, grateful that she couldn’t see my eyes rolling. “What if it is? Or something worse?”

Back in my room, I landed on my plushy chair. Only then did I realize Beth had followed me from her own room. “I’ve got an idea,” I said to Mari. “Why don’t I come take care of you? I need a place to stay for awhile anyway.” Beth made a tittering noise but I ignored her.

“That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard,” Mari said, and it sounded like she meant it. “Dad and Beth are moving out in a couple days, I won’t be able to come until then.”

“Can’t you come sooner?” she begged. “I’m sick. I need you now.”

“Why don’t you go to the doctor?”

“You know how much I hate doctor’s offices. They’re so dirty and full of sick people.”

“Hold on a sec.” I turned to face Beth who was standing right behind me, her ears c****d to my conversation. I put the phone against my shirt so Mari couldn’t hear. “Do you guys need me here?”

“Since when are you queen of the world?” she said. “Besides, I’ve got Shelby.”

“You’ve got Shelby for what?”

“She’s coming with me to Malibu.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Shelby’s going to live there?”

“Yeah.” Beth examined her fingernails. “She’s just getting over her divorce, you know, and she needs something to cheer her up.”

“But…”

“Oh, get over it, Ava,” Beth snapped. “You don’t need to be so jealous of her.”

I watched Beth stalk back to her bedroom, her hips swaying unnecessarily. Jealous? Of Shelby Clay? Doubtful.

Mari’s pronounced fake coughing echoed from my cell phone. I put it back to my ear. “Sorry, Mar, I was just talking to Beth.”

“Oh, sure. Chat it up with Beth while I lay here on my deathbed. Nobody ever cares about me.”

I ignored that. “I think I can be there tomorrow.”

“Awesome!” She went on to plan everything we would do when I got there, all nasal tones completely gone.

After I hung up with Mari, I started repacking my suitcases. My boxes from New York still hadn’t arrived so there wasn’t much to do. Truthfully, I could’ve left for Mari’s that night, but I wanted one last night with Kellynch, a chance to say a proper goodbye to a home I loved.

* * * * *

I wandered the house, fixing it into my memory once again. When I left eight years before, at least I knew I could come home anytime. Now there was no way to know when Dad would have Kellynch back again.

Thoughts of Eric flooded my mind. Kellynch was full of memories of him. Memories of who we were together. Of who we wanted to be. Now Eric was nothing more than a voice on the radio. In the past eight years, I’d alternated between pretending he didn’t exist, and devouring every piece of news I could find. It was a fine line of crazy to walk but sometimes I just couldn’t help myself.

When I heard his first song on the radio a few years back, I’d felt a mixed bag of emotions. He’d finally done what he’d always dreamed of. He’d made it. I was so proud and yet so sad. Two albums later and I still felt a surge of pride when I listened to his music, as if I could somehow claim a tiny bit of his success as my own.

Sometimes though, listening to him would just remind me of my own mistakes, my weakness, my fear.

There was no way Eric would want to return to my house. My memories of him at Kellynch were both painful and achingly sweet. For him, they were probably just painful.

From the first day I met him, there was hardly a day we didn’t spend together at my house, at first with Charlie, and then later by ourselves. Dad and Beth treated Eric like dirt, but Kellynch was so big that it was easy enough for us to avoid them. We’d do homework in my bedroom, jam on the instruments in the music room, watch a movie on the big screen in the theatre room.

Every space of the house conjured up a memory of him. Dad’s room, where Eric counted all the mirrors one time and we laughed to find there were twenty-four. The time Beth caught us drawing moustaches on her Dior Homme posters. Or the time we had a fight with all of Mari’s stuffed animals while she was away at boarding school.

I also remembered awkward dinners in the dining room. Only Aunt Rose would acknowledge Eric’s existence aside from me, and even then, she was at most coldly polite to him. More fondly, I remembered many hot afternoons Eric and I spent swimming in the pool or doing our homework in the warm California sunshine.

I wandered through the house, the memories settling over my skin like dust. When I entered the kitchen, hoping a glass of water would take this itchy, dry feeling away, I was overwhelmed by one of the best memories of all.

* * * * *

It was about halfway through our junior year—we’d been friends for more than a year. By then, Eric had traded his fedoras for skinny ties, and I had come to grips with the fact that I would never be curvy or taller than five foot four. After an afternoon spent doing homework, Charlie had gone home and Eric and I went to the kitchen in search of food. The house was empty—Dad and Beth had gone out to dinner without inviting us. Sandra, our cook, offered to make whatever we wanted but Eric wouldn’t have it.

“I’ll make something.” He started opening and closing cupboard doors, searching for who-knows-what.

“Since when can you cook?” I asked, leaning on the cold countertop.

He pouted. “For your information, I can cook lots of things. Like soup. Kraft dinner.

Pancakes.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you’re such a Jamie Oliver.”

Eric had his head in the fridge. “I believe that’s more than you can make,” he called out. I couldn’t argue with that. The most I could make was toast and cereal.

“Aha!” Eric started to pull different things from the fridge and lay them on the countertop.

In minutes, he was busy chopping tomatoes, red and green peppers and jalapenos, while Sandra showed me how to brown ground beef and sauté chopped onions. Eric sang some old Sinatra songs while the kitchen filled with the greasy smell of hamburger, like an old diner. When the meat had gone from pink to brown, Sandra headed home, leaving us to our own devices.

Eric designated me official cheese grater. “Just don’t cut yourself,” he said, handing me a block of cheddar.

I attacked the cheese, hoping to show him that I wasn’t completely useless in the kitchen, and promptly shaved off part of a fingernail. Thankfully I hadn’t scraped anything with a nerve in it.

He laughed at me before launching into “Come Fly with Me.” I stopped grating and watched him place nacho chips on a large cookie sheet while swaying his hips to the tune. I knew the lyrics by heart but I didn’t want to join in and ruin it. When he caught me watching, he finger-snapped over to me. We danced around the kitchen to the soundtrack of his smooth, steady baritone.

“All right, get back to work,” he said when the song was over. “Cheese only this time.”

“You know what they’re going to call you right?” I picked up the grater again. “The next Frank Sinatra.”

“No one can be the next Frank Sinatra. No one should be.” He ladled out some hamburger and onions over the nacho chips. “I just want to be the first and best Eric Wentworth.”

“That sounds ridiculous.” My pile of cheese shavings—sans nail—was starting to look like a small mountain. I set the grater down and crossed the counter to his side.

“How about the one-and-only Eric Wentworth?” He popped a piece of jalapeno into his mouth, chewing with a grin.

I grimaced. “How can you eat them like that? Isn’t your mouth burning?” He shrugged and ate another. “One-and-only sounds kind of conceited. You should be The Eric Wentworth Band.”

He snorted. “Yeah, like that’s not conceited.”

“It’s no different than The Glenn Miller Orchestra.”

Eric sprinkled the cheese over his heaps of peppers, chips and hamburger. He ate another jalapeno.

“Babe, you’re absolutely right.” He had never called me babe before and I think I blushed at it. He looked at me, his eyes pleaded in a playful way. “Wanna be in my band?”

“You won’t need me, you bozo.” I pointed at him. “You already have a pianist.”

“Bozo?” He grabbed my finger and gently yanked, pulling me toward him.

I put my other hand on his chest. “But I’ll watch every show. Cheer you on the loudest. Promise.”

His playful manner disappeared. He stared at me, his eyes searching mine. I straightened, confused and a little alarmed by his sudden mood change. His heart beat rapidly under my fingertips. I was about to ask him what was wrong, when he leaned forward and kissed me.

I stood there, eyes wide open and mouth closed against his lips. A second later, he pulled back. We looked at each other for a long moment. Then he lowered his head and went back to his nacho-making. A slow blush painted splotches across his neck.

Shocked, confused and nervous, I stood there and stared at him. Like I was seeing this man before me for the first time.

His short blond hair was a little messy in the back because he’d run his hands over it. I imagined myself reaching out and smoothing it down with my fingers. His tanned hands picked at the cheese, spreading it out evenly. I pictured those hands in mine, touching my face, running through my hair, stroking my skin. I could see myself wrapping my arms around his chest, reaching my head up for a kiss, or burying my nose in his neck. Suddenly, I saw him in a whole new way, and I liked it.

Eric took the cookie sheet and put it in the oven. After setting the timer, he slowly turned around and faced me.

The question on his face was plain. He wanted to know what I thought. Had his move been a good one, or was this one of those awkward moments we would pretend never happened?

His blue eyes looked deeper than they ever had before. They were a color all their own, one you could only match with a paint sample.

I was captivated by his lips, and the urge to feel them again, this time for real, was strong. I closed the distance between us. My hand snaked around the back of his neck. I drew his head, his lips, to me. The kiss was better this time, much better.

When we pulled apart, a smile rose on his face, then faded.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, resting his fingers lightly under my eyes. “Why are you crying?”

I hadn’t realized I’d teared up. “I’m not crying.” I blinked against the tears. “It’s the jalapenos you ate.” I fanned my hand in front of my mouth to lessen the sting.

He blushed redder than ever. And then he burst out laughing. “Sorry about that. Next time, I’ll brush my teeth first.”

Fingering the collar of his shirt, I bit my lip. “You know what? I don’t think I care.” I pulled him and his heat back to me.