Chapter 2
Lightning flashed out over the ocean, and a few seconds later, thunder rattled the windowpanes.
“Check the weather,” my mom said from where she stood peering out at the storm. Without looking, she waved a hand at me and said, “Dashiell.”
I wasn’t exactly worried about the storm.
Bobby was out in the rain, sure, but he was driving his dad to his hotel, and Bobby wouldn’t do anything like that if he thought there was something to worry about.
Besides, the billiard room was warm. My dad had built a fire, and the flicker of light and heat was pleasantly lulling.
Plus, I was deep into an article on Crime Cats—this one was about a tuxedo cat who scared himself while stalking a mop—so I mumbled, “Uh, yep, still says fifty percent chance of rain tomorrow.”
Someone snapped her fingers. Vigorously.
When I looked up from my phone, my mom was glaring at me. “Do not humor me. Check. the. weather.”
I sighed. I closed Crime Cats. (Yes, there’s a dedicated app. Yes, it’s worth every penny.) I opened the weather app and refreshed. Then I turned the screen to show her. “Still says fifty percent chance of rain.”
“We need to order more pavilions,” my mom said to my dad.
“Mm-hmm,” my dad said as he moved logs around, rebuilding the fire for what had to be the fourth or fifth time.
(Keme was perched next to him, “helping,” which just goes to show that fire is one of the primal things that most boys are drawn to like, uh, a moth to the flame.) (Yes, I’m a writer, thank you very much.)
“We don’t need to order more pavilions,” I said. “And anyway, we can’t order more pavilions. It’s eight o’clock at night. The wedding is tomorrow. If it rains, it rains. We’ll figure it out.”
“This is an unexpectedly laissez-faire attitude,” my mom said, “from the same young man who nearly put himself into hysterics when he found out the Death by Chocolate cake would only serve sixteen.”
I chose not to rise to the bait. (Mostly because there was also a video of the tuxedo cat trying to get the mop, and I was on my third re-watch.)
“We’ll have to improvise,” my mom said. “Johnny, we need to run to the store.”
“What store?” I said. “Everywhere is closed by now.”
“Somewhere will be open,” my mom said.
“What do you have to buy right now?” I asked.
“Tarps. Poles. Some sort of waterproof ground cloth so that we’re not all walking in mud.”
“Mom, it’s fine—”
“It’s not fine. Stop saying it’s fine!” She stood there, breathing hard. And then she stalked toward the door. “Johnny, let’s go.”
My dad rose from his crouch. The flames flickered in the lenses of his glasses. He patted my shoulder as he followed my mom out into the hall, where a murmured conversation picked up. A few minutes later, a door slammed.
Keme, thank God, was still hypnotized by the fire.
I dragged myself off the chesterfield.
Indira stood in the hall, holding open the door to the servants’ dining room.
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“Tomorrow is a big day,” Indira said. “Everyone is stressed.”
“That’s putting it politely. I was going to say my parents are nuts. Excuse me while I go try to make things better and inevitably make things worse.”
With a soft laugh, Indira tilted her head toward the servants’ dining room. “Maybe give them a few minutes.”
We ended up in the kitchen. Indira went to a drawer and took out a wooden spoon.
“If you’re thinking about spanking me,” I said, “you’re too late.”
Do you want to know the absolute worst part? She didn’t raise her eyebrows. She didn’t make a face. She didn’t do anything. But all of a sudden, my cheeks were on fire, and I had the distinct impression that Indira was laughing at me. (Kindly, of course.)
“She’s a control freak,” I said, the words rising unexpectedly. “And a perfectionist. So, if nothing else, at least I come by it honestly.”
“She wants tomorrow to be perfect,” Indira said as she took a bowl out of the refrigerator and gave the contents a stir.
It looked like some kind of batter that probably didn’t need stirring, but I appreciated that she was trying to make me feel comfortable.
“Because she loves you, and she wants you to be happy, and for her, part of that means trying to make sure everything is exactly right. She’s not upset about the rain, dear.
She’s upset because she’s afraid, and because she loves you, and because she’s having a hard time telling you. ”
“Story of our lives,” I muttered.
The rain pattered on the roof.
Indira set the bowl in front of me. “Safe-to-eat cookie dough,” she said. “I thought you might need a pre-wedding snack.”
“You’re an angel. You’re a goddess. You’re perfection.”
As I dug into the cookie dough like a—well, any comparison would probably be unflattering and involve a trough—I said, “I get it. The rain is out of her control. That’s frustrating.
The anger is a way of dealing with the frustration.
It’s just—I mean, nobody can control the weather.
There’s nothing anybody can do about it.
It’s just going to be whatever it will be. ”
“That’s a very healthy attitude,” Indira said, patting my arm. “But maybe you can also show some consideration for all the effort your mom is putting into making it a good day.”
I sighed.
I sounded a lot like seventeen-year-old Dash.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess.”
(I mean, a lot like seventeen-year-old Dash.)
And I know I’ve gone on and on about Indira, and about that white lock of hair, and about the witchy energy she has sometimes, like she knows you ate all the animal crackers and sometimes you bit the heads off first because obviously that’s how a T.
Rex would eat them and you didn’t even buy more animal crackers to replace the ones you ate because you spent that money at Let’s Taco Bout Tacos.
But I swear to God, right then, my skin pebbled, and the air was charged like right before a lightning strike, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the hair on my head was standing straight up.
“And don’t worry about tomorrow,” Indira said. “I’m sure it’ll be a lovely day.”
She smiled at me. Like she knew what I was thinking.
And the rain stopped.