Eight
An opportunity to talk to Phil Bridges comes much sooner than I expect. When I arrive home that afternoon, following a three-hour coloring session with Lily, I find my dad wearing a button-down shirt and a silk tie.
“Suit up, Madaroni,” he says. “We’re going to the Levines’.”
My backpack hits the floor, making the wood wail with a resistance that matches mine. “Seriously?”
“I heard there will be crème br?lée.” That’s dad-speak for: there’s positively no way out of this.
About twice a year, my dad and I are cordially invited to dinner at the Levines’.
As in Fox Levine’s house. Fox lives with his older sister, Brynn, and younger brother, Jamie, off the life insurance from their parents’ deaths.
Brynn likes to invite their parents’ old friends over for dinner to make herself feel better.
My dad and I usually go, but we leave shortly after Brynn brings out dessert.
The benefit of staying to commiserate after the dessert runs out is remarkably not worth it, especially since Arielle and Phil are generally in attendance.
I scowl at my dad the entire 15-minute drive and am lightheaded by the time we pass Capital Cliffs. The cliffs aren’t quite haunted—there’s no chilling folklore or unfinished adventure attached to them—but they’re always shrouded by clouds and the gray ocean.
My dad’s truck sputters up the drive to Levines’ country house.
It’s freshly painted white with a door the color of an electrocuted strawberry.
Hedges with just the right amount of neglect line the house and its brick walkway, and it still has the welcome mat where Fox and I used to drive ladybugs around on his toy cars.
The backyard has a panoramic view of the cliffs, which you would think would not be highly desirable for anyone whose parents died there.
But Brynn is nostalgic. And maybe a little bit crazy.
The door swings open before we can ring the bell.
“Mr. Roberts!” Brynn exclaims, “And Madeline. I’m so pleased you could make it.”
Brynn greets us in a flowing dress. She’s Arielle’s age and works as a part-time tutor.
Otherwise she manages her brothers and the affairs their parents left behind, which must be terrible.
A step after her is the youngest Levine, Jamie, who has a beaming smile that he gives easily.
The three Levines all have gold hair, lean frames, and shamrock green eyes.
It’s clear that Jamie, who just started middle school, will be tall.
“Good to see you too, Brynn,” says my dad, who crosses the threshold first. Wafts of sugary smells greet us, as if a confetti cake has exploded in the oven.
“Thanks for having us.” I hand over the crusty baguette that we picked up on the way.
Brynn displays a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. The air of tragedy. makes her even more striking. If she knows that, she doesn’t flaunt it. I follow my dad, resolving to be nice to her. It’s impossible to resent Brynn.
Twenty or so people are gathered in the living room. They hold full glasses of wine and none of them is close to my age. Arielle and Phil are not among them. Yet. My dad winks and heads into the mob. “Whoever makes it to dinner alive wins,” he whispers.
Jamie tugs at my sleeve, looking adorable in his sweater and jeans. “Everyone’s downstairs. Wanna go check it out?”
“Lead the way, big guy.”
He brings me through the front hall, which is decorated with antique frames and artifacts from the family’s travels.
It’s a museum. Photos I won’t look at fill the walls, but the photos hold nothing to the long scratch of purple crayon on the door leading to the basement stairs.
Memories aren’t always stored in photos.
“Do you play the clarinet?” Jamie asks. “Someone in your family used to play here, but I can’t remember if it was you or Arielle.”
“Arielle.” We trot down the carpeted steps. “Are you thinking about playing?”
“Yeah. All my swim coaches are pulling the ‘you’re Fox’s brother and we expect you to win everything’ card on me, and I don’t love that kind of pressure. Gotta do something else.”
“I get that.” All of my coaches expected me to be like my sister too, including my sister. It was insulting, because I expected myself to be even better.
“I’m also thinking about tennis,” Jamie chirps.
“Tennis is fun. And just between you and me…” An image of Damian Scott Jr. wearing his immaculate tennis uniform and pouring water over his hair comes to mind. “Tennis players are way cuter.”
Jamie leads me to a bookshelf by a massive refrigerator in the basement’s corner. I remember when they bought that refrigerator. It was right after Fox got into his obnoxious sports drinks.
The room is not empty, but not packed, and it’s not filled with any of my friends, i.e., Kristen. Kristen never really overlapped with Fox though; her family went abroad over the summers, while I was here.
Fox’s iconic pool table takes up the middle of the room, and long couches border the walls.
There’s a dartboard, a chest full of board games, and a stereo that makes the room vibrate.
Most of the kids present are offspring of Mr. and Mrs. Levine’s friends.
This time, Brynn apparently let Fox ask some of his friends, such as Damian Scott Jr. and Molly, who quietly argue by the dartboard.
I can’t remember ever seeing the two of them argue, but I haven’t spent much time with them outside of school.
Damian looks up when I appear. His stare lingers. I pretend not to notice, but my cheeks flame.
“I still read these. They’re awesome,” says Jamie.
He crouches by the bookshelf. Glossy comic books stack in two tall columns.
This shelf had been in his room the last time I was here.
After Damian started working at League of Comics and could give out a friends & family discount, Jamie began to collect them.
The first ones he bought were the Essential the Amazing Spider-Man and X-Men: Curse of the Mutants —fictional, though still great Supers—which he read aloud to Fox and me.
A mischievous voice approaches. “There she is. Excited to be partying with the cool kids?”
I turn to Fox. “I’d have to go upstairs for that.”
“That was sharp, Maddragon. I can feel the blade from that one.” Fox brings a hand to rest on his dark sweater, over his heart. “By the way, don’t think I forgot our game.”
“What?” I pretend to misunderstand.
“Allow me to refresh your memory. We were over there.” He points to the pool table, but his eyes never leave mine. “Having our world championship game. The tie-breaker to end all tie-breakers. I was one ball away from winning—”
“Three balls,” I correct him.
“I knew you remembered. Anyway, you had to go to bed.”
“I had a curfew.”
“Excuses, excuses. I was about to win, Maddy.”
“It’s Madeline. And you’ll never beat me at anything pool-related.”
His lip curls with glee as I walk into his trap. “Prove it.”
“Leave it alone, Fox.” Molly pushes between us, rescuing me. Her white dress ripples around her like she has a personal breeze, and she hands me an unopened can of soda. “You don’t have to play him.” Molly eyes Fox. “He’ll get bored soon and ask Damian.”
“What about Damian?” Damian’s velvety laugh fills the room. He waves to us. To me.
Stop staring, Madeline. Molly is right there.
Fox, seeing his best friend is no longer occupied, calls out, “Scott, grab some sticks, man.” Fox examines the green felt on the table as if trying to rig it in his favor.
Damian angles toward me. He pushes the sleeves of his dress shirt up, exposing his forearms. Even the crease in his elbow is perfect.
Damian is the only boy in our school who can look like that and not know how attractive he is.
At least, he never acts like he knows. Still, there’s something behind his silky movements, the tiniest hint of exhaustion.
I want to study it more. I want to learn what keeps him up at night.
Molly steps back and gives Damian an annoyed glance. Guilt sours my soda, especially since I’ve rescued her tonight as much as she’s rescued me. Mostly, I associate Molly with being Damian’s girlfriend and hating Supers. It’s easy to forget how genuinely nice she is.
Fox and Damian set up the billiard table. Jamie assists and the three boys squabble over who will play.
“I used to intern for your mom. And Fox’s,” says Molly. “They were great.” Right. I’d forgotten about that. Molly, the precocious journalist, had briefly overlapped with my mom at the Capital Chronicle . As an eighth grader.
“Once,” Molly continues, “I was working on this fluff piece about silkworms destroying the wedding industry—so boring—and your mom was the editor on it. She read what I had and gave me all these ideas to research. I mean, she was brilliant. She’s the person who made me want to keep writing.”
Fox’s loud taunting makes us both turn to look at the pool table.
“Sorry,” says Molly, turning back to after a brief moment. “It’s probably hard to talk about.”
I force a smile. “It’s okay.”
Molly tucks her black braid behind her ear and leans closer, as if about to share a secret.
“Your mom gave me the idea to write about all the homophobia in Capital City schools. I didn’t get to publish anything until…
after. The Daily editors wouldn’t run it until sophomore year.
Really stupid.” She collects herself. She’s gone stony and quiet, from sad to angry in two sentences.
“I mentioned to Meredith that no teacher ever discussed the LGBTQ spectrum. Not once, the whole time we were in middle school. She taught me how to investigate why. The look she had during that conversation… that’s how I remember her. ”