Chapter 14
?
Surely, this play date will go spectacularly.
Mirabelle
“Ah!” I almost drop my brownies when I find Mr. Anders leaning against my car in the moonlight.
He pushes off the driver side door. “Mirabelle.”
I gulp. “Yes, sir?”
“Quick question.”
I hope it’s quick. I don’t want to be late. I hate being late. It’s disrespectful.
He strides toward me, and my stomach turns over. Stopping what feels like an inch away, he says, “Does Fawn like the guys you’re about to go see?”
Uh… “Fawn doesn’t really like anyone.”
His brows furrow. “What?”
“People. She doesn’t really like people.” I attempt to sidle past him and reach my car.
He angles his body to follow mine as I move. “I did not get that impression from her.”
Unlocking my car, I nudge my way into the driver’s seat. “Oh, well. She’s pretty good at hiding it when she wants to. Also, I don’t think she dislikes you.”
He straightens, dropping his crossed arms. “Really? That’s…peculiar.”
“You’re more introverted than she is. She probably respects that. A kinship of introverts, or something.” It’s probably rude to say well, bye and shut my door on him… I stare at him for about three seconds. Then I chirp, “Well, bye!” and try to shut my door.
His hand shoots out and stops it from closing. Distress riots in his eyes.
I stare at him, searching for any clue about what’s going on.
Then I remember that he is lonely and sad. And I’m about to go out with a whole bunch of friends and have milkshake drinks and brownies.
It dawns on me.
This would be the perfect opportunity for him to get some local friends.
“Please…be safe,” he says in the same moment I say, “Do you want to come with me?”
We both blink, but my brows furrow as his rise.
“Why wouldn’t I be safe?” I ask.
“I can come with you?” he hedges.
Putting the matter of safety while watching something on Disney+ or playing Super Mario Party Jamboree aside, I say, “Sure. The guys bring other friends with them all the time. And it’s not a public place, so we don’t need to worry about weird rumors or more photos.
” I glance at the clock and wince. “We are going to be late if we don’t get going soon, though. Are you coming?”
“You don’t mind?”
“We’re just going to be playing Mario Party or watching a Disney movie. Why would I mind?”
He hunkers, to get closer, and very seriously says, “I’m almost a decade older than your friend group. I’m your boss. You don’t like me.”
Oh. Well. Look at that. He came up with three excellent points why I would mind. We could turn them into a three-point essay. If we didn’t really, really, really need to go.
“Get in the car, or don’t. You have three seconds.”
And three seconds is all he needs, because it takes about two seconds for him to reach my passenger side and the third to fold himself into it.
“The chair should…” I start as he reaches for the lever.
It does not go back. This is as far back as it goes. Oh. Okay.
So his legs are just fifteen feet long.
Cool. Cool, cool, cool…
“Should we take your vehicle?” I ask.
“We’re going to be late,” he says, strapping himself into my plastic Barbie car. His hair is touching the ceiling. I didn’t know my car had been made for children before now. What a thing to learn.
“Right.” I worry my lip. “But I feel bad. I didn’t know my car was a tall person torture device.”
His expression softens, and my chest squeezes. “Mirabelle. I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Well…if he’s sure.
So I can stop looking at him, I turn the keys and back out of the driveway.
?
“You don’t need to buy me a car,” I say, adamantly, as Mr. Anders and I make our way from Jeffry’s apartment complex’s visitor parking lot up the stretch of hill leading to his building.
“No, no. I would never buy you another car.” Humor teases the corners of his eyes as he makes a point of stretching his poor limbs. “I’m thinking more like…a monster truck. A pale blue one. With clouds all over it.”
“That would be inconvenient to shop with. Who knows how I’d find parking?”
“I think you just drive over anything in your way. Also, after having been inside your two-door vehicle, I’m not sure how it fits the groceries.”
“The trunk is spacious.”
He stops short, so I look up at him and the surprise riddling his face. “What?” I ask.
“You mean you don’t keep any bodies back there?”
I stare at him.
He references me, from my flowery hair scarf down to my lacy white apron. “You just seem like the serial killer type.”
Despite myself, I smile. “Do I now?”
He begins walking again. “Absolutely. I’m shocked to learn you don’t have limbs alphabetized in your trunk.” He holds out his hand. “By the way, those brownies look heavy. Mind if I eat them all for you? It’ll make the dish lighter.”
“You’re in an odd mood tonight, aren’t you?”
“I’m nervous.” He combs his fingers through his hair. “I’ve never been to a modest gathering like this before. And I have a feeling I’m neither going to be an expected nor a welcome presence.”
If that’s the case, why’d he agree to come?
I really don’t understand this man.
Reaching Jeffry’s building, I say, “Well, I hope you’ll play nice and make some friends.”
Cautious, he says, “Right…” and I ring the doorbell.
Moments pass, then Jeffry opens up, smiles at me, smiles at my brownies, lifts his attention to the brick wall of a man behind me, and frowns. “Uh… Mira, what’s your boss doing here?”
My mouth opens, and I almost say, he is sad and lonely and needs friends, before I remember that his weird inclination to pester me for my inside thoughts does not generally apply to the masses. “I invited him. I hope that’s okay?”
Jeffry’s face says it’s not, but he rubs the back of his neck and uses his words to convey, “Sure…yeah. Welcome in, man,” as he steps back from the door.
“Pleasure,” Mr. Anders mumbles as he enters behind me.
“Miraaa!” Samuel leaps on me, grinning, as he tosses his arms around my shoulders. “What have you brought us this time?”
“Oi, Sammy. Bug off. They’re mine,” Jeffry snaps, kicking the door closed.
“Finders keepers.” Lifting his half-finished bottle of beer, he asks, “Trade you?”
“Um, no thank you,” I note.
Jeffry shoves Samuel off me, grabs my elbow, and takes me to the place I always sit.
Micheal currently fills the seat as he battles three of the other guys in Mario Party. He mutters, “Hey, man. I can’t see.”
“Move, that’s Mira’s seat,” Jeffry states, as Micheal loses the minigame.
Despite the cussing, Micheal relinquishes his seat, so I slot myself into place.
Gently, Jeffry takes my platter of brownies and says, “I’ll make you your Mudslide.” He turns to the rest of the guys playing and commands, “Loser switches with Mira.”
Nate offers me his controller. “No need to wait. You can jump in for me. I gotta pee.”
I beam. “Yay! Which one am I?”
“Yoshi,” Micheal answers, lifting his controller and looking past me. “Hey, dude. You wanna jump in, too? I’m Micheal. Nate just stepped out. That’s Samuel—”
“Don’t use my government name,” Samuel slurs.
“He goes by Sam or Sammy and he’s already drunk. Then there’s Quinnon, Richard, and you probably know Jeffry.”
Each of the guys greets Mr. Anders as he lowers himself onto the armrest beside me, bestowing his great big weight on what I suspect is cardboard. It is a wonder the furniture holds as he murmurs, “Nice to meet you all. You can call me Damion.”
From the floor, Samuel lifts his beer. “You Mira’s boyfriend or something?”
Quinnon kicks Samuel in the side.
“Um. No,” Mr. Anders says, eyeing Quinnon.
“Did you want to play a few rounds?” Micheal asks, holding out his controller.
Mr. Anders shakes his head. “That’s okay. I’ll just watch for a bit.”
“You a wrestler?” Samuel asks while I do my very best to beat the minigame that starts up.
“No.”
“Football player?”
“No.”
“Do you take steroids?”
Quinnon kicks Samuel again. “Knock it off.”
I do not perish in the minigame!
For reasons entirely unknown to me, I beam up at Mr. Anders as my little green dinosaur creature takes the most coins.
For reasons that continue to be unknown to me, he…lets the tiniest edge of a smile soften his features, then he extends his hand.
I give him my controller.
“I thought you were gonna watch,” Quinnon mutters.
Eyes fixed on the screen as the round proceeds, Mr. Anders says, “I am watching.”
Once the next minigame comes up, Mr. Anders slaughters the guys.
A laugh bursts out of my chest as Yoshi once again takes the coins, and now the lead.
Appearing faintly smug, Mr. Anders offers me the controller back.
“Mira,” Jeffry mutters behind me as a cold glass appears before my nose. “Your Mudslide.”
“Oh.” I tilt my head back to look at him as I take it. “Thank you.”
Inches from my face, Jeffry smiles above me, pulls back, and frowns at Mr. Anders. “Hey, man. You want a beer or something?”
Mr. Anders spares Jeffry half a glance as he concentrates on the luck-based minigame as though his attention might sway the results. “No, thanks. I’ve got a clown car to designate drive back home later.”
I laugh into my chocolate milkshake.
Dry and monotone, Jeffry says, “Right.”
And Mr. Anders lucks out, keeping us in first yet again.