Chapter Seventeen Just a Boy and His Guitar #3
“I’m sure he was flinching on the inside,” Noah says. He glances around. There are some kids’ games set up at the far end of the grounds, and big white tents for the caterers on the other side.
I still wish we saw that flinch. Maybe we’ll get another chance to scandalize them later. “We might as well eat,” I say.
Noah takes my hand again as we walk to the food tent.
Mom and Jason are probably not watching us, so I have no idea why we’re still holding hands, but there’s no way I’m going to stop it.
I wish I could know if this is real, if he’s holding my hand because he wants to, not because he wants everyone to see us.
The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that my feelings for Noah aren’t because of the curse.
There are no warning signs with Noah. This isn’t boy craziness nor am I being swept away or rebellious.
I’ve been very levelheaded about my feelings for him, and I tried my best to keep fighting them, but what I feel is realer than anything I’ve felt for any boy.
I have to trust myself. The only warning sign I see that could spell trouble for us is that he wants revenge on the LeClair family, but does that even count?
I mean, my stepfather’s family wronged his family in so many ways.
Noah has every right to want to get back at them.
As we get to the food tent, someone stops us.
“Noah Jacobs, is that you?”
It’s a woman, maybe Jason’s age. She has blond hair and is wearing jeans and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. “Oh, hey, Ashley,” Noah says.
The woman eyes Noah’s shirt with a raised brow, then frowns when she notices that he’s holding my hand. He lets go of me quickly and rubs his palm on his jeans.
Who is this woman, and why does she seem to have a problem with Noah holding my hand?
“Who’s your… friend?” she asks, looking at me like my existence threatens her in some way. Now my palms are sweating. Does she know I’m Jason LeClair’s stepdaughter cosplaying as a bad girl?
“Oh, this is Meera,” Noah says. “Meera, this is Ashley. She’s on my dad’s team at the plant.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I’m also an old family friend. Mike and I go back to high school.” She turns back to Noah. “How did you meet her? Not through that Chinese lady you’re always with?”
Noah rolls his eyes, and when he speaks, his voice has a hard edge to it. “Clara isn’t Chinese. She’s Filipina, like my mother.”
Ashley waves her hand like what Noah said doesn’t matter. “Careful, kid. You don’t want to make the same mistakes your father made. You’re better off hanging out with someone from here. Someone like us.”
My hand fists. Racism. This lady is being racist to our faces.
Just like that old man was to Mom at the club.
Have people been saying stuff like this to Mom since she moved to Cherrybridge?
It occurs to me that to some people it doesn’t matter if Mom dresses like a socialite or I dress like an emo skater girl. All they’ll see is our brown skin.
“Ashley, stop,” Noah warns. “Meera’s a friend. Her stepfather is Jason LeClair.”
The emphasis he puts on the word “friend” doesn’t feel good, but Ashley’s eyes widen.
The conflict on her face is almost laughable.
Like, she doesn’t know if she can still be nasty, considering that my family owns this whole company, but she also seems to hate me even more.
“Does your father know you’re holding hands with a LeClair? ”
“Hey, Ashley,” someone says, coming toward us. It’s Mike, Noah’s dad. “I see you met Meera. She’s great, isn’t she?”
Ashley scowls at Mike. Like she’s mad at him for not being on her side. “Do you know who her stepfather is?” Ashley asks Mike.
“Of course. And we’re not blaming the girl for who her mother chose to marry. Meera’s been a good friend to Noah this summer. They met in community service.”
“Mike, I’m surprised you of all people would allow this. I know why he married that woman—nothing but virtue signaling. But why would you allow your son to do that?”
“I don’t need my father’s permission to date who I want,” Noah says, taking my hand back.
No one says anything for a moment. I squeeze Noah’s hand as a thank-you for standing up for me, and he squeezes mine back.
“Ashley, leave Noah and Meera alone,” Mike says, “They’re kids. Let them make their own mistakes.”
I blink. Mike thinks we’re making a mistake?
Ashley scowls at Noah. “Okay, but don’t come running to me when this blows up, like your father did when your mom left,” she says. “And, Mike, don’t forget what side you’re on.” Ashley walks away.
“Dad,” Noah says, “why do you put up with that crap? Ashley went too far.”
“What do you mean, why do I put up with that?” Mike asks, irritated. “I can’t control what she says.”
“You’re her supervisor. Can’t you tell her not to be a racist bitch to your son and his friends?”
“Watch your language, Son,” Mike says, glancing around to see if anyone is nearby. “Shouldn’t you two be at the front with Jason and the LeClairs?”
Noah frowns. Instead, he tightens his grip on my hand and pulls me toward the food tent without saying anything else to his father.