2. Dylan
TWO
DYLAN
TWELVE YEARS OLD
“I’m heading out!” I shout. The front door is already open, and I’m half-outside when Aunt Nina’s voice stops me.
“Hold it. Just where do you think you’re going again, young man?”
I turn around and find her standing in the hallway. Her left eyebrow is quirked into a high arch, and she’s tapping her foot on the floor.
“Adrian’s waiting. I’m helping them set up for the party.
” I tilt my head toward the house next door.
I’m itching to go. It’s Mrs. Olsen’s— oh, for heaven’s sake, Dylan, enough with this Mrs. Olsen nonsense, just call me Lynn —birthday.
They’re going to have a huge party, and I’m invited.
Mr. Olsen— Eric, son. How many times do I have to tell you?
—said there’ll be hot dogs and hamburgers and buffalo wings and chocolate cake, and Will’s band is going to play in the backyard, and there’ll be paper lanterns, and we can stay the night in the treehouse we helped Mr. Olsen build in the far end of their backyard where a small clump of trees lead to a hiking trail a bit further back.
I’m raring to go, jumping from one foot to the other, dying to get out of here.
Aunt Nina crosses her arms over her chest.
“Aren’t we forgetting something?”
She, of course, means I’m forgetting something. Aunt Nina never forgets.
I try to rack my brain for what that mysterious something might be and come up with a fat load of nothing.
Aunt Nina purses her lips and frowns. She throws a lightning quick look toward the house next door.
“We have dinner plans.”
“I can eat at Adrian’s,” I say.
Aunt Nina gives a disapproving sigh. “You’re spending entirely too much time with that boy.”
My mouth goes just a bit dry. Aunt Nina doesn’t like Adrian, but she’s never outright forbidden me to hang out with him, despite what she told Uncle Jon when Adrian’s family moved in.
It doesn’t stop the nerves from gathering in the bottom of my belly every time she brings up “that boy” or even looks toward the house next door, because that’s always followed by her pursing her lips, and I have a feeling one of these days she’s gonna add sound effects to that silent disapproval.
“He’s my friend.” I hate how small my voice sounds. Just once I’d like to be brave enough to stand up for myself.
Today is not that day.
Aunt Nina makes a dismissive sound. “I’ve made plans with the Bettencourts. Preston is bringing Parker, so I need you to be on your best behavior.”
I barely manage not to make a face. Parker.
Ugh. What have I done to deserve this? The Bettencourts means Aunt Nina’s new boyfriend Preston Bettencourt and his son.
They’re stuck-up and horrible and boring, and Aunt Nina loves them.
Parker is the kind of friend Aunt Nina thinks I should hang out with, and he’s also coincidentally the kind of “friend” who makes me want to stick toothpicks into my eyeballs.
“But—” I start to argue.
“Your suit is on your bed along with the dress shoes and the blue tie.” Aunt Nina’s tone allows no arguing.
My eyes widen in sheer horror. “Suit?” I squeak. It’s eighty degrees outside.
“The restaurant has a dress code.”
“But I promised to help with the party!” I send a desperate look toward Adrian’s house.
“I’m sure they’ll manage,” Aunt Nina says dismissively. “God knows they have more than enough people there as is. I doubt you will be missed too much.”
“But—”
“Continue arguing, and you’ll be grounded. Frankly I expected more from you. Preston is important to me, so you should really take more interest in getting to know him. It’s infinitely more important than running around all over the place with that boy. It’s family, Dylan.”
I look down at my feet while my face goes all hot. Part of me knows she’s right. Part of me thinks it’s unfair.
With nothing else left to do, I turn around and drag my feet back into the house.
“We’re leaving in thirty minutes,” Aunt Nina calls after me.
I force down the need to slam the door and quietly sigh instead.
It’s some sort of weird phenomenon of life that when you’re having fun, time whizzes by. As if that weren’t unfair enough already, it also works the other way around, which explains why this dinner has lasted for about fifty years already.
I keep bouncing my knee underneath the table and covertly checking the time. What are the chances we accidentally drove through some loop and ended up in an alternate reality where time stands still forever? I may never get out of here.
“… and then they asked for the oyster fork.” Preston— you should really call me Mr. Bettencourt —shakes his head in clear dismay. The strands of his dark brown hair are under strict orders not to move at all. It’s like a shiny helmet. I’m tempted to throw a prawn at it to see if he notices.
“An oyster fork. Unbelievable.” Aunt Nina tuts in disapproval and keeps looking at Preston with a disgustingly lovestruck expression. Why she keeps doing that is anybody’s guess.
I’m not sure what the problem with asking for an oyster fork is. Unless it’s the fact that it clearly shows you’re planning to eat oysters, which is disgusting.
“You never ask for an oyster fork.” Preston makes a derisive sound. “What are we, heathens?”
Aunt Nina starts to laugh like it’s the greatest joke ever—it isn’t—and Parker follows suit.
“Needless to say, we won’t be associating with them again any time soon,” Preston finishes the story.
Because of a fork? I frown. That’s the kind of guy Aunt Nina wants to date? The kind who drops people for asking for a fork? I guess it’s against the rules or something, but still.
“Has Dylan been taking any classes this summer?” Preston asks, and before anybody can answer, he continues swiftly in his very distinct, nasal voice, “I find it’s extremely important to cultivate the inner need for self-improvement in children.
Parker has just gotten back from France.
International language camp. Of course, he’s studying at school and has a tutor, but I find it’s impossible to learn a language properly without spending time in the environment where the language is spoken. ”
“ Tu as raison, papa .” Parker gives me a smug look.
Oh, yay. Snobbery 101, the French edition.
Aunt Nina sends a quick glance my way. I’m not sure if it’s guilt or embarrassment, but I’m pretty sure up until now she hasn’t considered the importance of “cultivating my inner need for self-improvement” at all.
I really don’t want her to start.
“Dylan excels at his piano lessons, of course,” she says, which is not true. I suck at piano, and I’ve been meaning to beg her to let me quit. Guess that option is out the window for now.
“Parker has made great progress with the cello,” Preston says immediately.
“His mother and I, of course, considered the piano for him, but in the end he decided to go with something a little less mainstream.” He laughs like he’s making a joke, and his expression is all “Aw shucks, kids say the darndest thing,” even though it’s actually just obvious snobbery again.
He then proceeds to rattle off a list of all the other extracurricular activities Parker is involved in to really ram it home whose kid is more accomplished.
I can practically hear Aunt Nina taking mental notes.
Granted, I’m not her real kid, so she could technically say I’m a loser with no notable accomplishments purely because of lousy genetics.
I don’t think she will, though. Aunt Nina’s never been one to back down from a challenge.
There’s a new, calculating gleam in her eyes when she looks at me.
I have a distinct feeling of doom at the bottom of my stomach.
I don’t think this bodes well for me.
By the time we finally get back home, it’s getting really late. I send a longing look toward the house next door, where there are still people milling around and you can hear an occasional burst of laughter. Somebody’s built a fire in the firepit, and kids are running around the backyard.
“Dylan!” Mia and Jackson shout, and both start waving maniacally.
I whirl toward Aunt Nina and send her the most pleading look I’m capable of. Please, please, please. I was good. Please, just let me go.
She lets out a resigned sigh.
“Go,” she says.
My heart jumps with sheer joy. I start to run, then turn back and give Aunt Nina a quick hug. She freezes for a second but then gives in and pats me on the back twice. I start to run again.
“For God’s sake, Dylan. Change your clothes.
” Aunt Nina’s exasperated voice makes me turn around and sprint into the house.
In less than a minute, I’ve ditched the suit, pulled on a pair of sweats, a T-shirt, and a jersey, I have a flashlight in hand, and I’m out the door.
Aunt Nina calls something after me, but I don’t hear it while I’m sprinting to the back of our yard where Adrian and I pried two slats off the fence to make it easier to move between our yards.
In reality, it’s just a private gate for me since we almost never hang out at my house.
The landscape designer Aunt Nina hired last year has filled every inch of our backyard with flowerbeds and some kind of delicate sculptures and arrangements.
It makes Aunt Nina’s eye twitch if I stand too close to the flowerbeds, so there’s nothing to do here, whereas Adrian’s backyard has a trampoline, swings, soccer goals, and monkey bars, and nobody minds when we’re loud and leave stuff lying around as long as we clean it up at the end of the day.
I glance over my shoulder and then hastily break off three of the peonies Aunt Nina is so proud of.
“Dylan, honey. Fashionably late this time, huh?” Mrs. Olsen says when I stop at the firepit, where embers are glowing and smoldering in a riot of oranges, yellows, and reds. She’s cuddled into Mr. Olsen’s side, and they’re both grinning at me.
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Olsen.” I hand over the pink peonies. She takes them and buries her nose in the blossoms.