Chapter 3: I Hate Dinners

I pick at the salad on my plate and try my best to pretend I'm somewhere else. The four adults talk and talk as I deliver piece after piece of lettuce into my mouth and crunch it slowly.

Shawn gazes at me from across the table, but I don't make eye contact. I eat my food with deliberate nonchalance.

Dinner conversations have predictable patterns. First come comments about the food, and then gossip, and then worldly topics that make each of the sides feel more intelligent than they actually are, and finally, like a vengeful tide, the conversation turns to the people who hadn't been participating thus far. Namely, Shawn and myself.

"So, Sophie," Bob begins as he wipes his mouth with the satin napkin. It always either starts with a "so, Sophie" or a "so, Shawn." "Have you gotten your college applications all lined up?"

"I think so," I reply. So far, so good. Bob is the Henderson I hate the least. He is what he is—a rich, pompous snob.

"What's your first choice, then?"

"I'm hoping to get into NYU."

"NYU? So, you'll be living at home?" It's a reasonable question to ask. Most kids my age can't wait to get away from the nest. And commuting every day to college isn't any fun, either.

I'd rather have that, though. College is going to be antisocial paradise for me. I'd be able to go to classes and go home straight after. I'd be free of unnecessary mingling with other human beings and can save up on living expenses at the same time.

I shrug and put on my faux smile. "I like living at home."

"Still have your mind set on becoming a doctor?" Bob asks, and I nod in reply.

"What kind of doctor did you say you want to be?" Cintia asks as she struggles to recall my answers to these same exact questions last time they were asked. "Was it a proctologist?"

I cringe and have to take a moment to prevent myself from making a joke about the kind of people who want to look at assholes all day. "No, not a proctologist. A pathologist . . ."

Cintia nods, looking confused, but of course, she wouldn't admit to her own ignorance. "Oh yes, how interesting . . ."

"Mom, pathologists work in the morgue and operate on dead bodies," Shawn says, sending a sly smirk my way.

Cintia's eyes widen, and in her disgust, she stretches her lip to reveal her bottom teeth. "Oh, dear. Why would you want to—"

"Most of pathology is actually analyzing body tissues and fluids, like a biopsy taken for discovering cancer. It's an important profession." The word "cancer" always manages to win people over. I feel a headache forming. I hate having to explain myself, and I wouldn't have if my parents weren't sitting right there—the things I put up with for them.

"That's lovely, dear." Cintia places her hand on her heart. "You know what you want to do at such a young age."

I wouldn't say that being a pathologist is my dream. It just seems less boring to me than any and all of the jobs in the world. Plus, I would get to be a doctor but wouldn't have to deal with any patients.

At least, not living ones.

The conversation moves on to Shawn and his college plans. Next to me, he sounds vague and indecisive. He's aiming for Harvard—I hope he goes there and I'll never see him.

When Bob pulls out the grappa, I'm assured that very soon, this evening is going to end, giving me a whole month before I have to go through with this again.

The big French windows of the dining room suddenly flare with a flash of lightning, followed by the deep rumble of thunder.

And then, like in a horror movie, three sharp knocks come from the front door.

I begin feeling excited.

When things are ominous or frightening, I always get this crazy adrenaline rush. My body fills with energy, almost as if I take savage pleasure in the prospect that something horrible is about to happen.

It's not that I like it when bad things happen. It's more akin to the rush of battle. When faced with a possible crisis, I'm at my best. The world is open before me, and everything becomes sharp and clear.

Sometimes I feel like darkness is my element.

"Who could it be at this hour?" Cintia asks Bob in a trembling voice.

Bob's jaw tenses as he slips into the role of the man of the house. I can see how he's gathering the courage to get the door.

But then, as more lightning forks across the night sky, Shawn gets up and steals Bob's thunder, so to speak.

"It's for me," he says, and that's the end of tonight's excitement.

I'm immensely put off. I don't know what I was expecting, but one of Shawn's enraged girlfriends barging in on him at ten at night is disappointing.

We all hear the voice of a girl yelling and then footsteps as she and Shawn hurry to the privacy of the den to have their argument.

The adults continue their conversation and pretend that the previous disturbance hadn't actually happened.

When over half an hour has passed, my parents are itching to go. But there's a strange kind of etiquette with the Hendersons. They must all be present to bid us farewell before we're able to leave their house.

I find this rule highly disturbing in an otherwise-you're-cursed kind of way.

We move from the dining room to the foyer. My dad clutches my mom's purse, completely ready to leave, but Shawn still doesn't show up.

The conversation between my dad and Bob, which had been going at a nice pace, dwindles, and then suddenly, something awful happens.

Cintia, sensing the imminent awkwardness that's just around the corner, turns to me and says, "Sophie, will you be a dear and go fetch Shawn from the den?"

Why me? I want to ask, not because I don't know the answer, but because I don't want what's happening right now to happen.

Cintia is, of course, mortally afraid of catching Shawn in some precarious situation, and she sees me—a girl his age who doubtlessly employs the same loose ideas—as someone who can handle it.

"You're his friend," she goes on, seeing my hesitation. "It would be weird for his mother to . . . Anyway, run along, dear."

Run along . . .? Did she just . . .? I take a step away to prevent myself from releasing a string of profanity at her and start to march stiffly toward the den.

The wooden door is closed shut, and I can hear arguing voices from the other side. Well, at least I won't be barging in on them while they're making out. I knock, and they shut up.

After a moment of silence, Shawn calls, "Yes?"

I turn the doorknob, pull open the door, and peek inside. "Your mom sent me to get you. We're leaving," I say before anyone can comment or do anything.

I notice the girl. I know her. Ashley Glick, the most popular girl in school. We've been attending the same schools since we were five, and our fathers are members of the same synagogue.

She's a petite little thing, with brightly whitened teeth, smooth flawless skin, and naturally straight hair that she dyes blonde. She's part of the drama club, the choir, and the marching band. Her body's perfect, but if anyone happened to take a moment to remove their gaze from her generous breasts and actually look at her face, they would discover that she is not only plain but has such a weak chin, it looks like it's molded with her neck.

She makes a point of showing the world how much she doesn't like the people she dislikes, going out of her way to make their lives miserable. Even I heard the stories of how, with the use of manipulation tactics and peer pressure alone, she emotionally destroys people without getting a blemish to her own name.

She looks at me, and I look at her. In second grade, I once saw her ripping the wings off a butterfly.

I wouldn't be surprised if someday in the future, she ended up stabbing her lover to death. Ashley Glick is my mental compass. Next to her, I know I'm not a psychopath.

Maybe I'm a sociopath? Who knows . . .?

"Sophie! What're you doing here?" she asks with a strained smile that screams bloody murder.

"Leaving," I say. And then, because I know it will infuriate her—and why not?—I add, "Do I know you?"

Her jaw drops. For just one moment, she looks like an imbecile before she collects her wits and pushes out her hip to the left—a testament to her ire.

"We took biology together," she snaps.

I look in Shawn's direction. He just stands there with his fingers tapping his chin and stares at me thoughtfully.

I don't know what's going through his head, but I don't like it. "Anyway, we're leaving, Shawn . . ."

He springs on me like a tiger, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. "Let's go say goodbye to your folks, Fee."

I try to shrug off his arm as he tries to steer me away. We have a little battle over this.

Ashley stands in the middle of the den with her hands on her hips and glares at us. "What the fuck is she doing here, Shawn?"

He manages to turn me around and begins prodding me in the direction of the foyer, and then he looks over his shoulder at Ashley and says, "This isn't what it looks like, Ash. We're just friends."

To say something like that is just asking for it. It's as if he told her, Everything you're thinking right now, it's all true.

It's one of those moments when the thing that's happening is so ridiculous, you're rendered speechless. I don't care enough to comment, and anything I say would only make the current situation worse.

The right corner of my mouth rises in a half smirk as I turn my head to fix Shawn with one of my most sardonic looks. I shake off his arm and stalk forward toward the foyer, knowing he would follow.

And behind him, like a sinister shadow, Ashley would too.

"Oh, hey, Ashley," my dad says cheerfully once we show up. I love how unaware he is about the silent drama going on in Ashley's head. "Nice of you to drop by. Tell your dad I said hi."

Ashley's face turns beet red. "I'll be sure to tell him, Mr. Green."

We say our goodbyes and walk out the door. I don't know why I do it, but I turn to look behind me.

Through the open door, I can see that Ashley is still standing in the foyer, but she's looking right at me with a calculating expression. When she catches me staring at her, she grins.

That grin, I think to myself right before I doze off in the back seat of the car, is a harbinger to a shitstorm.