The Art of Adapting (10 page)

“Are you jackasses stoned or something?”

Byron stopped laughing and looked up at Betsy standing before them in her red swimsuit, hands on her curved hips, long pink nails tapping in irritation. Man, she was hot.

“No, but you are,” Trent said.

“Don't act like a three-year-old,” she snapped. “Where's Mom?”

“Hiding from your shitload of laundry,” Trent said.

“Or buried under it,” Byron suggested. They both laughed until Betsy swung at Byron with a catlike swipe, smacking him in the back of the head. Hard.

“I expect him to be an idiot,” she said, pointing at Trent. “But I had higher hopes for you.” She directed a pink nail at Byron.

“Sorry,” Byron said sheepishly.

“What a wuss,” Trent said, rolling his eyes. He turned back to the laptop, back to listings for cars he'd never own.

“Is that . . . ?” Betsy was looking at Byron's doodles on the menu. At the sketches of her. Byron flipped the paper over, but she had crazy-fast reflexes and snatched it. “Wow,” she said. “You actually have talent.” She looked from the menu to Byron and back again, and he felt himself blush like a damn girl. “Can I have it?” she asked, barely a whisper.

“Of course you can have it,” Trent said. “It's our fucking menu.”

Betsy hit Trent with the same newspaper he'd used on Byron. Trent glared at Byron, as if he were to blame. Betsy sashayed over to the fridge, menu of Byron's sketches in hand, and peered inside. She leaned way over, her back arched, her round left butt cheek peeking out under the short skirt of her swimsuit. It took all of
Byron's will not to stare. He focused on the back of Trent's shaggy head.

“Where's the lemonade that was in here?” Betsy asked.

“Your boy toy drank it,” Trent said, chucking a thumb at Byron without looking up from his computer.

“Sorry,” Byron said, hating how pathetic he sounded. “I can make more.”

“Could you?” Betsy asked, hand on her hip. “And bring me a glass?” She pointed toward the pool.

Byron shrugged and launched himself out of the chair, over the arm, and into a standing position with surprising ease. He was getting better at this. He headed toward the kitchen, kicking his legs up and swinging his lower body over one barstool, then another, without even breaking stride. He was on a roll. He looked up and Betsy was watching him with her eyes narrowed and head cocked to one side.

“Parkour?” She nodded toward the stool.

“Excuse me?” Byron asked, looking behind him to see if he'd dropped something.

“That move. Parkour.” She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Hopping over stuff without stopping.”

“Um, I think it's called free running?” Byron said. “I'm just trying it out.”

“It's called parkour in France, where it was invented. But free running is the same thing.” She put the empty glass pitcher and tub of Country Time on the counter and slid both toward Byron. “There's a parkour club on campus. You should come watch them sometime. They're badasses.”

Betsy strolled toward the sliding glass doors, gyrating all of her curves the whole way there, holding the menu to her chest.

“Hey, Bets?” Byron called. She turned and gave him a bored look. Trent always called her Bets, and suddenly Byron couldn't remember if she liked it or hated it. “You, uh, want ice in your lemonade?”

“I sure do.” She smiled, gave him a little hair flip, and stepped outside.

Byron opened the Country Time tub and inhaled the sweet lemony dust that rose out of the container. Trent snorted behind him.

“What?” Byron asked, as if he didn't know what was coming.

“I'm so totally texting your mom later. Just so you know.”

Byron was spared from having to kick Trent's ass by the sound of Trent's mom, Tilly, opening the front door. She came in struggling with about six grocery bags, so Byron stepped over to help her out.

“Oh, will you look at that, Trent? Byron helps me carry the groceries in. And I see he's even making lemonade for everyone. Isn't that amazing? Seeing someone pitch in and help like that? Doesn't it inspire you?”

Trent snorted again. “Hey, pool boy, when you're done I'll take a glass with ice, too. And make it sweet. Use an extra scoop of the good stuff.”

“Trent Alexander MacAaron, you'll get off that couch and come make it yourself,” Tilly said. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asked Byron.

“Of course he is,” Trent said, still looking at the laptop.

“Um, actually, I haven't asked my mom, so . . .” He didn't want to sound too eager, what with Betsy within earshot and all. But he really didn't want to go home in case the cop was still there.

Tilly stopped unpacking a grocery bag and wiped her hands on a towel. “Oh, I'll call right now and ask her. I've been meaning to thank her for that stuffed pepper recipe.”

Tilly picked up the phone and headed off, leaving the bulk of the groceries still on the counter. Byron's mom would never do that. There was even frozen stuff that shouldn't be left out. Byron started putting the groceries away. It occurred to him as he emptied the first bag that this was exactly what his dad was always harping on him about, how he needed to pitch in more, be the man of the house, take responsibility. It wasn't that Byron never did stuff like this for Lana—just yesterday he'd put the dishes from the sink into the dishwasher without even being asked—but clearly Graham just assumed that he was a lazy slob.

“You know, I'm dying of thirst out there,” Betsy said, coming
inside. Byron barely gave her a glance as he emptied the second grocery bag and started in on the third. “Are you kidding me?” she asked, watching him. “You're putting away
our
groceries? How is it possible you're friends with my loser brother?”

Byron smirked. “Your mom pays me to be. I'm supposed to teach him some manners.” Betsy giggled and smacked him on the back.

“You're awesome,” she said. She dug through one of the grocery bags and pulled out a box of Nilla wafers. She stood there eating them, crumbs falling all over the shelf of her chest, watching Byron finish the job. Man, Tilly was raising some lazy kids. Byron folded and put away the empty grocery bags, then finished making the lemonade, since clearly no one else was going to.

After she got off the phone, Tilly came in, saw that Byron had put away the groceries, clapped her hands together like a two-year-old, then kissed Byron.
Kissed
him. Instead of thanking him like a normal person, she grabbed his head in her hot chubby hands, squished his face, and kissed his cheek. It was like seeing his great-aunt Ida at Thanksgiving, down to the gaudy rings that left dents behind and everything. He could see the sweat on her upper lip and the smudge of lipstick on her front tooth as she came at him, but there was nothing he could do except stand there and take it. After it was over he had the overwhelming urge to wipe his face with something, but he knew how rude that would look. Plus, she still had ahold of his head. And Betsy was standing there, munching away, watching him.

“You're an angel,” Tilly said. Her palms were sweaty. “I should call your mom back. Tell her she raised you right.” She gave Byron's face a little shake that made the fat on her upper arms sway and her breasts jiggle. He tried not to look down, but Tilly was holding him near her eye level, and as his eyes fought to find somewhere else to look, there it was, the paper towel tucked into her cleavage, all wrinkled and full of human body oils and sweat. Suddenly Byron didn't want to stay for dinner. He could grab a burger on his way home, kill time until he was sure the cop was gone.

“You know, now that I think about it, I have this history assignment . . .”
he said lamely, pulling his face away from her hands. He tried to remember what they were learning about in history, but his mind was blank.

“Yeah, but you also have Uncle Weirdo to tell you everything you never wanted to know about World War II,” Trent offered.

Damn, that was it. Pearl Harbor and Hiroshima. Byron would be able to think clearer if Betsy weren't watching, a dusting of crumbs forming a white
m
across the tops of her breasts. It would also help if he weren't so damn hungry. His stomach chose that exact moment to betray him, letting out a long noisy growl.

Tilly's jaw fell open. “No!” she gasped. “Your mom already cleared it and you're starving.” Tilly took Betsy's box of cookies and handed them to Byron. “Here, this will tide you over while I cook.”

Byron stood there like an idiot while Tilly started snapping green beans, slicing potatoes, dusting chicken in flour and spices for frying. Byron loved her fried chicken. Betsy sighed and poured herself some lemonade before heading back for the pool. Byron knew he shouldn't watch her go with her mom right there, but it was impossible not to. Her hips swayed with every step. When she got to her lounge chair Betsy turned and smiled at Byron, held up the lemonade like a toast. He just about fell over. Forget the cop. Today was turning into the best day. This was the most attention Betsy had ever paid to him. Trent snorted before the screen displaying his dream cars. Byron looked his way and Trent held up his cell phone, no doubt another reference to texting Lana. Byron couldn't say anything with Tilly there, though. Tilly smiled and pointed to a chair, and Byron sat.

“So, you'll never guess who I saw at the store the other day,” Tilly said. “Melinda Bass. You remember her daughter Serena? She went to middle school with you boys, but then they moved away? Well, now they're back. Anyway, Melinda says they just rented the cutest little bungalow in Mira Mesa, which I think means she's divorced and can't afford to buy, even in this market. I mean, her husband was, like, an investment banker or something. Cold, but well off. Did you know their oldest, Jack? He was two years ahead of you. Right after high school he joined the Army . . .”

Byron was trapped. Once Tilly started talking, there was no stopping her. He couldn't see Betsy now that she'd settled into the lounge chair with her back to him. He looked over at Trent, and he was pretty sure Trent was smiling into his laptop, enjoying Byron's suffering, punishment for ogling Betsy. Trent was right, though. It was a pretty good word.

Lana rose on Saturday morning to the quiet of a house without children. She was getting used to her Saturday mornings alone, but that didn't mean she liked them. She headed for the kitchen to make coffee and wait for Matt to emerge from his cavelike room. She knew he could hear her. Matt had the best hearing of anyone Lana knew. Even though she would just be having cereal and he'd have the same English muffin prepared the same way every day, she waited to eat with him. She hated eating alone.

Coffee with Nick the day before had been interesting, but not terribly enlightening. He'd expected to have the afternoon off, but ended up working, so instead of casual Nick she got Police Officer Nick. They met at her house, and then never did make it out to coffee, because a half hour into their catch-up session he'd gotten a call and had to run. Lana had wasted their brief time with idle chitchat and never got his full story, just the basics: Marines, police force, a marriage in there somewhere to a woman with kids from a previous marriage, divorce, and no kids of his own. Lana had ended up with more questions than answers, a desire to pry deeper, but no clear sense of whether or not Nick wanted to go deeper himself. In that way he was the same old Nick: dignified and polite and hard to read.

Nick had met Byron, briefly, and had marveled at how much he'd looked like Lana. She wondered what he'd think of Abby, Graham's look-alike, if he'd met her. Nick was a strange mix of familiar and new, and Lana felt the same, like he brought out a decades-old version of herself that didn't fully sync with the current Lana. She honestly wasn't sure which version of herself she liked better at the moment: the young dreamer overwhelmed by the many options to consider or the responsible, methodical juggler who prided herself on being unflappable in a crisis.

She got her second cup of coffee and started getting impatient. She was hungry, and there was still no sign of Matt. It was time for him to take his anti-anxiety meds. She knocked gently on his door, pills in hand, to offer to make his food for him, and got no answer. She peeked inside his room. He wasn't there. His thick weighted blue blanket was folded neatly in half and resting on the foot of the bed. His shoes were missing. His jacket was gone. His keys were not on the little shelf where he always kept them.

“Matt?” she called. It was impossible that she'd missed him, but still she walked into the main part of the house, expecting him to magically appear by the front window where he camped out when the kids were gone. His window seat was empty. “Matt!” She got no answer. She dialed his cell phone and heard the familiar trill of birds chirping that was Matt's beloved ringtone. She found his phone on his bedroom floor under a pile of dirty clothes.

Lana dialed her sister Becca as she ran through the house looking for him. Thankfully her car was right where she left it, and the kids' bicycles were still in the garage right next to it. So he had no transportation, but Matt was definitely gone. Becca's voice mail picked up. Lana hung up without leaving a message and called Graham. “I need you to keep the kids a little longer.”

“Lana, I have plans. You need to give me more warning . . .”

“Matt's missing,” she said breathlessly.

“He's a grown man, I'm sure he's fine.”

Lana rifled through the papers on Matt's desk, looking for clues. He had star charts and strings of programming codes and
recipes and mathematical equations and lists of old movies and flyers for local bands in every color imaginable. Nothing of use. He also had two empty bottles, one of vodka and one of bourbon, tucked neatly behind a stack of books under his desk. She recognized both as belonging to Graham. She'd emptied the liquor cabinet prior to Matt moving in. She wondered where Graham had hidden those bottles so that she'd missed them. And why he'd felt the need to hide them in the first place. She'd always thought she knew Graham so well, that part of their demise was due to stagnant familiarity. But ever since he'd left he'd become increasingly mysterious to her.