On His Face - Tabatha Kiss Page 0,93
my right, and my big brother across from me. For most families, this is normal behavior. For mine, it’s a ticking clock. Who knows when that bomb will go off? Nobody. But it will eventually, and we’ll all suffer for it.
At this point, I say bring it on. Get it over with.
I avoid eye contact with Seth, but the bruise beneath his eye is difficult to ignore. Is that related to Drew’s apparent disheveled appearance last night? Did they really get into a fight at the Delta Xi party? Is Seth okay? Is Drew okay? He claimed it was from playing football when Mom asked about it earlier, but Seth’s not the ball-playing type unless the game involves chugging beer.
Don’t know, don’t care, I tell myself again as I nibble on my salmon fillet.
“So...” Mom clears her throat, cutting the awkward silence like a knife. “What did you do for your birthday last night?” she asks me. “Did you and Jenna go out?”
“Uh...” I nudge a piece of broccoli with my fork. “Not really. We stayed in with some friends. I didn’t feel much like going out.”
“Some friends?”
“Just me and Jenna and...” I scramble to pad the lie. Of course, she latched onto the one part of the story I made up. “Some people from our sketch class.”
“Any cute boys?” she teases.
Seth’s eye twitches.
“No,” I answer. “It was just a girly night.”
“Well, that’s fun, too!” Mom smiles across the table at Dad. “Right, Harold?”
Dad blinks his sunken eyes to prove he’s still alive. “Oh. Yes, Judy. Girly nights sound quite fun.”
She fires him a purposeful glare, urging him to at least make an effort, but if he didn’t bother while they were married then he sure as shit won’t bother now.
Mom turns to me again. “Did you get anything nice for your birthday?” she asks.
That damned necklace glimmers in my head. Gorgeous, golden irises.
“Jenna got us tickets to see Criminal Records in March,” I answer.
“What’s that? A movie?” Dad asks.
“It’s a band.”
He hums softly, and the table goes quiet again.
“Did I hear it was someone’s birthday?”
I look over my shoulder to find Roger standing behind me holding a small plate with a slice of vanilla cake.
I smile at his familiar, handsome face. “It was yesterday, actually,” I say.
He sets the cake down in front of me. “Happy Belated, Ms. Heidi,” he says. “On the house.”
I laugh. “Oh, thank you. You shouldn’t have.”
“You’re so kind!” Mom says. “Thank you!”
“Is this your family?” he asks me with a wink at my mother. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
Mom blushes, welcoming the compliment. “You’re too kind, sir," she says with a laugh.
Dad glares, annoyed.
I chuckle. “This my mother, Judy, my father, Harold, and my brother, Seth. Everybody, this is Roger, the manager.”
“What an adorable bunch.” Roger looks us over again. “As she said, I’m Roger. I run this joint, so if you need anything at all, you know who to call.”
“We will,” my mother says, still grinning. “Thanks again.”
He offers me another wink before vanishing as quickly as he appeared.
Mom cants her head. “You’re on a first-name basis with the manager?” she asks.
“Well, I’ve been here a few times with...”
Drew.
“Friends,” I say with a quick look at Seth. “Roger’s a family friend of... a friend.”
Seth sees right through it, but he stays quiet. Thankfully.
Dad reaches for his glass. “Well, use that connection to get a job here,” he murmurs. “Get away from that diner,” he says as if the word itself were a slur.
I nod. “The thought has crossed my mind, but Moira’s requires at least a year of experience, so... next year. Definitely.”
He twitches his jaw in acknowledgment, and the table descends into another lull.
Well, at least there’s cake now.
“Oh, honey!” Mom places her fork down, abandoning the last of her chicken marsala. “Tell me all about the Art Fest!”
Shit.
My breath hitches. “Uh...”
Seth barely contains his eye roll.
“It was... great,” I say. “Lots of excellent pieces and... I won a prize, actually.”
Mom gasps with excitement. “You did?”
“You did?” Seth asks, annoyed.
“I thought you weren’t going to enter this year,” Mom says.
“I wasn’t,” I say. “But somebody entered one of my pieces by mistake.”
“I thought you pulled it,” Seth says.
“I did,” I say. “But, as it turns out, the Audience Award is a write-in ballot open to all Chicago North students and, because of an inexplicable surge in the piece’s popularity on campus, it won in a historic landslide, according to Professor Wilson. So, yeah. I won a prize.”
Seth glares at me