Clique Bait - Ann Valett Page 0,8

He’s made reservations at La Lanterne. Did you know that’s where he took me for our first anniversary?”

“That’s great, Mom,” I said, trying to inject some happiness into my tone for her sake. My mother was great at deluding herself, pretending everything was fine when our family was completely dysfunctional. But even so, I wasn’t about to burst her bubble. Besides, if Dad really had gone to this effort, then maybe tonight would almost be nice.

“That computer will ruin your vision, you know.”

I rolled my eyes, glad I was facing away from her so I didn’t have to paint on a smile.

The golden dress Mom had tried to convince me to wear to the party was still hanging on the back of my door, and I pulled it on just for her. Part of me was stupidly clinging to the flimsy possibility of tonight turning into a pleasant family dinner. Her enthusiasm was contagious, even if I knew deep down it was misplaced.

I hadn’t seen Dad all week. He usually slept until I went to school and then spent his evenings at the office. Some nights, I was convinced he didn’t return home at all.

I watched Mom from the corner of my eye as she drove us in the Mercedes Dad had bought her only months before. She had aged gracefully, partly thanks to a few surgeries and miracle creams. People said I was a mirror image of her in her youth, with warm brown eyes and chestnut hair. I thought she was beautiful, the corners of her mouth worn with smile lines from her wide grin. But her confidence had taken a nosedive when Dad had decided he preferred women under thirty.

“He did say he’d be a bit late,” Mom said when we entered the extravagantly decorated restaurant. It screamed expensive meals, ones that probably consisted of a few ornamental leaves arranged decoratively on a plate. Dad often thought spending money on us was the same as spending time.

Of course he’ll be late, I thought silently. He probably has to say goodbye to the secretary he’s been holed up with all week.

We sat at the table for three he’d booked by the window. Mom went into overdrive pretty quickly, filling the silence with yet another interrogation about the party.

“Were there any cute boys?” she asked with wide eyes, flattening her manicured fingers over the leather-bound menu.

“Hardly,” I said. I scrunched up my nose. “High school boys.”

“Oh, the horror,” Mom said sarcastically.

Really, it wasn’t high school boys that were the problem. It was just the ones at Arlington who had turned me off dating. This meant that I was one of the few senior girls who’d never had a first kiss, let alone a boyfriend.

“I was just like you at your age,” she went on. “Very cynical, always giving my parents attitude.”

“I don’t give you attitude,” I said pointedly.

Her amused smile let me know she wasn’t offended. Though Mom and I bickered, we were in some ways all we had.

Half an hour had passed, and the empty seat remained unoccupied.

“It’s probably traffic,” Mom insisted.

After another half hour I was beginning to grow tired of Mom’s excuses. I sighed, giving her the most sympathetic look I could muster. “We should just order dinner.”

I expected her to scold me for interrupting her rambling about repaving the driveway, but instead her smile wavered. “Yes . . . maybe we should.”

We were halfway through our tiny servings of French food when Mom’s phone chimed. I raised an eyebrow, waiting to hear whatever excuse Richard Whittaker had come up with this time.

“He can’t get away from work. He’s . . . He has to leave for an urgent trip to Seattle.”

Of course.

I wanted to question his excuse, but I knew Mom knew the answer as well as I did: he just didn’t care.

To him, affairs came before family. As long as he showered us with materialistic affection, all was right in the Whittaker household. I mean, his job running an international online news outlet was demanding, of course, but it still hurt that he chose it—and the lifestyle being a rich CEO came with—over his family.

“Come on, Mom,” I said after a few moments of silence. Her face had fallen, and she’d resorted to moving her champagne flute around in circles. “Let’s get some ice cream, go home, and watch TV.”

She nodded, and I took her hand in mine as we left the restaurant, the bill paid on Dad’s credit card.

I was peeling the top