Love Lies Beneath (33 page)

Probably embarrassed a teenager could so easily defy their system. “So, when will Eli be moving in?”

“Anytime. He had to pack up his stuff and have it removed from the campus today. Melissa signed the paperwork on that end this morning and expects me to enroll him here. I'll contact the high school tomorrow, and if it all works out, he'll start on Monday. Unless, of course, you
want
to homeschool him.”

“Uh, no thanks. Don't think that's my calling.”

It's not my calling to parent, either, especially not a difficult kid like Eli, but I don't really have much of a choice. Anyway, acting the part of coldhearted stepmother is probably wiser than trying to be his friend. Maybe fairy tales got it right.

Cavin takes a deep breath. “I don't understand the kid at all. At his age, succeeding in school meant everything to me. I knew I wanted to be a doctor, and my sights were set on accomplishing that goal. What is wrong with him?”

At his age, I was all about a singular goal, too—survival. But that's a story I've yet to share with Cavin, and probably never will. “Privilege, that's my guess. He's never had to work for anything, really. I see it in my niece, too, although not to this extent.”

Then again, how much do I know about Kayla and what she does in her spare time? I believe she wants to succeed as an artist, but mostly because Mel says she does. And as far as illicit activities go, I know about a couple she wholeheartedly embraces. So why couldn't she be a cyberbully, or a hacker, or a cheat?

“Work,” says Cavin. “That's a thought. I think maybe a summer job is called for.”

“Good luck with that. Meanwhile, let's worry about his finishing his junior year. Academically, I assume he'd be ahead of his public school peers?”

“One would think so.”

“You have surgery tomorrow?” Thursdays, he generally does.

“Three. Spring skiing has been generous this year.”

“So how will you find time to get hold of the high school? Is there something I can do?”

“Lady, I love you. Do you know that? Yes, you could call and find out what paperwork they'll need.” He finishes his drink, reaches for mine. “Another?” He goes to the bar and refreshes our glasses. “Funny, but this is the first time it's ever been up to me to enroll my kid in school. I have no idea how to go about it.”

“It can't be that hard. What reason should I give for his leaving the Athenian?”

“Private-school burnout?”

“Fair enough.”

I'll come up with something a little more creative.

Turns out, dealing with a school's administration isn't much different from dealing with any other bureaucracy—a little bullshit goes a long way. I have to work my way around not being an actual parent/guardian. “Almost stepmother” doesn't count for much, but I'm well practiced in the art of persuasion through manipulation. The school secretary doesn't stand a chance.

“I just love this kid!” I gush. “I can't believe his mom would desert him and run off to the Middle East for an unspecified amount of time. It was hurting his schoolwork, so we decided to bring him up here, where he could be close to us, to finish the year. I know it's unusual, but we thought it would be for the best.”

“There are only eight weeks left in the semester. Have you considered a virtual academy?”

“Well, yes, but he's just such a gregarious kid, we weren't sure it would be good for him. I believe he's well ahead academically.”

“Okay. Let me see if a counselor is available to talk to you.”

By the time I leave, I have an enrollment form for Cavin to fill out, and a checklist of paperwork they'll need—birth certificate, immunization record, transcript. The counselor is looking forward to speaking to Eli ASAP to help put him in the right classrooms to ensure his success. And I am invited to join the PTA.

Mission accomplished, I head to the gym, push myself especially hard. Exercise, I hear, is good for stress relief. And yes, I'm tense about the approaching hurricane. It has blown in by the time I get home.

Adjusting to life with Eli in the house has been difficult for everyone involved. Well, everyone other than the teachers at Whittell High School, whom Eli seems to have charmed. Of course, they don't know about the real reasons he has come to them so late in the year. One of the conditions of Melissa and Cavin's joint final “donation” to the Athenian was that certain information be kept confidential.

Eli can be charming, no doubt about that, and I allow him to think he has me fooled, too. The way to play a player is by making him believe, without a doubt, he has you played. And hey, maybe he does.

The space between him and his father is thick with friction. The two barely speak, and when they do, the tone is cool. Distant. Affectionless. Cavin has every right to be angry, but shouldn't the anger cool at some point? And why is Eli so indignant? He started this thing.

I finally get the chance to talk to him about it sans his dad's presence a couple of weeks after his arrival. Cavin is still at his office when Eli comes in after school. I'm in the kitchen, working on a seafood stew.

“Hey,” he says. “What's for dinner?”

“Bouillabaisse. You like?”

“Who doesn't like bouillabaisse? Want some help?”

“Of course. You do enjoy playing chef, don't you?”

He goes to the sink, washes his hands. “Actually, yes, I do. It's creative. And relaxing.”

“Have you given any thought to doing it professionally?”

“You mean, like as a career?”

“Why not? Do you have anything else in mind?” I hand him a knife and an onion. “Dice that into fairly small pieces, please. Oh, and do the same for three stalks of celery?”

He reaches for a cutting board. “Actually, other than maybe doing something techie, I have no solid plans for the future. Not sure Dad would appreciate my going the culinary route, and Mom would freak out completely.”

“I don't see why, especially if you don't have your heart set on medicine or law or something. Top chefs earn substantial salaries. Maybe you could even open your own restaurant.”

“That would require school.”

“There's a Le Cordon Bleu academy in Sacramento. One in San Francisco, too.”

“As you know, I prefer the city by the bay.” He winks. “You gonna let me stay in your house? Maybe Dad would pay you rent.”

“Let's not put the cart in front of the horse.”

“A return to the land of clichés, eh, or maybe the kingdom of idioms?”

This kid is a study in contrasts. “May I ask you something?” I pour olive oil into a large saucepan, put it on the stove to heat.

“Sure.”

He watches me add the chopped onion and celery, plus the garlic I've sliced. It hits the hot oil with a fragrant sizzle. “Stir that, would you please?” I hand him a wooden spoon.

“That's what you wanted to ask?”

“Don't be a smart-ass.” I reach around him to turn down the burner, add fish stock and white wine to the pot, along with fresh fennel, saffron, and thyme. “What I want to know is why you changed those grades.”

He turns to face me. “Entertainment.”

I had hoped Charlie was wrong. “What?”

“Not really. Look, the first time was just to see if I could do it. It was easier than I expected. A friend and I were drinking one night and in a drunken stupor, I mentioned I'd managed to hack in. He asked if I could ‘fix' his algebra grade. I did, and then he told someone who told someone else, and pretty soon people were paying me to upgrade their GPAs. I know Dad thinks I did it for the money, but no way. I mean I took it. But I didn't need it, obviously.”

“But didn't it occur to you that someone might turn you in?”

“Well, yeah, it crossed my mind, but I didn't really expect it to happen. And even after it did, I thought it would just blow over. Who knew they'd get so serious about a practical joke?”

“Well, that combined with the cyberbullying kind of indicated a pattern.”

“Hey,” he huffs. “I did
not
set up that Facebook page. I'm not a pussy like that. If I wanted to pick on Fat Boy, I'd do it straight up in his face.”

Interesting. “So who did set it up then?”

He shrugs. “It was Andaman's computer. My guess is he did it. What else can I do to help with dinner?”

Subtle subject change, one I'm not quite ready to accept. But first I give him directions for making the rouille while I go about preparing the fish and seafood. I'm deveining shrimp when I mention, “Taylor's mom said they think whoever created that fake Facebook page was actually targeting Taylor.”

Eli thinks about that for a minute. “You mean to make him
look
like a bad guy. Who would go to all that trouble? Taylor doesn't need any help in that department. He's a total tool all on his own. But it definitely wasn't me. Tool or no, I've got no personal problem with him.”

I've only met Taylor a couple of times. He seemed nice enough, but most kids do in strange settings, especially under parental supervision. Who knows what he's like when he's off on his own? And as for Eli, I'm leaning toward believing him, although I'm determined to keep my guard up.

“Thanks for sharing KP duty with me. We'll leave the broth to simmer until Cavin gets home, then toss in the seafood to cook. Oh, I will need those tomatoes chopped, if you wouldn't mind.”

“No problem.”

I will now attempt small talk. “How's school?”

“Piece of cake. I'm so far ahead, it's crazy.”

“Your dad's been looking for another private school. Apparently, there's a great one nearby—Squaw Valley Academy. Have you h—”

He slams the knife on the cutting board. “What? No! That's a boarding school.”

“I know, but it's close, so he thought it might work out well. I guess if you maintain a decent GPA, they let you ski or ride every day in the winter, too. It seems perfect for you.”

He picks up the knife again, begins to cut the tomatoes. Slowly. Methodically. Finally he says, “Why can't I just stay at Whittell next year?”

What am I supposed to say? That Cavin doesn't want to deal with his son on a daily basis, and really, neither do I? That we're both used to ordered lives and are already working overtime to establish a mutual rhythm? That we're not even officially newlyweds yet, so how could we possibly commit to full-time parenting a teen—any teen, let alone
this
one?

I'll lay it on Melissa instead. “I don't think your mom will agree to you living here. She's afraid of your dad's influence.”

“Fuck Mom. She doesn't want me, either. You know what I feel like? A dog, dropped off at a shelter because I'm not a cute puppy anymore.” He scrapes the chopped tomatoes into a bowl, rinses the knife, turns to face me. “The thing about shelter dogs is some of them get mean.”

I look at the blade in his hand.

Eli laughs and puts the knife on the counter. “Not me, of course. I'm totally placid.”

That switch flipped awfully quickly, but before I can consider the implications of that little scene, Cavin comes in the door. “Honey, I'm home. Hey, what's that incredible smell?” He sweeps up the hallway, into the kitchen, kisses me on the forehead before noticing the pungent air of tension between Eli and me. “What's going on?”

Eli responds first. “What does it look like? We're making bouillabaisse and talking about dogs.”

“Dogs?”

“And schools,” I add.

“Ah, schools.”

“Yes,” says Eli. “And since that discussion has everything to do with my future, you might consider including me in it. Jesus, Dad, I'm almost eighteen. Don't you think my opinion about where to spend my senior year should count?”

Cavin throws up his hands. “Of course. But it's not like we've made any decisions yet. We've just been looking at options.” Anger shimmers in his eyes, and I believe it's directed at me.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply we'd settled on Squaw Valley. I was just excited by the prospect, and thought you would be, too, Eli.”

“Oh, really?” Sarcasm infiltrates his voice. “And here I thought you were celebrating dumping the pup at the kennel.”

“Ah, dogs,” sighs Cavin. “Look, can we adjourn to the other room to have this conversation?”

He locks eyes with mine and adjusts his jaw, and I understand his meaning.

“You two go talk in private. I've got work to do here. Dinner's in a half hour.”

Obviously, he thinks I overstepped, and maybe I did. But this is indicative of a larger problem. Exactly where does that boundary lie? And if we're getting married, should there be boundaries at all?

One thing I do know. I'm not going to dance around Eli.

After dessert, and once the men have retreated to their separate rooms, I go into the study to check my e-mail. There's a message from Mel:
Mom's in the hospital. She had a major allergic reaction and didn't know what it was until it was almost too late. Luckily, Will had the presence of mind to call 911 right away. The paramedics shot her up with antihistamines and got her to the ER in time. Guess she'll be okay. Looks like you inherited your mango allergy from her. In other news, Graham won't be coming to the wedding. His band has a gig that day. I asked him what was more important. He said fourth weddings don't count. Sorry.

I e-mail back:
No worries about Graham. I'd just as soon he stays away. It's supposed to be a happy day. As for Mom, it couldn't have happened to a more deserving person. Just think. If they had more mangoes in Idaho, there might not have even been a Graham! Of course, we both might be married to ranchers. Or Mormons, God forbid. Can you picture me with six kids? Ha-ha. We're still on for trousseau shopping and (a mango-free) lunch, aren't we?