The Brat and the Brainiac (4 page)

“What do you read, big guy?”

“Sci-fi. What about you?”

“Oh, minimalist books for sure. And I like a lot of horror, too. Just no torture porn.”

I nod, but I don’t know what she means by minimalist, not when it comes to literature.

“What about movies?” I ask her.

“Comedies.”

“That reminds me. What makes you dress so severely when you’re really so bubbly?”

“It’s part of my sex appeal, silly. It’s unexpected, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, it really works for you. So, have you got a nickname or anything?”

“Ignatius calls me Nanda, but Uncle Tommy calls me Brat.”

“I can see why,” I say with a chuckle.

She pouts, but in a completely sexy and non-serious way. She’s fondling her braid again and I let her, the thought of spanking her flashing through my mind once more. I can practically see her bare little bottom and those braids hanging down, almost touching the floor. I shake the vision off, and before I know it, we’re back at her place. Walking her to the door, I give her a big kiss, and then I let her slip out of my arms and start inside. I stand there a moment, smiling after her and savoring her sweetness, and she turns around before she goes inside.

“Don’t be a chicken about the needles,” she teases me, and then she closes the door.

I stare after her a moment longer, wishing she’d come back out. She doesn’t, though, so I turn and go back to my car.

“Damn,” I say, once I’m seated inside, and it’s hard for me to wipe the smile off my face. “Jason Weed, you just hit the jackpot.”

When I get home, Uncle Tommy’s sitting there watching an early episode of the news
,
since he’s got to get up at the crack of dawn, too, but I know he’s really waiting up for me.

“How’d your date go? He didn’t try anything, did he?”

“No,” I answer glumly. “He didn’t try a thing.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“I don’t know if he likes me that much.”

“Well, did he ask you out again?”

“Yes. He said the next night off.”

“Good,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Good.”

“Quit gloating,” I tell him. “You’re starting to turn me off this whol
e
idea.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Well, I can’t stand you trying to run my life the way you do. ‘Miranda, take Business in college instead of English Lit. Miranda, date this guy. Miranda, don’t date him.’ You’re driving me nuts with your controlling ways.”

“Don’t forget, I’m responsible for you.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m changing my major on Monday.”

“You’ll never finish school that way, and you can just forget about getting so much as engaged while you’re still in college.”

“Why? Lots of people do it.”

“Well, you’re not going to.”

“See what I mean? You’re running my life again.”

“I’m just trying to talk some sense into you.”

“‘Miranda, don’t get married until you graduate college,’” I mock.

“Miranda, you’re cruising for it,” he tells me.

“So, let me get this straight. I’m supposed to go out with him for over a year before I’m even allowed to get engaged to him? Do you have a date in mind, too? Have you picked out our colors? Where’s the reception going to be held?”

“Miranda, I’m not playing around, now.”

I stomp from the room, fed up with him and knowing if I stay another minute longer, I’ll find myself across his lap. Since that’s the last thing I want after the nice date I had, I head toward the kitchen.

“Thank God you’re still here,” I tell Ignatius.

“What’s wrong out there? I heard your uncle getting agitated.”

“Yeah, you did. I’m trying to get him to stop running my life for me.”

“You keep that up, he’ll put your two feet in one shoe.”

“I know. That’s why I came in here. He doesn’t make any sense, anyway. I’m supposed to date who he wants, when he wants, and then I’m supposed to get married when he says it’s okay? Well, I’ve got something for him: this little puppet’s going to cut the strings.”

“Oh, go on. How was your date, anyway?”

“Good. Nice. I wouldn’t have thought he’s my type, but he’s actually really cute. He has happy eyebrows.”

“Happy eyebrows?”

“Yeah. Just wait until you meet him.”

“What else?” he asks me.

“He wears plaid shirts and his hair’s brown and curly. Also, he’s
a
brain, so he wears nerdy glasses, of course, but they look nice on him. Oh, and he has a killer smile. You’re going to like him, Ignatius.”

“Oh, yeah? How tall is he?”

“I’d say about five-seven, five-eight.”

“What is he, a woman?”

“No. I think he really likes me.”

I finish telling him about Jason, and by then I’m much calmer.

“Thanks for talking me down off the ledge,” I tell Ignatius. “I was this close to being in trouble.”

“Don’t I know it? Now stop being disrespectful to your uncle and help me finish up so I can get the hell out of here. Kevin’s waiting for me.” Once Ignatius is gone, I go back out to the living room. Uncle Tommy’s still there, and he’s sitting in his chair with his arms crossed. He gives me a scorching glance when I come in.

“Sorry,” I tell him, knowing I was kind of bratty earlier. “I do want to change my major, though. I hate business. I hate it so much.”

His brow smooths out and he uncrosses his arms.

“All right,” he says. “Just finish out this semester and I’ll let you change.”

A broad smile sweeps across my face and I run to him, throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him until I get annoying.

“Okay,” he finally tells me, laughing. He grabs hold of my hands and draws me out in front of him.

“Now tell me, what do you think of Jason?”

“I like him. Much more than I expected to.”

“Do you honestly want to go out with him again?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Good. I’ll let him know when I see him tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you don’t have to say anything. I let him kiss me at the door.”

“Nothing too raunchy, I hope.”

“Of course not,” I lie. “Just a nice, little innocent one.”

He lets go of my hands and stands up.

“I’m glad you guys hit it off,” he says, dragging me into his arms and giving me a hug, “but I have to go to bed now, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Love you, Uncle Tommy.”

“Love you, too, Brat.”

I hardly see my uncle again until almost his next day off, because the season’s really getting rolling, but I do spot both him and Jason on TV. Jason looks nice, all serious and professional in his ball cap and uniform. He’s also wearing a windbreaker, since the stadium is on the bay and it’s usually pretty breezy there.

“That’s him?” Ignatius asks. “He is kind of cute. I like the fuzz on his chin, and the nice little shadow of a moustache. Good job, Nanda.”

“It was all Uncle Tommy’s doing. He has this wild idea that Jason can keep me in line.”

“I’d like to see that.”

“Me, too, but he’s too sweet, I think. He doesn’t seem like the type, but I like him a lot. He’s different. I’ve never been out with a guy like him before.”

“When are you bringing him here to meet me?”

“How about tomorrow evening when they get off work? They have a day game, so they should be home fairly early. We can cook up some pasta or something to feed them and hang out for a little while.”

“Sounds good to me. What does he like?”

“Oh, gosh. I don’t know, besides T-bone steaks and baked potatoes. I’ll ask Uncle Tommy.”

When my uncle gets home, I ask him. “What does Jason like to eat?”

“Jason? That guy’s a garbage gut. He’s all over the buffet at work.”

“He likes pasta, then?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Is it okay if I invite him over after work tomorrow?”

“Go ahead. I’m taking this new reporter out for a drink after.”

“Wow. What’s her name?”

“Vanessa Roberson.”

“Hand me my phone over there, will you? I want to give him a call.”

I dial Jason’s number, and he seems surprised, but glad, to hear from me.

“What’s up?” he asks, his voice upbeat. I picture his crazy-sweet smile and the fuzz on his chin, and my heartbeat starts to race.

“I wanted to invite you over after the game tomorrow night. Ignatius wants to meet you, and we’re going to make you some dinner.”

“You know how to cook?” he asks.

“Not too much. We have Ignatius for that. Are we still on for Wednesday?”

“Yeah, if you still want to, but I didn’t get my tests done. It’s been a crazy week.”

“I know. Uncle Tommy’s hardly been home at all. That fourteen inning game the other day pretty much wiped him out.”

“Yeah. It didn’t do the pitching staff any good, either. We burned through every pitcher in the bull pen.”

“So, you’re coming, then?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I’m done for the day.”

I hang up and smile.

“He said he’s coming,” I tell them. “You guys better not play another fourteen-inning game tomorrow.”

“I’ll alert the rest of the team,” says Uncle Tommy, in a wry voice.

“No need to be sarcastic. What’re you wearing for your date? Ignatius, go upstairs and help him pick out something to wear.”

“Please?” Ignatius asks.

“Hello. It’s implied.”

“Come on,” he tells Uncle Tommy, untying his apron and then balling it up and tossing it onto the counter. “Let’s get you something for your date.”

The next night when I arrive at Miranda’s, there’s a lot of commotion. Tommy’s dressed in a pink button-down shirt and a grey tweed jacket and he’s hurriedly tying his tie, a burgundy-colored one.

“You look pretty sharp,” I tell him.

“Thanks. I’m going out with that new reporter they sent us.”

“Oh, yeah? Vanessa? She’s pretty hot.”

I realize what I’ve just said and steal a glance at Miranda to see how she takes it. She doesn’t seem jealous or anything, which is nice, because even though I get that way sometimes, I’m really not into jealous, overwrought women. Besides, she’s easily as hot as Vanessa, only in a different, more girlish way.

“I want to see this paragon,” says Miranda. “Are you bringing her home tonight?”

“I don’t know,” says Tommy, “but that reminds me. No messing around tonight while I’m gone.”

She tosses her head, looking annoyed, like he just destroyed all her plans. Her hair’s down out of the braids for once, and she’s wearing a short knit dress, the color of butter, which clings to her curves quite nicely.

“Did you hear me?” Tommy asks her.

“Yes, Uncle Tommy.”

He doesn’t say anything else about it, but just before he hits the door, he gives me a look that says hands-off tonight. I wonder if this counts as a date, and if so, how many dates we have to go on before we’re allowed to get physical.

Just then, a shockingly handsome man with sea-blue eyes sticks his head out of the doorway and calls to us.

“Come on into the kitchen, you two.”

Miranda grabs my hand and leads me in. The kitchen’s about the size of my whole condo, with cabinets covering an entire wall and a circular bar in the middle. There’s a stovetop and a double sink built in, and refrigerated compartments below the counter. The counter itself is one of those with fossil imprints in them. As cool as they look on TV, they’re even cooler in person. Miranda stops at a stool located directly across from the stovetop. I pull it out for her and she hops up and sits down. I join her on the stool beside her.

“Oh, Jason, this is Ignatius Gallo. He’s our housekeeper and my best friend ever.”

“A male housekeeper? That’s progressive.”

“All the females did was try to make Uncle Tommy fall in love with them. He’s a great catch, you know.”

“I imagine so. It’s great to meet you, Ignatius.”

We shake hands and all that, and he takes out a skillet and heats it up on the stove. There’s a pot of pasta boiling in some water on the back burner, and Ignatius drops a couple of tablespoons worth of butter into the skillet.

The butter sizzles and instantly makes me hungry, and he puts some chopped-up garlic into the pan. It goes fragrant almost immediately, and I feel my stomach growl.

“What are you making?” I ask.

“Pasta with goat cheese and sun-dried tomatoes, which
somebody
should be helping me with.”

Miranda ignores this broad hint and asks him where someone named Kevin is.

“He’s at my place, waiting for me to get off.”

“You should invite him over. It’ll be fun.”

“Whatever you think.”

She whips out her phone and hits speed dial. The phone rings a few times and then someone, presumably this Kevin guy, answers.

“Hi. This is Miranda. Come on down. We’re making pasta and drinking wine. Okay. Bye.”

“Wine?” I say, glancing around me. “I don’t see any wine.”

“Oh. I forgot. Ignatius, would you please hand me that bottle of Bordeaux when you get a chance?”

He adds the goat cheese and squeezes in just a touch of lemon juice, and then, while that’s heating up, he hands her the bottle and a corkscrew. There’s a knock at the back door and she jumps up to answer it while Ignatius drains the pasta. Meanwhile, I figure I’ll make myself useful and open the wine.

Miranda comes back to the bar with a slight young man dressed in jeans and a black V-neck t-shirt.

“Kevin, this is my...um...date, Jason Weed.”

Ignatius and I both notice the pause and we glance at each other. I shrug, because personally, I wouldn’t have minded if she’d called me her boyfriend.

“Glasses?” I ask her.

She looks at me blankly, and then she goes, “Oh, yeah,” and hurries to go get them. She brings them back, holding them by the stem, two in each hand, and then she sets them down in front of me. They’re proper Bordeaux glasses, paper-thin crystal with a generous bowl and a long stem. I pour a little wine into each glass.

“Hold on,” says Ignatius, who’s mixing the pasta with the goat-cheese sauce. He fills four shallow bowls with wide rims and hands one to each of us. Once we’re all served, he removes his apron and comes around to sit next to Kevin. “Let me propose a toast,” he says, holding his glass aloft. “To young love.”

Miranda’s face flushes and she darts a glance in my direction.

“Don’t embarrass him, Ignatius,” says Miranda, stretching out in her chair. She gestures widely with her glass and starts to speak in a fake accent. “Slowly, slowly the sour grape becomes honey.”

“That’s true,” he admits, “but you’re still a smart-ass.”

She giggles and clinks glasses with me. I don’t quite get the joke, but it’s still funny, so I laugh along with her.

“No, so really,” she says. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

“Mmm,” I tell Ignatius. “This is good.”

“It would, perhaps, have been better with Chianti, but no one’s complaining, so drink up. Miranda has permission to raid her uncle’s wine stash all she wants tonight.”

“Yeah,” she tells me, elbowing me gently. “You’d better feel lucky. He doesn’t do that for just anybody.”

“Well, tell him I said thanks.”

She stops and looks at me—really looks at me—for the first time tonight. She grins and her breath catches before she lets out a sigh.

“Wow. Is that for me?” I ask.

And she says, “Yes.”

I glance past her and Kevin’s smiling. Ignatius looks satisfied, and he drains his wine glass.

“Speaking of honey,” he says to Kevin, “let me finish up here and we’ll cut out.”

We three sit there drinking wine as Ignatius cleans the kitchen.

“So, what do you do, Kevin?” I ask him.

“I work at a dry cleaners. Low pay, boring work. You know. Living the dream.”

“Maybe you should’ve listened to your mother and stayed in school,” Ignatius tells him.

“Yeah. I can always go back.”

“Well,” he tells Kevin, hanging up his dishtowel, “I’m done here, if you’re ready.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

Ignatius turns to us, then, and gives Miranda a severe glance.

“You behave yourself, and remember what your uncle said.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for dinner, by the way.”

“No problem. Jason, it was nice to meet you. I hope we see you around here more often.”

“Oh, sure. I hope so, too.”

With that, they go out the back door together and leave us sitting there alone. Without asking me, Miranda refills my wine glass.

“I’m going to have to call a cab when it’s time to go home.”

“Why don’t you just crash in the guest room?”

“I get the feeling your uncle wouldn’t like that. Besides, I don’t have anything with me.”

She doesn’t say anything else about it. Instead, she just sweeps up her glass and throws me a come-hither glance.

“Come on,” she says. “The media room’s back here.”

I follow her in and we sit down on the couch together. As soon as we’re settled in, she turns to me with a smile.

“I read an article about the Trackman system. I had no idea.”

“It does a lot more than most people think.”

“What’d you do, take Physics in college?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. And Computer Science, with a minor in Math.”

“Two majors? Oh, my God, you’re such a brainiac.”

“Well, thank you. I think.”

I go to brush a loose strand of hair back from her face when she suddenly flinche
s
away.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Instead of answering, she tries to turn away, but I grab her chin and lift it. I push her hair back and see a long, thin scar running just under her hairline and ending right in front of her ear.

“What happened here?”

She looks unhappy and shrugs, a sullen expression on her face. “My parents were killed in a car wreck.”

“Yeah?”

“I was in the back seat. There’s another one, a worse one, on my shoulder, but I can hide it. Most of the time.”

Her eyes well up with tears, and as ashamed as she looks about it, I imagine a real nightmare of a scar, a gnarled red mess. I wonder if this is why Tommy wants to fob her off on me, and yet makes me keep my hands off her.

“Let’s see,” I tell her, ready for the worst. She shakes her head and tries to move away, but I won’t let her. “Come on.”

“No. It’s hideous,” she tells me.

“It can’t be that bad.”

“It’s bad enough.”

“Where’s it at?”

“On my shoulder.”

“Let me see it, Miranda. I mean, I’m going to see it eventually, if we keep going out.”

“Fine. Whatever. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when it makes you blow chunks.”

A lone tear spills over and I let go of her. She reaches across her body and pushes the left shoulder of her dress and bra down. There’s a scar there all right, but it’s only about three inches long and an eighth of an inch deep.

I laugh. “That’s it?”

She sniffles and dashes the tear away. “Yes.”

“Big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” she protests. “My parents were killed.”

“I’m not talking about that. I mean the scar itself. It’s not that bad. You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were going to show me something really hard to look at.”

“Well, how would you like to look at it every day of your life? Besides, it looks awful in
a
bathing suit.”

“Miranda, it’s fine.” She doesn’t look convinced, and I know someone’s made fun of her for it in the past. “It’s fine.”

She jumps to her feet, disbelief clear on her face.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she says in a pissed-off voice, stamping out of the room.

“Okay.”

When she gets back, she’s cool with me.

“I don’t know if I can go out with you tomorrow after all,” she informs me. “I forgot I have a paper to write.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Being a brat. You know you don’t have a paper to write.”

She flops back down on the couch beside me and takes a different tack, pulling my head down for an angry kiss. I yank away and hold her off.

“Hang on. Are we going out tomorrow or not?”

“It depends. Are you going to fuck me?”

I lift my brows, a little shocked by her language. “Tomorrow? How about we play it by ear and start with a nice lunch?” She gives me a funny look, a mixture of both hurt and irritation, and I say, “Laugh. It’s a joke.”

“Ha ha.”

She grabs me by the shirt and drags me closer, pressing herself up against me.

“Come on,” she whines. “Uncle Tommy’s on a date and Ignatius is gone. We have the whole house to ourselves.”

“I don’t even have my tests done yet.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll give you a free pass.”

“Thanks, but no.”

She looks stymied, like no one has ever turned her down before.

“Why not?” she asks me.

“Because your uncle said not to, and I respect him, for one.”

“What’s the other reason?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

Her shoulders sag and she looks like she wants to cry again. She just stares at me for a moment, and then suddenly, she speaks.

“Are you gay?”

“No.”

“Then you’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Come on. Admit it. You’re a wussy little virgin and you’re scared of Uncle Tommy.”

I turn away, my jaw clenching. For a guy like me, five-foot eight and a hundred seventy pounds soaking wet, I’ve been called a wussy before, and it has never failed to piss me off.

“You’re being a real brat.”

“So what? What are you going to do about it? Tell my uncle on me?”

“I’m going to put you over my knee if you’re not careful.”

“Hah. That’s what you think, because if you touch me, my uncle will kill you.”

“Let him.”

We stare at each other a moment, and I can see it in her eyes, that she’s a little aroused by the idea.

“Well? Go ahead, you wussy. You can’t do anything to me.”