Wicked

Ella shot him a look, but Xavier answered, “Thirty-four.”

“You know our mom is forty, right?”

“Mike,” Ella gasped. But Aria thought it was sweet. She’d never seen Mike be protective of Ella before.

“I know that.” Xavier laughed. “She told me.”

Their waitress, a busty girl with dreadlocks and a pierced septum, asked what everyone wanted to drink. Aria ordered green tea, and Xavier and Ella ordered glasses of cabernet. Mike tried to order cabernet too, but the waitress just pursed her lips and turned away.

Xavier looked at Mike and Aria. “So I heard you guys lived in Iceland for a while. I’ve been there a few times.”

“Really!” Aria exclaimed, surprised.

“And let me guess—you loved it,” Mike interrupted in a droll voice, fiddling with the rubber Rosewood Day lacrosse bracelet around his wrist. “Because it’s so cultural. And so pristinely untouched. And everyone’s so educated there.”

Xavier rubbed his chin. “Actually, I thought Iceland was weird. Who wants to bathe in water that smells like rotten eggs? And what’s with the miniature horse obsession? I didn’t get it.”

Mike’s eyes boggled. He gaped at Ella. “Did you tell him to say that?”

Ella shook her head, looking a bit dismayed.

Mike turned back to Xavier, ecstatic. “Thank you. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell my family for years! But noooo, they all loved the horses! Everyone thought they were so cute. But do you know what would happen if one of those pansy-ass horses got in a smackdown with a Clydesdale from the Budweiser commercials? The Clydesdale would kick its ass. There wouldn’t be anything of that gay little horse left!”

“Damn right.” Xavier nodded emphatically.

Mike rubbed his hands together, obviously thrilled. Aria tried to hide a smirk. She had her own suspicions about the real reason Mike hated Icelandic horses. A few days after they’d arrived in Reykjavík, she and Mike had gone on a riding tour on a volcanic trail. Even though the stable boy offered Mike the oldest, fattest, slowest Icelandic horse to ride, the minute Mike climbed in the saddle, his face went disturbingly pale. He claimed he had a leg cramp and should stay behind. Mike had never gotten a leg cramp before…or since, for that matter, but he still refused to admit that he was scared.

The waitress delivered their drinks, and Mike and Xavier chattered on about all the other things they hated about Iceland: that one of the country’s delicacies was rotten shark. How Icelanders all believed that huldufolk—elves—lived in rocks and cliffs. How they all queerly went by first names only, because everyone descended from the same three incestuous Viking tribes.

Every so often, Ella glanced Aria’s way, probably wondering why Aria wasn’t defending Iceland. But Aria simply wasn’t in the mood for talking.

At the end of the dinner, just as they were finishing a plate of the restaurant’s famous homemade organic oatmeal cookies, Mike’s iPhone rang. He looked at the screen and stood up. “Hold on,” he mumbled evasively, ducking out the front door.

Aria and Ella exchanged a knowing look. Usually, Mike had no problem talking on the phone right at the dinner table, even if the conversation was about, say, the size of a girl’s boobs. “We suspect Mike has a girlfriend,” Ella stage-whispered to Xavier. She stood up. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she announced, walking toward the ladies’ room.

Aria fiddled with the napkin in her lap, staring helplessly as Ella wove between the tables. She wanted to follow her mother, but she didn’t want Xavier to know that she didn’t want to be alone with him.

She could feel Xavier’s eyes on her. He took a long, slow sip of his second glass of wine. “You’ve been really quiet,” he pointed out.

Aria shrugged. “Maybe I’m always this quiet.”

“I doubt that.”

Aria looked up sharply. Xavier smiled, but his expression wasn’t particularly easy to read. He plucked a dark green crayon out of the cup and started scribbling on his place mat. “So are you okay with this?” he asked. “Me and your mom?”

“Uh-huh,” Aria answered quickly, fidgeting with the spoon from her after-dinner cappuccino. Was he asking because he sensed she liked him? Or because she was Ella’s daughter, and it was the polite thing to do?

Xavier put the green crayon back in the cup and dug around for a black one. “So your mom said you’re an artist too.”

“I guess,” Aria said distantly.

“Who are your influences?”

Aria chewed on her lip, feeling put on the spot. “I like the surrealists. You know, Klee, Max Ernst, Magritte, M. C. Escher.”

Xavier grimaced. “Escher.”

“What’s wrong with Escher?”

He shook his head. “Every kid at my high school had an Escher poster in their bedroom, thinking they were so deep. Ooh, birds morphing into fish. Wow, one hand drawing another. Different perspectives. Trippy.”

Aria leaned back in her chair, amused. “What, did you know M. C. Escher personally? Did he kick you when you were a little boy? Steal your Big Wheel?”

“He died in the early seventies, I think,” Xavier said, snorting. “I’m not that old.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Aria raised an eyebrow.

Xavier smirked. “It’s just…Escher’s a sellout.”

Aria shook her head. “He was brilliant! And how can you be a sellout if you’re dead?”

Xavier stared at her for a moment, slowly grinning. “Okay then, Miss Escher Fan. How about a contest?” He twirled the crayon in his hands. “We both draw something in this room. Whoever’s drawing is better is right about Mr. Escher. And the winner gets that last oatmeal cookie.” He pointed at the plate. “I’ve noticed you ogling it. Or haven’t you taken it because you’re secretly on a diet?”

Aria scoffed. “I’ve never dieted in my life.”

“That’s what every girl says.” Xavier’s eyes glimmered. “But they’re all lying.”

“Like you know anything about girls!” Aria crowed, giggling at their banter. She felt like they were in her favorite old movie, The Philadelphia Story, where Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant got off on bickering constantly.

“I’ll take part in your little contest.” Aria reached for a red crayon. She never could resist showing off her sketching skills. “But let’s give it a time limit. One minute.”

“Got it.” Xavier checked the tomato-shaped clock over the bar. The second hand was at the twelve. “Go.”

Aria searched around the room for something to sketch. She finally settled on an old man hunched at the bar, nursing a ceramic mug. Her crayon flew deftly over the place mat, capturing his weary-but-peaceful expression. After she filled in a few more details, the hand on the clock swept past the twelve again. “Time,” she called.

Xavier covered his place mat with his hand. “You first,” he said. Aria pushed her drawing toward him. He nodded, impressed, his eyes seesawing from the paper to the old man. “How’d you do that in just one minute?”

“Years of practice,” Aria answered. “I used to secretly sketch kids at my school all the time. So does that mean I get the cookie?” She poked Xavier’s hand, which was still covering his drawing. “Poor Mr. Abstract Painter. Is yours so bad you’re embarrassed to show it?”

“No…” Xavier slowly moved his hands away from his place mat. His drawing, all softlines and deft shading, was of a pretty, dark-haired girl. She had big hoop earrings, just like Aria’s. And that wasn’t the only resemblance.

“Oh.” Aria swallowed hard. Xavier had even captured the little mole on her cheek and the freckles across her nose. It was as if he’d been studying her this whole dinner, waiting for this moment.

The sharp odor of tahini floated out from the kitchen, making Aria’s stomach roil. Taken one way, Xavier’s drawing was sweet—her mom’s boyfriend was trying to bond with her. But taken another…it was kind of wrong.

“You don’t like it?” Xavier asked, sounding surprised.

Aria was opening her mouth to reply when she heard a chime sound from inside her bag. “Um, just a sec,” she mumbled. She pulled her Treo out of her purse’s pocket: Two new picture texts. Aria cupped her hands around the phone’s little window to cut the glare.

Xavier was still watching her carefully, so Aria struggled not to gasp. Someone had sent her a picture of Aria and Xavier at the art exhibit on Sunday. They were leaning close together, Xavier’s lips almost grazing Aria’s ear. The next photo opened immediately afterward, this one of Aria and Xavier at this very table at Rabbit Rabbit. Xavier was covering his drawing with his hands, and Aria was leaning across the table, poking him teasingly, trying to get him to show it off. The camera had managed to capture a split second where it looked as if they were happily holding hands. Both photos painted a pretty convincing picture.

And the second one had been taken just seconds ago. Her heart in her throat, she glared around the restaurant. There was Mike, still chatting animatedly outside. Her mom was just coming out of the bathroom. The man she had drawn was in the middle of a coughing fit.

Her phone buzzed one last time. With trembling hands, Aria opened her new text. It was a poem.

Artists like ménages á trois,

Mommy just might too.

But if you ferme la bouche about me,

I’ll do the same for you.

—A

The cell phone slipped from Aria’s fingers. She stood up abruptly, practically upending her water glass.

“I have to go,” she blurted out, snatching Xavier’s drawing from the table and stuffing it into her bag.

“What? Why?” Xavier looked confused.

“Just…because.” She pulled her coat tight around her, and pointed at the cookie on the corn on the cob–shaped plate. “It’s yours. Good job.” Then she whirled around, nearly colliding with a waitress carrying a big tray of tofu stir-fries. Copycat A or not, the photos proved one thing: The farther she stayed away from her mom and her new relationship, the better.

13

STRANGE CHEMISTRY ON CHEMISTRY HILL

At the same time on Wednesday, just as the moon rose over the trees and the big Hollis parking lot floodlights snapped on, Emily stood at the top of Chemistry Hill, holding a donut-shaped snow tube in her mittened hand. “You sure you want to race me?” she teased Isaac, who was holding his own snow tube. “I’m the fastest sledder in all of Rosewood.”

“Says who?” Isaac’s eyes sparkled. “You’ve never raced me before.”

Emily grabbed the snow tube’s purple handles. “The first one to that big tree at the bottom wins. Ready…set…”

“Go!” Isaac preempted her, jumping on his snow tube and whizzing down the hill.

“Hey!” Emily yelled, belly flopping on her own tube. She bent her knees, picking up her boots so they wouldn’t drag on the ground, and angled her tube toward the steepest part of the hill. Unfortunately, Isaac was steering his tube in that direction too. Emily approached him at a hurtling speed, and they collided in the middle of the hill, rolling off their sleds into the soft snow.