Claire De Lune (3 page)

“Claire.” Her mother sighed. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. The Engles—”

“Mom!” Claire interrupted her. “Matthew’s not like his dad, okay? You don’t even know him. What about what you said last night? All that giving-people-a-chance-to-prove-themselves junk?”

Her mother dipped a French fry into a tiny dish of gourmet ketchup. “I see you feel strongly about this,
chérie
. Fine, then, you may go this time. But if you see Matthew’s father, I want you to keep your eyes open and your mouth closed. And I will warn you—we must have a very serious discussion when you get home. Now, eat your lunch before it gets cold. I have film that needs to be developed this afternoon, and the day is slipping away.”

Claire nodded and bit into her hamburger, smiling as she chewed. In a few hours, she’d be with Matthew, and right then that was all she really cared about.

Emily sat on Claire’s bed, pawing through the shopping bags that Claire had tossed on top of the covers. Claire had called her the minute she’d walked in the door, and as soon as Emily heard the words “Matthew Engle” and “date” in the same sentence, she’d hurried over. Claire had heard Emily’s car start before they even hung up.

“So, um—I’m sorry your party ended the way it did. That was pretty awful. Are you doing okay?”

“Are you kidding? I’m doing great.”

“I figured that Matthew asking you out would make up for everything else. How did it all happen, anyway?”

“Matthew sort of caught me while everyone else was making a run for it. And then he called this morning and asked me to come over and hang out.”

Emily grinned at her. “See, I told you things would work out. I knew he liked you—I knew it! Oh, I’m so excited for you.” She pulled a bottle of pink nail polish off the bedside table and held it up to her toes experimentally. “So, what are you going to wear?”

“I don’t know.” Claire leaned against her closet door and kicked at a pile of shoes. “It’s gotta be something with long sleeves, since I’ve got this stupid rash on my hands that I do
not
want him to see. What do you think?”

“It needs to be something sexy but not obvious. I mean, it should make him want you without being
sure
that he can have you, right? What about … hmm …”

Emily hauled herself off the bed and walked into Claire’s closet, flicking through the tops that hung near the back.

“What about this?” She held out a red scoop-necked shirt. “You could wear it with that pair of jeans with the rip in the knee? That would be perfect, as long as you won’t die of heatstroke.”

“You’re a genius. I totally forgot I even had that top. And I don’t think heatstroke’s much of an issue in the Engles’ basement.” Claire rummaged around in her closet, digging out the right jeans from a pile on the shelf. “Any other advice, oh-dating-guru-who-is-also-my-best-friend?”

“Don’t chew gum. If he tries to kiss you, then you’ll just have to swallow it, and that can get really awkward. Put some mints in your pocket instead and you can pop them if you need to.”

“Mints. Got it.”

“Oh, and one other thing …”

“Yeah?”

“He’s not actually a god, Claire. He’s a cute guy. And he’s
lucky
that you’re coming over. Just relax and have a good time, okay?”

Claire groaned. “I’ll try, but I’m not making any promises. Listen, I’m actually leaving in about an hour, so—”

“Then why am I still here?” Emily interrupted. “Go finish getting ready—I’m already gone. God. Matthew Engle. Do you swear to call me tomorrow?”

“Sure.” Claire grinned. “I’ll give you the complete rundown.”

Emily gave her a hug and headed downstairs. Claire went into her bathroom, hoping a shower would calm her down. Emily mentioning the possibility of Matthew kissing her had made her all jittery.

“Ow! Crap!” Claire jumped as the searing-hot plate of the flat iron grazed her neck. She pulled back the silky-smooth section of hair and inspected the damage. A tiny pink mark rose on her neck—not too bad. Not nearly as bad as the forest of red pinpricks that dotted her ears. At least her hair would hide them. Her hands were a whole other problem. Claire pulled on the Emily-endorsed red shirt. The ends of the sleeves came nearly to her knuckles, and she’d coated her skin with concealer and powder, which made the itching worse, but they looked a lot better.
If Matthew notices this stupid rash, I’ll die.

“Claire?” Lisbeth’s voice echoed down the hall. “We’re going to be late!”

“I’m coming!” Claire grabbed her cell phone, shook her hair back over her ears, and licked her lips. She hurried into the car. Lisbeth was already there, dressed in a sparkly purple
tunic. Silver bangles chimed against one another on her wrists, and her lips shone with gloss.

Claire looked her over. “You’re dressed up.”

Lisbeth shrugged. “I have some plans.”

Claire climbed into the car. “Fine then, be all mysterious.”

A peony-pink flush spread across Lisbeth’s cheeks. “I am allowed to have a private life, you know.”

“Okay, okay. Sheesh. Don’t smear your lip gloss.”

When Lisbeth pulled up in front of the Engles’ house, Claire tried not to notice that it was smaller than hers. Then again, most houses were smaller than the Benoits’. Claire’s mother liked privacy as much as she liked nice things, and their huge house perched on several acres of land.

Matthew’s house was the picture of normal—cutesy garden in the front, shutters painted, and a stained glass oval with a cross hanging in the front window. Claire leapt out of the car.

“I’ll pick you up at nine,” Lisbeth said. “And I mean on the dot—I don’t want to be out after dark!”

Matthew opened the door before she could knock.

“Hey.” He stepped aside and motioned her into the house. “C’mon in.”

“Thanks,” Claire said.

“My dad made popcorn.” Matthew rolled his eyes. “Why don’t we go grab the bowl and some sodas? Then we can escape to the basement.”

“Sure,” Claire said, tugging her sleeves as far down over her hands as they would go. She could see the kitchen from the front hall, and it was bright enough to do surgery in there.

Matthew’s dad was leaning against a counter in the kitchen, drying his hands on a paper towel. He looked just like he did on the news, only he wasn’t wearing a tie, and the sleeves of his dress shirt had been rolled up.

“You must be Claire.” He extended a damp hand in her direction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Claire shook his hand as quickly as she could, then tucked her itching fingers behind her back.

“Your mother is a remarkable photographer,” Dr. Engle said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Claire said. Something about the look in his eyes—and her mother’s warning:
mouth closed, eyes open—
kept her from saying anything else. It was like he was saying one thing but meant another, and Claire couldn’t figure out what he was actually thinking.

“Marie Benoit … such a
fascinating
woman. Unique. And very outspoken, as I recall.”

“Uh, I guess.” Claire looked over at Matthew. He yanked open the fridge and grabbed two cans of soda. With the bowl of popcorn balanced on top of one of the icy cans, he jerked his head toward the stairs.

“If we don’t start the movie, we won’t have time to watch it before dark,” Matthew said. “Thanks for the popcorn, Dad. I’ll, um, let you know if we need anything.”

“You do that.”

Dr. Engle didn’t take his eyes off Claire. She quivered under his unblinking gaze and followed Matthew down the carpeted stairs.

“Don’t pay any attention to my dad. He’s just weird like that.”

“It’s no big deal,” Claire said, looking at the shelves of books that lined the basement walls. The thick spines were covered with gilded letters. Titles like
Vivisection and the Human Condition
and
Lunar Phase Sensitivity
glimmered at her in the dim light.
Spending all your time reading that kind of stuff would make anyone weird.

“Your dad’s really into his job, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Claire looked over at Matthew and raised her eyebrows. He’d gotten touchy when the topic of his dad had come up at her party, too. “Touchy subject?”

“Kind of.” Matthew sat back on the couch and cracked open one of the sodas. “It just gets old. Everyone else only sees one side of him. They get so excited because he’s on TV so much. But he can’t talk about anything except his ‘cure.’ He didn’t even make it to a single one of my soccer games last season, you know?”

“Really? That sucks.” Matthew was an incredible midfielder. Claire had heard someone saying he’d already been offered a bunch of college scholarships because of it. “Sometimes
I think it’s better, for me at least, when my mom’s
not
noticing me—like when she’s gone.”

Matthew looked at her, surprised.

Claire shrugged. “I mean, that’s when things seem normal. Lisbeth and I just—
are.
But when Mom’s home, everything’s all about her and when she needs to work or what she wants to eat, and Lisbeth tiptoes around the house like she’s hiding from a burglar or something.”

“Huh. Actually, that makes sense. My mom and I are the same way—when Dad’s home, everything’s about not bothering him. We practically can’t breathe without it interrupting his thought process or whatever. I never thought about it that way, but you’re totally right.”

The intrigued look in his eyes made Claire’s palms damp. She shrugged.

“Of course, my dad’s not out-of-town gone like your mom is. I mean, he deals with werewolf attacks all over the world, but mostly he just does that over the phone from his lab, like consulting with other governments and scientists and stuff, trying to get them to try his cure. He’s having an easier time talking people into things, now that he’s on the FHPA. Anyway, enough about my dad. He’s not half as interesting as you are.” Matthew dragged the popcorn closer to the couch and put one of the sodas on Claire’s side of the bowl.

His words sent a sudden rush of heat through her that made it hard to talk. Claire sank onto the couch, leaving a
half-cushion length between her and Matthew.
Close enough that he can reach me but not close enough to look desperate.

Matthew held up a DVD case.

“Is this okay?” It was some sort of action movie. The cover featured a sports car midexplosion.

Claire nodded. She didn’t care what they watched—she was too hyperaware of Matthew sitting next to her. As casually as she could, Claire left her hand, palm up, on the cushion between them. The rough nub of the fabric felt good against the back of her itchy hand. Matthew shifted like he was just changing positions, but when he settled back, he was at least six inches closer to Claire than he’d been before. His arm was stretched across the back of the sofa, behind Claire but definitely not touching her.

Claire’s breath caught, and Matthew looked over at her. She wanted to move closer, to be touching him. But wasn’t he supposed to make the first move?

Oh my God, this is so stupid
.
I don’t
care
who’s supposed to start things.
Claire scooted over and leaned into Matthew. He stiffened slightly and Claire’s heart froze in her chest.
Oh, crap. Crapcrapcrap.
She started to sit up, to pull away.

“Not a chance.” Matthew wrapped his arm firmly around her shoulder.

Claire didn’t think he could see the enormous smile that spread across her face.

Score one for the rule breaker.

While cars flashed by on the television and police sirens blared from the surround sound, Matthew traced a pattern on Claire’s shoulder with his fingertips, which made her shivery in a distinctly not-cold way. The movie—which she hadn’t really been watching, anyway—became just a blur of images on the screen. All she could focus on was Matthew’s touch.

When the closing credits popped up on the screen, Matthew turned his head toward her. “Claire?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

His face was inches from hers. In the dim light, his eyes flashed. “This is okay?” His voice was low, beckoning.

Claire swallowed hard. “It’s very okay,” she whispered.

“Good.” He leaned toward her, his mouth hovering close enough to hers that she could feel the heat of his skin.

The door creaked open at the top of the steps. Claire pulled away from Matthew, but he caught her hand, keeping her close. The look of pained frustration on his face was so obvious that Claire had to fight back a giggle.

“Claire?” Matthew’s father called down. “Your—er, someone is here to retrieve you.”

“We’ll be right there,” Matthew shouted back. He looked at Claire, and a slow smile spread across his tanned face. “This is the only day in a month he’s been home. Next time, he’ll be bugging some reporter, instead of us.”

“That sounds … better.”
Next time! He said “next time”!
“Or we could hang out at my house. Lisbeth’s not, like, overly invasive, or anything.”

Matthew glanced up at the open door and sighed. He reached over and traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “I’ll call you, okay?”

Claire floated out to the car.

“I told you nine on the dot,” Lisbeth said. “The sun’s already set.”

Claire looked out at the streaks of pink and orange spread across the sky like fire. “I know,” she sighed. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Lisbeth snorted. “Ahh, young love,” she teased.

“So, how were your
plans?
” Claire shot a meaningful look at Lisbeth.

“Successful.” Lisbeth picked a fragment of dead leaf off her sleeve. A little smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. She obviously wasn’t going to say any more about it.

“Well, good for you, Miss I-have-a-private-life.” Claire rolled her eyes and turned up the volume on the car stereo. She scratched her hands against the fabric of the car seat, and wished they were home already.

Late that night, Claire tossed and turned in bed. Her ears and the backs of her hands were driving her crazy, even though Lisbeth had coated them with Calamine lotion after dinner. She dozed fitfully, waking with a start as the door of her room swung open. Her mother crept in, shutting the door behind
her. Claire sat up in bed and blinked at the long mane of fine black hair that hung loose and wild around her mother’s face. Her mom never wore her hair down—it was always up in a sleek bun, so that it wouldn’t get in her way when she worked.