Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side (15 page)

"Urn. Yeah."

"I loved that book when I was your age," Mom said. "The whole idea of adventure at sea. And so thought provoking. What are we to make of the white whale? What, ultimately, does it symbolize?" she mused, still addressing Jake. "God, nature, evil—or is it simply a symbol of Ahab's very straightforward, very human pride?"

There was a moment of silence while poor Jake tried to think of a response to my mom's question, which, from the look on his face, was about as digestible as the soy milk. "Um ... all of those things?" he finally ventured.

"We're only reading the abridged version," I pointed out stupidly. I was used to living with a professor—there was usually some sort of quiz at dinner—but did Mom have to torment Jake? "Maybe they cut out some of the metaphors—"

"The whale represents the hidden forces of destruction that long to break through the surface of a complacent world," Lucius broke in, speaking for the first time, causing all heads to swivel in his direction.

"Huh?" Jake blurted out, clearly baffled. Then he caught himself and shot me a sheepish glance.

"I like the whale," Lucius added glumly, still staring at his plate. "And Ahab. They understood persistence. They understood how to bide their time." He lifted his black eyes and gave me a look as pointed as his "fangs." "And they accepted their
mutual destiny,
however grim."

No.
My stomach clenched.
If Lucius starts talking about the betrothal, Jake will run for the hills. And why is Lucius referring to a destiny with me as "grim," anyway? Is he implying that being married to me would be as bad as being strapped to a dying whale?

"Hey, Lucius. How was basketball practice?" I asked, trying desperately to harpoon the conversation and bring it under control.

"I've seen you in the gym, man," Jake noted. "You're, like, NBA-bound. You could take the team to states with that jump shot. You nailed every one in drills."

"Ah, yes, drills," Lucius said, clearly bored.

"Drills build skills," Jake offered. "You gotta do the drills."

"Drills are dull," Lucius countered, not really looking at Jake. "I prefer competition."

"You're a wrestler, right, Jake?" Dad asked, passing Jake more
saag.
My parents were in an Indian food phase. The evening's entree consisted of limp spinach. God forbid we'd throw a few burgers on the grill and just have a barbecue when guests came over.

Jake gave the bright green, mushy contents a wary glance but accepted the bowl. "Yeah. I wrestle. I'm captain this year."

"How Greco-Roman of you," Lucius said dryly, lifting a glob of spinach and letting it drip, slowly, from his fork. "Grappling about on mats."

Jake shot me a confused look. I shrugged an ignore-the-moody-exchange-student shrug.

Mom slapped her napkin onto the table. "Lucius, may I see you in the kitchen?" Except it wasn't really a question.

Oh, thank god.
I made a mental note to clean my room or do an extra load of laundry. Even Lucius's boxer shorts. I owed her one.

Lucius slunk out behind my mother. There was an uncomfortable lull in the conversation at the table, during which we all pretended like we didn't hear the phrases "take part in polite conversation," "feeble-minded nincompoop," and "remove yourself," coming from the kitchen in stage-whispered tones.

A few minutes later, the kitchen door slammed shut. Mom came back alone. "Who wants more flatbread?" she asked, smiling grimly, not offering an explanation for the loss of one very irritable Romanian teenager.

Across the table, Lucius's
saag
congealed on his abandoned plate.

---------------------------------------

After Jake left, I wandered out to the garage. Lucius was shooting foul shots, using a rusted old hoop that the rest of us had forgotten even existed. Dribble, aim, swish. I watched him make about ten in a row before I interrupted him. "Hey."

He turned around, tucking the ball under his arm, looking incredibly like an average American high school student in the Grantley College sweatshirt Mom had bought for him. Until he spoke. "Good evening, Jessica. To what do I owe this visit? Aren't you
entertaining
this evening?"

"Jake had to go."

"What a shame." Lucius tossed the ball over his shoulder. It dropped through the rim.

"What was wrong with you tonight? You know we could hear you insulting him in the kitchen."

"Really?" Lucius looked a little crestfallen. "I didn't intend that. That's just boorish."

I crossed my arms. "Do you have something to say about me and Jake? Because if you do, just say it to my face. Don't give a cryptic dinner table lecture about whales and destiny."

"What could I have to say? You've made yourself quite clear."

"I don't know what you're getting at," I said honestly. "When you bought me the dress, I thought that was your way of saying you didn't care if I went out with Jake."

The ball rolled near Lucius's feet, and he bent to scoop it up, then traced the worn seams with his thumb, avoiding my eyes. "Yes. I did think that. . . but this evening, when I saw him
looking
at you ..."

"What?" Was Lucius actually
jealous?

"I just don't like him, Jessica," Lucius finally said. "He's not good enough for you. Regardless of how you feel about our tenuous relationship at this point, don't sell yourself short with any man. Any
boy."

"You don't know Jake," I said, growing angry. "You didn't even try to get to know him. He tried to be nice to you at dinner."

Lucius shrugged. "I see him in school, struggling to understand basic concepts in English literature. That's very telling, don't you think?"

"So Jake doesn't like
Moby Dick.
Who cares? I don't like it, either."

Lucius looked disappointed with me. Or sad about something. Or both. "I find that I'm in a very unusual mood tonight, Jessica," he said, avoiding my eyes again. "I'm not the best company. Perhaps you'll excuse me—leave me to my solitary pursuits."

“Lucius—“

"Please, Jessica." He turned his back on me and launched the ball with a flick of his wrist. It swooped through the hoop without touching the rim.

"Fine. I'll go."

Lucius was still shooting hoops when I went to check on him an hour later. It was dark outside, and he played in a small circle of light from a floodlight mounted on the garage. He'd switched to layups. I started to call out a greeting then changed my mind. Something about the single-minded way he was drilling shot after shot after shot, never missing, rising over the rim with ease to slam the ball through the hoop, like he was punishing the ball, sort of freaked me out.

Chapter
18

DEAR UNCLE VASILE,

Best
wishes as we approach All Hallows' Eve. You would so enjoy the universally naive but ubiquitous depictions of vampires the Americans somewhat compulsively display at this time of year. One would think our entire race consisted of pale, middle-aged men with a genetic tendency toward "widow's peaks" and a penchant for the overapplication of hair gel.

But getting to the point. I am loath to admit that I increasingly see the situation here slipping from my control.

As
per my last correspondence, I have tried numerous "American" strategies to at least build a rapport with Antanasia
—
including donning "jeans" (quite comfortable, actually) and, as I've mentioned, playing basketball, a sport for "popular kids." (Just call me "Number 23.")

Thus far, Antanasia seems less than impressed with my best efforts, though. She is actually getting "involved with" the peasant. (Vasile, if you heard him attempt to make conversation . . . it's unendurable, really. I would rather have our omnipresent lentils shoved into my ears than listen to him for more than two minutes.)

Honestly, Antanasia quite baffles me. Just the other day, I thought we had experienced a significant breakthrough. I purchased for her the most magnificent dress
—
really, if you had seen her in it, you would have judged her nearly ready to take the throne. . . . For the briefest moment, I thought we had made progress. The look in her own eyes as she watched herself in the mirror . . . She was altered, Vasile. And altered toward me . . . I could have sworn it.

And yet
the peasant clings on like a parasite. A leech or a tick that cannot be dislodged. What does Antanasia see in him? And why does she persist in seeing it? I could offer her so much more. In particular, conversation. Repartee. Not to mention leadership of two powerful clans. A castle. Servants. Anything she desired. Things she deserves, Vasile.

Damn. I'm blathering.

The point is, I quite fear that you will be disappointed with me if I fail to convince Antanasia to honor the pact and accept me as her husband. And, in all candor, your disappointment is a rather formidable prospect. Thus I feel compelled to keep you updated on the situation as it unfolds. I certainly wouldn't want to present you with an unanticipated failure. I would much rather prepare you for the worst eventuality
—
even as I fully intend to continue my efforts.

Your nephew, most humbly,

Lucius

P.S. If anyone offers you "saag," decline if at all possible to do so without breaking the rules of polite society. Is there any chance the cook might ship a frozen hare or two this way?

P.P.S. The investment I've made with your advance on my trust will arrive soon. I am rather looking forward to it.

P.P.P.S. The peasant doesn't understand the symbolism of the whale in
Moby Dick,
Vasile. It's true. Concepts literally pummeled into my brain (recall my half-Gypsy tutor, Bogdana, whose grasp of literary devices was exceeded only by her grip on the switch?) during preadolescence remain beyond his grasp. Is he feeble-minded? Or just obtuse?

Parasite.

Chapter
19

"HEY, BELLE." I grinned, giving my Appaloosas muscular neck a firm pat. "Ready for a workout? Only a few more practice sessions before the show." My grin quickly faded, though. The 4-H show, just a few weeks away, had seemed like a good idea when Id signed up, but now I was suffering from some serious attacks of nerves.

Well, it was too late to back out. Or was it?

As I reached for Belles bridle, lifting it from a nail in the wall, I heard a truck pull up outside the barn. A door slammed, and I glanced toward the barn door to see a stranger walking toward me. A stocky man in dirty coveralls, holding a clipboard.

"Can I help you?" I offered.

"You know a . . ." He glanced at the clipboard. "A Lou Vlad . . . here." He extended the roster. "I can't make out that name."