The Locket (19 page)

A
n hour later, Mitch and I were holding our glasses of champagne aloft for the tenth toast to the newlywed couple. Turned out the bride and groom were both from big Greek families, so there was a
lot
of toasting to be done. My head was buzzing a little, but it was a good buzz, a light, drifty feeling that helped hold the heaviness of the past week and a half at a distance.

“Uncle Alexander talks more than Bubbe Birnbaum,” Mitch whispered out of the side of his mouth.

“At least he speaks English,” I whispered back.

“True. But look at the old guy behind him. He’s going to toast in Greek for sure.” He nodded to the line of men and women waiting to take their place on the small stage next to the bride and groom’s table.

Or the bride and groom’s
pillows
, rather. The pair reclined on yellow and red pillows, laughing at the toasts even when they weren’t funny, feeding each other grapes and sips from the red plastic cup I’d first spotted in the carriage. The caterers had supplied glass champagne flutes, but the bride and groom seemed to prefer whatever hooch they’d brought with them.

It was pretty cute. They were so in love they didn’t need any of the fancy reception food or drink they’d obviously shelled out quite a bit of cash for—one entire side of the Parthenon’s “porch” was encased in a clear tent, decorated with explosions of red and yellow flowers and elaborate tables covered in exotic fruit, and the three fiddlers had been joined by a live band. Add in all the food and drink and a two-hundred-plus guest list and we were easily talking fifty thousand dollars or more just on their reception. But all they wanted was a red plastic cup and some pillows to lie on while their family talked about how happy they were that Sacha and Peter had finally gotten married.

Just thinking about it was enough to make me tear up for the third or fourth time.

“I won’t be able to drive if I drink any more champagne.” Mitch turned and set his flute on one of the bar tables behind us. There were about dozen of them, surrounded by families in jeans and sneakers, college girls in jogging clothes, men in biker spandex—all the people the bride had summoned to the Parthenon on her ride through the park.

It was . . . magical. Everyone seemed so happy to be there, to be included in the wonderful, unexpected celebration of two people who really loved each other promising to be together forever, through better or worse, good times and bad—

“And you’re going to cry for real if we listen to any more.” Mitch plucked my drink from my hand and sat it next to his own.

“But I don’t want to leave,” I whispered. “I love them.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. I just love them. They’re so . . . perfect.”

Mitch smiled and looked back at the bride and groom. “They are. I’d like to be like that someday.”

“Yeah?” I asked, not realizing Mitch had his arm around my shoulders until I instinctively leaned into his warmth and felt the soft scratch of his wool coat against my cheek.

Clearing my throat, I stepped away as casually as possible, retrieving my champagne glass and taking another swig. “I didn’t know you wanted to get married.”

“Of course I do,” he said, sounding a little offended, though he turned to smile and clap with everyone else as Uncle What’s-his-name finished his toast. “Just because I haven’t dated anyone seriously doesn’t mean I don’t want to—”

“You haven’t dated anyone at all.” I hiccuped and blushed at the same time. The champagne was sneaking up on me. Time to stop. Hadn’t I learned my lesson about alcohol and Mitch and me the first time around? I set my glass down.

“I don’t need to date anyone. I know what I want,” he said, stepping closer, hand coming down over mine, pinning my fingers to the tablecloth. “I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?”

My skin sparked and my breath caught. It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t even a hug. But there it was, that awareness of Mitch, that aching in my chest. There was a part of me that didn’t want to stay at a friendly distance, that wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss Mitch again.

“I wasn’t going to have any more.” I pulled my hand out from under his, cheeks hot, eyes glued to the buttons on his coat. I couldn’t look him in the eye, not yet, not until I pulled myself together.

An hour ago, I’d been desperate for Isaac to do something to convince me I didn’t need to worry about Rachel ruining our future. That’s all this was, a reaction to how insecure I’d been feeling. I loved Mitch, but not in that way. Mitch was my goofy best friend who laughed at my fart jokes. Isaac was my future. He was everything I’d ever counted on. He was my steady, beautiful, talented, loving boyfriend and I was
not
going to ruin that a second time. We’d get past this tough time and go on to live the dreams we’d dreamed together, just like Sacha and Peter.

“I want to go home,” I said, suddenly ready to leave the wedding. My own happily ever after might never happen if I didn’t get out of here. And away from Mitch. There was definitely a weird energy hovering in the air between us.

Mitch’s hand fell lightly on my shoulder. “Do you feel sick?”

“Yeah. A little,” I lied, happy for the excuse to head for home.

“Champagne goes straight to my stomach if I haven’t eaten,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the cheese-and-cracker spread at the end of one of the giant fruit tables. “Let’s get something in you.”

Ugh. No! “Mitch, I really don’t—”

“I swear it will make you feel better.”

“No,” I hissed, waving an apology to the woman whose toes I’d stepped on in our dash to the cheese tray. “I don’t want—”

“If you don’t eat, the pukey bubbles will just get worse,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper as the next toaster began his speech—which was, as anticipated, in Greek. “And I don’t want yack in my van.”

Sigh. “Fine, but just a little bit. I already had a sandwich after school,” I whispered, fidgeting as Mitch loaded a plate with enough cheese and crackers to constipate a baby elephant.

“Come on.” He jerked his head toward the door to the Parthenon’s lobby, heading off before I could protest a change of location.

I stomped after him, feeling both cranky and calmer at the same time. Being annoyed with Mitch for big-brothering me was a good way to keep from thinking of him as anything but my best, oldest, bossiest friend.

Smiling a little in spite of myself, I pushed through the door and into the lobby of the museum. The rest of the Parthenon was closed, but the lobby was almost always open. The better to scare the crap out of little kids with the giant statue.

Athena still stood in the center of the room—as big and brightly colored and creepy as I remembered—but the rest of the cavernous space was nearly deserted. Only a single guard paced slowly back and forth on the opposite side of the statue and a couple of touristy-looking families circled Athena, speaking softly out of respect for the wedding taking place outside.

Or maybe they were just afraid to talk too loud and risk offending the goddess of wisdom.

Wisdom . . . I could really use some of that, Athena. If you’ve got any extra hanging around.

“Over here.” Mitch motioned me over to the bench near the wall. “Sit. Eat.”

“You’re like an old woman, you know that? Always trying to feed people.” I sat down next to him and took a few crackers from the plate he held out.

“I get it from my bubbe,” he said. “She’ll put the food in your mouth herself if you don’t eat fast enough.”

I laughed around a mouthful of rye. I loved his grandma, but he was right. I’d seen her physically stuff food in Mitch’s dad’s face like he was a two-year-old. Mitch snagged a cracker and stuck the entire thing in his mouth. We chewed in silence for a moment, watching Athena watch us.

“I was so scared of that statue when I was little,” I said, grabbing another cracker and a slice of something white with little green flakes in it. I was hungrier than I’d realized.

“Me too,” Mitch said. “I cried the first time my dad brought me.”

“Me too!” I laughed, spraying a bit of cracker crumb, then laughing again.

“We have so much in common. Fear of heights, fear of giant statues. It must be love,” Mitch said, tossing the
L
word out like it meant nothing. It made me wonder if I’d been overestimating his interest. Maybe the awkwardness between us was all in my head. “Now, if only you had horrible allergies and weirdly bony knees and elbows, then we’d be a match made in heaven.”

“Only if you had hellishly red hair,” I said, joking along with him.

“I could dye it. I think I’d look awesome with hellishly red hair.”

“So you’re agreeing that my hair is hellish?” I leaned over, nudging his shoulder with mine.

Mitch surveyed me critically from the corner of his eye. “Well, it used to be. Before you did this whole blond thing.”

Blond thing?
My hand shot self-consciously to my newly chopped locks. “Everyone else likes the highlights.”

“Hmm.”

“What’s ‘hmm’ supposed to mean?”

“I prefer you hellish. Your natural color is cool.”

“Well, thanks. I guess.” I frowned and shoved another bite of cracker in my mouth.

It was nice that Mitch appreciated my “natural beauty,” but the condition of my hair was permanent—at least for the next year or so until the blond parts grew out. It was like he’d told me I’d be an unsightly blemish on the face of humanity for the next twelve months. But whatever. Who cared if Mitch thought I was ugly? He wasn’t my boyfriend.

Still, I had to work hard to wipe the scowl from my face.

“You’re welcome. The beauty advice is free,” Mitch said, clueless that he’d just hurt my feelings. “The love-life advice, however, will cost you.”

“Good thing I don’t need love-life advice,” I said, more defensively than I would have liked.

“Hmm. Right. So everything is sparkles and unicorns with you and Isaac?”

My pulse picked up and swallowing the last bit of cracker left in my mouth felt like I was downing an ostrich egg whole. Mitch knew something. But what did he know? And did I really want to hear it?

“I . . . I don’t know,” I said evasively, wishing I’d brought my drink with me. My throat was so dry. “It’s mostly sparkles.”

Mitch nodded, as if I’d confirmed his suspicions. “You need to be meaner to him.”

“Meaner to him?” I asked, with a laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure that would make him really happy.”

“He might not be happy, but it would probably help your relationship,” he said, completely serious, not even the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You need to do the tough-love thing you were joking about the other day. Let him know that he can’t get away with ditching you all the time.”

I breathed a little easier. This wasn’t about cheating. Thank God. I’d had enough angst about that for one day. “He doesn’t ditch me all the—”

“Let’s see—the play, the cast party, apple picking, um, tonight,” he said, setting down the plate of cheese and crackers and ticking the occasions off on his fingers. “Those are just a few examples off the top of my head. It’s ridiculous.”

“Basketball season just started, he’s busier—”

“What about this summer? How many times did he say he was going to pick you up and not show?” Mitch’s voice was soft, but I could hear the anger hidden beneath the reasonable tone. “I know of at least two. I saw you standing in your driveway for almost an hour both times.”

“So you’re spying on me now?” I asked, angry with Mitch, even though he was simply stating the facts.

These weren’t “new” memories, these were things that had really happened in my version of reality. Isaac had stood me up four times this summer, left me waiting in my bathing suit cover-up at the end of the drive when he’d promised to come get me to go swimming. Sure, he’d actually come to get me dozens of times—but did that make up for the fact that he’d “spaced” and forgotten to get his girlfriend because he was too busy playing Xbox 360?

But then, why was Mitch so eager to convince me to be mean to my boyfriend? There was a good chance his motives were not as pure as he’d have me believe.

“Yeah, I’m spying on you, Katie.” Mitch sighed and rolled his eyes. “Because it takes a lot of effort to look out my window and see your house.”

“You don’t have to be mean.”

He grabbed my hands, squeezing them with a frustrated sound. “I’m not being mean. I’m trying to be nice.”

“By telling me my hair looks awful and my boyfriend treats me like crap?”

“By telling you that you’re too good to let your boyfriend treat you like crap. And I don’t think Isaac
would
treat you like crap if you were meaner to him. Get tough, show him you won’t put up with his shit, and he’ll respect you for it.” Mitch’s fingers laced through mine, sending a shiver across my skin. “And I don’t think your hair looks awful. It’s really pretty.”

“Thanks.” I sniffed, pulling my hands away from Mitch’s. “But I think you’re wrong about Isaac. He had a fight with his dad tonight about spending more time with me. He’s really trying.”

“Good. I’m glad.” He grabbed my hand again and pulled me to my feet.

“I’m glad you’re glad,” I said, strangely breathless as I tilted my head back to stare up into Mitch’s face.

“I’m glad you’re glad I’m glad,” he said, pulling me closer, wrapping my arms around his waist, then releasing my hands. His arms came around me a second later.

All the little hairs on my arms stood up and I was suddenly keenly aware that less than three inches separated me from Mitch. What was happening here? Friendly hug or more-than-friendly hug? How could I tell?

“Isaac loves you,” Mitch said. “As much as Isaac is ever going to love anyone.”

Ugh! Mitch was so confusing. One second it seemed like he wanted to be more than friends, and the next he was giving me advice on how to keep Isaac in line and assuring me my boyfriend loved me.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, breathing a little easier when Mitch began swaying side to side. We were
dancing
; that’s all this was. It wasn’t a “moment.” It was a perfectly natural response to the music drifting into the lobby. The toasts must finally be over.