“They see each other at their worst.” A boozy hiccup escapes my lips. “And it doesn’t scare them. At least not enough to stop loving each other.”
“You should write that down in your notebook of story ideas.” Smith chuckles. “Actually, you should write that down and give it to me. Fiona and Jasper could use some new material for their next album.”
The patio door slams, causing a glitch in my mental journey from buzzed to drunk. I crawl across the rickety floor, no doubt covering the knees of my flared jeans in spiderwebs, and peer through the peephole in the center of a wooden plank. Marie, our maid, is standing on the backyard patio. She grabs a cigarette from the secret stash she keeps in her apron and lights it.
“Ms. Penelope!” she shouts in her beautiful French accent. “Ms. Penelope, the table is being seated!”
Marie takes a few puffs before putting the cigarette out on the sole of her black work shoe. She tosses the butt into the firepit before returning to the house. At least she can tell my parents she tried to find me. Of course, that also means it’s only a matter of time before my mother comes tearing outside in one of her flowy caftans, looking for me.
“Last chance to run away to my mother’s séance,” Smith says.
“Who’s Fiona trying to get a hold of today? Janis? Freddie?”
“Cobain.” Smith shakes his head. “She’s convinced this blue Fender she found in our attic is his. Swears he left it at our house when he came over for my dad’s fiftieth birthday back in the nineties.”
“Can’t she just call Courtney and ask?”
“Where would be the fun in that?”
If I wasn’t completely in love with Smith Mackenzie, I would hate his guts. His family is so ridiculously cool and easy to get along with. They always have the best parties. His parents invite over the most amazing and interesting people, and they do it for the simple pleasure of enjoying their company, not as a way to negotiate a deal or further benefit some aspect of their lives. Once, they spent eight hours locked in a game of Dungeons and Dragons with the guys from U2. They got so caught up in the game that they didn’t have time to record a track for their next album together. But they didn’t care. Jasper and Fiona never care about business more than people or family or fun. They’re the polar opposite of my parents in every way imaginable. My parents never miss an opportunity for business.
Take today for example. Thanksgiving is supposed to be about family and friends and food. It’s supposed to be about enjoying each other’s company and being thankful for all that you have. It’s the one day a year where you don’t look at what your life is missing, because as long as you have the people that matter the most to you gathered around your table, you have everything you need. But that’s not true for Carter Banks. For my dad, every day is a business day. Every day is an opportunity for a deal to be made, and every person a pawn to be used to further his own goals.
“He knows I’m not smart enough to go to Princeton,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m not like Phoebe. I will never get grades like Phoebe.”
“Huh? Are we still talking about Cobain?”
Smith is crouched over on his hands and knees. A tiny bead of sweat paints a trail from his gelled hairline to his smooth jaw. He’s paler than I remember him being a few hours ago. Slightly green too, if I’m not mistaken, which I could be, seeing as how I’m pretty sure I’m drunk.
“I said my father knows I’m not smart. Phoebe is the smart one. I’m the creative one. Basically, Phoebe is the good daughter, and I’m the one that needs to be fixed.”
Smith covers his ears like I’ve just blown an air horn in his face. “Why are you screaming at me?”
“I’m not.”
“I can hear your voice in my eyeballs.”
“Stop being so dramatic. Oh god. I sound like him now.”
“Like who?”
“My father. I sound like my father.”
Smith moves his hands from covering his ears to covering his mouth instead. “Your girl Vermouth is not settling well.”
I pull myself up, grab a dusty plastic tub filled with a forgotten stash of CDs, and drop it next to Smith. “Puke in this.”
“Penelope Banks!” My mother’s voice echoes in my head like the voice of God. “Penelope, I know you’re out there!”
I peek out the spy hole again just as my mother bends over to examine the remaining ash from Marie’s cigarette on the patio.