Free Out by Laura Preble Page B

“After you,” I say, trying not to look into Carmen’s impossibly beautiful
eyes.
    “Sorry about
the plate,” she says softly. She’s waiting for me to look at her, which is
awkward, but I have to do it. When our eyes meet, my breath sticks in my
throat. All I can do is nod, stare at the floor, and push past her into the
dining room.
    The bell rings
again. McFarland. David jumps to answer it as we set plates in symmetrical
patterns, Lainie close on his heels. A blast of
chilly air from outside sweeps into the room, carrying the scent of the overly
spicy aftershave McFarland slathers on. Baritone chatter fills the hall,
punctuated with Lainie’s fawning alto.
    “That’s him?”
Carmen whispers as she folds a napkin.
    I nod.
    “I’ve never met
him in person.”
    “I’m sorry you
had to be here,” I offer.
    “I’m not.” Her
eyes light up, and a trembling smile makes me want to kiss her.
    “Chris!”
McFarland saunters into the dining room and claps an all-too-familiar arm
around my shoulder, keeping it there for a few too many seconds. Carmen
pretends to be adjusting silverware. “Good to see you again.”
    “Glad you could
come over, sir,” I manage to say without looking him in the eye. Those pieces
of cutlery aren’t just going to arrange themselves. I become extremely absorbed
in how each knife lines up with the creased edge of the napkin.
    “Sir?” he
snorts. “Ouch. I hope you don’t think of me as a ‘sir’. Call me Jim.”
    “Hi, Jim,”
Carmen says sweetly, extending her hand. “Carmen Wilde. I think we’re both
Californians, right?”
    McFarland
unwillingly acknowledges her intrusion and shakes her hand. “Ms. Wilde, of
course I’ve heard about you, and of course, your mother. How is Alexandra? Last
time I saw her, we were at a fundraiser in Sacramento, I think.”
      “Probably. She’s always doing some event.”
Carmen licks her lips. “If you’ll excuse me?” She walks into the kitchen and I
hear her ask Warren the whereabouts of the bathroom.
    She’s left me
alone with McFarland.   “So, Chris,” he
says smoothly. “How’s school?”
    “Okay.”   I stare into the kitchen, unsure of what to
say.
    I’m saved from
more useless chatter by Warren, who calls out “Dinner is served!”
    Jana thunders
down the stairs, surveying the situation from the third step. Her eyes meet
mine, but she gives me nothing but a blank stare.
      Pretty soon we’re all sitting down to dinner,
the adults trading tips on wine deals and portfolio investments, the rest of us
sitting silently wishing there was a kid’s table.
    Anyone
observing from outside would say that we had a perfectly pleasant meal among
well-to-do, pretty friends; there are compliments about the roast, about the
extraordinary salad dressing, the china, the house. To me, dinner feels like
Russian Roulette. I keep my mouth shut, hoping that if I am silent I have less
of a chance of giving myself away.
    I knew that at
some point, the conversation would turn political. I was hoping it would wait
until dessert, but no such luck.   “So,
Jim, you know that Carmen here is Alexandra Wilde’s daughter,” Lainie says as she dabs her enormous red lips with a linen
napkin. “Lovely wine, David. French?”
    “Italian,”
David answers. I see him adjust his posture so he leans forward in a power
position. The game is on. “So, Carmen, are you active in the Perpendicular
League on the west coast? We have a very active branch here, as you know.”
    Carmen nods as
she takes a drink from her water glass. “I’m here because my mother wanted me
to see how the League works in other areas of the country.” She smiles warmly
at Lainie . “Obviously, yours is a great example.”
    Lainie smiles demurely. She reminds me of a crocodile
grinning in anticipation of a fat, juicy duck. “Oh, you’re too kind.” She
gestures toward my father. “Of course, we’d love to be even more involved with
the Anglicant church, formally, I mean.