Read Online Pucker by Melanie Gideon - Free Book Online Page B

“Oakland’s no Peacedale. You better be careful. Who’s gonna watch your back?”
    â€œDon’t underestimate Auntie Betty,” I say, and we both laugh. Then Patrick gets serious.
    â€œWhat do you need?” he asks.
    â€œWatch out for my mother,” I say. “Things have gotten . . . pretty bad. Can you stop by every now and then and make sure she’s okay? Huguette’s going to be staying there, but just in case some heavy lifting needs to be done.”
    Patrick looks alarmed. “Why don’t you take her to the doctor?”
    â€œIt’s nothing a doctor can fix.”
    â€œHow do you know if you’ve never taken her?”
    We’ve had this conversation before and it’s never ended well.
    â€œIt’s too late for that,” I say.
    â€œJesus, Quicksilver.” Patrick shakes his head. “She’s all you’ve got. Why the hell are you messing around?”
    Patrick doesn’t have a father either. We’ve never said it aloud, but both of us know: if something happens to one of our mothers, the other mother will take us in. It’s an unspoken promise.
    â€œLook, I’m going away so I can get her help. I can’t explain, but I’m doing the complete opposite of messing around. Now stop asking me so many questions,” I say.
    Patrick swivels around on his stool and crosses his arms. He knows he’s pushed me as far as he can.
    â€œAll right. So when are you coming back?” he asks.
    â€œA month.”
    â€œYou’re going to miss the Heritage Festival,” he says.
    â€œOh yeah, I forgot.” I try to look like I care. But really, it’s no loss for me. Everyone a couple. Every ride made for two. My quick escape when the festival closes and everyone searches for a dark and private place to hook up. Me in the parking lot trying to start my bike quietly so nobody will notice I’m leaving alone.
    We finish our coffee in silence.
    â€œSo how’s Meg?” I ask.
    â€œShe’s good. She likes you a lot.”
    â€œShe doesn’t even know me.”
    â€œShe knows you,” says Patrick. “She knows me, so she knows you.”
    He’s been telling me this for years, in restaurants or playgrounds, in the backseats of cars, on the beach and in the pool—that we are alike.
    â€œYou could bring her by,” I say. “I could make tacos.”
    I indulge myself in a brief fantasy of this dinner, one that includes me with my new face. Maybe we’re a four-some. Maybe I have a date too. I picture Meg laughing uproariously at something I’ve said. The fantasy quickly dissolves. It’s a nice daydream, but it will never happen.
    Being an outsider comes with gifts. The first is a special kind of vision that has nothing to do with being the son of Seers. I can see around the edges of things. Patrick, Meg, Susie Egan—their birthright is their future. Everything lies ahead of them, and they don’t doubt for one moment that it’s their due. They walk into the future without even knowing it’s a privilege.
    Me, I have no birthright here. Soon I will be left behind.

FOURTEEN
    T HE RECRUITER, LYSANDROS CARO, BETTER known as Sandros, is a large man in his fifties. Not fat, but big: barrel chest, round face, belt slung under his belly. First-generation Greek, he claims. Often he roams the corridors of the VRC, speaking in a thick accent, quoting his beloved grandmother Daphne. One of the old woman’s favorites is, When a part of you falls asleep, wake it up, for Christ’s sake. He makes bread with olive oil and brings in waxed bags of sweet buns from the Middle Eastern bakery. I always found his jocularity annoying, and it’s even worse now that I know he’s a big fat fake. He’s Isaurian—no more Greek than me.
    â€œSo, young man,” he says, on my coming into his office. “You’ve finally made it here. What took you so