There’s not a single person at this too-formal dinner table that Celine would like to draw. To be fair, she’s already drawn Michael a dozen or more times.
She knows his face almost as well as her own.
“The boys will be lining up for this one soon.” Mr. Pritchett—the guest of honor—nods at Celine and smiles knowingly at her parents. “If they aren’t already.”
Why do grown men say such stupid things? Celine manages not to say that out loud. Her parents should truly appreciate her discretion. They’re the ones who insisted that this grown-ass man—the one acting like pretty is the ultimate honorific an adolescent girl could receive—is important.
A valuable business connection. It is all Celine can do to keep from rolling her eyes. In a show of great restraint, she instead pictures the muscles and bones buried beneath Mr. Pritchett’s healthy jowls.
“Celine isn’t interested in boys yet.” Her mother, college professor that she is, has just enough feminist bones in her body to add, “She’s really more invested in her studies.”
Studies come easily to Celine. It’s the seventh grade, not rocket science. “And her art,” Michael interjects. The comment, in addition to being
true, yields an immediate result: his father’s attention. The shift in Thatcher Townsend’s position is noticeable, even to Celine. She’s done a good job of not looking at Michael’s father this evening.
At the elder Townsend’s face.
It’s amazing, really, that no one else sees it. Not Michael, not Thatcher, not Celine’s hapless father, who has no idea that she doesn’t carry his DNA at all. It’s all there in the bone structure that she and her father’s long-time business partner share.
It’s all in the face.
“You might not be interested in boys now, Celine,” Michael’s father says, playing to Mr. Pritchett’s ego by shooting him a conspiratorial look, “but you will be someday.”
You want to bet? Celine, again, restrains herself. Michael doesn’t. “Leave her alone.”
Celine’s stomach flips. Those words will cost Michael. Thatcher Townsend is charming. Thatcher Townsend is generous, a renowned philanthropist, an excellent businessman.
Thatcher Townsend is a monster.
Most of the time, Michael tries to hide the bruises, but he can’t hide the way his nose isn’t quite straight anymore. Not from Celine. Faces don’t lie. And if Michael’s father has broken one bone, who says he won’t break another?
No. Celine won’t let that happen. Not tonight. She speaks up before Thatcher can turn his gaze intently toward his son. “Why?”
If she can distract Thatcher, then maybe he’ll forget what Michael said. Maybe Michael won’t have to stay home “sick” tomorrow. Maybe Celine won’t see the echoes of it in his cheek or nasal or jaw bones, long after the bruises have healed.
“Why, what, sweetheart?” Thatcher asks indulgently. His gaze is on Celine’s, but he hasn’t forgotten the way Michael spoke to him.
I’ll just have to make you forget. This isn’t how Celine planned on making this particular announcement. But this is her truth, and her decision. Screw her parents—and screw Thatcher Townsend.
Celine smiles sweetly. “Why would I be interested in boys,” she asks the table innocently, “when there are girls?”
