Little & Lion Page 2

  I pause on my way downstairs and press my ear to the door to see if I can hear him flipping the pages of the New Yorker or maybe an old novel by his new literary crush. All I hear is the soft whir of the fan he uses for white noise. He’s asleep, like any other normal person on summer break.

  In the kitchen I fill the robin’s-egg-blue kettle with fresh water and turn on the flame under it. I keep waiting for light to peek over the mountaintops in the distance, but the sky remains hazy and gray and then I remember June Gloom. The sun won’t be out until lunchtime, at least.

  The whole world seems to be asleep. It’s even too early for Mrs. Maldonado to be kneeling in her garden next door, obsessively checking her tomato plants for aphids. I should probably enjoy the silence, but it makes me uncomfortable in the same way I didn’t feel right lying up in my room.

  I bring my old yellow mug out to the front porch along with a spoon and a plastic bear filled with honey, then settle into the porch swing and rock back and forth, carefully, so I won’t spill hot tea all over my legs. I started drinking tea in New England because that’s what all the girls in my dorm drank, and it was always easier to do what they wanted than stick out even more than I already did.

  I bring the yellow mug up to my lips to blow on my tea at the same time footsteps pound down our front walk, followed by a voice that’s too loud for this morning.

  “Suzette?”

  “Shit!” The hot liquid scalds my upper lip, the tender, soft skin on the underside. The heat goes straight north to my nose, and I touch gingerly around my ring, still amazed that I haven’t managed to accidentally rip it out in the few months I’ve had it.

  “Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Emil Choi is standing in front of our porch. “You okay?”

  He’s the son of my mother’s best friend. His long brown legs stick out from a pair of gray running shorts, and the sneakers on his feet are scuffed and worn. He’s already run at least a couple of miles if he’s come from his house in Silver Lake, but he’s barely broken a sweat.

  “Hey, Emil. Yeah, I’ll live.” I go back to sucking on my lip.

  “Heard you were coming back,” he says, his nonchalance overpowering the air like a blast of cheap cologne. “When’d you get in?”

  He knows exactly when I got in—our moms talk every day—but I decide to humor him. Because it’s too early to be so bored and there’s no one else to talk to and, well. Emil isn’t so bad on the eyes. His mother is black and his father is Korean and he is the perfect combination of them, with his creamy brown skin and dark, serious eyes.

  “Yesterday. Are you always up so early?”

  He shrugs and plants his foot on the bottom step of the porch, leaning forward in a lunge. “It’s better when not a lot of people are out. I have the sidewalks to myself.”

  “I can’t believe you do this on purpose.” I take a tiny sip of tea, keeping my eyes on him the whole time so there are no more surprises. But there is one more—the new shapes behind his ears. Hearing aids. Those are definitely new.

  “I hated running at first.” He scratches his head where thick black curls are beginning to crop up. “But then I kind of started to hate it less. Now I can’t live without it.”

  I squeeze more honey into my mug. “That’s fucked up.”

  “Never said it wasn’t.” Emil grins and I give him a small smile back. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “Jet lag.” I scoot back into the corner of the swing, suddenly self-conscious that I’m wearing my pajamas. They’re just cotton shorts and one of Mom’s old Wellesley T-shirts, but I feel exposed. I’m not even wearing a bra. And I want to ask about the hearing aids, but I don’t know how.

  Emil and I didn’t exactly grow up as close as our mothers are. They’ve joked about us ending up together since we were babies, but I’ve always kept a safe distance. We were in the same crowd of bookish, artsy kids before I went away, but it would seem too easy to date Emil. I don’t want my mother handpicking my boyfriend. And anyway, I’m not so sure Emil—or any other guy—is my type these days.

  “So… DeeDee’s tomorrow?” He’s kind of hopping in place from foot to foot now, and when I give him a strange look, he says, “Gotta keep my heart rate up.”

  “Are you going?” DeeDee has been texting me about my welcome-back party for the past two weeks, and she was so excited I would’ve felt bad asking her to cancel it. I’d rather spend a night alone with her, rehashing all the stories that were too important not to text about immediately but that are better told in person, even if it’s a retelling.

  “Yeah, of course,” Emil says. “I mean, I was planning on it. I could give you a ride if you want? We live so close and I’m already going that way, so—”

  “Sure.” He looks surprised at how quickly I agreed to it, and I guess I am, too.

  I’ve always known my friendship with Emil could be more if I wanted it to be, and it’s getting harder to ignore how much cuter I find him the older we get. I’ve never let myself give in to it because there would be no real surprises with Emil. I know everything there is to know about him.

  But the summer already feels so uncertain, not knowing if I’ll stay here or go back to Massachusetts at the end of August, so I figure it can’t hurt to let my guard down for a few weeks. Besides, I haven’t seen any of my old friends in months and I don’t want to show up alone, even if they’re all there to see me. I’m not much for entrances—grand, fashionably late, or otherwise.

  “Okay, well… cool.” Emil starts jogging backward, unable to hide the smile creeping up on his face. “Pick you up around seven tomorrow?”

  I nod and, for a moment, let myself enjoy that I can make him smile like that. “Later, Emil.”

  He gives a wave and I watch his wiry frame jog away, and when he glances back over his shoulder, I am still looking in his direction.

  then.

  My stomach hurts when Mom tells me to wear my nice dress.

  We’re going to her boyfriend’s house for dinner, and it’s just him and Lionel. And Mom never tells me what to wear. She lets me pick out all my own clothes when we go school shopping.

  “Why?”

  She’s laid out the dress on my bed with a pair of tights. I eye it like there might be a firecracker hiding underneath.

  “Because Saul is cooking us dinner tonight and we should look nice for it.” She kisses the top of my head before she leaves my room.

  I sit on the end of my bed for a while, staring at the dress and feeling like something big is about to change.

  Lionel opens the door to their house without looking up, his face covered by a thick book.

  Mom smiles when he doesn’t say anything and lightly clears her throat. “Hello, Lionel.”

  “Hi,” he mumbles, and steps aside, his freckled hand wrapped around the book like a claw. I can’t read the title.

  I don’t say hi to him as we pass. Our parents have been dating for almost two years now, and he’s not always very nice to me. Mostly he doesn’t say a whole lot. He’s always reading, and he never wants to talk about the books, like he thinks I’m too dumb to understand them. He’s only a year older than me.

  Saul walks out from the kitchen. There’s a dish towel hanging from his belt loop and flour on his nose. He kisses my mom on the lips and it still makes me feel funny, but not as much as the first time I saw it.

  He gives me a big hug like every time I see him, but I think it lasts longer this time. Saul is always nice, and he doesn’t talk to me like other grown-ups—when he asks me questions, I feel like he really wants to know the answer. And he always asks lots of questions. Not like Lionel.

  “You have flour on your nose,” I say when we pull away.

  “You’re a true friend, Suzette.” He gives Mom a fake frown. “Your mother didn’t even tell me.”

  “Maybe I thought it was cute,” she says, and I giggle as he makes a big show of wiping at his nose.

  From behind his book, Lionel’s muffled v
oice says, “When’s dinner? I’m starving.”

  Saul made lasagna and, like always, he serves Mom and me first before he moves over to Lionel.

  “More, please,” Lionel says, his head bowed. He’s looking down at his lap, not even trying to hide the book sitting there.

  Saul sighs. He scoops more lasagna onto Lionel’s plate. “Son, put that away for now.”

  “Why? I can hear everything you’re saying.”

  Saul gently puts a hand on his shoulder. “We’re trying to have a nice dinner, and it’s rude to read at the table when we have guests.”

  Lionel sighs now, and I know the look in his eyes. It’s the same feeling I had when Mom told me to wear a nice dress. Why is everything so special all of a sudden? He slams the book closed, stabs his fork into his pasta, and starts eating without waiting for Saul to finish serving himself.

  Mom and Saul keep giving each other looks. They mean something, but I don’t know what. I try to catch Lionel’s eye to see if he notices, but he’s staring down at his plate and hasn’t said a word since he put his book away.

  Finally, after Saul has passed around the bread basket for the second time, he taps his water glass with his fork and says, “Kids, Nadine and I have an announcement.”

  My heart starts to beat fast. I want to know what he’s going to say, but at the same time, I wish we could skip this part of the night.

  Mom gives me a soft smile and looks back and forth between Lionel and me when she says, “We’ve decided to move in together. We’re all going to live in the same house.”

  Lionel’s fork falls to his plate with a clang. “So you’re getting married?”

  “No, we’re not,” says Saul. “We love each other very much, but we’ve both been married before and… we think it’s best if we focus on one thing at a time.”

  “I don’t want to move.” Lionel’s voice is flat. His blue eyes are darker than normal as he glares down at his plate like he wants to throw it against the wall.

  “We’re all going to move,” Saul says. “Into a new place—new to all of us. Because we love both of you very much, too, and we want everyone to be happy.”

  Mom tilts her head as she looks at me. “What do you think, Suzette?”

  I shrug, not quite looking at her or Saul but at a spot between them on the table. “I don’t know. It’s okay, I guess.”

  I don’t think it’s the answer she wants, but it’s better than Lionel’s. I’m not lying. It’s not good or bad, just okay. I don’t remember my dad. He died when I was three. And I like Saul, but I don’t know what it’s like to live with anyone besides Mom.

  They bring out champagne for them and a bottle of sparkling apple juice for Lionel and me. We clink our glasses together, and I smile to match Mom’s and Saul’s faces. Lionel doesn’t.

  He disappears after dinner, and I walk all over the house trying to find him. Mom and Saul are in the kitchen, washing dishes and being lovey-dovey. I don’t want to be in there, but I don’t want to be alone, either.

  I find him out in the garage, where Saul builds things from wood. A couple of scary-looking machines with big, sharp blades sit in the corner, which is why we aren’t supposed to be out here alone. But Lionel isn’t standing near them. He’s in front of the table of projects that Saul hasn’t finished. Smaller pieces, like shelves and bookends and some things I don’t know the names of.

  “Do you hate us?” I ask in a quiet voice.

  Lionel’s back is to me. It takes a long time, but he finally says, “No.”

  “Why are you so mad?”

  He turns around. “Why aren’t you more mad? Don’t you like it with just you and your mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I like it being me and my dad. I don’t like it when things change. The last time they changed, my parents got divorced.”

  I don’t know what to say so I stay quiet.

  Lionel picks up something from the table. His back is still facing me, so I can’t see what it is. But he’s pulling at it and smacking his hand against it, and then he smacks it against the table, too. Something chips off and falls to the ground.

  I look at him with my mouth open, wondering if that was somehow a mistake. But he only hits it against the table harder and harder until large pieces start splintering off, flying into the air.

  “What are you doing?” I walk closer to him. But not too close. He’s scaring me now, more than the big machines in the room.

  He doesn’t say anything back, and he doesn’t stop until the thing in his hand is in a half dozen pieces. He throws the chunk of wood to the ground with a clatter. I look down and see that it was a lamp. The lightbulb screws in on one side and the part he destroyed looks like a tree, except all the branches are gone now, scattered across the floor.

  I put my hand over my mouth. “What did you do?”

  He’s breathing hard when he looks at me, his own mouth turned down so far it makes me sad.

  The side door to the garage opens, and as soon as Lionel sees his father and my mother, his eyes go wide and wet with worry.

  “You two know you’re not supposed to be—” Saul stops as he sees the mess Lionel has made. “What happened?”

  He moves across the room so quickly he’s almost a blur. I watch him pick up what’s left of the lamp and turn it over in his hands, inspecting every nook and cranny. He shakes his head as he looks at Lionel.

  “Why would you do this?”

  Lionel doesn’t say anything, and the longer he stares at the floor, the madder Saul looks.

  “Lionel, you knew this was for your grandmother’s birthday. I can’t believe you would ruin all my hard work like this.” Saul’s tone is steady, but that almost makes me feel guiltier than if he were raising his voice.

  Lionel is almost always cranky, and he doesn’t want Mom and me around. I don’t think it would take all the fingers on one of my hands to count how many times I’ve seen him smile. But we have to live together, and I’ve never had anything like a brother. I think it will be easier if we’re friends.

  He still doesn’t say anything, and then all of a sudden I start talking.

  “He didn’t. I dropped it, Saul. I’m sorry.”

  From across the garage, my mother says, “Suzette!”

  Saul’s face is confused. “You did this?”

  “I wanted to hold it. It’s really pretty.” I swallow over and over. I don’t lie and I’m not good at it. I’ve never had a reason to be. “Lionel told me not to… and it was too heavy and I dropped it. I’m really sorry, Saul.”

  He sighs. Runs his fingers over the broken edges and sighs again. “You’re sure you did this, Suzette? Because if we’re going to be a family, we need to be honest with each other about things. All of us need to be honest.” His eyes drift over to Lionel, who won’t look up at all.

  “I didn’t mean to.” I feel sick inside. Because of the way Mom and Saul are looking at me, like I’m not the same girl I was a half hour ago. Because Saul’s pretty lamp is ruined and it was a gift for his mother. Because I don’t want him to become so angry with me that he breaks up with Mom and we never see him again.

  Mom says my allowance will pay for the cost of the materials to remake it, and when we’re in the car on our way home, she tells me I’ll write and send another apology to Saul tomorrow.

  But before we left, in between my mother saying good-bye to Saul and hustling me out the door, Lionel approached. He handed me a book, a collection of poems by someone named Shel Silverstein. A folded-up piece of paper was tucked into the first pages. Just one word written on notebook paper, in Lionel’s big, blocky handwriting: Thanks.

  three.

  Lionel’s bedroom door is cracked when I walk downstairs, so I stop and knock and he says to come in.

  It looks the same: the forest-green comforter, rumpled and twisted up with his bedsheets; sneakers and sandals lying around the room where they were kicked off, none of them having landed anywhere near their match; the poster h
anging above his bed, suggesting Hunter S. Thompson for sheriff. And books. Everywhere, there are books. Instead of shelving them alphabetically, he’s sorted the spines by theme: Feminists reside next to the Dead White Guys (my brother has a sense of humor), and then there are the African novelists, who he has separated by country. Nonfiction takes up an entire three-shelf bookcase.

  “What’s up?” Lionel says from his spot near the foot of the bed. He’s sprawled out on the floor with a book approximately the size of a telephone directory.

  “What are you reading?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

  “This is the year I’m finally doing it.” He sticks his finger between the pages to hold his place. I give him a quizzical look until he turns the cover my way. Infinite Jest.

  “Oh.” I shake my head. “That looks like homework.”

  He shrugs. “I’m up to the challenge. What are you doing?”

  “Going to see if they need any help with dinner,” I say, pointing toward the stairs.

  Lionel nods, then gives me a sly grin. “Heard you talking to Emil this morning.”

  My face instantly flushes. I forgot Lionel’s bedroom is directly above the porch. “What were you doing up?” He didn’t mention this at breakfast.

  “I could ask you the same thing.” He slides an envelope into the book for a more permanent marker and sits up. “Was that planned? For him to stop by?”

  “Jesus. No, okay?” I touch my face to see if it’s still warm, and I guess that answers any lingering questions of how I feel about Emil Choi. The last person I was with was a girl: Iris. But I know the feeling you get when you think about someone you want to kiss, and that feeling doesn’t change when I replace Iris with Emil. “I haven’t talked to Emil since I was home last time. He saw me sitting out there and he stopped.”

  “Okay,” Lionel says in the singsongy voice he uses specifically to irritate me, and I think how good this feels, my brother teasing me like he used to. For a while, everything with him was either urgent or miserable and there was no in-between. I saw hints of his old self coming back when I was home over winter break, but I felt like I’d let him down by leaving for Dinsmore, like he didn’t trust me enough to completely be himself around me.