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“Really.”
“Are you any good?”
“Yes,” I respond immediately.
She laughs. “I like you, Saylor Scott.”
I glance at Beck, then clear my throat. “Thank you?” Ten seconds ago, she was frowning at me.
“Do you not own any nice clothes?” Sophia asks Beck, wrinkling her nose as she stares at his shorts.
“Do you not own pants?” he retorts, studying Sophia’s admittedly short dress.
“If I wanted your opinion, I would ask for it, Adler,” she retorts.
Coming here was worth it, just to see Beck get scolded by his little sister. This is the first time I’ve heard anyone call him that, but I guess it makes sense. It would be strange to call someone by your own last name.
Based on the wry twist of his lips, Beck notices my amusement.
“Papa’s out on the terrace,” Sophia says. “Go ahead.”
“Why aren’t you coming?” Beck asks.
Sophia glances toward the door, shifting from foot to foot. “I might have invited Karl. He’ll be here any minute.”
Beck sighs. “I thought you were?—”
“You do not get to have an opinion on my love life after what I’ve had to hear about…” A quick glance at me, and then Sophia switches to German.
Beck replies in his native language, and I’m lost, feeling like I’m stuck watching a foreign film without subtitles.
A new voice suddenly joins the conversation, and I turn to see Erika Lange—now Erika Beck—enter the imposing entryway. Beck’s mother isn’t in the same strata of notoriety as Christina Weber, but she’s close. She still has the lean build of an athlete, and she’s stunning, in an ethereal, timeless way. It’s obvious where her children got their good looks.
Her tone is softer than Beck and Sophia’s, but both of them fall silent as soon as she speaks. Then Erika notices me and says something else in German. Beck jumps back in, then Sophia laughs and says a few words.
I wish I could get a transcript of this conversation to plug into an online translator later, but they’re speaking too fast for me to catch so much as a single word to look up.
“Hello. I’m Erika,” Beck’s mother says, switching to English and giving me a warm smile.
“I know,” I blurt.
“You’re American,” she observes, echoing her daughter.
I’m guessing it means the girls Beck referenced earlier have all been German. Or at least European.
“Yes. That’s why I don’t know German. I mean, I didn’t think I’d need to know it. I’m just here for a few more weeks.” Stop talking! I scold myself. “I think it’s a great language, though,” I add.
Beck snorts, and I elbow him. Unfortunately, I think the contact hurts my arm more than his torso.
“Are you here on a university trip? Or on vacation?” Erika inquires politely.
“I’m attending Scholenberg.”
Both Sophia and Erika’s eyebrows rise.
“I was just planning to play socc—football. That’s why I didn’t learn any German. I wasn’t expecting to be around so many…Germans.”
There’s a second snort beside me, and I jab Beck a bit harder this time.
