I added cluelessness to Scott’s irritating traits.
“Still a douche,” I said.
With a quick glance over my shoulder, I saw the worry on my mother’s face. We shared a brief stare, which meant something, but I wasn’t sure what. I didn’t like her being worried about me. I did enough of that for both of us.
Southlake, Texas
“Dasham Richmond, you do understand that you’re only fifteen years old?” Amelia asked, but it wasn’t the question it seemed, since she regularly said I didn’t act my age. As my nanny, I suppose she’d know.
I didn’t respond from my seat on the edge of the bed. My feet rested on the side rail, my elbows on my knees. Amelia stood in my closet, pulling out hanger after hanger, showing me various articles of clothing.
Amelia had been with me since birth. She knew me better than anyone. Right now, we played the staring game, and I was winning. I always did. Eventually, she rolled her eyes. Her shoulders followed the same pattern as she turned to the rack of clothes and placed the oversized short-sleeve shirt on the rod.
“If you don’t stop rejecting these clothes, you’re not gonna have anything to take out of town with you.”
She wasn’t wrong, but I also had an appearance to keep up. “Where did this stuff come from? Who makes the trends? Why would anyone wear slouchy, baggy clothes?”
Amelia presented another shirt. A short-sleeved, front button, slim fit that had me taking a closer look. She read me like a book, easily seeing my interest, and was ready to answer my next questions.
“It’s from the GAP so no one will think you’re pretentious. But it’ll fit your frame so no one will think you dress poorly.”
I raised my brows. Hers shot up too while trying to hide a grin. I stuck out a foot, lifting from the bed to take the hanger.
“So, is it safe to pull this style shirt? They’ll also go with the khakis and plaid shorts you’re taking.”
“Nothing blue,” I reminded her. “It’s not my color, and absolutely no cargo shorts or shorts that go past my knees. And no blue jean shorts.”
She gave me a knowing look that I interpreted to mean this wasn’t her first time dealing with me. Now it was me trying my best to hide a grin.
“Dasham.” I glanced over my shoulder at the intercom system installed close to my bedroom door. The sound of my mother’s voice was too faint. After all the years of living in this prodigious home, how had she not learned to work the communication system properly?
I went for the banister outside my bedroom door and yelled downstairs. “Wrong room, Mom. Push button number nine, not eight.”
“You know your mother doesn’t like for you to holler downstairs,” Amelia hissed. She wasn’t correcting me as much as trying to stave off my mother’s frustration. “Tell her on the intercom.”
My head shook at the absurdity of the situation as I came back inside the room. “She doesn’t remember to lift her finger off the talk button. She can’t hear me if I use the intercom.”
“Dasham-darling, we’ve scheduled your birthday party for September third at the club. We’ll be home from Sea Springs by then. I believe school starts the Monday after. They’ll keep the swimming pool open for us. How does that sound?”
I stared at the box on the wall. My mouth opened, but no words came. I dropped my hands to my sides, my chin hitting my chest.Noo. She’d plan a huge affair, pretending it was perfectly normal to have a birthday party months after my actual birthday.
What did I say? I expected very little in terms of a celebration since my parents had only remembered my birthday a couple of days ago. And that only happened while sitting together at breakfast when I brought up the new car I wanted.
“Did you hear me?” my mom asked again. “I’ve scheduled a birthday party for you in the beginning of September. I have the club’s party planner sending save the dates this week. She’ll keep us updated on the plans while we’re away. Would you like to look over the list of invitees?”
No, I did not want to see the list. Only members who paid an exclusive fee were allowed on the property. My friends without a membership wouldn’t be able to attend.
I lifted my finger to the button and pressed. “No, I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Dasham, are you teasing me in some way that you think is funny and I don’t understand?”
I cocked my head toward Amelia and whispered, “See? I guarantee her finger’s pressing the talk button. She can’t hear me.”
There were five decent sized steps from where I stood to the banister. I made it in four. My frustration with everything—mybirthday, our summer plans, my clothing options—got the best of me. “Mom! Take your finger off the talk button.”
“All right, son,” she said through the speaker.
I took a deep breath and centered myself as I went back to the intercom and lifted my finger to the button again. I felt like a loser for not standing up for myself, but the argument didn’t matter. She wasn’t a nurturing kind of mother. Especially since I was a late-late-in-life baby. “I’m sure whatever you decide is fine. We don’t even need to have a party.”
