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“He says he’ll be down in a while,” said Layne. “Come on, we can go in the kitchen.”
Gabriel hesitated at the juncture of hardwood and carpeting before following her. Should he take off his shoes? But she hadn’t.
“Does your mom work, too?” he said. The house had obviously been empty prior to their arrival.
“Well, work is a little strong.” Layne led him around a corner into a huge white kitchen with stainless-steel appliances. Even the granite countertop was white with flecks of silver.
The white was getting a little creepy.
“I know,” said Layne. “It looks like a serial killer should live here, right?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Gabriel. But, really, he would.
“What do you mean, work is a little strong?”
“She volunteers. For everything. AIDS benefits, Children’s Hospital in DC, Johns Hopkins, that women’s center downtown ”
“You don’t sound impressed.” He gingerly set his backpack on one of the white chairs, but he wasn’t ready to sit down yet.
“It would be impressive if she actually volunteered in a way that helped people. She helps with benefit functions. She likes to throw big parties where she can look perfect.” Layne flicked an invisible speck of dust off the counter. “Get it?”
Not really. But he nodded.
She pulled the trig book out of her backpack.
Gabriel stared at it, hating that a rectangle of pages glued together could cause such stress. “You’re not going to give me the tour?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You want the tour?”
He shrugged and tried to look expectant.
She shrugged and pushed out of the chair.
The entire house looked like they’d broken into a museum exhibit. Doors whispered open against the carpeting. He only spotted one television, a huge big screen that took up half the wall of one room but even there, it wasn’t the kind of place where you’d want to kick back and watch the game. It felt like someone had put a TV in there according to a mansion instruction manual. Living room: bay window, white carpeting, white sofa, silver big screen. Even Layne’s dad’s “office” didn’t have a piece of paper out of place.
No photographs on the first floor. Anywhere.
Layne narrated the room titles like a bored tour guide, her voice dispassionate.
“You don’t like your house?” he finally said.
“I’m trying to figure out why you care.” She glanced over her shoulder at him as they started up the stairs. “Or are you just stalling?”
“Yes.”
She stopped halfway up, turning to look at him. “At least you admitted it.”
Gabriel was one step behind her, and it put them on eye level.
“I’m trying to figure out how a girl like you could come out of a house like this.”
He watched the fire spark in her eyes, and he held a hand up.
“That’s not an insult.”
It cut her anger off at the knees; he could tell. She shut her mouth and looked past him. “Maybe I don’t like perfect.”
“Yeah?” They were almost close enough to share breath.
