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Both he and Mom had raised me to have more self-respect. I was going to do him proud and follow his example. Taking the good with the bad and seeing everyone as people first. There was often more to every story, it might just help to hear what Nate had to say for himself.
It actually looked beautiful. Tablecloth, candlelight, a floral centerpiece. Mom had really gone all out. Taking a deep breath, I found my way into the kitchen, the candles not doing the same job of illumination as the ceiling light. Arguably an upside considering how the kitchen usually looked.
“Need any help?’
“No, sweetie, I’m okay. Just get the door when they get here, okay?”
“Sure, Mom.”
She moved like a ballerina. Stirring, check, tasting, serving. Making sure everything was just right before they got there. It felt like the sort of coming out party rife in 19th century stories.
The accounts were a bit glamorized perhaps but based on things that actually happened.
It seemed a bit old-fashioned, getting fixed up like that, though that didn’t mean it was necessarily wrong. It wasn’t like an arranged marriage, where we were forced to be together, whether we liked it or not. The decision was still ours, and it was unlikely Mom knew anything about Nate, other than that he was Hank’s son. I balled my fists to quell the ire, determined to at least be civil.
The knock was light, almost respectful. It must have been Hank. Crossing the kitchen post-haste, I opened the door to our guests and ushered them inside with a little bow of greeting, forcing a smile.
“Wow, it looks delicious,” Hank remarked.
“You’d better be talking about the food,” Mom teased.
Hank had been looking at the table at the time, so it was a safe bet.
Moving like we had rehearsed, Nate pulled out a chair for me, gesturing for Hank to do the same for Mom. I was difficult to tell if he was just being a jerk, or had taken my cordial bow to heart and was carrying on the theme.
His expression betrayed no sarcastic intent, so I had to take it on faith he was being genuine. Not nearly enough to make up for what he’d done to me, but a nice gesture just the same. It might not be horrible having to live next door to him. At least until we could both get back to school.
It seemed impossible to miss a silly dorm so much, but I did. It actually hurt to leave, though that could have had more to do with Brenda and Amber and Thorne. I’d never had many friends, but the ones I’d managed to find were even more precious. The work drove me crazy on occasion, but it was still nice to be around positive people. Or at least those with a positive influence.
“So, Nate tells me you’re studying Victorian Literature.”
“Yes, it’s my first year.”
“What are you going to do with that then?”
Coming from almost anyone else it would sound like an insult. Or at least a challenge. From Hank it felt like a genuine question.
“I’m on a grad school track, Mr. Gattis. My plan is to get a position teaching, and hopefully get tenure.”
“Oh, interesting, so you’ll be doing what your teachers do.”
“Yeah, basically.”
“Is there something else you’re interested in?”
Spiders made of ice made a line straight up my spine. Was he psychic or what? Mom didn’t know, so she couldn’t have told him. Neither did Nate, eliminating the possibility of a trap. He’d asked, I might as well answer, get it all out in the open.
“Film. I’m interested in film.
“Watching?”
“Yes, and making, at least I’d like to.”
“Why don’t you study that, then?”
Good question really. A bit blunt but asked in good faith, and one I’d asked myself more than once.
“Didn’t have the credits,” I said, giving the pat answer I usually gave myself, “couldn’t take it at all really. My high school was great but didn’t have a media arts department to speak of. Not even as a club. I’d always done well in English, so it seemed like the obvious choice.”
“Where did your interest if film originate?” Hank asked.
“M-my dad.”
It was the first time I’d said it out loud. Mom probably guessed, but never said anything. It was possible if she’d been the one I’d lost, I’d be way into novels, but as it stood, film was my passion, though with literature as a close second. Like voting for your second choice of candidate because you think they can win.
“Wait, Vaughn?”
“Yes.”
“Your dad isn’t Chuck Vaughn?”
“He was.”
“Nate used to watch all his moves. Big stack of DVDs; even got me to watch a few. They were good, weird but good. Reminded me a lot of Terry Gilliam, on a Troma budget.”
Nate wouldn’t meet my eyes. I had no idea wondered why he’d never told me.
