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I halt abruptly; behind me, Ethan hits the brakes, shoe snapping against the concrete. Heaviness sinks my belly. My cheeks are burning.
Maria twists around, mouth parted to say something else, then stops. “You okay?”
I nod, swallowing hard. I wish Ethan would just pass us already.
“We can get a hot chocolate if you like. Celebrate our Excellences—wait, you did get Excellence, right?”
I stammer.
“Great. Let’s head to Tranquil Café.”
Ethan clears his throat behind us and Maria looks over my shoulder at him. He’s stepped closer now. I can feel him like a heater at my back. “Actually, Finley can’t today. Dad said we have to head straight home.”
I frown. “He did?”
“Yep. So, guess he’ll see you tomorrow, Maria.”
Maria sighs like this is putting a big dent in her plans. She checks her phone and then shrugs. “Okay, tomorrow then. I’m gonna catch up with Rush and give him shit. Later.”
She strides off, and I stare after her.
Ethan slips to my side, perfectly pressed in his spotless uniform, face free from the shadows of a cap. His hand moves to my bag and I feel the shudder of the zip. “It was open,”’ he says, and I know immediately he’s seen my test, pinned behind my smaller math textbook, the red-circled Achieved at the top right-hand corner.
I can’t look at him. My insides heave up my throat and the pressure stings my eyes.
“Um. See you at home, then.” I pound down the last of the path and emerge onto the parking lot. I’m halfway across when Ethan catches up and snags my hand.
His fingers wrap insistently around mine and our eyes catch. He tugs me toward his car and urges me inside.
“You’ll get in trouble,” I say as he slides into the driver’s seat.
Ethan stares out the window, then grabs his seatbelt, drawing it slowly across his chest. “I’ll be careful.”
Somebody to sleep with at night time
K. Mansfield, “Fairy Tale”
Another month passes.
Ethan is friendlier. At least, he is when we’re alone. Mrs Norris hasn’t seemed to clue on though, forever hissing at me when our paths cross.
Tom seems happy at dinner tonight. He’s drumming his fingers on the table, hurrying us to finish clearing the table. He and Mum have “something they’d like to discuss.”
Ethan and I share a puzzled look as we truck the rest of the dishes to the kitchen. Mum comes in for a bottle of wine, humming, and when Ethan leaves the room and it’s just her and me, I ask. “What’s this about?”
The warmth of Mum’s smile bowls into me. I don’t like it, but the fact is, she’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her. “We’ll tell you in the dining room, darling—together. But I want you to know it’s completely up to you.”
“Up to me?”
“Though I admit . . . well, we’re already whanau. It would just make the loveliest gesture.”
Whanau. Family.
Tom, me . . .
With a lurching stomach, I follow Mum back to the dining room. The chandelier glitters in the centre of the room, splintering light over the dining table—over us—like big fat raindrops. Tears.
“Sit down, sit down,” Tom says. I perch on the edge of my seat, Ethan across from me. Mum stands behind Tom, hands on his shoulders. “Maata and I will be married in two weeks, forging us closer as a family. We’d both like to file for legal guardianship of you boys. So Maata has the same rights as I do with you, Ethan.”
“And Tom has the same rights with you, Fin,” Mum says.
I’m very still. “Guardianship. What does that mean?”
“It’s an official document saying we will provide a safe home for you, that we will help you grow and develop—emotionally, physically, culturally, educationally.”
Mum smiles at Ethan. “We know you’re both teenagers and close to leaving the nest, but we want you to know you’ll always have ours to come back to. Guardianship would be symbolic.”
Tom adds, “We’d like you to think of us as parents. Of one another as brothers.”
The quiet stretches for long beats. Ethan stirs and rises from his seat. He hugs Mum, but there’s a small frown etched into his forehead when he glances at me. He looks away again. “I’m okay with it.”
I’m not. I’m not sure I’m breathing.
Mum’s eyes plead with me.
Tom waits.
Isn’t it enough I’ll be his stepson soon? Why is he so insistent on legal stuff? What is this really about?
I stand, shaking my head, words spilling over my lips, “Why can’t you just get a pug or something? Play parents with that?”
Tom’s expression hardens. “Sit down,” he barks.
I reel back.
Like hell I’m sitting.
“If he keeps acting like a child, Maata, he’ll have to move rooms. The old nursery, for example.”
Move rooms? The possibility makes me cold.
“It’s a privilege, sharing the loft,” Tom continues. “It’s about maturity. Not dramatics.”
“Mum, do you hear him?”
“Honey, do you hear yourself? We meant this kindly and, while we will accept it, your rejection hurts.”
