Big Rock(23)

Guess you can’t trick a magician. She’s been trained to detect sleight of hand, and she spotted mine in seconds.

“Thanks. I owe you.”

“You do. Especially since I still haven’t forgiven you for the Santa Claus incident when I was ten,” she hissed, before breaking apart and flashing a smile for the camera.

But the reporter from Metropolis Life and Times didn’t seem to catch on, nor did he last for long here at the private room in McCoy’s. I suspect he was an intern, which confirms this will be some sort of puff piece. A young guy, he lobbed a few questions at my dad and Mr. Offerman, about the handover of the family-owned business, then snapped some pictures of the clan and took off. Probably so he doesn’t miss his bedtime.

Easy as pie.

Now we’re finishing our meal at this midtown steak restaurant that exudes class and ambiance with its crisp white tablecloths, oak tables, soft lighting, and waiters in suits. I slide my knife through the filet mignon and do a double take at something in the corner of my vision. Mr. Offerman’s oldest daughter, Emily, is seated across from me. She twirls a strand of her long black hair and looks at me.

Uh-oh.

I recognize that stare. It’s the kind women give from across the bar when they’re flirting with you. Worry shimmies through me. Is she batting her eyelashes, now?

Averting my gaze, I take a bite of the steak, chew it, and swallow roughly. I grab my wineglass and down more of the red liquid. Something slides across the toe of my shoe.

Something that feels distinctly like Foot of a Young Lady.

No.

No fucking way.

Is Emily playing footsie with me?

My chest tightens.

I yank my foot away.

My sister laughs out loud.

The stinking little prankster. She’s sitting next to Emily.

My mother turns to Harper and smiles brightly. “Something funny?”

She nods, her red ponytail bouncing as she reins in a grin. “Just remembering this funny joke I heard.”

“Care to share? Or is it inappropriate?” my mother asks, voice laced with politeness. She wants this dinner to go well for my dad, too. She’s no stick in the mud. If Harper has a good, clean joke, my mom will want to hear it. The woman loves laughing.

My sister sets down her fork. “It’s completely appropriate. In fact, it’s perfect for Spencer now,” Harper says, her eyes lasered in on me. She clears her throat. She’s got the attention of the whole table. I sit ramrod straight, nerves skittering through me because I have no clue what she’s up to. She said she’d keep my secret, but she’s also been looking for a way to stick it to me ever since I told her Santa Claus wasn’t real, and that as a fifth grader she was too old to still believe in him. With wet eyes and a tear-stained face, she swore she’d get back at me for ruining her greatest dream.

She better not be exacting her revenge now. If she is, I will dangle her upside down over the banister until she cries uncle. Oh, wait. That was ten-year-old Spencer thinking. The mature me would never do that. Instead, I’ll just break out the old family photo album the next time she brings a date home. Show off her second grade haircut. That she gave herself.

“Can’t wait to hear it,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

Bring it on, sis.

She raises her chin and launches into her joke. “Why can’t Ray Charles see his friends?”

“Why?” Mrs. Offerman asks curiously, knitting her brow. She mouths to herself, “because he’s blind,” and seems pleased she got the answer in advance.

My sister pauses, tilts her head, and stares straight at me. “Because he’s married.”

Harper has the whole table laughing. Well, the over-twenty crowd. Mr. Offerman’s daughters hardly chuckle, but Harper doesn’t need to amuse them. She had them eating out of her hand earlier in the night when she was discussing pop music and tips for taking better selfies, including points for—get this—video selfies.

“Do you think that’ll happen to you soon, Spencer?” my sister asks, batting her eyelashes at me as she props her chin in her hands.

She is such a devil.

“Nah, Charlotte is cool,” I say as I slide my shoe closer to Harper under the table, and try to kick her. I mean, tap her foot lightly. But instead, Emily yelps.

“Ouch, that hurt,” she whines.

Oh fuck. Wrong girl.

“What happened, dear?” Mrs. Offerman snaps her gaze to her oldest daughter. She’s a petite woman, and has spent most of the meal fussing over her family members.

“Someone just kicked me under the table,” Emily says, annoyed.

Her mother turns those watchful blue eyes to my side of the table, scanning for the kicking culprit. I wince inside. I can’t believe I’ve fucked this up already, and it’s all because of my sister.