And now I’m sure of two more things: first, Kingston’s father lied for a reason. And secondly, I finally understand why my father agreed to let this young, not-ugly stranger occupy a room last night that shares a bathroom with my own: He thinks he’s gonna be a priest!
“So, then, this rebellion,” my father replies. “What are we talking about here? Alcohol?”
“John, it’s not our business,” my mother chastises him for prying. “He—”
“The hell it’s not!” my father interrupts in a booming voice. “I have a right to know, if he plans on living in this house!”
This time, asphyxiation is a real possibility as my sip of juice burns its way down the wrong tube and I start coughing uncontrollably. Living where?
Before I can breathe again (a vital ability when asking for clarification, since he’s supposed to be staying at the dorms), Kingston speaks up—right as my mother thankfully notices I need a couple pats on the back.
“No, sir, nothing like that. I seem to have a tendency of speeding.”
“‘Speeding’? Is that a fancy word for doing drugs?” my father roars, keeping a white-knuckled grip on his fork.
Kingston shakes his head frantically. “Racing, sir, as in speeding in a vehicle. My eighth traffic citation was the reason my father set this exchange in motion. I do have a history of high marks in school, and I’d be honored if the church one day found me worthy of welcome amongst them, but I do rather enjoy the adrenaline I find on the racetrack—and, unfortunately, the motorway as well. My apologies for my father not being completely honest. I fear he’s rather…well, ashamed of me.”
My mother speaks up, reaching across the table to pat his hand. “I’m sure that’s not true. He just worries, like all parents. Besides, we all have our vices, dear—and as far as teenagers go, speeding is dangerous. But it could be worse. Right, honey?”
“I suppose,” my father says under his breath, but I can see the internal debate plaguing his thoughts from where I sit. “Well, I won’t have you racing on my land, or on my watch. Understood?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“And as far as your honesty, I appreciate it. So, uh…” My father smiles, slowly. “I’ll tell you a little secret about my boy Sebastian. His mother thought it was best he leave a certain run-in with the law he had last year off his application. He and his buddies thought cow-tipping was all fun and games. The cows won, of course—they were still standing on all fours, watching as my son was arrested for trespassing.”
I can’t bite my lip any harder without drawing blood, desperate not to laugh as I usually do when this story is retold. But Kingston doesn’t refrain, chuckling freely as his shoulders relax.
“Listen, nobody’s perfect, and my rules are pretty basic: I don’t tolerate drugs, alcohol, or truancy. Curfew is nonnegotiable. And if you so much as make one move on my daughter, your father will need to send a separate search party for each of your missing limbs. We clear?”
“Extremely, sir,” Kingston replies with a shaky nod.
Somehow, the conversation takes a sudden turn from dismemberment to my father’s fascination with the Autobahn, and how Kingston vacations in Germany often to enjoy this so-called “superhighway.” I’m not surprised, as Sebastian already had that particular destination mapped out before he left as a day of travel he plans to take during his holidays.
Unable to forget my father’s mention of Kingston living here, I butt in and ask, “What time are you taking Kingston to his dorm? I’m sure he’s anxious to get settled in.”
My parents exchange a glance, my mom unable to look at me as my father explains.
“The college called. Seems they’re not so organized over there, and wound up short a room. So we agreed, as his host family, for him to stay here. I’m sure you can understand and make him feel at home, right?”
It’s more a statement than a question, which I simply nod in answer to. But my stomach clenches at the idea of spending an entire school year with Kingston only a room away. We’re going to need some ground rules.
“Echo?” My brother spits food crumbs as he talks. “Will you help me with my magic tricks today, pleeease?” Lots of food escapes with the “p” sound.
“Sure, as soon as I’m done cleaning the bleachers. That might take a while, though.”
I continue eating, but with my eyes cast downward now as I feign aloofness and mask any trace of smugness, sure of what I’d find if I looked up.
And…
“I suppose,” my father grumbles, “Sammy can help you clean to get it done faster, so you can help him. But this is for Sammy’s benefit, young lady. You’re not being let off the hook by any means.”