The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline(7)

“Can you drop me here?” he said suddenly.

“But we’re not at your place yet?” I said, confused by the request.

He twisted his mouth in the semblance of a smile. “There’ll be fewer questions this way,” he said.

I felt guilty again—he’d spent the whole morning helping me when he should have been studying. And it was obvious his mother had no idea what he’d been doing. I hoped Donna didn’t mention anything to her.

I pulled the car to the curb and waited for him to get out.

He sat for a moment, fiddling with his seatbelt.

“Will I see you again?” he said.

I frowned, puzzled by his odd question. “I expect so. Everyone bumps into everyone on the Base. Now, promise me you’ll study this afternoon.”

He forced a muted smile. “Okay, Caroline. See you later.”

“Bye, Sebastian.”

I drove away. I couldn’t help glancing in the rear-view mirror; he was still watching.

Donna’s words came back to me: You’ve got an admirer there.

Oh hell. Just what I didn’t need—a teenager with a crush on me.

Irritated, I returned to my duties in the garage. By the time everything was put away and each assorted oddment had been found a home, I was bone weary. I was grateful to Sebastian—I would never have finished so soon without his help. I didn’t have much experience of boys his age even when I was his age, but in my opinion he seemed different … more mature than I would have expected. I wondered if he really did like opera, or whether that was just for my benefit.

God, what it must have been like growing up with those parents. Although Estelle was disturbingly like my own mother, at least I had one parent who’d loved me unconditionally.

I poured myself a glass of water, and took it to the yard to sit in the sun for a few moments of peace. I felt curiously adrift, as if the ties to my life were unraveling one by one. My mother, long absent by mutual choice, my father dead, my job gone; even David was AWOL in spirit.

And I was a shadow.

Oh, stop being so melodramatic.

I blamed my father: the Italian genes.

I needed to get out of the house, off the Base, and do something.

I threw myself in the shower, washing off the grime, and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. That was deliberate—David hated seeing me in jeans, but today, right now, I wanted to feel like me—just for a few, precious hours.

I pulled out of the driveway and drove, too fast, down the road and past the hospital. From the corner of my eye, I recognized the figure walking away from me. I almost drove on, but something made me stop.

I leaned over and rolled down the passenger window.

“Hi. You need a ride somewhere?”

Sebastian’s face lit up.

“Yeah, thanks.”

He climbed in, folding his long legs into my compact Pinto, and grinned. I waited for him to give me directions, but he just leaned back in his seat and smiled.

“So, where can I take you?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just needed to get out of the house—you know, get some space. Mom is … well, Mom.”

“Oh, okay.”

I felt awkward. I wouldn’t have offered him a ride if I’d imagined he was just out for a walk.

“Did you finish your work?”

I really didn’t want to be responsible for him neglecting his studies twice in one day.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, I was going to go downtown. You want to come?”

Part of me hoped he wouldn’t; things were already awkward enough.

“Sure, that’d be great, Caroline.”

There was a short pause while I thought of something to say. We’d chatted so easily this morning in the garage, but now I felt awkward. Maybe it was the memory of his intense gaze, the way his body had pressed against mine as he’d reached for the drinking glasses. I shook my head to clear it.

“How is the studying going?”

He shrugged, as if bored of that topic.

“Not a problem. On practice tests, I’ve scored high. It’s all good.”

“What AP classes are you doing?”

He glanced sideways at me. “Math, English Lit … and Italian.”

“Oh, well … that’s good.”

I knew I ought to ask why those particular subjects—except I could guess, one of them at least.

“I want to do an Associate of Arts degree. It’s only two years.”

“So I understand,” I said, briskly.

He looked like he wanted to say more, but instead turned to gaze out of the window.

“Why don’t you put the radio on?” I said, hoping it would provide a suitable diversion.

“Okay,” he said evenly.

It’s ridiculous that this 18-year-old boy is more at ease than I am. Come on, Venzi, pull yourself together. Even after 11 years of marriage, there were times when Caroline Wilson was still Carolina, feisty daughter of the immigrant Marco Venzi.