Top Ten(13)

“It’s okay,” Ryan said, reaching for another devil on horseback. He’d never eaten a date before; they tasted kind of like fruit snacks, but better. “I like it a lot, actually. It’s a lot bigger than my old school, so I’ve met a lot of new people so far.”

“Did you go to Colson Middle?” Mrs. Hart asked.

“No ma’am,” Ryan said without explaining the reason, which was that his dad thought the hockey coach at Colson Middle was a buffoon so his parents had sent him to a Catholic school they 100 percent couldn’t afford, TUITION PAST DUE notices stacking up on the kitchen table. It had been a relief to get out of there. “I went to Saint Thomas Aquinas.”

Mrs. Hart nodded. “I have some clients who send their kids there,” she told him. “But they were a bit younger than you.”

“My wife owns an interior design business,” Mr. Hart explained, smiling at her over the coffee table. Ryan could tell that the Harts were the kind of parents who kissed each other in public. “She did this whole house, actually.”

“Not my room,” Kristina piped up. “I did my own room, really. The color is Lavender Secrets.”

“And there you have it,” Gabby said, voice dripping with faux-brightness. “Now you know everything about us.”

“Well, not everything,” Mr. Hart pointed out, not missing a beat. “He hasn’t seen your baby pictures. I could whip those out, if you’re so inclined, or—”

“Oh, you people are hilarious,” Gabby said, but she was smiling. Ryan liked her around her family, he realized; she was more relaxed than she’d been outside school earlier, cross-legged on the rug and leaning against the arm of the sofa, tilting her head back a bit while Celia played idly with her hair.

“Do you guys have any classes together?” Mrs. Hart asked, reaching for her wineglass. Ryan and Gabby didn’t, but he and Michelle shared fifth-period Algebra I, which led to a long discussion of Mr. DiBenedetto’s chronic, audible flatulence.

“It was like that when I had him too,” Celia said, leaning forward to roll the dice. Kristina moved the Scottie dog around the board on her behalf. “Like a freaking foghorn every time he went up to the whiteboard.”

“Honestly, Celia,” Mrs. Hart said, clearly trying not to laugh and mostly failing. “That’s terrible.”

“It was terrible!” Celia agreed as Kristina reached one hand inside her sweatshirt, letting out a noisy armpit fart that Ryan found truly impressive.

“Nice work,” he told her admiringly. Kristina beamed.

It was strange and good, being around this family: how easy they were with each other, how they made each other laugh. Ryan loved his parents, obviously, and it wasn’t like they never spent any time together, but even back when things between his mom and dad had been friendly as they ever were, they certainly hadn’t had a weekly game night. It should have been corny—it was corny—but it was also . . . nice?

Michelle took off pretty soon after they were finished, and Ryan meant to follow—he needed to go by Remy’s party for at least a little while, or he’d never hear the end of it on Monday—but he found himself stalling, sorting the money back into the bank and carrying a couple of dirty glasses into the kitchen. When he made a move to put them in the dishwasher, Gabby looked at him like she thought he was about to try and steal their fancy silverware. “Okay, enough,” she said, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. “Real talk. Why are you actually here?”

“Why am I—?” Ryan broke off, looking at her for a moment. Her eyes were very, very blue. He thought about telling her the truth, about explaining it to her: his dad and the van and the waitress, that he’d wanted to be somewhere solid and safe-feeling and something about the way Gabby was holding herself this afternoon in the school parking lot made her house seem like a good bet. She seemed like the kind of person who would understand that, and he was surprised to realize that he actually wanted to say it, but just as he was opening his mouth Celia came into the kitchen with a stack of tiny appetizer plates, stopping in the doorway with her head tilted to the side.

“Sorry,” she said, eyes cutting back and forth between them. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Gabby took a giant step back like Ryan was radioactive. “You’re not, Celia, Jesus,” she said irritably. “We’re just talking.”

Celia did not look convinced. “Okay,” she said, setting the plates in the sink and backing away with her hands up. “Whatever you say.”