Page 30 of sWitch

“This is my—” I tripped over my words. “This is Mary Jane.”

Mary Jane looked my father in the eye and shook his hand. “Mary Jane Williamson, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your home is remarkable. Is that Spanish tile work on the ceiling?”

My dad’s eyebrows rose, and he let out a low whistle. “Well, I’m impressed, Remy. A woman with a firm handshake, includes her full name in greeting, and knows her décor. This one’s a keeper.”

Trevor’s shoulders sagged and Fauna winced. Mary Jane didn’t notice as she followed my dad deeper into the dining room, listening intently as he droned on about where boring-ass wood beams were imported from.

My mother grabbed onto Trevor’s arm. “Escort me to dinner, my darling son. A night of debauchery awaits!”

Trev shot a glance over his shoulder and mouthed, “Mom’s smashed already.”

A chuckle huffed from my throat as I lagged behind with Fauna, who looked at her grey ballet flats as she walked. “I can’t get over how beige you are right now.”

Fauna narrowed her gaze up at me and whispered harshly, “Would you lay off? I’m trying to make a good impression. Why do you care anyway?”

“You’re next to me, the family failure. You could be riding a unicycle and juggling upside down crosses, and my parents would still be more impressed with you than me.” Fauna bit her lip to hide a reluctant smile, and I took advantage of the pause to add, “And I care because I like you, if you haven’t noticed. A lot.”

“Why did you just leave the other day? At my apartment, you?—“

A small bell rang against the sound of chairs being pulled out from under the long dining table. Watson pulled out my father’s chair, and we all made it to our seats.

“Please, be seated,” our old butler instructed. Rich people loved having the most boring, basic shit spelled out for them.Imagine paying someone to tell you that your ass goes into a chair. I was just about to share that brilliant and funny anecdote with Fauna when I leaned over, and she looked up at me with wide eyes.

Trevor cleared his throat. “I think we should switch our dates.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said absently until I looked around the table and realized Fauna was next to me and Mary Jane was next to him. Our girls giggled awkwardly as they moved to sit next to us. Mary Jane’s perfume hitting me in the face like a wall of Bagarat Rouge and platinum credit card plastic. She unfolded the cloth napkin and smoothed it her lap. “You never told me your parents were so wonderful. You always made it seem like they were awful.“

“They are,” I muttered under my breath as a server filled my glass with red wine. With a smile, I turned and took the bottle. “I’ll keep that—” I met a familiar stare. Her faded purple hair was wavy and in her face. “You’re Prue, right?”

Fauna turned as pale as the wafers of caviar placed before us. Prue noticed Fauna’s discomfort and nodded. “That’s me. Nice to see you again, Remy. I work with a catering company part time. We were just lucky enough to get this job for the night.”

So many questions bounced through my mind. From what I’d gathered from the torn photos in Fauna’s room and their icy interactions, the two of them didn’t get along. Somehow, it felt deeper than just a friendship falling out—then, it hit me. Had they dated? Chet had mentioned as much, but Trevor had denied it. Why?

My father clapped his hands—which was rich people speak for dismissing the help. “Stupid, demeaning bullshit,” I muttered under my breath.

Mary Jane harshly shushed me as she lifted her glass. “Thank you for having us here tonight. This looks divine.”

My father smiled, a sight I hated to see, and my mother took the opportunity to drone on about herself, how the quail quiche reminded her of a film she’d worked on or something. I wasn’t paying attention; instead, I was watching Fauna. Trevor adjusted his collar, flashed Mom the occasional polite smile, and ate his tiny expensive food.

There was no interaction between him and a nervous, fifty-shades of beige Fauna. Then again, I wasn’t exactly chatting it up with Mary Jane either. My job of the evening was refilling my wine glass, which somehow just kept needing refilling over and over again, and finding out if those windows were indeed locked after my last daring escape from family dinner.

My mother stood and wobbled on her heel. “Children, my children.”

“Oh, here we go,” I murmured to Trevor, who pressed his lips together to hide his grin.

Mom continued, “Life is but a story. We are made of stories, are we not? Now, my children and those who love them—tell me your tales.”

Dad rested his chin on his fist and watched us silently—half buzzed, half amused, full asshole.

I answered as I swirled my wine, more than half buzzed myself. “What shall I do for the king, mother? Doth he require a dance from the court jester?”

Fauna giggled and tried to hide it with a cough as Mary Jane sighed, horrified.

Mom sat down, and Dad gazed on, unfazed. “Remy, I simply want to hear the songs of your hearts.” Her voice quivered at the end. As zany as my mom was, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I obliged.

“Okay, well, Trevor here won his game a couple weeks ago. Not only is he the star student, he’s the star soccer player who’s going on to finals this weekend.”

Trevor glanced at Dad, who snapped his fingers. Watson appeared to refill his scotch. Trev’s shoulders slumped as our mom thrummed her long, french-tipped nails on the tabletop. “Well, isn’t that something? Do you play sports games as well, Ms. Fauna?”

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