Page 57 of Come Break My Heart Again

“Good, thanks,” I respond.

Why isschoolalways the topic adults ask about?

Mr. Hathaway nods. “Still getting those straight A’s?”

“She sure is,” my dad says proudly.

My lips curve into the expected smile before I reach out for my water glass.

“And balancing student council with cheerleading,” my dad continues. “Only reason she’s not doing Mock Trial this year isthat it conflicts with everything else she already has going on. She’s taking an Architecture elective instead.”

“Architecture, really?” Mrs. Hathaway says. “How interesting.”

“Tell her about the class, Elle,” my mom encourages.

I’m too busy staring at my dad. We haven’t discussed school since the first day of classes. And yet he managed to make it sound like he’s the most involved parent to ever exist. It’s a special, annoying talent of his.

“It’s, uh … we’ve mostly observed buildings and conveyed our observations into sketches. Next week, we’re translating on-site measurements of a building into scaled drawings and adding design elements based on style and symmetry.”

A beat of silence follows my explanation.

“Well, it sounds very interesting,” Mrs. Hathaway tells me. “Maybe you’ll pursue architecture instead of ending up in law school.”

I glance at my dad. He’s sipping wine, appearing unconcerned by the suggestion. Confident I’ll follow through on the plan that’s been in place for as long as I can remember.

“Maybe,” I say.

“Archer, what elective are you taking this semester?” my mom asks.

Archer straightens from his slouch at the opposite end of the table. “Uh, Pottery.”

“How fun. Is your mom going to get a mug as a birthday gift?” my mom asks.

“We’ll see,” Archer replies. “It’s still in the shaping stage.”

“I’m trying to get Walker to relax his policy a bit,” Mr. Hathaway tells my dad, loud enough for us all to hear. “Rather than playing with clay, Archer could use the extra football practice. Any college recruiter is going to laugh in my face with the stats he’s put up so far this season.”

Archer’s expression resembles a marble statue as he glowers at his plate.

“These potatoes are delicious, Mom,” I say, attempting to cut into one. It slides away into the pile of dressing left behind by my salad.

“Yes, everything was incredible, Frances,” Mrs. Hathaway says.

Murmured agreement sounds around the table, and my mom beams.

We finish eating and sing “Happy Birthday” to Mrs. Hathaway. My dad disappears into his study with Mr. Hathaway. My mom stands to clear the dishes, and I rise too.

She waves my hands away. “You keep Archer company.”

My mom and Mrs. Hathaway head inside, chattering the whole time.

I slump back in my seat, watching the leaves dangling from the wooden terrace dance in the slight breeze.

“Fun dinner,” Archer comments dryly.

“Yep.”

“I’ve barely seen you all week.”

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