Page 150 of Burn Bright
“Nothing like Beetlejuice,” Eliot and Tom say in unison while Charlie says at the same time, “Exactly like Beetlejuice.”
Beckett cracks a smile. I almost laugh. Really, I can’t picture even a month without these Wednesday nights. They’re a staple, a fixture, a constant, like the oak tree that can endure fire and lightning and still never burn down.
“We’ll prove it,” Tom says and nods to Eliot. Together they chant, “Richard Connor Cobalt.” They drum the table with their fingers. “Richard Connor Cobalt.” Their drumming picks up speed. “Richard Connor?—”
Dad enters the room, and you can’t make this shit up. Eliot and Tom jump out of their seats, hooting and hollering aboutmagic.
Audrey spits out her water in surprise.
Jane laughs, especially at Thatcher’s wide-eyed expression. Beckett’s shaking his head into a brighter smile, and Charlie has risen to fill his goblet to the brim with wine.
I think I’m the only one void of a big reaction. Mostly because I’m just taking it all in. Putting it all to memory with a reverent fondness.
Mom’s black heels clap against the hardwood as she struts in behind Dad. “What did we miss?” Her frown overtakes her face.
“Magic.” Eliot decrees. “We called upon our dear father and look who appeared.” He waves a hand to our dad. “A true mystical marvel.”
He’s playing up the whole “magic” bit to get a rise out of our dad. We’ve known since we were kids how much he truly hates all things fairytale. He’s a man of logic, and things like theEaster bunny, mermaids, and unicorns all fall into his “bullshit” category. Apparently letting us believe in Santa Claus was even a point of contention with him and our mom.
“You called and I came,” Dad says. “The only magic in that is the magic of communication.”
“So you do believe in magic?” Tom says into a smirk.
“No,” Dad says pointedly. He calmly rounds the table. Choosing the head closest to me. Which sucks.
I was really hoping he’d be at the other end tonight.
Eliot and Tom glance at each other conspiratorially as they sink down in their respective chairs. No one is left standing except our parents.
“Opening remarks have commenced,” Dad says before taking a seat in unison with Mom. I seem to release and cage a breath all at the same time. I’m excited. Nervous. Glad this is starting and ready to get it over with.
It’s no surprise when Eliot stands. Anyone can start speaking, but he’s usually the one to do it first. Like we’re all on autopilot, even Thatcher, goblets are quickly scooped in hands, and we all brace the table.
Eliot climbs onto the chair, then plants a foot on the table’s edge in a dramatic stomp that shakes the dishware and rattles the candlesticks. With a flick of his fingers, he spins the chandelier above his head. A couple flames sputter out. He pops the pipe out of his mouth, a burst of smoke flitting the air before he speaks.
“Ladies. Gentlemen.” His eyes flit to me for a beat. “‘Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied. And vice sometime by action dignified.’”
Tom and Audrey pound the table with their fists in approval. Jane snaps her fingers.
I assume Eliot recited Shakespeare. I have zero clue what the verse means. Zero clue which play it’s from. All I know is that toomany eyes have sunk into me. Whatever Eliot just said referred to me. Or related to me? How the fuck should I know? I’m in remedial Literature while they’re all earning their PhDs.
They’re all more well-read than I am, even Beckett who honestly does not read much, and I’ve tried not to let it bother me. Because I could always search the quotes later, but I choose not to. I don’t need to be exactly like them. I don’t want to be.
Even if it dawns on me that I share more in common at this moment with my brother-in-law who’s not a Cobalt by blood but considered a Cobalt by marriage. Thatcher has a furrowed, slightly stern expression, just as confused as I am.
Eliot plops back in his seat, and I return my goblet to the table. It’s anyone’s guess who’s going next. Opening remarks can be used to update each other on our lives, voice an opinion about a current event, or incite emotion. I’ve seen it all.
Tom stands on his chair just as Eliot had done, and I watch as Eliot tosses him the scepter. This time, it hits a dangling crystal on the chandelier. The crystal snaps off and plops with aclinkinto Charlie’s wine.
He looks like he wants to self-eject from the room, but he puts the goblet to his lips like he means to take a sip.
“Charlie,” our mom snaps, her eyes piercing him. “Drink that wine, and I will be rushing you to the hospital to dislodge glass from your lungs.”
“Counterargument. You let me bleed out here. Mercifully.”
“Counterargument,” Mom says. “Fuck no.”
Beckett pours a new glass of wine in his own empty goblet. He’s sitting far enough away from Charlie that he passes the drink down the table. When it reaches Charlie, he willingly abandons his old glass for Beckett’s.
