The Crew

Untitled Part 8

Chapter Eight

Bear was told to wait, keys ready, while we entered the house through the garage. It was a long asphalt driveway with a chain-link fence on the right, orange and avocado trees on the other side of it, the lawn and house on the left. The smell of recently-used lawn equipment and decades of dust filled my nostrils.

My mother, as usual, would be in the dining room at the massive oak table grading papers.

We walked on tip-toes through the guest bedroom, past the office, took a right and were in the laundry room where the wine and liquor were stored. We stopped and smiled, basking in our joy at the booty, sizing up the choices: Maker's Mark, Smirnoff vodka, Bombay Sapphire gin, Deanston scotch, a bottle called "Aberlour Glenlivit" and a bottle of Jack Daniels, "Old No. 7 Brand Quality Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey," the amber liquid with the black label. There was also a rack full of wine bottles: Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon, Gamay, Malbec, Merlot.

Our plan had to be perfect in order for us to swing it. The way I figured, we might as well have the introductions between my old lady and Cannon; they would surely meet at some point. Might as well get it over with. But as we nodded gravely at each other I had that same feeling I'd had with Sarah, right before we kissed: nervous energy with nowhere to go. So many things could go wrong.

This was one of those moments, one of those distinct opportunities to make things okay. It was unlikely, but I had to try; I had to hope. If they got along, my world would open up so much more. My best friend and my mom, cool with each other. Imagine that.

Cannon and I marched up the carpeted, rug-covered stairs into the family room, past my grandmother's hundred-year-old pool table, past the kitchen, and into the dining room where my mother had papers spread out across the table. She had a welcoming smile, but only for a second. When she saw Cannon her face changed.

There goes my fantasy. In her expression I witnessed a thousand pinpricks of defiance, of frustration, of rejection, of concern. Resentment pumped through my body. Why?

As soon as their eyes met, it was a telepathic standstill. My mother stared right into Cannon's eyes, her dark brown swords penetrating: beware kid, this is my son. But Cannon's blue shields held steady, full of dynamic drive and youth-filled daring. It was an unholy collision, the meeting of these behemoth wills, which now stood separate from the rest of it, an entity of its own. There was nothing I could do to stop it.

I wanted to melt into the interior of the Earth. I wanted to scream or cry or run, like when I'd held Sarah's hand, walking down the block at Lorenzo's. I wanted, honestly, to lose it. Why wasn't her love for me unconditional? Why did I have to befriend kids she liked? She'd liked the nerds last year. But I'd rather brand my cheek with a red-hot iron than talk to those losers ever again.

And then, in a breath, it was over, a slight blush run over Cannon and a wave of the hand over her bangs from the old lady. They shook hands. They shook hands. Thank God.

"So, this is the young man who's been taking so much of my son's time lately, huh? What did you say your name was...Anthony, right?"

Cannon cringed at the mention of his birth name. "Uhh, yeah, well, I really prefer Tony. It's more Italian seeming to me; my dad calls me Tony."

She ignored this. "What brings you two here, Jack? I'm expecting you for dinner tonight."

No. She wasn't going to derail my plans. Not this time. Not now. No. Way. If I had to kick and scream—throw a tantrum—I would. I'd do whatever it took. Bear waited just outside, in the hallowed Jeep. Escape.