Little Miss Babysitter

-- 26 --

"Hey, buttercup. You wanna pass the mashed potatoes over here?" Martin buttered the top of his bread with a garlic spread, one eye on my stiffened shoulders.

"I'll pass them to you." I constructed my phrase carefully, cautious to avoid answering his question. It wouldn't be the first occasion when he'd try to ask me something, and I've come to the conclusion that he despises vague answers. He's a one-track mind, always needs a straight forward answer. And that's precisely what I'm not going to give him.

Rosie picked at her asparagus, her salad fork discarded by the side of Mason's plate. He was pushing his yellow half-smiles around on his plate, the cheese coating thin and rubbery. Liam tapped his fingers against his dimpled chin, surveying the people around him. Both twins screamed of boredom, and I'd made it a special game of sorts inside my mind to count how many minutes they could each go before one of them would break and request to be excused. Truth be told, I wasn't sure if they'd beat me to it.

Rosie had just come home, fully aware of the presence of Mr. Martin Rider in her shady suburban home. She'd invited him for dinner, I suppose, and fancy has it that the miraculous idea of urging me to join them for a meal dawned upon her in quote, 'a sudden burst of gleaming inspiration'. She turned a bit on the poetic side when she was nervous. That brings us to the moment at hand, sitting awkwardly in the dim chandelier lights of her  dining room.

"Fan-tastic." He cheered, grazing his pinky along the flat of my palm as our hands collided. A shiver of disgust spread its terror through the lengths of my thighs to the unguarded pads of my elbows. I hugged them with either hand, my appetite vanishing into thin air. A wicked smile tickled his lips, and he looked about his company. "So, Angela. How's school going?"

I contemplated a tarty remark, and let a snide grin appear on my lips. "School is going great. They bumped up the cafeteria rates by four percent for every dairy item purchased, so they're making more money than ever. I'll, I'll gladly pass on the word of your interest. I'm sure they'll be flattered to hear."

Like mother, like son, both choked simultaneously mid-chew, a coy smile playing on Nate's lips. Rosie was an uncharted shade of maroon, quietly excusing herself to the kitchen.

Martin's fork was paused mid-air, his eyes fixated on me. I could basically hear the cries of frustration behind his eyeballs, simply itching to wrap his violent thoughts around his brain and have his way with me. Instead, he drew a cheeky grin up from his gaping back of mysterious lies, and trained his eyes on the sulking boy at the head of the table.

Nate's eyes were downcast on his plate, his lips torn apart and heavy pants escaping from him. I wouldn't blame him in any way. The father he never knew he had was sitting right before him, instinctively toying with his family to try and earn a reaction from him. He said in the 'heartfelt notation' that he wanted to get to know Nate, and all of his complexities. He sure had a strange way of expressing that, and if I had half a mind, I would scribble that right on his forehead with the leftover cheese sauce from Liam's plate of macaroni.

"So, Nathaniel. How's the baseball going? You're prob gettin' like what, two home runs per game? Nah. I wouldn't be surprised." He eyed him as a lion would view his prey. He draped his spoon across bottom lip, pulling it back to reveal his artificially whitened teeth. After a second too long of doodling, it popped closed, and he cocked an eyebrow.

Nate appeared doused in his own thoughts, hoarding all of his paste of peas to the one side of his plate, and back again. He inhaled sharply, and matched his father's gaze. "Well, the baseball is going just swell. I struck out twice in the first half, and once in the second of just one game. In the next game, I hit two singles, only to later get out in a force out. Twice. So, dad, baseball is going just fan-tastic."