"—From the opening speech, to the closing speech."
Titus dropped his spoon into the almost empty cereal bowl; it clanged against the glass before falling to the table cloth, a splash of milk flying. He was only half listening to his mom talk until shed said those words.
"But the Galas are so long," he whined, replacing the spoon into the bowl. A server stole it away before Titus could make any more of a mess.
"And you're going to be in charge of running them in a few years," she'd replied.
"What if I just do away with them," Titus countered.
"The very reason you need to be at an entire Gala. We can't do what we do without donors, and this is the very way for us to prove that their money isn't going to waste."
This ended the debate and was how Titus, then, found himself donning his freshly laundered and pressed tux at five-thirty that evening. He considered simply feigning some illness but knew this would only fail, because his ring rarely allowed him to be sick. Titus glared at himself in the mirror. Why couldn't there be a Void leak to save him. Maybe Natalee would wake up during this Gala... but even that thought was dampened when Titus remembered Natalee's dosage had been upped enough it was almost impossible for her to awaken.
Fingers fumbling with the bowtie, Titus decided to just leave it until his mom could do it before they entered the Gala. Before he left his room, Titus grabbed a pair of shining, recently polished dress shoes from his closet and carried them with him.
The carpet squished under Titus' feet as he walked down the hallway, his gait slow and loping. He hoped that maybe—just maybe—his mom would forget her words and start the Gala without him. He could slip in, sneak down the stairs and hide near the dessert table. He couldn't have to talk to people then.
Rhea James was natural, poised, and well received. She enjoyed connecting with the Museum's benefactors and chumming it up with pretentious blowhards. Titus, on the other hand, despised the small that the prevailed at these events, which was why he always sought a way out. Even now Titus thought of breaking his leg when he walked downstairs. But he wouldn't. He would bear with the rich and their snobby, "Boys will be boys," comments that made no sense.
At the top of the stairs, Titus' hopes shattered. Rhea James, resplendent in her shimmering crimson gown with a single strap over the left shoulder, stood there. "You look nice, mom," he said. Much as he might hate her for this, she still deserved to know that every effort she put in for these Galas was worth it.
"Thanks," she replied. "Do you need me to tie your bowtie?" She didn't wait for him to answer, though, and simply moved into action. Her fingers were deft at his throat, and the tie came together in less than thirty seconds. She smoothed the fabric on his shoulders, though there weren't any wrinkles to be straightened.
Titus was going to say more, but the doors opened and Rhea led him around the corner to the grand staircase. The applause started slowly, and when people realized Titus and Rhea were walking arm-in-arm, cameras began their silent flashing. Rhea smiled with a coyness and joy Titus couldn't muster. His smile was too wide, too fake, but he knew the entertainment Holos would eat up this display of mother and son. Arms linked at the elbow, they only broke apart at the bottom of the steps. Titus continued to the floor, while his mom stayed on the third step.
"Welcome to the James Estate," Rhea said to everyone gathered. Her voice rang out over the crowd, as if by magic, though it was really by a small, magnetic microphone which had been attached to the underside of her dress strap. "I hope you all enjoy this evening's Gala, and that you are blessed by the camaraderie and food." The end of her tiny speech was punctuated by her step down from above.
"I've got to talk with our donors," Rhea said to Titus under her breath. "Think you can survive at least an hour?"
Titus, who had been surveying the crowd wondering who would swoop in first to chat with him, glanced at his mom and nodded. "I think so."
She straightened his bowtie again, assuring that it wasn't crooked. "Love you," she said.
"Love you," he replied.
Titus was alone for a mere three seconds when he was tapped on the shoulder. Before he could even register who'd touched him, Titus was being handed a glass of champagne. He didn't even like champagne, yet he took a sip while surveying the boy to his side. Why did it have to be a guy? His heart felt rather constricted as he held back a gag from the tangy, bitter liquid on his tongue. He'd pretend to drink it from now on, until he could chuck the contents.
"Hi there," said the freckled face boy. His voice was thin and reedy, but not altogether unpleasant. He looked at Titus as if they knew each other, though Titus couldn't figure out how, since he'd never seen this boy before in his life.
A plan formed in his mind. It was rough. But it would work, if only for his own enjoyment.
Titus turned to the boy in full, pretending to see him for the first time, even if he had been handed the glass of champagne and taken it. He gave a lazy, uninterested smile.
"This one's disgusting," he said, handing the champagne to the kid. He was probably within a few months of Titus' age. He was skinny and tan, dark hair brushed neatly.
"Oh," the kid stuttered out, taking a step back. "I'm not..."
Titus raised an eyebrow. "You're not what? Doing your job?" A wicked thrill rose in Titus as the boy turned beet red and actually took Titus' champagne glass. He knew he wasn't someone hired for the Gala; he was probably someone's son or grandson.
"I'm not actually the help," the boy retorted, even though he was still holding Titus' glass, which suggested otherwise. He held the drink with a grip of someone who'd never held champagne before.
"You fooled me," Titus replied.
"I just wanted to introduce myself," the kid snapped. Then softening, "I'm Alaric Ralston."
Titus bit his cheek to hide the shock. If anyone had the ability to ruin a James' reputation, a Ralston could. He'd never actually met one before, but everyone knew who they were. Alaric's dad Christopher practically owned the news in the country.
"That name doesn't ring a bell," Titus said. He walked away. A few people glanced furtively to watch the exchange between the two teenagers. Titus wasn't entirely sure Alaric was a safe person to talk to tonight. If his dad knew about the Timewalkers, that would be a problem. If they knew about the problem with the Void? There would be bigger fish to fry.
Alaric was desperate for attention, though, and kept talking quickly. "This was the first time I was allowed to come to a Gala and cover it. So I had a few questions for you." He was fairly quick, and had somehow stepped in front of Titus without him noticing. They were now face-to-face. Titus could smell the mint of toothpaste mingling with a smoky cologne, and though his heart lurched at being so close to someone like Alaric, Titus stiffened.
"I'm not answering questions," Titus said. "Please step back." His tone was flat.
Alaric did, hands raised. "I'm sorry." his voice was soft, embarrassed. "I'm just really interested in you. I feel like no one knows anything about you. Just rumors."
Titus shrugged. "My mom doesn't want me in the spotlight."
Alaric's eyebrows scrunched together. "So why are you at the Gala, then, if she doesn't want you in the spotlight?"
"What better way to watch your son than under the eye of hundreds of guests?" Titus said simply. "We're in my house, aren't we?" He snagged a sandwich from a passing tray and took a bite. The bread was a little too crisp, and the contents squished out the back end. He had to lean over so nothing would fall on his suit. A butler was there within seconds to clean it up.
"I guess that's true," Alaric said. "You don't have a lot of friends. Why is that?"
Titus almost choked. "What sort of question is that?"
"An interview question. The world wants to know about Titus." Alaric's eyes were wide and innocent, but the question was anything but. It was creepy. "Look, you don't have to answer, but I think this could be really good for you and the publicity surrounding you."
"People disappoint all the time. It's better I'm alone because it's what I deserve." He hadn't meant to say it, but the words had come out anyways.
"What is your dream profession?" Alaric didn't even bat an eyelash at Titus' response. He'd simply moved on.
Titus wasn't sure if he should feel upset or relieved. He tossed the rest of the mini sandwich into his mouth. A long moment passed while he chewed.
"I'd love to be a beekeeper." He spoke around the bread in his mouth. "Probably a beekeeper, yeah. You get to be all scuba-man-like and watch bees make honey. No people to bother you. Sounds peaceful."
Alaric gave Titus an odd look. "Bees have been extinct for thirty years, haven't they?"
Titus threw up his arms. "You're the one asking me questions," he said. "But I really should be going." He shook his arm and the time on his wrist Holo popped up. He made to step around the reporter.
Alaric touched his shoulder before he left. "I don't think this is going to be a very good interview, but it was nice talking." And then he let him go around.
Titus didn't glance back at Alaric, and he soon found himself in a conversation with an elderly man who didn't have anything special to say. Titus let his and settle on his churning stomach. For some reason Alaric's touch had affected him. The phantom pressure of Alaric's hand stayed with him, though, haunting his thoughts until he found it hard to think on anything else.