Sweet Venom

“Great,” he says. “Meet me there at seven?”

“Meet you—”

“Yeah, I’m at the beach with the guys.” Shouts echo in the background as the guys clamor to be heard. “Gotta go, surf’s up. See ya at seven, babe.”

Before I can say good-bye, he’s gone.

I set my phone down, close my eyes again, and remind myself of why I put up with Kyle. In the year we’ve been going out, I’ve gotten a lot of practice with what my personal trainer calls aggression-reduction techniques— an elaborate name for counting to ten. Or, in Kyle’s case, eleven.

He can be very sweet sometimes. Like last Valentine’s Day, when he skipped school to bring me two dozen red roses in French class, or when we drive down the coast and park on the beach, watching the sunset from the hood of his Jeep. Those days mostly make up for the other ones.

He’s also very handsome, in a lead-actor way. His brown hair is usually too long, but after he spends all summer surfing, the tips bleach to an amber gold that matches his tanned skin, making it hard for me to complain.

And he’s the most popular and powerful student at St. Stephen, the all-boys partner school of Immaculate Heart. As I’m the most popular and powerful student at Immaculate Heart, it’s as if we’re destined to be a couple.

Still, sometimes—like when he’s been spending too much time “at the beach with the guys”—he becomes a little less than the ideal boyfriend. I’m not the kind of girl to meekly accept inattention and negligence. Kyle should know that by now.

“That’s all right,” I say. “I will give him a reason to pay attention.”

With a cool smile on my face, I head upstairs to select the perfect outfit to carry out my plan. An outfit designed to tempt and tease, with no promise of fulfillment. By the time the night is over, Kyle will be desperately begging me to forgive him for anything he’s ever done.

“I will be in my room, Natasha,” I call out as I mount the stairs. “Buzz me when Henri arrives.”

Her muffled reply comes through the kitchen door. “Yes, Miss Greer.”

Now, should I wear my new strapless shantung silk cocktail dress, in the perfect lilac shade that makes my silver eyes pop, or the silver sequined tank that is cut a touch too low, and that Kyle can never keep his eyes off? Ah, decisions, decisions.

I will make tonight a date to remember.

Kyle holds out my chair, like the gentleman I know he can be. He’s been an ideal dinner date since I crested the stairs into Ahab’s lobby a fashionable fifteen minutes late. I do believe I chose the right outfit.

I smile demurely and nod, carefully collecting myself as I sit and he slides the chair in under me. Hands still on the chair, he leans down and whispers, “You know how I love that top, Greer.”

I allow myself a brief pleased smile. Success. I knew the silver sequined tank would do the trick. It always does. Only Kyle doesn’t know there will be no discovering what I’m wearing underneath the top this time.

Not that I’ve ever let him get much farther than that—we haven’t been going out that long—but since I had to manage my own transportation tonight, he will be lucky to get a good-night kiss. It would take a complete transformation into future-president mode on his part to get any more than a quick peck.

He slouches into the opposite seat. So much for transformation. It takes all my willpower not to ask him to sit up straight. But I don’t want to sound like his mother or a nagging girlfriend, so instead I lean forward over the table as if I want to whisper something naughty. As expected, he sits up and leans in to hear.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “This is my favorite restaurant.”

His grin is all cocky arrogance. “I know.”

The waiter arrives to pour our water and Kyle slouches back against his chair. I can’t exactly lean across the table all night, whispering. Sometimes I think Kyle isn’t worth all the effort. Maybe he’s not future-president—or even future–state senator—material after all. I could be wasting my time on a boy with no greater ambition than following the surf season around the globe.

His parents are wealthy enough that he never has to work a day in his life. I suppose I have been hoping that he wants to earn his own way. I don’t want to be hasty, though. I’ve already invested a great deal of time and effort in him. Maybe I shouldn’t cut my losses yet.

Gazing out the window, I decide to give him a few more weeks to prove himself.

The view from Ahab’s is amazing. A practically un-obstructed wall of windows on the Bay. Depending on how thick the fog is at the time, you can see Alcatraz just offshore and Sausalito across the Bay. The brilliant orange Golden Gate stands out against the rich, green foliage of the parks at either end of the iconic suspension bridge. At times I’ve seen seals, sea lions, and even a dolphin or two. And there are always plenty of seagulls, usually flying beak-first into the glass.

The waiter takes our drink orders—mint iced tea for me and orange soda for Kyle—and then disappears. Our table is right up against the window, and with my back to the rest of the dining room, it feels like we’re all alone in the place.

I make an effort to forgive Kyle his slouching and ask, “How was the surf today?”

“Wicked,” he says, sitting forward. “The wind kicked up right at high tide and there were some killer waves.”

I smile, but even I know there aren’t really killer waves at Ocean Beach. Down the coast, maybe, but up here the waters are a little less . . . gnarly, as Kyle would put it.

“Must have crested at six feet or more,” he continues. “Yokie took a header and almost cracked his skull on his board.”

Yokie is actually Eric Yokelson, and he is my least favorite of Kyle’s friends. He doesn’t go to St. Stephen, doesn’t even go to private school, which alone isn’t enough to indict him. Despite what my alleged sisters might think, even I’m not snob enough to think the only people of quality are those who can afford private school. No, it’s more that he has hit on me every time we’ve met. And not a subtle Hmmm-was-that-a-pass-or-not? hit, but a full on, get-the-heck-out-of-my-face come-on. I try to avoid being around him.

I wouldn’t cry if he had cracked his skull on his surfboard.

Kyle is still going on about today’s surfing when the waiter brings our drinks and takes our appetizer orders. I thank him for the tea and let Kyle order for both of us. Taking a sip of tea, letting the cool earthy taste invade my mouth, I glance out over the Bay.

The fog is thin tonight, and even in the faint light of dusk I can make out the craggy outline of Alcatraz. At night, when the tourists are gone and the only inhabitants are gulls and a pair of National Park Service guards, the island looks positively eerie. A glowing monument to a haunted past.

“Hope you’re in the mood for calamari,” Kyle says, leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head.

My lip starts to sneer, but I quickly get it back under control. Kyle knows how I feel about fried foods—or at least he should. In the year we’ve been dating, I’ve made it perfectly clear that nothing soaked in oil will ever enter my system to threaten my perfect complexion. My aesthetician would have a fit.

He must sense my displeasure, because he leans forward quickly and says, “Grilled, of course.”

“Grilled,” I repeat with a genuine smile. “Sounds perfect.”

Thank goodness he got that right. After he made me drive here, I might have to leave if he ordered something he should know I don’t eat.

Kyle looks relieved by my pleasure.

“What about you, babe?” he asks. “How was your day?”

How was my day? Where do I even begin? School was routine and I spent the afternoon finalizing details for the alumnae tea. On any other day, the details of my argument with Veronica would be the perfect dinner conversation, but all I can think about is the doorbell ringing and opening the door to find my look-alikes standing there, telling me crazy stories about monsters and Gorgons.

That’s not exactly the sort of thing you tell your boyfriend over grilled calamari. Or, at least, that’s not exactly the sort of thing I tell Kyle over grilled calamari.

I haven’t even fully processed the information yet. I’m not ready to tell anyone I’m probably adopted, let