Kody Keplinger - A Midsummer’s Nightmare

With a groan, I rolled off the bed and put my cell on the nightstand. As glad as I was to end that conversation, I still kind of wanted to come up with some sort of excuse—Daddy, I have a headache; I feel sick to my stomach—to get out of eating dinner with June Cleaver and her perfect children.

Unfortunately for me, I was starving.

Nathan walked out of his room just as I stepped out of mine. We both just kind of looked at each other for a weird second, then turned and headed toward the stairs. “So… munchkin, huh?” he said. “Aren’t you a little tall to be a munchkin?”

“I had a growth spurt when I was thirteen,” I replied without thinking. “Dad just hasn’t found a more fitting nickname yet.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Well, my granddad still calls Mom his Sylvie Bear, so I guess it’s a universal thing.”

I rolled my eyes and moved ahead of him, hurrying down the last few steps. I didn’t need his forced conversation. If he wanted to forget what happened the other night, we could forget in silence.

“Hey, Whitley,” Sylvia said when I walked into the dining room. “I hope you’re making yourself comfortable.”

“Sure,” I muttered. Of course I’m not comfortable, you Stepford Wife. This is, like, my worst nightmare.

“Good,” she said. “I really want you to enjoy this summer with us.”

“Whatever.” I glanced around the large oak-paneled room.

Talk about fancy. Expensive-looking paintings hung from nails or rested against the wall, waiting to be put in their proper place. Every piece of furniture—all made of sleek, polished wood—looked brand-new. Of course, it probably was new. Clearly, Sylvia was one of the rich kinds of lawyers.

“Don’t worry, babe,” Dad said, grinning at Sylvia from his seat. “She’ll have a great time.”

I started to pull out a chair, but Sylvia stopped me. “Oh, honey, Bailey wants you to sit next to her.”

“Mom!” Bailey shrieked from the other end of the dining table.

“Well, you do want her sitting by you. You just said so a minute ago,” Sylvia said, sounding a little defensive. “Can I say anything that won’t embarrass you today?”

“Only if you want to,” Bailey insisted, turning to look at me and ignoring her mother’s question. “It’s cool if you don’t. No big. I just thought—”

Without saying anything, I walked around the table and pulled out the chair between my dad and Bailey. Sitting by her would be better than being next to Nathan, who’d just plopped down in the chair beside his mother.

I glanced over at Sylvia and Nathan, expecting to overhear some Leave It to Beaver–esque dinner conversation. But their end of the table was quiet. Nathan was smiling, but Sylvia examined Nathan closely, intently. Maybe her supermom sense was tingling. I wondered just how much she’d freak if she knew about Nathan and me and the party.

“Hey, Nate, do you mind passing the mashed potatoes this way?”

Nathan spooned out an overlarge helping of mashed potatoes before passing the bowl to Dad. “Here you go, Greg. They’re awesome.”

“Anything your mother cooks is awesome,” Dad replied.

Gag me.

“Oh, stop.” Sylvia laughed, and the tension I thought I’d seen in her face moments before vanished. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. I just wanted to see a problem with this arrangement. A gap. An imperfection. “You two are too sweet.”

“Nate’s the sweet one,” Dad said. “I just agree with him and reap the benefits. It’s a wonderful job.”

Nate, I thought. They were buddies. Dad already fit in here, with this family. He was one of them.

And I wasn’t.

Looking around the table, I realized just how out of place I was. The Caulfields and Dad were smiling. They were all dressed in bright, happy, summery colors. And me? I’d been fixed with a permanent scowl. I liked cold colors—dark greens and blues. And, to be honest, I didn’t think I’d really been happy in a long time.

“So, munchkin,” Dad said, suddenly noticing me. This wasn’t really Dad, though. He sounded more mature and fatherly than the real Greg Johnson ever did. It was like his newscaster alter ego was speaking to me. A show just for the Caulfields.

My real dad was laid back. Outside of work, he was casual and uncensored and funny. He swore and sang country songs he barely knew the lyrics to—especially after he’d knocked back a few shots on the beach. I wanted to know where that man was. I wanted to know what Sylvia had done to change him.

She’d taken him away from me.

“What do you think of the house?” he asked in the TV-Dad voice. “Is your room okay?”

“Fine,” I lied, taking the bowl of green beans from Bailey.

That was something else I didn’t get. This family-dinner thing. Dad ate his microwavable meals in front of the TV, usually watching ESPN Classic. At the condo, on the nights when he grilled, we’d eat outside while the radio blasted Jimmy Buffett and he and his girlfriend of the moment drank margaritas. Dinner meant scratching itchy summer mosquito bites and hiding the scraps of burned hamburger in my napkin to avoid hurting Dad’s feelings.

“You’ll love Hamilton,” Sylvia said as she buttered a roll.

I glared at her. This was all her fault. Sure, Dad should have told me about this, but if she hadn’t just barged into his life, putting on her flashy Martha Stewart–inspired song and dance, there wouldn’t have been anything to tell. I hated her.

“Of course she will,” Dad said. “It’s a great place for teenagers, too, munchkin. Nathan, have you told Whitley about the Nest?”

“I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

“When can we go?” Bailey asked. “Can we go tomorrow night? Will you come with us, Whitley?”

“Go where?” Her enthusiasm made me uneasy.

“The Nest,” Sylvia answered, sounding stiff but still wearing that annoying smile. “It’s a little dance club for teenagers.”

“They have bands and music and food,” Dad explained. “It’s a nice, safe, wholesome place for local teenagers to spend time. Sherri, Sylvia’s sister, says it’s packed with high school students every weekend. And during the summer, it’s open all week long. I told Nate he should take you and Bailey-Boop.”

I cringed. Bailey-Boop? The nickname made me want to barf almost as much as Dad’s description of the Nest. A “wholesome” place to hang out? Seriously? Already I knew that this place would not be my scene. If there wasn’t alcohol to distract me from all this shit, I wasn’t interested.

“So can we go tomorrow night?” Bailey asked Nathan across the table. “Please?”

“That’s up to Whit,” he said.

“Whitley,” I growled.

I hated—and I mean hated—being called “Whit.” For Christ’s sake, my parents named me Whitley for a reason. If they’d wanted me to be called Whit, that’s what they would have written on my birth certificate.

“So, you up for it tomorrow night?” Nathan asked, like he hadn’t heard me.

.“I don’t know, Nathan.” Sylvia was watching him. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea. Maybe you should stay in.”

“I’d love to go.” I looked right at Nathan. “It sounds great.”

“Oh, honey. Let them have some fun,” Dad said. “It’s summertime. They’re kids. A night out won’t hurt.”

Sylvia looked distinctly unhappy. Good. I might have to spend tomorrow night at a lame club with her spawn, but if that meant pissing her off, it was so worth it.

“Fine,” she relented. “Just behave yourselves.”

“You three will have a good time,” Dad said, handing me the plate of rolls. “This will be a chance for you to bond. Become friends.”

“Awesome.” Bailey grinned at me. “I’ll have to figure out what I’ll wear.”

Then Dad was talking about some special report he was airing the next morning and Sylvia returned to her smiling, bubbly ways. The dent I’d tried to make in her perfect little meal didn’t seem to matter. Of course not.

When everyone was done, Nathan offered to help Sylvia clean up. As I walked out of the dining room, I heard him say quietly, “Mom, it’ll be fine.”

I thought about lingering, eavesdropping to see what he meant, but Sylvia caught me in the doorway and gave me that smile again. “Do you want Bailey to help you set up your room?” she asked.

I shook my head and left the room.

When I got upstairs, I locked the door and dug out my bottle of cheap tequila. If there was one thing that would cheer me up, it was booze.

Later, as I lay stretched out on my bed, I glanced at the bottle on my nightstand. Sylvia would freak if she knew I’d brought alcohol into her house. The thought made me laugh. They were so perfect, so proper and clean. Dad and Sylvia and Nathan and Bailey—they were all downstairs, probably watching a fun family movie and playing Monopoly. And I was upstairs, alone, drunk on Margaritaville Gold.

I didn’t fit in with them at all.

It was so funny, so funny I couldn’t remember why I’d been angry before.

I laughed until it hurt, until the room spun, until I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

The next day I woke to the sound of Bobby Brown singing “My Prerogative.” I sighed and rolled over, groping blindly for my phone on the nightstand and knocking over the bottle of tequila by accident.

“Shit,” I muttered. Thank God the bottle was closed, or that would have been a bitch to explain.

A second later, I found my cell and flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Hey, sis. Saw you called. Sorry I couldn’t talk last night. We had to take Marie to the doctor.”

“Huh? Oh, Marie… Is she okay?”