The Mediator 6: Twilight by Meg Cabot

Author:Meg Cabot [Meg Cabot]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

chapter eleven

Because of the auction, Andy was late putting dinner on the table, so I ended up getting home just in time. My mom couldn’t understand why I was so quiet during the meal, though. She thought maybe I’d gotten too much sun sitting out at the bake sale table.

"Sister Ernestine should at least have given you an umbrella," she said as she dug into the pork tenderloin Andy had prepared. "That little girl you were sitting with . . . what was her name again?"

"Shannon."

Only it wasn’t me who said it. It was David.

"Yes, Shannon," my mother said. "She’s a redhead, like David. That much sun can be very damaging to redheads. I hope she was wearing sunscreen."

I half expected David to come up with one of his usual comments—you know, the exact statistical incidents of skin cancer occurring in eighth graders in northern California, or something. His head was filled with all sorts of useless information like that. Instead, he just flicked his mashed potatoes around his plate, until Brad, who’d finished all of his own mashed potatoes, as well as what was left in the bowl, went, "Man, are you going to eat that or play with it? Because if you don’t want it, give it to me."

"David," Andy said. "Finish what’s on your plate." David picked up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and ate it.

Brad’s gaze immediately flickered over to my plate. But the hopeful look in his eye faded when he saw how clean it was. Not, of course, that I’d felt like eating. At all.

But I had Max, the family dog-slash-garbage disposal, by my side, and I’d grown expert at slipping him what I couldn’t choke down myself.

"May I be excused?" I asked. "I think maybe I did get a little too much sun—"

"It’s Suze’s turn to put the plates in the dishwasher," Brad declared.

"No, it isn’t." I couldn’t believe this. Didn’t these people realize I had way more important things to do than worry about household chores? I had to make sure my boyfriend died, like he was supposed to. "I did it last week."

"Nuh-uh," Brad said. "You and Jake traded weeks, remember? Because he had to work the dinner shift this week."

Since this was indisputably true—I’d seen the evidence myself over at Paul’s—I couldn’t argue anymore.

"Fine," I said, scooting my chair back, nearly running over Max in the process, and standing up. "I’ll do it."

"Thank you, Susie," my mom said with a smile as I took her plate.

My reply wasn’t exactly gracious. I muttered, "Whatever," and went into the kitchen with everybody’s plates, Max following closely at my heels. Max loves it when I have plate-clearing duty, because I just scrape everything into his bowl, rather than into the trash compactor.

But on that night, Max and I weren’t alone in the kitchen.

Even though I didn’t notice anyone else in there right away, I knew something was up when Max suddenly lifted his head from his bowl and fled, his food only half finished, and his tail between his legs.

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