Page 107 of The Friend Scheme
“Stop!” I say. “I so don’t want to hear the end of that.”
He chuckles. “That’s fair.”
Together, we go upstairs.
It’s a long hallway, lined with windows. The wooden floorboards beneath me creaks. If I look out, I can see the parking lot, lit by neon. I think back to when I first got in Jason’s car, and how scared and excited I was.
He still makes me feel that way.
My blood chills. It would’ve been so easy for anyone standing where I am now to see me get in his car. So maybe we were watched. But surely if someone saw, I would’ve gotten in trouble by now.
Luke and I go inside a room to the right. It’s a conference room, with a long table in the middle, surrounded by high-backed chairs. About ten family members are already seated. There’s an unlit fireplace at the head of the room, although I think that’s more for decoration than anything, as I’ve never seen it lit. On the table are glasses of Scotch, a few bottles of red wine, and a bowl filled with fresh fruit, mostly red apples and grapes.
I think I’ve been here maybe three times in total.
I’ve hated it every single time.
Hanging on the wall opposite the fireplace is a portrait of my grandfather. He’s wearing a black suit, and I swear the artist did a great job of capturing his disapproving sneer. I catch Grandma looking at it, her eyes glassy.
I wish I could say I miss him.
But I blame him for the Miller legacy. The darkness and our lies.
Luke and I sit near the head of the table, where Dad is sitting. He has a half-empty glass of Scotch beside him. In the dim light, he looks gaunt. He lost weight while in the hospital and hasn’t put it back on yet, which is even more obvious now that he’s shaved. He’s clearly mad about something. His hands are resting on the dark wood of the table, and one of them is clenched into a fist.
Soon, everyone is seated. Silence falls over the room.
“Now,” says Dad. “Given recent events, I need all of you to promise that what we talk about tonight will not, under any circumstances, leave this room. Not a word, to anyone, do you all understand?”
He glances at me.
Okay, ouch.
But message received.
Everyone nods.
“Good,” he says. He sips his Scotch. “I’ve called this meeting because I’ve come up with a plan to end the war.”
The energy in the room changes. Everyone is now listening intently.
Dad smirks. “I propose that we call a truce.”
There’s an uproar. Almost everyone is shouting, trying to get their opinion in.
I might be the only one not doing that.
Can this really be happening?
Is he going to finally ask for peace?
If a truce happens, there will be nothing keeping Jason and me from being friends, or maybe even escalating.
This would solve everything.
“Quiet,” says Grandma.
And everyone listens. The room stills.
