Growing Up and Other Tall Tales

Chapter 23

"No way," I sit up almost spilling my beer

She covers her face behind her glass and falls back embarrassed on the couch, "I know, I know."

"It's a classic,"

"I know,"

"Brando. Pacino." I continue, my voice amplifying in disbelief

"I know," she groans and tosses her head back and I distantly register that she is growing increasingly animated in her behavior. I hide my smirk.

Lyra Donovan's drunk.

"I never got around to watching it." she mumbles sheepishly

"Oh my god."

"What?"

"Robert De Niro."

That earns me a pillow to the face. I laugh.

"Okay so," I prop my leg up on the coffee table, careful not to kick over the bottle of wine that was nearly empty. "You and I. The Godfather. Beer."

"Eloquent," she smiles into her glass

"I think I delivered it," I shrug

"When were you such a film...enthusiast?" she takes time trying to find words leaning over my knees to reach for the bottle

"Mother is a film enthusiast," I correct her, tipping the last of my beer and crushing it, "I was caught in the crossfire of her obsession,"

Lyra snorts, tossing another beer at me. I catch it up and hold up my hands up defensively and questioningly. "Okay what's so funny?"

She looks like she is about to dismiss it but thinks otherwise and goes ahead, "Mother? That's so posh. You look and sound like a less sexually ambiguous Draco Malfoy. You ostentatious prick."

How is she still stringing along big words?

"It's more a formal title," I wave my hand in the air vaguely, "She's not my real mother,"

"Oh," I know, she doesn't add

"She adopted all of us." I steal a little bit of her wine and wince at the mixed tastes sloshing around in my stomach. "We were kids fallen out of the system or runaways. On the streets. Sides of bars. Some of used to run drugs." I shrug leaning over the couch to open the beer.

When I turn back, her eyes are unusually focused for someone who just almost downed a bottle of cheap wine.

"So, it's like an orphanage?"

"No," I laugh a little, "It's um..." I've never been too good with words and drunk me isn't a rejuvenated Shakespeare either, "...an institute for wayward children."

"So an orphanage,"

"Not officially," I shrug, "It doesn't feel like it. I've been in an orphanage. This is more..."

She doesn't finish the line for me like she usually does. Instead, she stares at me waiting for me to go on, patiently. She's sitting back on her calves, one arm slung over the backrest and the other holding her glass. She's listening.

No, she is hearing me.

People listen to me all the time, follow me. But she hears.

"Closer," I feel breathless. She nods.

"Diana called you cap or something—"

"Capo," I tell her and I don't know why. What am I doing here? "You can pick a name; a nickname. You are only allowed to refer each other with your chosen names under the roof. House rules."