Great Expectations

"You've got me standing in an awkward position with unwanted attention and a need for explanation." - Kate Nash

“What the hell did you do?” Poppy asked as soon as I backed away from the beach and began to drive home.

I sighed. “You left. Hunter left. Dean walked up and started his usual antagonism. He asked me if I wanted a ride on his bike and… I don’t know. I just agreed. It’s an amazing feeling.” I remembered the ground flying beneath my feet, the sensation of flying over asphalt. “We went to the beach and we just talked for a while. It made me realize Dean might actually be human.”

Poppy raised her eyebrows. “You’re kidding, right?” She looked out the windshield, her arm leaning out the window. “I don’t know that I would do that. You’re not supposed to be the impulsive one.”

“I know,” I said, turning into Poppy’s driveway. She lived less than five minutes from the beach; we walked to the ocean on many warm summer days. “See you tomorrow.” Poppy said nothing as she exited the car. I pulled out of her driveway and drove home in silence, not wanting to go back to school tomorrow.

When I turned onto my street, I knew something was wrong. As I approached my driveway, I saw what it was and prayed my eyes were playing tricks on me. I stopped in front of my house and knew it wasn’t a hallucination.

There was a bright red motorcycle in my driveway.

I parked my car and slowly walked to my house, praying that it was someone else’s motorcycle, that I wouldn’t see him inside, that maybe I had fallen asleep driving Poppy home, or maybe I hadn’t even gotten up for the first day of school yet. This had to be a dream; there was no other explanation.

I walked in the side door, letting it slam behind me. “I’m home,” I announced loudly, my voice echoing through the spacious new house. I left my purse on the kitchen counter and walked down the hall to the living room, where my suspicions were confirmed.

Dean Montague’s bike was parked in my driveway.

I knew this because Dean Montague was sitting on my living room couch. My parents were seated across from him, on the loveseat.

I was still shocked that Dean Montague was in my house, his leather coat folded carelessly next to him and his aviators hanging from the front of his white tee shirt.

“Hello, Juliet,” my mother said. “Why didn’t you tell us you made a new friend?”

“Because I haven’t seen you since this morning, before I met him,” I said. I knew this would be a weak excuse; my mother would use my cell phone against me, question why I hadn’t called her. I never call my mother and she never calls me, yet she constantly complains about our lack of communication.

“Well, he’s a very charming person,” my father said. I was surprised I didn’t fall over in a dead faint at that moment. My father called Hunter a ‘good boy with great potential’ when he had first met him. I had no idea what he meant by “charming,” and I was frightened to find out.

“Stop standing there; you’re being rude,” my mother said. “Sit down.” I walked slowly into the living room and sat in one of the uncomfortable, straight-back chairs. The room had fallen silent. Dean glanced at me, but didn’t say anything. My mother smiled fakely and my father stared out the window at the dusky sky.

“Tell us about yourself, Dean,” my mother said, still smiling icily. My gaze fell to the plush carpet, praying my face wouldn’t turn red.

“Well,” he said, stretching out the word to fill a gap of silence. “I just moved here from New York with my dad. I’m a senior at Marseille High and… well, I’m really not that interesting of a person.”

“What part of New York are you from?” Mother asked, feigning interest. She was obviously judging his every move and syllable, and I doubted she would like Dean even if he came from a penthouse apartment on Park Avenue or an eighteen thousand square foot manor house in Westchester County.

“The city,” Dean said. “Brooklyn, actually.”

I could almost hear my mother’s distaste. “What does your father do?” my father asked. Unlike my mother, he didn’t need to feign interest; he was always concerned with other people’s occupations and knowing his was better than theirs.

“He’s a pharmacist,” Dean said. “We moved because of my step-mom. She’s a real estate agent in Beverly Hills. Yesterday, she sold Hayden Panettiere an apartment overlooking the valley.”

My mother’s eyebrows skyrocketed in shock. Dean had obviously typed her the instant he met her as a stereotypical California woman and had the power to play her like a violin. Whether he would was another question.

“What did you say your name was?” my mother asked.

“Dean Montague,” he said. “Actually…” He leaned to the left and reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. For a second, I thought he was going to show my parents his driver’s license. Instead of pulling out a thin plastic card, he revealed a sparkling silver ring, a small square amethyst set in the center. I recognized it instantly as the ring my parents had gotten me from Tiffany’s for my sixteenth birthday.

“Your ring,” my mother said, turning to look at me, displeasure spreading across her face. Sure, we could have replaced it, but my carelessness with anything my parents bought would never be tolerated.

“Yeah.” Dean held it out to me. “It fell off when we were at – ”

“Starbuck’s,” I said, taking it back from him. He caught my gaze and for a second, no words were spoken. In that second, Dean understood what I was trying to say: do not mention the beach, your motorcycle, or the fact that we were alone. “Thank you.” I slid the ring back onto the ring finger of my right hand. It had always been the tiniest bit big, so I could twist it as I was doing now. It was a nervous habit.

“Yes, thank you,” my mother said. “It’s a school night, and it was lovely to meet you, but Juliet needs to get studying.”

My gaze shifted to my mother and I knew better than to argue. I had little homework other than covering my books. Dean nodded and stood; I followed him out of the room and down the hall. “Thanks for bringing my ring back,” I said quietly, making sure my parents wouldn’t hear. “It fell off at the beach, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I found it in the sand.” I nodded, twisting the ring. Dean crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Do I get a reward for finding the treasure?” A smile spread across his face. “How about a kiss?”

I shook my head. “How about you take your leather jacket and your rebel attitude and leave before my parents get a restraining order.”

“That’s harsh,” Dean said.

“They don’t like you,” I said. “Trust me, I know. Even though your mom’s probably best friends with half the celebrities in Los Angeles, you wear a leather jacket and tight jeans. As you said, they like the Abercrombie models.”

An expression of distaste flashed across Dean’s face as he threw his jacket back on. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, walking out the door. A few seconds later, I heard his bike rev and drive out of the driveway.

“Juliet.” My mother’s voice drew me from the dark hallway to the living room, where both my parents still sat. I stood in the door, my arms crossed. “That boy is trouble.” I said nothing, knowing this was probably true. “I don’t want you to talk to him anymore.”

“Okay,” I said. I still believed I hated Dean Montague. This was perfect: now I had a reason not to talk to him, listen to him, or even look at him.

Unfortunately, this was easier said than done.