Chapter 8: Invites and Rebellion

I rushed to my door, my mind already checking off my ingredient list mentally. I was missing a few that I would have to run to the store for. But that would be perfect since my parents were heading north for the weekend. I would have the house to myself and bake to my heart's delight.

My mother came clacking up to me the moment I stepped into the living room.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

I raised up my glass pie pan. "Mr. Jones was returning my pie pan."

She gave me a blank stare. "Mr. Jones?"

"Our new neighbor," I explained.

"Why did he have your pan?" she asked.

It was obvious that she didn't remember the conversation last night at all.

"I had baked him a pie, remember? He cleaned it and gave it back to me," I explained as patiently as I could.

"You asked him to clean it! Rebecca! Honestly, that's so rude! Where are your manners?!"

"Mother, he cleaned it to be polite... Nevermind. Are the invitations here? I would like to get them done so I could get started on my homework," I switched gears, knowing I would never get anywhere with whatever my mother thought was rude.

"Yes, they are on the table along with the list of names your father approved this morning. Please add our new neighbor's name so I can try and salvage this image that you are giving us," Mother scolded me a bit.

I sighed internally but didn't argue. At least I would have a few guests there that I could actually stand to be around.

"Molly and her family are on the list, right?" I clarified as I headed to the kitchen.

"Yes, dear. Molly's father just got a promotion following the big sale in France," Ingram gushed.

I murmured an appropriate remark and picked up the list to scan through it. There were the usual names that I had expected. Mostly the pompous bigwigs that worked with my father. As well as some of the clients that he was trying to schmooze. I only paused when I found one that I didn't recognize.

"Who is K.J. Horton?" I asked, scrunching up my nose.

"The son of your father's newest client. He is a bit of a troublemaker, according to your father. But the family is apparently one of the most prominent this side of Connecticut. They just moved into town six months ago. According to the Ladies Society, the family had some big scandal last year. They moved here to escape it. Probably something to do with drugs or alcohol, but you know how these things are... very hush, hush."

My jaw dropped in shock. I couldn't believe that my mother would allow someone with that sort of background into one of her parties. Especially if she had heard it from the Ladies Society.

Hamford Town's Prominent Ladies Society was the largest group of juicy news and gossip-related clubs in a thirty-mile radius. The police had even attempted to pass a law that stated any word from the society could be sworn in as evidence. The newspaper didn't even bother hunting down leads anymore. They just showed up at the next meeting, and there was their story. In fact, I was sure that one of the members was an acclaimed journalist who never missed a meeting.

"So, you wish me to invite a possible criminal to my 19th birthday party?" I asked in disbelief.

"Really, Rebecca. Don't be so selfish. This is for your Father. You can do this small thing for him. This client apparently wants his son to form his own circle of connections to help him get a rise in life. This is the least you could do to help your father out," Mother insisted.

I rolled my eyes at the insinuation I was being selfish. I had heard that quite often growing up.

I wasn't going to argue about how it was not really selfish to want to have a normal birthday party. Especially not with Ingram Delaney.

"Now, I have to head over to the Malcolms. Their oldest just had a brand new baby boy. I want to pay my respects to them. I may not be home until later this evening, and your father is out of town tonight. Please have these done by morning," Mother said before sweeping out the front door.

I shook my head at the closing door. Should have known she wasn't going to stick around, I thought to myself. She had on her "going out a-calling" dress on. It was a conservative beautiful grey dress with just enough decoration on it. So, if the situation called for it, it could be considered a dressy outfit. I had to bite my lip to stop the words from spilling out. Mother wouldn't appreciate my letting her know that the dress she had chosen made her look like she was going to a wake.

I pulled out a chair and broke out my phone, feeling like some sort of music was in order. I grabbed the invites and winced at the gold and cream gaudy curly lettering that proclaimed it was a gathering. At least it stated it was for my birthday; that was a small favor.

By the time my playlist had concluded, I had barely gotten through a third of the invites. The silence in the house was driving me crazy, and the music was doing nothing to calm me. Any other day I would have enjoyed my time alone without the stinging disapproval of my mother. But today, it only served to illuminate my restlessness.

I put my pen down then walked outside, hoping the ambient noise from the neighborhood would drown out the odd loneliness I was feeling. Children were playing, and dogs were barking all along the back fence. I could hear a general chatter of people talking and coming and going.

But none of it helped.

We had a large outdoor pool that took up barely half the yard. It was still warm enough that if I grabbed my bathing suit, then I could dive right in. A long, luxurious swim was an extremely tempting thought. However, I knew I had too much to do for that long of a break. The thick bushes that lined the fence and blocked me from the view of all the neighboring houses. Well, unless they were on the second floor of their houses.

I sat in one of the lawn chairs and looked up at the sky. The steady rhythmic thumping caught my attention. It was the only thing that had finally managed to break up the silence. I could still hear Mr. Jones' music, even though his back door was closed. I shut my eyes and concentrated on letting the beat sink in. Though I knew the music was intended to get your blood flowing, it was somehow soothing to me. It wasn't perfect, prim, proper, or anything that was surrounding me or seemingly cutting me off from everything.

"Sit perfectly, Rebecca."

"Stand perfectly, Rebecca."

"BE PERFECT, REBECCA!"

I could hear my parents yelling at me, no matter what I did. But the music I could still hear coming from Mr. Jones's house screaming of rebellion and freedom, and I ached for it.