Page 35 of Lance

Willa

Once Lance is gone, I look over to see Simon watching me, eyes wide, silent. The only light on in the room is over the dining room table and now that the sun is going down, the sitting area looks dark andgloomy.

“So,” I say brightly, turning on all the lamps as I walk through the room. “Lance had to go outbut—”

“Where’d he go?” Simon asks immediately. “Is he comingback?”

“He’s definitely coming back. He’s just going to go have a meeting with alawyer—”

“What’sthat?”

“Someone who can help him to make sure your mom is safe and everything is okay. Then he has to go to work for a little bit, but he’ll be back later, Ipromise.”

“Oh.” His shoulders hunch a little. “My mom goes to work at night sometimes. She says I’m brave when I stay bymyself.”

I pause in the act of pulling a glass from the shelf over the wet bar. His mother leaves him alone? Atnight?

“Well, you’re not staying by yourself tonight. I’m going to hang out with you,okay?”

He watches me, silent, as I fill the glass with water and walk back to the couch. “Okay,” he finally says in that small voice as I hand him his drink. He looks so tiny sitting on the big couch, dwarfed by the oversized cushions, his eyes big in his pale face, and I feel tears sting myeyes.

Sitting here feeling sad for him won’t help anything,I tellmyself.

“Have you ever stayed in a hotel before?” I ask and he shakes his head. “It’s really cool. We can call down to the kitchen and they’ll bring us food, right to ourroom!”

He brightens a little at that. “My tummyisprettygrowly.”

“Well let’s get some dinner in therethen.”

I find the room service menu on the wet bar and bring it back to the couch. “Okay, what do you feellike?”

“Can I see?” he asks, holding out his hand. I pass over the menu, narrowing my eyes a little bit. “Simon, can you readthat?”

“Most of it,” he says, not looking up. “Some of the words are too big forme.”

“How old areyou?”

“I’m six,” he says, all matter of fact. “My mom says I’m crazysmart.”

I can’t help but laugh at the choice of words. “Crazy smart, huh? I think we’re going to get along prettywell.”

I let him pick whatever and as much as he wants off the menu. I haven’t studied enough child psychology to know if this is a good move in the circumstances—maybe what he needs is some firm boundaries or something? But he looks so eager when he tells me that he thinks his tummy has enough room for spaghetti and a cheeseburgerandFrench fries that I can’t say no. I let him add dessert, too. The kid’s entire life has been turned upside down today. The least I can do is let him eat somecookies.

We watch some moreClone Warswhile we wait for the food. I keep up a steady stream of conversation about the characters and eventually Simon joins in, informing me that Mace Windu isfarcooler than Obi-Wan and I must be a “dork” to think otherwise. He even laughs at my Yoda impression and then proceeds to do a much better one. By the time our room service arrives, he seems to have relaxed a lot, no longer looking around the room with those fearful wideeyes.

He starts on his cheeseburger first, taking huge bites that make his cheeks stick out like achipmunk.

“You weren’t kidding about being hungry,huh?”

He smiles, a little shy, careful not to open his mouth when it’sfull.

“So,” I say, taking the top off my chicken club to add some ranch to the sandwich. “What other cartoons are youinto?”

When he doesn’t answer I look up to see him watching me. He swallows his food and points. “What’sthat?”

I look at the little bottle in my hand. “It’s ranchdressing.”

“Isn’t that forsalads?”