Page 38 of British Daddy to Go

His voice is completely monotone, as one would expect by looking at the scrawny boy. “Boy” is the appropriate term for him. I thought Randall was the same age as I am, but he’s three years younger. It shows in his face, which still bears a teenager’s smile and enough pimples to fill a high school classroom.

This is the guy my parents think I’m going to marry?

“Why don’t we have a seat at the kitchen table?” my father suggests. “You two can get to know each other while Nancy and I finish preparing dinner.”

“Thank you, Don. That w-would be great,” Randall says with a slight stammer. Our conversations have been limited to one or two words in the past, so I never knew he stammered. Is it a nervous tick or something he does all of the time? I certainly hope it’s only because he’s intimidated by my parents.

Randall waits for me to move toward the kitchen before following. It isn’t so much a gentlemanly gesture as it is Randall needing to follow someone else. I imagine he’s the type of person to do exactly what he’s told and never make any suggestions otherwise. If he had gone to regular school, he would be the guy doing the entire group project because he doesn’t want to cause trouble.

I take my usual seat at the table. Randall looks around in a panic, like he doesn’t know where to sit.

“Why don’t you sit across from Maggie so that you can see her beautiful face?” my mom suggests.

“T-thank you, Nancy,” Randall says, clearly relieved. He sits in his designated chair and folds his hands politely on the table. His elbows remain tucked against his sides.

Randall’s rigidness makes me uncomfortable. This is my house, and I should be able to put my elbows on the table if I want. Watching Randall, though, I feel like I need to follow in his footsteps. I cross my arms across my chest in protest. At least my elbows aren’t on the table.

“Randall, ask Maggie about her work. She started a new job last week as a tailor.”

“Y-yes, Nancy. I’ll do that,” he responds. “What is your job?”

I struggle not to roll my eyes. Does Randall have any thoughts of his own, or does he simply rely on other people to tell him what to do? “I’m an assistant tailor at Havisham’s.”

“I’ve never heard of that store. What do they sell?”

“Suits, mostly. It’s a high-end store that sells expensive designer clothing for men.”

Randall nods. “Are you a s-salesperson?”

My hands flex into fists. “No. I’m an assistant tailor.”

“S-so you sew?”

“Among other things, yes.”

Mom senses the tension in my voice and quickly steps in. She places a tossed salad in front of Randall on the table. “Maggie loves to sew. She made a lot of the clothes in her closet.”

“T-that’s interesting. I-it’s good you don’t have idle h-hands. The devil l-loves girls with idle hands.”

This time, I can’t hold back the eye roll. Randall either doesn’t notice or can’t bring himself to call me out on it. “I like to stay busy.”

“Did y-you make the dress you’re w-wearing?”

“No, my parents bought it for me. Do you like it?”

Randall blushes. “It looks g-good.”

“Don’t be shy,” my mom interrupts. “Tell Maggie how fantastic that dress makes her look! She needs to hear it. She thinks she needs to wear short, tight dresses to be beautiful.”

The poor kid looks scandalized. “That is unfortunate. You are a b-beautiful girl, Maggie.”

“Thank you, Randall,” I say sweetly, trying to lay it on extra thick to make him uncomfortable. “What do you like best about me?”

His eyes nearly leave their sockets. “Oh, w-well…”

My father puts a calloused hand on Randall’s shoulder. “She’s only teasing you, young man.”

Randall adjusts his glasses. “I s-see. Teasing is unbecoming of a y-young woman.”