Page 112 of Devil in Disguise

“All right,” Jennifer said. “It’s because we want to talk to you, and this is our chance to do it in person.”

Dyma gave her mom her best squinty-eyed look. It wasn’t as easy as it used to be, now that she’d gotten more sensitive and all, but turns out she still had it in her. “Why, exactly? To ask whether Owen’s behaving himself? Still no Room of Pain, Mom.”

Jennifer didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she said, “Just … just believe it’s important, OK? Maybe trust that I’m your mom, and I love you to the moon and back. And that if I want to talk to you, it’s because it matters.”

Oh, boy. There went her heart rate. There went her blood pressure, or the lack of it, because she couldn’t feel her hands and feet.

“Mom. Tell me you don’t have cancer.”

“What? No.” Jennifer laughed.

“Grandpa Oscar? Nicky?”

“No.Nobody has cancer. Nobody’s dying.”

As it turned out, that wasn’t it at all.

* * *

So,yes, dinner was a whole lot less footsie-under-the-table, secret-looks-and-whispers than she’d hoped for. Instead, as soon as they’d placed their orders and handed the menus over, with Dymanothaving ordered the grilled red snapper and charred asparagus, not because she didn’t want it, and also not because she wasn’t extremely tired of beans and cheese, but because she didn’t want to relax her vegetarianism in front of everybody—Jennifer said, “So.”

Dyma said,“Finally.Mom. What?”

Jennifer looked at Harlan, and he clearly took her hand under the table. She said, “So—about getting married.Ourgetting married, that is.”

“You’re kidding,” Dyma said. “This is about thewedding?Why didn’t youtellme? Do you know how nervous I’ve been, trying to figure out what was wrong? Yep, I’ve got it. I can’t believe you want to discuss wedding details on the night before the Super Bowl, but whatever. I’m your maid of honor, which means I walk down the aisle first, and then I hold your bouquet. Owen’s the best man, which meanshestands there looking solid and blocks the exit if Harlan tries to bolt. We’vegotit.”

Her mom looked down, then up again, and Dyma said, “What, you’re not getting married after all? Nope, I don’t believe it. First, Harlan’sdyingto get married, and second, you’re not actually an idiot, and you love him like he was … I don’t know. The best thing in your world?”

Owen said, “Maybe you’d better just let her say.”

“Except I’m nervous,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got that. Let her say it anyway.” And tookherhand under the table. And, yes, that was awaymore solid feeling. Grounded, the rational part of her brain tried to inform her, while the fear-processing part of her brain, the amygdala or whatever, went,Danger. Danger.With flashing red lights.

Now, Harlan spoke. “Not the best time to discuss this, maybe, but our only chance to do it in person before the wedding. Your mom and I met with my attorney last week about some financial details.”

“So—wait. You’re discussing your prenup with Owen and me? Awkward, but … OK, I guess? I assume there’s a reason.”

“No,” Harlan said. “We’re not doing one. No, she pointed out something your mom hadn’t realized about your financial aid.”

“My financialaid?”

“Yeah. The form you and your mom have to fill out before the start of every school year.”

“The FAFSA.” Her mouth had gone dry. She wished she had something to drink. Preferably something alcoholic. This felt bad.

“If your parent marries,” Harlan went on, “that affects her financial status. And your eligibility.”

“But you’re …” She tried to think. “You’re not the … custodian, or whatever. The guardian. Whatever it would be. I’m an adult, and you have zero responsibility for me, financially or otherwise. What difference does it make whether you’re married to Mom?”

“It’s not what you think, or what I think,” Harlan said, “or what your mom thinks. It’s what the government thinks. It doesn’t matter what kind of agreement your parent has with the stepparent. Her financial situation has changed. That’s the bottom line, and it’s all that matters.”

“So … what does that mean, exactly?”

Jennifer said, “That you won’t be eligible for any financial aid after Spring quarter.”

“My scholarship,” Dyma said, feeling like the elevator had just started dropping from the eighty-second floor. Or like the hammer had fallen.