by Day, Susie
MYCROFT CHRISTIE: (sighs, continues smoldery eyebrow to fade-out)
And that’s it. He’s done. Gingerbread Ed Hartley, fresh from the oven, and ready to serve.
ORES.
UM.
I’m kind of desperate to show him off right away, but I have to be a professional about this. My many hours of TV detective training have taught me the importance of patience: of hanging back and waiting for the quarry to take the bait, in case the quarry turns out to be flying manmonkeys of death. Not that I’m exactly expecting that. And Mycroft and Jori on stakeout eating doughnuts definitely get to have more fun than I do sitting in History, trying to casually steer a conversation about Henry VIII round to hot boyfriendly types. But blurting out, “Please go and look at this website where you will find convincing evidence of how much Ed loves me,” could ruin the whole operation.
Result: I’m practically skipping when I hit the Little Leaf for my next shift and get to at least share Ed with someone.
I dutifully strap on my frilly apron, and admire today’s Wisdom: OUR BLUE POPPY SEED CAKE IS NOT ACTUALLY BLUE: JUST THE POPPY SEEDS IN IT. SORRY TO DISAPPOINT. I sling the usual toast, jam, English Breakfast pot for two at the ancient couple seated at the window. I wait for Betsy to get us set up with our own pot. Then I whack the Dread Pirate onto the counter, piggyback onto the Big Bean’s wi-fi network from across the road, and introduce Betsy to gingerbread_ed in all his ULife glory.
I don’t even dare hold my cup while she’s reading. She’s going to love him. She’s going to think he’s heaven on a stick.
She makes the face she makes when people ask for their tea with lemon. It’s not a happy face.
“Oh, Heidi. It’s sweet and all, but don’t you think this is a little too much?”
PARD.
ON.
MOY?
“You don’t think he sounds yummy? In an angsty troubadour kind of way?”
Betsy sighs, and casts her eye over the screen again.
“I guess, if you like that intense thing. He’s like an independent movie Ken doll. One of those guys who wants to read you his poetry while wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt.”
“That’s bad?”
I could be read poetry. I’ve already been read poetry. By the lake, all summer, under the cherry tree. I’ve just decided. I’ve always pictured him in a sort of geek-chic flowery shirt before now, but Ed could totally rock a Che T-shirt. In a postpolitical post-ironic don’t-really-know-what-this-means kind of way.
“It’s bad if the poetry is bad, hon. Which, let’s face it, it’s going to be. Have you ever actually read Jack Kerouac?”
“No. But Ed would love it. It’s required reading for openroading big-sky biker types. Like how all emogirls have to read The Bell Jar.”
“Uh-huh.”
Betsy takes a long sip of tea.
“Oh My God. You don’t like my boyfriend.”
Betsy squints from under her hair. “No, no, no, honeybee. He’s…cute as a button. And you’re obviously enjoying yourself, making all this up. It’s just he’s, I don’t know, maybe a little more revealing than you realize? He’s not a person, after all: He’s a list of things Heidi finds attractive in a guy. That’s kind of personal material to be putting out there, hon. It’s like I’m peeking inside your head, getting all surprised by what’s going on up there.”
“Surprised?” That doesn’t sound good. I thought Ed was perfect and gorgeous in a universally accepted, non-Heidi-specific kind of way. “You mean, I got the list of attractive stuff wrong?”
“No, sweetie. That’s not the kind of thing you can get wrong. I guess…well, I guess I’m just surprised you have a list.”
“Don’t let The Coat fool you, missy,” I say, waving a spoon at her. “Beneath this cunning disguise, I am actually a girl. A girly girl, who has girly thoughts about boylike boys. Bad thoughts. Bad, naughty, girly thoughts.”
There’s a little cough, cutting me off from my spoon waving.
Teddy.
Edging behind Betsy and looking deliriously rumpled like always, curls askew, in a floury apron and his monster-feet slippers.
I don’t know what’s more humiliating: the fact that he heard me, or the fact that he’s giving me that sympathetic lazy smile, eyes twinkling, the one that says, “Wow, you’re probably really embarrassed now.”
I sort of shrink into The Coat, waiting for him to swat me mockingly with a spoonful of cookie dough, or doodle a chalky motorbiking Heidi-lover (wearing very thick spectacles). But he just twinkles knowingly some more, and turns his back.
“I’ll just be over here, completely unable to hear you,” he says, gently enough to make me shrink even farther, while he gets busy wiping down the Daily Wisdom and replacing it with WHY NOT TRY A CUP OF EARL GREY? WE HAVE RUN OUT OF MILK. “Again?” says Betsy, twisting round to read. “Crap. Teddy, sweetie, drop round the corner store and pick up a couple of pints? Excuse me, Heidi, I have to go yell at some suppliers.”
We’ve only got two customers, and they’ve been served. We’re milkless. Perfect opportunity for me to do what any self-respecting girlfriend would be doing right now: chat online with my boy.
UChat
mrsheidichristie: Hey eddiebaby! You still alive or did Bilbo stink you to death?
gingerbread_ed: he stank me to death. apparently i have been reincarnated as some guy called ‘eddiebaby.’ :/
mrsheidichristie: Humblest apologies, edmondo.
gingerbread_ed: aren’t you supposed to be at work?
mrsheidichristie: Yeah, we’re not very busy though. Betsy says hi!
gingerbread_ed: give her a snog from me?
mrsheidichristie: um…no. I could send you an almond finger?
gingerbread_ed: mmm, kinky
I have to switch between two different browsers so I can be logged into both accounts, which is a pain. But it’s worth it. It looks super-amazing. Even Betsy’s impressed, when she comes back in.
“OK, I’m starting to like him,” she says, reading over my shoulder once I’m safely logged back out again, my tracks covered. “You, I’m a little worried about. You’re a little too good at this, you know that?”
“It’s all Ed’s fault. He’s leading me astray.”
She smiles. I think she’s finally getting why this is fun. Then she peers at the screen again.
“Wait. These are private messages, right? So only you and Ed can read them? I mean, in theory.”
See? She’s starting to think he’s real, too.
“In theory, yeah.”
“So if no one else can see this stuff, what’s the point?”
I check my watch, and grin.
Mycroft Christie, episode 2.2, “The Burmese Falcon.” Contrary to popular belief, my dear, I know precisely what I’m doing.
The Little Leaf door opens with a jingle, and in walks my audience.
The Leftover Squad. Full lineup: Ludo, snuggled halfway inside Peroxide Eric’s military coat; Fili and Simon, the doom twins, gauntly perfect in identical black skinnies and pointy boots; Dai, bouncing in like Tigger and propelling Henry forward to show him off.
Betsy raises an eyebrow.
“Hey, guys, was wondering if you’d make it,” I say, ultracasual, gently nudging the Dread Pirate to ensure the screen is enticingly visible.
I catch Betsy’s eye.
OWE.
YES.
Phase Two of Operation: Authentic Boy is going perfectly to plan.
The Lovely Safak drops in to see Teddy, and helps out in the kitchen between kissy-breaks. I scribble down orders, smirking as Simon requests the most Goth items on the menu (black currant tea and Darkest Chocolate Brownies) for them both, without Fili having to say a word. I worry for a minute at Henry’s amused look, as he takes in the mismatched mugs and the worn bit on the arm of the sofa: He’s probably used to posh china and waitresses who don’t spill things on you. But Betsy threatens to force-feed Dai cream teas if he gets anymore buff (which makes h
im go all pink, even though you can tell he’s loving it), and Henry shakes her hand and they geek out together over Ceylon versus Darjeeling. Peroxide Eric sprawls on the green velvet sofa, Ludo snuggling pointedly farther into his coat, one beady eye enviously watching Safak lean over the counter to ruffle the flour out of Teddy’s hair.
And I observe, invisibly, as Dai’s curiosity drags him to sneak a peek at the open laptop; as he whispers gleefully to Ludo, who then quite urgently needs a teaspoon and to linger at the counter, reading, while she’s finding one; as the laptop catches Fili’s eye too while she’s waiting in the bathroom queue and she blinks at it; while Dai and Ludo watch and giggle from the sofa.
“So, what’s up?” I say innocently, hopping up on the nearest table.
Ludo, Dai, and Henry exchange smirky and faintly guilty looks.
“Dai’s being a crazy dumb person,” says Ludo, barely missing a beat.
This is even better than I’d hoped. Now they’re pretending Ed is their little secret, too.
“Afraid so,” says Henry, smoothly picking up the thread like a pro. “Mr. Busy and Important here has decided he’s too good for slumming it on the stage.”
“Even though it’s going to be, like, THE thing that everyone is doing, and we’re, like, never even going to SEE him this term if he doesn’t,” adds Ludo.
Dai throws up his hands. “All I said was I might not be able to do swimming and squash club and the musical. Which is apparently the end of the world.”
“He thinks he did a bad audition,” explains Henry, fondly.
“Not true,” says Fili.
“And Fili would know,” Henry adds. “Secret starlet, this one. Everyone else is wailing about vocal warm-ups and ‘what’s my motivation,’ and she just stands up and sings. No accompaniment. Note-perfect, clear as a bell. Best audition I’ve ever heard.”
“Really?” says Peroxide Eric, shifting around on the sofa, and sliding his eyes up and down Fili thoughtfully. “Now that’s what I call a hidden talent.”
Ludo gives him a prod with a glossy peach fingernail, but I don’t think he means it in a sarky way. Fili doesn’t seem to, either. I mean, she rolls her eyes, but there’s definitely a little smile at the corners of her lips.
I try to imagine ‘80s-styled glittery musical superstar Fili. It’s…weird.
“Anyway, Phil hasn’t even DECIDED on the casting yet, so he should totally just wait.”
“You’re calling him Phil now?” says Peroxide Eric.
“You wouldn’t understand, baby, but calling him Mr. Venables is, like, SO not an accurate representation of the director/cast dynamic?”
Ludo rubs Peroxide Eric’s chest reassuringly. He gives her a little pat on the head, and throws me a pleading look.
“You’ll help me restrain her, Heidi, right? Before I lose her to the theater geeks forever?”
I nod, and grin. I’m starting to like Peroxide Eric.
Betsy strides up to collect a few mugs.
“Hope all these adorable couples aren’t making you feel lonesome, honeypie,” she says, leaning on my shoulder. “You with the long-distance relationship and all, I mean.”
She gives me a huge wink. My heart does a little fandango of panic. This was not part of the plan. Phase Two is at a crucial stage: a crucial, fundamental, going-to-be-really-hard-to-explain-away-as-a-joke-now stage. One wrong move, and it could be Frog Girl time forever.
Dai and Ludo are both sitting perkily upright now, like two meerkats. Henry and Peroxide Eric look sweetly intrigued. Simon and Fili have their heads bent, doing their mumblespeaking thing.
“Of course!” says Dai. “The Divine Betsy has actually met the Mysterious Ed.”
I have no idea what my face is doing, but my throat feels like someone inserted marshmallows. Many, many marshmallows.
Betsy slaps on an even bigger grin, and tugs on one of my braids.
“I don’t know about Mysterious. Lickable, maybe? Nope: edible, that’s the word. And Dai, sweetie, I couldn’t get those two off of that sofa all summer. Could’ve stopped putting sugar out on the tables, they sweetened up the place all by themselves.”
Then she plumps a kiss on the side of my head, and disappears off toward the kitchen, muttering something improbable about having heard the oven timer go “ping.”
Everyone is looking my way.
I prepare to explain away Gingerbread Ed’s blatant fictionalness. With…words. Words that I will think of. Soon. Really soon.
“Edible,” sighs Ludo, into Peroxide Eric’s chest.
“Betsy seal of approval,” says Fili slowly, her eyes flicking between the kitchen and me, suddenly looking a whole lot more interested.
“Get you, Slutgirl,” says Dai. “Not that we would’ve expected any less. I always figured you’d be the picky type.”
“Dai, I think you’re embarrassing her,” says Henry.
“She’s remembering what she got up to on this sofa,” says Dai. “The Sofa of Sex.”
Ludo squeals, and claps her hands.
Even Peroxide Eric looks quietly impressed.
OHM.
EYE.
GOD.
Phase Two is apparently kind of successful. Like, a lot. Like, way more than I even hoped.
Mycroft Christie’s going to dance me around the penthouse in celebration tonight, I can tell. And then Ed will probably send me a few more messages, telling me how amazing I am, and I’ll send a few to him, and not even the Mothership announcing another Green Only week can possibly bring me down.
The rest of the day goes by like a blur. I’m actually confused when Betsy starts the closing up routine of mopping, wiping, and eating leftover cake. I guess that’s what happens when you’re in love.
“Earth calling Heidi,” says Betsy, knocking on my forehead and handing me a weary-looking scone. “We interrupt this transmission to tell you to go home, in the nicest possible way.”
“Sorry. I was just…”
“About to say, ‘Thank you, Betsy, for your Oscar-worthy performance today’?”
I grin. She was kind of awesome.
“Thanks. If they need an understudy for the musical, I’ll know who to call.”
“Yeah, heard you guys talking about it. You need any time off for rehearsals and such, hon, that’s OK.”
“Oh, I’m not acting. Me and Fili’s boyfriend are supposed to be doing costume designs. Which is kind of…unhappenable.”
Betsy is familiar with my artistic non-skills. Even my stick men could do with improvement.
“Well, if it’s sketches you need, just ask the resident artist.”
She nods toward the back wall, where today’s batch of Teddy’s cheery chalky doodlemen are dancing their way across the list of specials.
I wrinkle my nose without really meaning to.
“Um. Yeah. That’s really kind, but…”
“You don’t want my boy’s crappy scribbles all over your fancy schoolwork?”
That is sort of what I mean, though I hope my face doesn’t show it. That kind of thing is cute on the wall of the Little Leaf: I’m not sure they’ll really fly up on the hill.
She chuckles. “Hey, Teddy! Get your head out of the oven and get out here! He’s actually pretty good, you know. As in, ‘applying to art school’ kind of good?”
“Ignore the Proud Mommy routine, please?” he says, giving me one of his easy, lazy smiles. The kind that makes me do a little Homer Simpson drooly thing inside my head. The kind that Ed totally gets jealous about.
“Art school, huh?” I manage to say. “Wow. That’s great. I didn’t even know there were any around here.”
“Won’t be around here—if I get in. I’ll have to do some classes for credit first, but I’m looking at a few places out East: maybe Chicago?”
“Whoa. That’s…you’ll be…a long way away. I mean, um, who’s going to make Teddy’s Toffee Temptation cake?”
It’s not exactly what I mean. I might miss more than the cake.
<
br /> But Teddy’s tilting his head anyway, the smile turning awkward. Betsy twists her daisy rings, and looks at me furtively through her hair.
“Nothing’s set, OK, hon? That’s why I didn’t want to say anything yet. But I guess you’re entitled to know. I’m selling the Little Leaf. Maybe.” She takes hold of my hand and squishes it between both of hers, though hers seem to be the ones that are shaky. “You might’ve noticed, we’re not exactly blessed with a million customers lately. You wouldn’t think it, but summer was slow this year. We’re kind of going under, honeypie. And Teddy’s dad says he’ll pay for Teddy to go to school if it’s over there, so, you know. The timing’s not so bad, really. Sometimes you’ve just got to read the signs, go with flow, land wherever the wind wants to blow you.”
I don’t know what to say.
Well, I do. Don’t go. Don’t leave me here. Don’t spoil my perfect day. Stay here forever and ever with your cake and your tea and your unattainably picturesque Teddy, and your being the one person I can tell anything.
“How long?” I mumble, instead.
“If it happens, we’ll probably aim to be back over there for Christmas.” Betsy frowns as she sees my face go all crumply. “But we’ll keep you on for as long as we can, honey, I promise. And you’ll always be welcome.”
“I’ll do those pictures for your school thing, too,” says Teddy, shuffling his feet. “Whatever you need. You can drop in any time to talk it over. Doesn’t need to be a Saturday. You know, weekday, evening, whenever you like?”
He’s trying so hard to be nice. It makes it worse, somehow.
Betsy packs my scone in a paper bag, wraps me up in The Coat, and gives me a hug in the doorway before she locks up.
The bell jingles behind me, like there’s something to be cheerful about.
All I want to do is hide in my room and watch Mycroft Christie Investigates: a really wallowy miserable one like episode 2.11, “Through the Looking Glass,” so I can have a sad cry about Jori Song’s tragic childhood, and not have to contemplate my own. (Or at least hope that mine turns me into an ass-kicking sidekicky type with only moderate daddy issues.)
