by Susan Amesse
“Can’t tell you.”
“You must be lying then.” He spins the ball on his fingertip.
“I am not.”
“Don’t believe you.”
He drives me nuts. “I’m spying on Georgina, Jason’s nanny. She wants me out of the house and I’m going back to see what she’s up to.”
“Interesting,” he says.
“So, as you can see, I’m too busy to play basketball. I have to get back,” I say, turning.
He throws the ball into his yard. “I’ll come with you. You might need a witness.”
I might need a witness. “All right,” I say. As we walk to my house, I worry that Georgina might not be doing anything mysterious.
We creep up the porch steps one at a time. I hear music. We crouch down at the front window and look into the living room through a slit in the drapes. Georgina is moving around the room. She has pushed the coffee table to the side and rolled up the rug. How rude! Doesn’t she know how old and expensive our furniture is?
“Your mother would be mad,” says Brendan. “But I like the sloppy look.”
“Shhh,” I say, looking back into the room. Jason is propped up in his baby seat, staring up at Georgina as she moves around in her bare feet. She’s not just moving, she’s doing some kind of dance. It isn’t ballet, but more like an abstract modern dance. She’s changed her clothes, too. She’s wearing a sleeveless black leotard with a thin black wraparound skirt. Her long blond hair is pulled up in a bun. She looks stunning.
“Wow, she’s pretty!” says Brendan.
I poke him with my elbow. “Shhh.”
Georgina seems totally lost in her dance. She glides and turns with ease and abandon. I feel like I’m watching a professional. It’s amazing how well every part of her body moves in harmony with the rest. I wonder how it feels to dance like that. So uninhibited. So coordinated. So daring. So beautiful!
I turn and see Brendan staring, mesmerized. I bet he’d ask her out if he had the chance.
“I’ve seen enough,” I say, pulling him away.
NINE
“It’s not a crime to be a dancer,” Brendan says as we walk down Merrit Street.
I hate to admit it, but it’s not. I expected to find Georgina stealing or doing something illegal. Not dancing. “Why would she have to practice in secret?”
“Something fishy is going on,” he says.
“You really think so?” I say, turning.
“I do.”
“What could it be?”
“I don’t know. I’m too hungry to think.” We turn onto Forest Avenue, and when we get to Sal’s Pizzeria, Brendan walks in. I follow him. I inhale the enticing aromas of fresh tomato sauce, melted cheese, pepperoni, garlic, and onion. Brendan orders two slices of pepperoni pizza.
“Hey, do I see raffle tickets?” asks Sal.
“Huh?” I say. I look down. I’m holding the book of tickets.
“I really enjoyed the gourmet basket I won last year. I feel lucky again. I think I’ll buy a whole book.”
“Stop with those things,” says Brendan, sounding annoyed. Sal fishes through his wallet for money.
“I’m not selling them,” I say defensively.
“You’re not selling raffle tickets?” asks Sal. “Like, how come? You always sell raffle tickets.”
“Because,” I say. “I’m not.”
Brendan nods. “That’s right. She’s not. Two Cokes, Sal.”
“Thanks,” I say, surprised by the treat.
“I’m thirsty,” he says. “They’re both for me.”
I should have known.
We sit down at a table. Brendan slides one of the Cokes in front of me. “I guess I’m not as thirsty as I thought.”
I smile and take it. He offers me a slice by pushing it in front of me. “I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought, either.”
“Thanks.” I’m amazed. Brendan begins eating. I stare into his deep brown eyes as I wait for my slice to cool. “Why would Georgina be working as a nanny when she’s such a good dancer?”
He swallows and wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. He has dimples. “Maybe she didn’t think your mother would hire her to look after your brother if she was a dancer.”
I nod. “My mother is very closed-minded.” As I sip my Coke, I wonder what it would feel like to touch his honey-colored hair. I nibble on my slice.
He continues, “Maybe she does want to be a nanny, but she also wants to be a dancer. Maybe she can’t make up her mind. People do that all the time. They’re not like me. I know what I want to be.”
“What?” I ask.
“A stand-up comic.”
I laugh. “What?”
He leans in; one side of his mouth turns up when he smiles. “See, I’m a natural, and you’re a hard audience.”
“Your mom will never let you do that.”
He throws down his napkin. “It’s not her choice, is it?”
I’ve said something wrong.
“I don’t care what she says. I’m not going to be a doctor like her or a lawyer like everyone else in the family. I want to tell jokes and make people laugh. She’s forbidden me to even think about being a comic. She’s got a lot of nerve.”
I nod. “Our moms are totally impossible.”
“Totally.” He bows his head. “All my life, my mother has made me do things I don’t want to do. She never asks me what I want. When I try to tell her, she doesn’t listen. My opinion on my own life isn’t important. You should know, look at all the times she made us play chess together when we could have been hanging out with our friends.”
“That wasn’t right,” I agree. I don’t mention how annoyingly long it always took him to make a single move.
“And going on vacations together,” he adds.
“So annoying.”
“I wasn’t allowed to ride my bike without having you follow me everywhere I went.”
“I didn’t follow you!” The lady at the next table gives me a look, and I lower my voice. “Mom said I had to stay with you.”
“You could never keep up.”
“How could I? You ride like a maniac.”
“And you ride like a girl.”
We stare at each other.
“It’s pretty obvious,” he says, “that our mothers are clueless and we’re never going to be friends.”
“Totally obvious,” I say. I pull on a piece of melted cheese, not wanting to look at his face. I shouldn’t feel hurt. I should be glad he feels the same way I do.
“I’m not going to let my mother push me around anymore,” he says.
“That’s good.”
“In fact”—he looks around—”I just signed myself up for the next open mike at the Java Café.”
“The coffee house in Stapleton?”
“That’s the one.” He leans back.
“Wow.” I’m impressed. “Aren’t you scared?”
“I overcome my fears.” He leans in. “A man walks into a doctor’s office with a pelican on his head. ‘You need help immediately,’ says the doctor. ‘I certainly do,’ says the pelican. ‘Get this man out from under me.’”
I laugh, probably more because of Brendan’s delivery than because of the actual joke. There is definitely something funny about him, now that I’m really listening. And we have something in common—getting past our mothers. It’s too bad we can’t be friends.
“Hey, another patient says, ‘Doctor, I broke my arm in two places!’ And the doctor says, ‘Stay out of those places!’”
“How about this one,” he says. He starts a joke about a farmer and a pig, but I’m staring at the woman talking to Sal. She’s wearing this dramatic-looking black skirt with gold embroidery on it. Her arms are covered with bracelets that jingle as she moves. She’s also wearing a large, floppy hat so I can’t see her face, but she reminds me of a movie star. I hear a snippet of their conversation.
“I’m in the mood for something a little more exotic,” she says. “I’ve just
returned from Tokyo, you see, and I have a yen for shiitake mushrooms. Do you carry them?”
“Look, lady,” says Sal. “I get my mushrooms from a supply house.”
She waves her arms and the bracelets jingle. “I highly recommend you order shiitake mushrooms. Your customers will be thrilled.”
“Do you want a slice or not?”
She looks at the various pies and shakes her head.
“Next!” yells Sal.
The movie-star lady turns around. She has a pretty, round face and it looks familiar. I wonder where … Oh, it can’t be! “Do you know of a restaurant that serves shiitake mushrooms?” she asks, staring directly into my eyes. I can name three Japanese restaurants, but my mouth isn’t working.
“Never heard of them,” says Brendan. “What did the female mushroom say about the male mushroom? He’s a real fun guy.” He looks at her and laughs. “Don’t you get it? Fun guy, fungi.”
“Ah, yes, funny,” she says without laughing. She turns to leave.
“It was a good one,” Brendan calls after her. “Here’s a real funny one. What did one cannibal say to the other cannibal—”
“Omigod,” I say, almost knocking over my Coke. “It’s her.”
“Who?” asks Brendan. “Why isn’t anyone laughing at my jokes?”
I don’t have time to answer. I’m running out the door. I see Antonia DeMarco cross the street. I start after her from the middle of the block. A horn blows and I freeze. I turn to see a red car coming at me. A hand grabs me from behind and pulls me onto the sidewalk.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Brendan yells.
My knees feel shaky. “I was just following Antonia DeMarco.” Brendan is holding me. “I’m her assistant.” I know I should run or I’ll never find her, but just then, Brendan pulls me closer and suddenly we kiss. I feel dizzy, confused. Before I know it, I’m running down the street, away from Brendan.
TEN
The minute my mother gets home, she knocks on my door. She tries to open it but can’t because I’ve jammed a chair against it. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Pause from the other side. “Georgina said you were acting strange.”
I can tell you a few things about her, I mutter under my breath. “I’m fine.”
“We’re having Chinese takeout for dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Footsteps retreating. I’m staring out the window. I can’t believe Brendan Callahan kissed me. I can’t believe I ran away! That is so not cool.
“I ordered vegetable dumplings,” says Mom, knocking again.
“I’m still not hungry.”
“Georgina is staying for dinner. We could use your company.”
“Maybe later,” I say.
Her footsteps retreat. I can still feel the kiss. I touch my lips, thinking they should feel the same, but they don’t. They feel kissed. I bury my face in my knees. Why did I run away? He must think I’m an idiot.
The phone rings. My stomach drops. What if it’s Brendan? Or his mother telling my mother that I acted like such an idiot? I yank the chair away from the door and step into the hallway. I hear Georgina’s voice below. Thank goodness she answered and not my mother. I run down the stairs and through the living room. My mother, holding Jason, is heading to the kitchen. I get there just ahead of her and grab the phone. What am I going to say to Brendan’s mom?
“Hello!” I can’t hear what Mrs. Callahan said. “Hello,” I say, louder.
“Sarah? Sarah, is that you?” It’s not Brendan’s mom. I start crying.
“Lynn,” I gasp. “Is it really you?”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
I look at Georgina and my mother. They are both staring at me.
I can hear Lynn saying my name over and over again. “Calm down,” I say into the phone.
“You’re telling me to calm down. You e-mail me that you’ve done the stupidest thing and then you don’t tell me what it is. Tell me right now what you did, or—or else.”
I walk to the back door and open it. I stretch the phone cord as far as it will go, which is to the second step on the small back porch. I sit down on the step and look around. One of our neighbors, Mr. Fry, is watering his lawn. “Just a minute,” I tell Lynn.
“Will you come on!” she screams.
“You don’t have to yell.”
“Yes, I do!”
When Mr. Fry walks to the other side of his yard, I take a deep breath. “Do you promise not to call me stupid?”
“I would never do that,” she says. “Tell me.”
I take another breath. “Brendan kissed me.”
“Yay!” she says. “And?” I can hear the excitement in her voice.
“And I ran away.”
“Are you stupid?”
“See, I knew you’d say that.”
A pause, and then she says, “Lots of love stories begin that way. Look at Rhett and Scarlett. Scarlett did a lot of stupid things during the whole movie.”
“I know,” I say. “And then he left her at the end.”
“Stop being so negative,” says Lynn, back to her usual calm voice. “How do you rate the kiss?”
I play with the phone cord. “I’ve never been kissed before.”
“It doesn’t matter. Close your eyes. How did it feel?”
I close my eyes. I don’t have to try hard to remember. “It felt nice.”
“Nice! Kisses aren’t nice. They are either wonderful or awful. So which was it? Be honest.”
“What are you—the authority on kissing?”
“Yes. So tell me, was it awful?”
“No.”
“Then it had to be wonderful.”
“Well,” I say, “yeah, it was.”
“Of course, it was,” she says dreamily.
I twirl the cord around my fingers. “How do I explain why I ran away?”
“Tomorrow’s another day, as Scarlett would say.”
“That’s a big help.”
“You’ll think of something,” she says. “I have confidence in your creativity. I’d better go. Dad’s hovering. We’re going to see his girlfriend in a fashion show.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“I will.”
“I miss you.”
“Miss you too. E-mail me. You’ll come up with something to tell Brendan.”
After she hangs up, I just sit there, watching the setting sun. I do feel better. Lynn can do that to a person.
I smile at a blue jay as it swoops down on the feeder. “Tomorrow is another day,” I say in my best Southern twang. “I’ll think about what to say to Brendan tomorrow.”
ELEVEN
By morning, I’ve thought of a hundred ways of avoiding Brendan for the rest of my life. It’s the only solution.
Mom pops her head in before leaving for work. “Before I forget”—she reaches into her pocket and hands me a piece of paper—“here’s Antonia’s address and phone number. You’re to call her this morning. The entries are downstairs. She must begin reading them.”
I grab the paper and see an address I don’t recognize.
“She rented a bungalow in South Beach. She said not to call her before ten.” Mom shakes her head. “If you have any problems with her, remember to tell me immediately.”
I nod.
She kisses my cheek. “You’re looking pale. Why don’t you call Brendan and go for a bike ride together?”
“Brendan,” I mutter.
“Or maybe you’d like to play chess.”
“No thanks,” I say. I’d rather kiss him! I turn away from her, not believing what I just thought.
I try to write for the next two hours, but all I can think about are Brendan’s lips and what to say to Antonia. At two minutes before ten, I walk down to the kitchen. I wait three minutes and then I call Antonia. My hands tremble so much I can barely press the numbers.
The line rings four, five, six times. Finally someone picks it up.
“Hellloo,” comes a mellow voice.
“Is this Antonia DeMarco?” My voice is unsteady.
A pause, then, “Who is this?”
My hand tightens around the receiver. “Hi, I’m Sarah Simmons.”
“Who?” There is music in the background.
Could this be her? “I’m Helen Simmons’s daughter.”
Pause. I lean against the wall to steady myself. “I’m calling about the teen writing contest.”
Pause.
“Contest? Oh, yes. What about it?”
“I have the plays Ms. DeMarco needs to read. I’m her personal assistant on this project.”
“How lovely,” she says. “I’ll tell you what. I’m doing a book signing at Barrett Books today. Do you know it?”
It is her. “Yes,” I say excitedly.
“Good,” she breathes into the receiver. “It starts at noon. Meet me there.”
“Noon,” I say. “I won’t be late.”
“And would you be a love and bring several cans of Fancy Feast Savory Salmon?”
“Excuse me?”
“Ophelia simply loves it.”
“Ophelia?”
“My cat, of course. See you at noon. Don’t buy any cans that have dents. Ophelia is a bit finicky.”
I hang up the phone. My mother might be right. Antonia is a little strange. But then, she is a great writer and probably very busy doing all those great things she writes about. She must love her cat very much. I will buy undented cans. I plan on being the best personal assistant Antonia ever had. Maybe after the contest is over, she will want me to continue.
I love that she’s named her cat after one of Shakespeare’s tragic heroines. It’s so deep. I knew she would be exciting and wonderful. I’d better not mention anything about the cat food to my mother. She wouldn’t understand.
“You seem in better spirits,” says Georgina, breezing into the kitchen. “I was worried about you yesterday. You seemed even more peculiar than you usually are. Want to talk about it?”
“It was the heat. I’m better now. Thank you.”
She nods and glides to the refrigerator, filling the air with her rose-scented perfume. She opens the door gracefully. As she stares at the contents of the refrigerator, her feet are actually in first position. Amazing. She must have years of dance training. Why didn’t I see that before?
