One Smart Cookie

by Kym Brunner

  As if he has to ask? It takes every bit of restraint not to leap off the bench and kiss him right this second. I rub my chin, peering closely at him, pretending to examine his face. “Hmm…I don’t know. You promised to show me how your nose grows when you lie, and I haven’t seen it yet.”

  “One sec.” He grabs a tool with a long metal rod with forked prongs from his back pocket, and then stands so I can only see his profile. “I think Sophie Dumbrowski is the cleanest girl I’ve ever known.”

  He makes a ziiiirrrp noise and extends the tool alongside his nose. “Voila!”

  I chortle loudly, sounding like a cross between a warthog and a hyena. I clear my throat. “Well, since you’re so talented, the answer is yes.”

  His uncle walks up to us and gives Giovanni’s shoulder a playful shake. “Another pretty girl, Giovanni?” He tsks and shakes his head like he’s angry, but I can tell he’s proud of his nephew’s prowess. “You talk to more girls than Nonna does on bingo night, nipote.”

  His uncle’s words are a knife to my heart. Nipote is probably code for “chick slayer.” Here I thought we were having some magical moment, just the two of us, and it turns out he picks up girls on the job regularly. Teegan was right—the hotter the guy, the bigger the player.

  Giovanni glares at his uncle. “Why do you say stuff like that, zio?”

  His uncle appears to get the hint. “Oh, never mind. I’m just kidding. But I need you to get back to work now, eh? I don’t pay you to talk to girls all day long.”

  So, there it is—what I suspected all along. I must have DUMB BLONDSKI written in big letters on my forehead. I smile at his uncle. “Don’t worry. I’m leaving now.” I glance at Giovanni, trying to rein in my disappointment. “Nice meeting you both. Take care.” I turn toward home and walk away with Busia’s warning ringing in my ears: No fight with Matka or Dola give you bad luck. Shut up, I tell myself. This has nothing to do with Dola. I’m just so out of practice with guys that I want to believe someone like Giovanni would fall for me. I’m sure he was hoping the dirty girl bit was real.

  “Wait up, Sophie,” Giovanni calls out. I hear him say something to his uncle and then footsteps behind me. He jogs up next to me. “Hey, you forgot to give me your number.”

  “Didn’t get your quota for today?” I grin so he can’t tell I’m mortally crushed.

  “Quota?” He frowns, looking confused. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I want to believe him, but my gullibility meter is completely unreliable these days. “So, are you saying your uncle’s a liar?” I start heading home. A guy as smoking hot as Giovanni doesn’t even have to ask girls for their numbers. They probably scrawl it in lipstick on his shovel. Even though I thought maybe I’d found a guy that I’d even consider being the one to break my chastity record, I don’t want Giovanni to be the one if he’s practicing for the Bedroom Olympics on every girl he meets. Gross.

  “Can you please just stop walking and talk to me a second?”

  I stop in front of Pet World. “Yes?” As I turn to look at him, I see bright red Help Wanted sign in the window. I make a mental note to apply there later.

  He continues, “I think my uncle said that stuff because he thought you were a different girl than this morning. Your hair was in a ponytail before and now it’s down.” He pauses, glancing at my hair. “Did you get a haircut?”

  I nod, realizing he’s right. “Andre cut my hair and did my makeup for me.”

  He kicks a stone and then looks back at me. “You look even prettier than earlier, which I didn’t think was possible.”

  I allow myself to open the door of my heart the teensiest bit. I’m about to thank him when he adds, “Even with melted ice cream all over you.” He tries not to grin, peeking at me from the corner of his eye.

  I can’t help myself. The look on his face cracks me up. “Jerk!”

  “Just kidding!” He laughs for a second before gazing at me with the sweetest, most sincere look of worry I’ve ever seen. “Seriously, though, I’m not a player.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Even saying that is a joke. On weekends, I pretty much hang out at one of my buddies’ houses, order pizza, and play video games. No lie. That’s the only kind of ‘player’ I am.” He smiles. “Kinda boring, huh? Bet you’re going to run away again, now that you know the truth.”

  “Nope. That kind of player is totally fine by me.” I can’t believe he’s begging me for a chance. Surely this is the work of Dola! No guy this sweet has ever asked me out before.

  He pulls out his cell phone. “Can I get your number, then, before you change your mind? I’d love to walk you home, but then I’d want to kiss you good-bye. And if I did that, you’d probably think I do that with all the girls. So, I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to wait for a kiss until we go out.” He grins.

  The thought of kissing him sends warm bolts of happiness rippling through my body. If this is what a hot flash feels like, then all of my mother’s complaining has been a lie. “I guess I’ll just have to wait, then.” I rattle off my number as he types it into his cell.

  He smiles. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  Although I’m over the top excited, I definitely want to raise my Guy-Q. I remember Cosmo saying women needed to act nonchalantly around men when they first meet them. “Sounds great. Talk to you then. Bye!”

  I give a little coy wave over my shoulder and promptly walk headfirst into a lamppost.

  Chapter 6

  AFTER REASSURING GIOVANNI that I was perfectly fine and that I didn’t crash into the pole as hard as it sounded, I use my key to let myself into the bakery. As soon as Giovanni is gone, I clasp my forehead. There’s a bump the size of a fist starting to form, so I lock the door and hurry inside to get an ice pack. My only hope is that the ice can soothe my bruised ego as well as my injury. It’s one thing to joke about being accident-prone; another to be a statistic.

  As I cross the bakery, I spy Busia leaning into the display case, clearing out the unsold pastries. She takes out a tray of elephant ears and carefully dumps them into a clear plastic bag. Someone from the St. Stanislaus food pantry will be here to pick it up shortly for the homeless.

  Pretending to scratch my forehead so as to hide my lump, I say, “Hi, Busia. Where’s Mom?”

  “She in back room.” She glances over her shoulder and back at me. “With man for job.”

  My heart stops. “There’s a job applicant already?” I tiptoe to the doorway to see what kind of loser would want this crappy job. There’s Mom, yakking away in Polish to a man so old that he looks like he arrived here on Noah’s Ark. She shakes his hand as if they’re concluding the interview, and they head toward me. I use the opportunity to scoot past them, wanting to run upstairs and get into the shower before Mom can ask me how my lunch date went.

  Unfortunately, Mom’s gossip sensor goes off. She grabs my arm, stopping me mid-stride. I keep my head down, trying to hide my throbbing forehead, but she gasps anyway. “Sophie! What happened to your shirt? You look like a świnię!”

  The man laughs out loud. Apparently my mother calling me a pig is hilarious. I give him a frosty glare, and he quickly regains his composure.

  I frown. “Thanks a lot, Mom. I’ll explain later. Right now, I have to get ice for my forehead.”

  “Did he hit you?” She hurries closer to me and moves my bangs to the side.

  “God, Mom, no!” I say, horrified.

  “Then what?” she insists, still holding my arm.

  “A pole dancing accident, okay?” I wrench my arm out of her grasp and dash up the stairs before she can ask any more questions.

  After thirty minutes of icing my wound, the swelling has gone down. Remembering the Pet World sign, I start to worry that the job will be gone if I don’t get over there, pronto. I change, do my best to recreate Andre’s makeup masterpiece, and figure I’m ready to go apply for my second job of the day. Even though I’m only slightly more familiar with handling dogs than say, Siberian tigers, I d
on’t see why that matters. I would make a great salesgirl, as demonstrated by my ability to talk Mr. Bearwald, the assistant dean at my high school, out of giving me a detention—twice. Not to mention that I’m sure I could get to Pet World on time, despite anything Mom says.

  My pocket buzzes with a text message. It’s from Teegan:

  Hi Sophie! I miss u!

  Starbucks tomorrow?

  My treat? Please???

  She’s trying the old free Starbucks trick, but it’s not going to work this time. Sliding my cell back into my pocket without a response, I stroll out of my bedroom. My mother’s raucous laughter comes bursting from the living room. I’m about to yell “Bye!” and leave without telling her where I’m going, when I decide I could get a little mileage out of my job search. It’ll be worth the extra few steps to see the look on her face when she hears I’m applying for a job down the street. Let her guilt trip begin.

  Standing at the doorway of the living room, I find my mother strewn across the couch, coffee in one hand and a gossip newspaper in the other, while Busia sits in her old Victorian chair, knitting. Neither looks up.

  “I’m going out now,” I announce. “Not sure when I’ll be back.”

  I wait for my busybody mother to ask where I’m off to like she always does, but instead she responds with a nod and a quiet, “Okay. See you later.”

  I add, “I might be gone for a while because I’m applying for a job at Pet World.”

  This news finally elicits a response. Busia stops knitting, and Mom looks up. “You?” my mother asks, as if she’s in shock. “Work at the pet store?” She says something in Polish to Busia and laughs. I only catch the word guvna, which means crap, so I’m guessing she thinks it’ll be a crappy job.

  Busia frowns at my mother, shaking her head. “Nie. Not nice.”

  “See, Mom? Even Busia says you’re not nice, which is why I’m going to apply at a pet store. I’ll be an awesome salesgirl and sell so many pets that I’ll get a huge commission. Then I’m taking all my money and going to college, far, far away from here. Later!” I spin on my heels and head down the hallway. I know that last comment was mean, but so was Mom’s. Probably.

  “Good luck!” Mom shouts, but there’s amusement in her tone.

  She probably hopes I fail so I’ll come running home and beg for my job back. Ha! I’d rather give pedicures to people with athlete’s foot fungus than ever work here again. All right, maybe not that, because touching other people’s fungus-y feet would be equally, if not more disgusting, than dandruff-encrusted hair. At least I resolve never to work in the bakery again, that’s for sure. It’s the principle of the thing, I remind myself as I hurry downstairs.

  The second I step outside, the sweltering afternoon humidity hits me like a ten-pound loaf of Polish rye. Which isn’t so great, considering that my head is still throbbing from when the pole ran into it. Rushing into Pet World before my Dollar Dynamo eyeliner runs from the heat, I take a deep breath and breeze through the automatic doors. The first person I see is a pretty black girl about my age at the register. She looks bored, picking at her nail polish the way I always do when it’s started to chip off. I could totally fit in here.

  “I’m here to apply for the job.” I point to the front window, indicating the Help Wanted sign. In the background, dogs bark and birds tweet. The store smells like pine cleaner mixed with urine. I breathe through my mouth.

  The cashier yawns as she picks up the phone. “Manager to register three.”

  I stand quietly and wait, pretending to be interested in a bin of brown triangular things. I pick one up to check it out and can’t for the life of me figure out what it is. Upon further examination, I notice what looks like small veins running through it. What the hell? I read the sign on the front of the bin: Pigs’ Ears—$2 each. I fling the disgusting object back into the bin, and rub my now-greasy fingertips on a pink dog sweater. Sick freaks! Why would a place that loves animals sell dead pigs’ ears? And, even sicker, who would buy them? People shouldn’t let their pets indulge in weird fetishes.

  A deep male voice asks, “What do you need, Kaniyah?”

  Turning around, I face a youngish guy who’s the height of a small giant and is wearing a red Pet World polo shirt with black pants. His short sleeves stretch around biceps the size of ham shanks.

  Kaniyah glances in my direction. “That girl over there is here for the job.”

  “Hi, I’m Sophie.” I manufacture my best fake smile, the kind I use when Uncle Piotr comes over on Christmas Eve and chows down Busia’s famous Wigilia dinner, all the while telling boring stories about his life—a nasty event I call Show and Tell.

  Muscleman holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jason, the assistant manager.” I shake his hand, wincing from the strength in his grip. “Let me show you around while we talk.”

  “Cool. I mean, that’d be wonderful, sir.” I pride myself on remembering the schmoozing techniques Teegan once told me about when it came to handling bosses. Traipsing behind Jason, we roam past the dog ID tag machine and a wall of pictures labeled “Employee of the Month.” I cringe at June’s featured employee—an unkempt guy with half-closed eyes and something black stuck between his teeth. It wouldn’t take much to outshine that guy. Mom will surely regret firing me now.

  Jason’s muscular body leaves me little room in the aisle to walk alongside him. They obviously designed this place with a much punier assistant manager in mind.

  “I bet your job is pretty tough, huh?” I feel somewhat cheesy sucking up to him, but I desperately need him to hire me. We head down the dog toy aisle, and I can’t help noticing how expensive these things are. Twelve bucks for a rubber ball attached to a rope? Craziness.

  “The job has its moments.” Jason tugs at his shirt collar as he tilts his neck. “Customer service is the probably the toughest part of my job.”

  “Oh, I know all about demanding customers,” I say with authority, hoping to let him know I’m experienced at dealing with the public. “You have to be nice, but tough, with them.”

  He stops walking and looks at me, probably happy that I’m already a whiz at this particular aspect of the job. “Oh yeah? You have an example?”

  I can sense that he’s interested in hearing about some of my strategies. “Oh, you know. Listen to everything the crabby customer says and nod a lot before you politely tell them they can’t have what they want. Works every time, right?” I chuckle, smiling.

  He frowns, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know. We prefer that our employees deal with customers in a friendly way. I’m afraid this job might not—”

  “Oh, I’m super friendly,” I interrupt, quickly sensing that he’s one of those weakling managers that my mom’s told me about, the kind who let customers walk all over them. “I just meant that some customers ask for things that are unreasonable. Like using expired coupons.”

  He nods but doesn’t look convinced. I chastise myself for being so honest and mentally toss on my brownnoser hat. We head off to the right, where there’s a virtual apartment complex of brightly lit cages behind a wall of glass. It’s filled with adorable puppies and kittens.

  Jason explains, “Canines are our largest and most profitable department, so only our top-notch employees work here. They need to know all the breeds as well as the benefits of the various popular dog food brands.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I lie. Dogs are nice, but I’d rather throw myself in front of a raging pit bull than read about dried-up kibble.

  We pass cages of mewing kittens as he talks about “The Pet World Policy,” how each employee is trained for and remains in one specific department. “That way you’ll become a resident expert for those particular animals.”

  “Awesome idea!” I coo, showing off my people skills. I’m totally nailing this interview.

  As we skirt the length of the enclosure, the frisky puppies bite each other’s ears and yip for attention, making me smile. The sweet kittens prance around, their tails danci
ng delicately in the air. “That white one is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen!” I point at the fluffy white kitty stalking a small mouse toy. I’m so smitten with this kitten that I wish I could smash the glass and scoop it into my hands and kiss it. That is, until I see how much it costs—two hundred twenty dollars! It had better be able to clean toilets or lay golden eggs for that price. And to think people complain that our peach paczkis are a buck apiece?

  “That one’s my favorite too,” a guy says from behind us.

  “Oh, hello, Nick.” Jason turns to talk to a mouth-watering employee holding a puppy. “Nick’s our resident expert in canines and felines today.”

  “How’s it going?” Nick asks, nodding at me. He’s tall and super good-looking, with blue eyes the sultry color of the Mediterranean which stand out against his dark blond hair and flawless skin.

  “Great, thanks!” I manage, but I can’t stop staring. Everything about him screams Future Pop Star, including his big silver wristwatch, the diamond stud earring, and a cool barbed wire tattoo around his bicep. Not rock solid like Giovanni’s muscles, but still nice. My heart twitters when I think of Giovanni, but I have to admit that Nick is equally as breathtaking. Stop thinking about boys, I warn myself. You’re here for a job!

  “That white kitten’s a Persian,” Nick informs me. “It’s only seven weeks old. You want me to bring her out so you can take a closer look?”

  I think, Yes, and a closer look at you while I’m at it, but Jason has to go and ruin everything. “Sophie’s applying for a job,” he explains. “I’m just showing her around.”

  “Oh yeah? Even better.” Nick flashes me the most incredible smile, which detonates my crush grenade. Is he flirting with me? I’d better stop looking at him, because when he’s not smiling he’s hot, but when he’s smiling the way he is now, he’s the Olympic Flame. He holds an adorable floppy-eared puppy, which I want to hug tight and smother with kisses. Before I can stop myself, I think, Nick too. I know I need to stop it or I’ll jinx myself. It’s just that I haven’t met even one guy that piqued my interest in months, and now I meet two in the span of a few hours? Ha! It looks like I’m on a guy high! Whoops. I’m getting carried away. I’d better get down before I hurt myself.