Not Okay, Cupid

by Heidi R. Kling

“Really? It’s okay. I brought my own money. It’s not like this is a real date,” I whispered. “You don’t need to try to impress me. I’m yours. At least until we’re crowned Diaper King and Weird Arrow Lady.”

  “Which will definitely happen. And I like your title better,” he said.

  Smiling, I ordered a bacon cheeseburger, chocolate malt, and French fries.

  If Mom or Jay could see me now, they’d freak!

  Between the two of them and their well-ordered health-nut eating, I was too thin. I looked at my ribbony arms falling out of my T-shirt. Felix was right. I could use some extra calories.

  He gave me an appreciative once-over. And after everything we’d been through, him thinking I looked so good actually made me feel good. Yeah, so it meant I might be his type. At least as far as bodies went. But that didn’t have to be an insult. Of course I was his type. I was Hazel Basil. He’d always thought I was hot.

  “I’m not saying eat red meat every day,” he said. “I mean, I’m not insane, but once in a while isn’t going to kill you.”

  “Says the boy who exercises two hours a day.”

  “I surf. I connect with the sea. That is exercising mind, body, and spirit.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “And it doesn’t hurt the pecs, either!” he boasted in his classic Felix fashion.

  I laughed. We were laughing, and meandering back to our booth…when they walked in.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Felix

  I hadn’t spoken to her again since I went into her room to talk after The Incident.

  We’d brushed past each other in our shared hallway after waiting for a turn in our shared bathroom, but we hadn’t uttered more than an excuse-me since the day in the cafeteria.

  Obviously she felt guilty. Her eyes were hooded at the dinner table, where, after shoveling down her food, she’d asked to be excused and hurried up to her room and hid behind her closed door, likely texting or talking to the D-bag of the century.

  More than once I stood outside her door, knuckled up, ready to knock and try to get to the bottom of things, but I never did.

  I wasn’t much of an emoter. Or a talker. Or a listener really, either…until recently with Baze, where it just came naturally. I wanted to listen. I wanted to hear her, comfort her, understand her.

  God, what was wrong with me?

  Anyway, there they were, and Baze’s expression was pure horror.

  “What are you doing here?” she sneered at Jay.

  “Hoping to eat.”

  “Funny.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “They don’t serve rabbit food here.”

  I smothered a laugh, like my grandma’s rounded pewter candlesnuffer snuffled out an orange flame. Jay looked confused and glanced down at his pink Polo shirt and pale yellow shorts. I mean, if there’s an official uniform for douchebags, he was wearing it. The only thing he was missing was a popped collar. Maybe I should just go ahead and let him win the Cupid contest. He’d look perfect in a giant diaper.

  Kimmy stared down at her lavender Toms. I remembered that Hazel had told her Toms company gave away one pair of shoes to shoeless children in Africa or some such for every pair sold. Since then, it’s been a Toms-a-palooza in our house. I hadn’t folded yet. Then again, I’m not sure they even made Toms for guys.

  But I digress.

  These two dingleberries were like poster children for an Easter basket. Two holidays too early. We still had Valentine’s Day, St. Patty’s Day—my shamrock boxers ruled—and then came Easter. I wanted to make a joke, but Bazil looked ready to throw down.

  Bazil, hands on hips, stared him down. I hoped she was going to make a joke about his pink shirt. Call him bubblegum guy. Or ask him if he was trying to look like cotton candy as a way to make him appear sweeter. Or maybe he was just really, really in the spirit of St. Valentine’s and would grace Sunny Cove High with the majestic beauty of his pale pink shirts the entire week? Lucky us.

  I could’ve gone on and on like this…I hated the guy! But then I noticed Hazel’s fist clench.

  Was she going to punch him again? My insides lit up, and I was tempted to chant, “Fight, fight, fight,” but then I remembered where we were—and how that would be entirely uncool in my diner—still, I couldn’t help but fantasize that I was wearing a Team Hazel shirt and chanting, BAZE-L, BAZE-L, BAZE-L, which made me crack up, out loud this time. I went ahead and let it fly. No snuffle necessary.

  “Rabbit food?” Jay repeated, increasingly perplexed.

  “Lettuce. Carrots. Lentils,” Hazel said. “You know your usual diet. The diet of bunnies.”

  “Lentils are great for you, Hazel.”

  “Good for you.”

  Jay misunderstood her sarcasm. “No. Great for you.”

  God, this guy was king of the dorks. How did he make it through a day without getting socked? And what in the world had cool, fun, smart Hazel seen in him in the first place?

  “I was craving fries,” my sister finally said in a sheepish voice, still looking at her shoes that creepily matched his.

  “PMS?” Basil said, finally looking at her. Well, it was more glare than look.

  “You know me,” my sister said in this guilty singsongy voice, finally raising her eyes from her dumb Easter egg-colored shoes, which made me very uncomfortable.

  “I thought I did. Until you started screwing around with my boyfriend behind my back. How could you do that to me, Kimmy? What’s wrong with you? And more importantly, what did I ever do to you to make you want to hurt me like this?”

  Hazel’s voice wasn’t angry like it was with Jay.

  It was crushed.

  Swollen.

  Hurt.

  Kimmy had hurt her. Badly.

  And wouldn’t you know it? Kimmy must have seen how much she’d hurt Hazel, because she hunched her shoulders over. I knew that look. She was about to gush waterfall tears. Her certified distraction tactic. No one could pay attention to who she’d hurt if she was so busy crying herself.

  Gah. I hated it when she cried, even if it was fake as hell.

  Except…this time it didn’t look fake. Maybe she really did feel bad about this. She had to have felt bad about this. Right? Why would she risk her best friend for that Easter egg clam factory?

  “Okay.” I clapped my hands together. “This was all very pleasant, but we have food arriving soon. Enjoy those fries, sis!” I said, cheerfully, wrapping my arm around Baze and leading her back to our booth before she got arrested for assault in a public place, or before my sister burst into bigger tears. I’m not sure which one would be worse. Probably the former.

  I was Team Hazel in this one 100 percent. They say blood is thicker than water, and sure, I loved my sister, but there was no excuse for this betrayal. I might be a lot of the things the girls accuse me of (promiscuous, a player, blah, blah, blah), but I never cheated on a girl. Ever. And I would never cheat on a girl like Hazel if I were lucky enough to ever actually be with one.

  “Close one,” I mumbled as I sank into the slick vinyl booth couch and faced her across from me. “I thought you were going to slug him again.”

  “Believe me, I wanted to. I can’t believe they showed up here.” She shook her head, disheveled. “I just can’t believe it.”

  Her face was all red. I had to change the subject off them. I hoped like hell they’d get their food to go and get the heck out of Dodge so as not to ruin our nice time.

  “I forgot how cool this place is,” she said. She wanted to get over it, too. Get over them and get on with the meal. Good. Solid.

  “Yep.” I nodded. “It’s my favorite. See that Coca-Cola sign over there? Fred found that at a thrift shop in Yountville. And that fire hydrant? It was busted, and he asked the fire department if he could have it. And that grill of the car? Well, that was taken from the car he drove in high school. A ’67 Chevy. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Befo
re I had a chance to answer, Fred himself wandered over in all his diner-owner glory.

  “Who let you in here?” he asked jovially.

  I jumped out of my seat, customary, to give him a firm handshake and a shoulder slap. “Good to see you too, old man.”

  “And who is this?”

  “Hazel McAllister. You remember Hazel, my sister’s best…uh, she used to hang out with my sister a lot…as kids.”

  I glanced over at Hazel, who seemed fine with my faux pas.

  I shot her a little apologetic shrug. Even though he was ancient and potbellied, she seemed far more interested in Fred than me.

  “Nice to see you,” she said.

  “Hazel. Hazel. Didn’t you have glasses?”

  “Yes. I did the corrective surgery.”

  “I was thinking about doing that,” Fred said, gesturing at me to sit down and scoot over so he could press Hazel for info. “Did it hurt much?”

  “Man, you’re a wuss, dude,” I said, and he elbowed me. Fred was my father’s age. They’d gone to high school together and were friends from way back when.

  “I don’t enjoy pain,” Fred said with a half laugh. “So sue me.”

  “No. It was a really simple procedure,” she explained in a serious but present voice she likely reserved for teachers and those types.

  It’d been years since I’d had an actual class with her. She was in Advanced This and AP That, whereas I was mostly in the bottom-level basic classes. School wasn’t my thing. I preferred working with my hands. Creating things. I also hated sitting in my desk. I got so antsy. My mom swears I have ADD, but they tested me and I don’t. I’m right at the cusp. Very energetic. Need to keep my hands and mind busy. Sitting in desks and regurgitating information from a textbook and listening to a bored teacher just phoning it in and/or resenting being stuck with the “dumb kids” wasn’t my cup of tea.

  That’s another reason I liked Fred. He said I reminded him of himself at my age. Much preferred to tinker with cars, or grill up burgers for his friends, than study for some boring biology test.

  And look at him now. He owned the best establishment in town (in my humble opinion). Fred was my only post-high school hope. Once my friends and sister all fled for college, I’d be looking at a future like his, if I were lucky.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Hazel reassured Fred. “It does take some getting used to, though, after you’ve recovered. Being able to see everything. And being without glasses. Did you ever wear contacts?”

  Fred shook his head no.

  “Neither did I. They were so itchy! Anyway, I still fiddle around my face looking for my glasses all the time. I sort of miss them in a weird way.”

  “They were pretty cute,” I blurted out. “Especially the purple cat-eyes-shaped ones.”

  Hazel’s eyes jumped from Fred to me. “You remember those?”

  I shrugged. “Of course.”

  Fred nodded appreciatively, the exact opposite of the way my teachers looked at me. “This kid doesn’t miss a beat. Detail is his thing.”

  “Really?” Hazel said, looking really confused.

  “Does that surprise you?” I asked her, suddenly hurt.

  “Well. No. I mean…”

  “It’s okay.” I forced a smile, letting her off the hook. “Hazel sees me as the flaky brother of her friend.”

  “Flaky? You have one of the best work ethics of anyone I know.”

  “He does?” Hazel wrinkled his nose at Fred, and then, realizing her protest was probably hurtful, quickly muted her expression to a more neutral one. “I mean, he does?”

  I laughed. “Nice try, Baze. It’s okay. I know you don’t see that side of me very often… We don’t usually spend time together outside of school,” I explained to Fred, who looked very confused by the disconnect between the Felix he knew and the Felix that Hazel knew.

  “Never been late to a shift. Not once,” Fred said proudly, crossing his arms as if ready to defend me further should Hazel press it. I didn’t want him to think Hazel was a creep or critical or anything, so I started to explain further, but she interrupted me.

  “Huh,” she said. Simply, but so clear I was silenced.

  “You sure you know the same Felix, I do?” Fred asked.

  “I guess I don’t.”

  But the way she looked at me was pleasantly surprised. Like Fred had just given her a gift, and she’d opened it and found something unexpectedly wonderful.

  I liked that.

  I liked that look on Hazel’s face.

  We bantered on like that for a while. Our food was delivered, and Fred, after reassuring Hazel how lovely it was to see her again, finally excused himself, told us to enjoy our dinner, and moseyed away to get back to the grill.

  Post-Fred, we sat quietly munching on perfectly cooked burgers with homemade buns Fred’s was famous for, the hand-cut potato fries he was also famous for, and finally we slurped our delicious milkshakes —that Fred was, of course, also known for—until all that was left was a little puddle on the bottom of the tall fountain glass and two maraschino cherry stems.

  She leaned back in her chair, happy as a clam. “Yum,” she said, but it was more like a happy sigh. I’m surprised it didn’t come with a bubble that floated up to the sky like that scene in Willy Wonka.

  “Right?” I asked.

  “Yes, you were right.”

  She pulled her phone out of her purse, and I watched her expression as she checked her messages. “You have to go?”

  “Soon,” she remarked.

  “What’s up?”

  Her lips parted like she was going to tell me what was up, but then she clamped them shut.

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “Obviously.” Her eyes flared.

  “Hey, that’s not nice. I am your fake boyfriend after all.” I said that last part quietly but in a teasing voice as I leaned across the table.

  She looked genuinely perplexed. “Yes. You are.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just…I didn’t know you worked here.”

  “Yep. I do.”

  “I thought…I guess I always assumed you were out surfing or with girls after school.”

  “Well, sometimes I am surfing or out with girls.”

  She nodded, her eyes unreadable.

  “What?” I pressed.

  “This place just seems…special to you.”

  “It is,” I admitted. “It’s my home away from home. When everything happened with my dad, Fred gave me a job. Wiping tables, fetching condiments, stuff like that. When I got good at it, he let me behind the counter, running the grill. I worked here most afternoons and weekends to help out Mom, whose bills were climbing. She doesn’t make too much money at her nursing job at the convalescent hospital, and Kimmy, well, you know how she is, always wanting the next, newest thing, and Mom has such a hard time saying no to her. Anyhow, she wants to protect us from money problems, but she refuses to ask for help. So I got this job and ignored her when she told me to quit. I pick up extra shifts when I can…”

  “Don’t tell me you’re working to pay for Kimmy’s shopping habits?”

  “Not that bad. I just pay a couple of the household bills. It’s fine. I don’t mind, really.”

  “But you should be concentrating on schoolwork, Felix.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t like school much. I prefer hands-on learning. Here, I get to try everything—Fred even lets me help with billing and accounting sometimes, but what I like most is the cooking. Trying out new recipes. The other day, I made this burger sauce that was out of this world. Part barbecue sauce, part soy with a little lemon twist. And I’ve been experimenting with a pesto mayonnaise to dip sweet potato fries in. Have you tried sweet potato fries? They are out of this world, and one of your superfoods, if I remember correctly, so they’ll be Basil Approved.”

  Then it dawned on me. Pesto. Basil. I had an idea that might cheer her up. I’d have to work on it tomorrow, when I came back
for my shift. But tonight? Sweet potato fries in a pesto mayonnaise sauce.

  “Yum!” she said. “Can I try it?”

  “Sure.” I nodded. “It still needs some tweaking. You can be my taste taster. Plus it will be another ‘date.’” I flashed her air quotes. “Bound to infuriate my sister and her doofus beau.”

  “Yes,” she said, again her eyes unreadable. “It’s all about the revenge.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hazel

  Few things surprised me in life.

  This was on purpose. My days were orderly and played out in a particular fashion predetermined by me.

  I woke up every day at 6:30 a.m.

  I was out of the shower by 6:45 a.m.

  I was dressed, hair done, light makeup on, and eating my oatmeal with organic blueberries at our dining nook by 7:00 a.m. I exited our lemon-colored front door by 7:15 a.m.

  I planned the next semester’s courses long before they were due to the high school administration. I pored over college catalogs and researched each place heavily on the Internet. I mooned over photos of places I want to one day visit and visualized myself there, sometimes imagining the different scenarios. If I were on the East Coast, for instance, I’d have to beg Mom for a heavy peacoat. If I were in the Midwest, I’d have to beg for one of those coats that looked more like a blanket. If I stayed in California, nothing much would change.

  And the house I wanted—err, had wanted—to live in with Jay one day? A remodeled Craftsman: robin’s-egg blue with white trim and a red door. Sometimes the door I imagined was lime-green. But that was only on a day when I felt particularly wild. Sometimes the design changed based on where we would go to college. Cape Cod, for instance. The house I wanted would have been built in the early 1900s so we could remodel it to perfection with a kitchen island.

  I knew this all sounded really weird, but ever since my dad died, I just wanted to be grown-up. I used to watch that 13 Going on 30 movie all the time. I envied that girl, the way she had gone to sleep a little girl one day and woken up an adult the next morning. I wanted to fast-forward through all this teen stuff and just be in a cozy safe house with a cozy happy safe family. One without death or struggling for money. One where there were two parents and two kids and a dog. A something doodle. Like a labradoodle or Aussiedoodle. Those are cute and don’t shed. Those were popular with thirtysomething types that I saw walking around town with their fancy strollers.