by Tina Ferraro
Again, the full-shouldered shrug. “None of my business.”
“It's everybody's business when you're with a guy like Brandon,” Chelsea said, and giggled. “Everybody notices him. And what girl wouldn't go out with him?”
Her words hung in the air. I tried to come up with a smooth save, but my heart function must have affected my brain, because it suddenly felt short on blood and oxygen.
I used to be that girl who wouldn't go out with him—or at least would never have had to face the problem of debating the pros and cons of it.
But now I did. And I probably had to go out with him again. (What had I been thinking?)
Mark made a noise in the back of his throat and looked down at his menu. Which catapulted me back into business mode. I had a job to do—which I was failing miserably at. The beautiful girl sat next to the seemingly interested guy, but instead of focusing on him, she was gushing about someone else.
And Dal seemed to have thrown in the towel—or at least handed it off to me. I clearly had to take back control of this project.
A waitress with more boob than blouse came to take our order, but neither guy looked up long enough to even properly inspect her.
How would Donald Trump reestablish control? Start throwing money around? Steer the conversation to his advantage? Fire someone? Think, Kate!
And slowly it came to me. My copy of Trump: The Art of the Deal was more worn than my favorite jeans. He'd tell me to go with my instincts. And my instincts were to redirect the conversation to the banquet.
“So, Mark,” I said, and waited for him to look at me. “Are you going to the football banquet?”
“Yeah, sure, I have to. I'm on the team.”
I gave my head a firm nod, then turned to Chelsea. “Doesn't your brother play, too?”
“Yeah, on JV.”
“Oh, do they have the same banquet?” I asked, as if I didn't know.
She nodded.
“Must be boring,” I said. “You know, all those awards and stuff.”
Chelsea finally got a clue and clicked into gear. “Yeah, at least where I sit. Back with the parents and little kids. It's probably more fun with the players and their dates. Isn't it, Mark?”
I turned and gave Dal a discreet, urgent look. “Excuse me,” I said. “I need to use the restroom.”
He slid out, letting me by. “I—I've gotta go, too,” he said, finally getting with the program.
I don't think I took a decent breath until he and I rounded the corner. I paused by the door of the women's room and pulled Dal out of view. “This hookup thing is harder than I thought.”
“No kidding.”
I peeked around the corner, saw Mark talking and Chelsea smiling, and ducked back. “I just hope we pull this off.”
“I think we might. I mean, did you see Mark's double take when he first saw her?”
I nodded, only a little bit lying. I had watched Mark's face light up for about three seconds. Before Dal's voice had caught and I'd completely lost my game.
“Now,” Dal said, leaning against the wall, “if she'll just shut up about how every girl wants Brandon Callister, we should be fine.”
I nodded.
“What's with Brandon, anyway? What does he have that the rest of us don't?”
“Not a thing.”
“Oh, come on, Kate. If anybody knows, it's you.” He smirked. “You are his girlfriend, after all, right?”
The way he drew out “girlfriend” told me he knew better. Still, I was sick and tired of the misconception. “I am not. We're not even dating. I mean, not dating dating.”
“Define ‘dating.’ ”
“More like seeing,” I said.
“Seeing?”
“Well, not seeing seeing.”
“Kate . . .”
“I'm waiting for him.”
“Waiting,” he repeated. “But not waiting waiting, right?”
“Right.”
He exhaled loudly. “So, you're waiting for what?”
“One last date. So then we can go back to being just lab partners.”
“Does he know this? You know, he's not the sharpest tool in the shed, and even I'm having trouble following this conversation.”
“If he was paying attention last night, he knows.” I couldn't resist playing myself up a bit, giving Dal the hard time he'd earned. What did I have to lose? “But Suzannah talked me into wearing my high-heeled boots and my short black skirt, so I probably blinded him with my mile-long legs.”
“Your mile-long . . .” His voice trailed off. “Yeah, I remember those legs. Attached to cement feet when they gracefully crashed into kids at the bottom of the playground slide.”
Okay—not the response I wanted. But even when I was perturbed or annoyed or downright mad at Dal, he still managed to make me smile. Which I did. Darn him.
I peeked around the corner again. The waitress was delivering our omelets and pancakes, and Chelsea and Mark had stopped talking. Bad. But they hadn't stopped looking at each other. Good?
“Let's go back,” I said. “See if it's time for a victory lap or more damage control.”
•
By the time we were done eating and ready to head home, the sky had turned a steely gray and the temperature had plummeted. Chelsea and I sat in my car in the parking lot, blasting the heat until we saw the guys pull out into traffic. Then we squealed and hugged—and she did some sort of jumping-up-and-down-in-her-seat thing.
Mark and Chelsea were going to the banquet together.
Had the hookup been easy? No way.
Did I have a clue what I was doing? None.
Had I made mistakes? Absolutely.
But would I hold this success close to my heart, as a sign that I really was ready to roll up my sleeves and take on the business world? You know it!
I grinned practically the whole drive to Chelsea's, and made sure to compliment her outfit and hair one last time and to ask if she had special plans for her look on an everyday basis before the banquet.
She seemed taken aback. “I'll probably just keep blow-drying my hair,” she said. “And I have a new sweater I might wear this week.”
“Sounds good,” I said, and nodded, hoping she was getting the underlying message that in situations like these, looks did count.
I dropped her off and drove the half mile to Dal's. I found him in his driveway, locking up his mom's van. I knew that their cracked asphalt needed repaving and that the house could use new siding and paint, but all I saw was Dal.
He had the hood up on his green parka and moved woodenly, like he was trying to retain body heat.
I powered down the window and handed him his closing cut, plus some singles. “We did it!”
“We did.” He grinned, pocketed the tens, but thrust the singles back at me.
“Keep it,” I told him. “I said I'd cover breakfast.”
He folded the bills into my hand. I knew money was tight at his house, but if he wanted to give some back, well, who was I to argue?
“I wouldn't have missed that meal for anything, Kate. The tension, the forced conversation, the pancakes now sitting like a boulder in my stomach.”
“It wasn't that bad. Sure, in the end, we had to practically hit Mark over the head with the idea of asking her to the banquet, but he did get with the program.”
A smile still lingered on his mouth.
“And we got paid,” I added.
“Yeah. I made enough for a tank of gas to see Marissa.”
Marissa again. That took the helium out of my balloon. “Now?” I asked. “I mean, you're going to see her today?”
“Probably next weekend,” he said, and jammed his hands into his pockets. “I have to work later. And if it snows, the roads will be bad.”
“Yeah.” But it wasn't the impending weather that made me put the car back into gear. “Okay, I'm off. Have a good weekend if I don't see you.”
He backed away toward the house and lifted a hand in a wave.
As I pulled onto the street, I smiled and returned his wave, but down deep I was more than a little bugged that I'd just bought Dal more Marissa time.
Seven
That night, around a lopsided homemade chocolate cake at the dining room table, Suzannah and I attempted some sisterly harmony.
“. . . happy birthday, dear Daaaaad . . . happy birthday to you!”
Our end note was so flat that both Suz and I burst into laughter. Even Dad chuckled.
Still, I told myself we were throwing him a great little bash. Next would be presents and hunks of cake—which would hopefully taste better than it looked—followed by a board game of Risk that might go on for hours. Days, even. Who knew?
It was the perfect celebration inside the perfect home with the perfect family who was perfectly happy.
Father, daughter, and daughter.
No one else was invited (or missed). Especially not a certain someone who hadn't been home since Thanksgiving. Who had told us, in a no-nonsense, you-should-be-mature-enough-to-understand tone, that Christmas was too close to the semester end to be away from classes. And that Easter would be here “before you know it.”
Whatever. Besides, I'd spent seventeen years in the presence of that woman. I'd done my time.
Back before she got the diploma bug, I had rather liked her. I'd thought she was sweet and fun and pretty—and way better than the mothers who obsessed about refined sugar and violence on TV.
Pam DelVecchio had always been different. For one thing, she was much younger than other mothers. She and Dad had met in high school. My sister and I were both born before my parents could even order a beer.
Instead of carrying a purse or diaper bag, my mom always seemed to have a book. Not a paperback, but a big, honking textbook on whatever serious subject she was studying. We grew up with her telling us about her courses, sometimes reading passages aloud while we played. I don't remember understanding much of it, but it didn't matter. I just liked to hear her voice.
By the time I was in middle school, my mother had a couple of BAs and had moved on to grad school. And sure enough, one master's degree wasn't enough. She went for a second, and was considering a third when she learned about a particular PhD program in Frankfurt, Germany.
Her persistent interest didn't surprise me. It was the timing I didn't buy. Was my mother running to this European program—or running from us?
Dad was blowing out his candles when the telephone rang. We all knew who it was. Suzannah, dropping about five of her years, let out a little-kid squeal and skated across the room for the cordless.
I felt a frown etch itself into my forehead, one angry line at a time.
“Hi, Mom!” Suz yelled, loud enough for us and all of Germany to hear, grinning like an idiot.
Suz actually bought the parents' spiel. That this PhD program was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Mom, and that she would be back for good next summer. That they didn't want to wrench us from our friends—especially me from my senior year—and that space between mother and daughters in the teen years was a good thing, anyway.
But I was sure there was way more to this other-side-of-the-world thing than they were telling us.
“Put her on the speakerphone,” Dad instructed.
And as soon as my mom's voice hit the air, he smiled, too.
Not me, though. Long gone were the days when her thoughts and her read-alouds filled me with warmth and a sense of security.
Suz and Dad did most of the talking on our end. Then, finally, my mother turned the bright light on me.
“I haven't heard much from you, Kate. And you didn't answer my last e-mail.”
I studied my sneakers, feeling like an employee who hadn't made her sales quota. “Yeah, well . . .”
“She's been busy,” my sister jumped in. “With her new boyfriend, Brandon Callister.”
I rolled my eyes.
“What's this?” my mother said, although her voice showed no emotion.
I paused, wondering how to best spin Brandon. While our mother encouraged Suzannah and me to date and have fun, she'd warned us a gazillion times about getting serious. You know, to protect us from following the dead-ended, miserable early marriage path she had chosen.
“He's so gorgeous, Mom,” Suz answered for me. “You should see him.”
“Wow,” Mom simply said. But caution edged her words. “What do you think, Kate?”
I was tempted to tell her that Brandon and I were mad for each other's bods and were already secretly engaged. Just to see what she'd say. But my life was “complikated” enough without my mother's big, long-distance nose in it.
Despite my urge to freak my mom out, I went with the truth. “He's overrated. And we're not really going out, anyway. He's just my lab partner.”
Suzannah let out this dramatic sigh—for our mother's benefit, I was sure—and announced she'd take Brandon off my hands whenever I was done with him.
“Ha! That's Kate's call,” our mother responded emotionlessly.
Urg! And since it seemed I couldn't win on the subject of Brandon with anyone, I changed topics.
“I made some extra money this week,” I said after clearing my throat. “Helping a girl from the rink.” I held my head a little bit higher. “Bringing me closer to what I'm going to need at graduation.”
In other words . . . There, lady! See, I am going to make my goal, get that college money, and do things my way. You're not the only one who can call the shots.
“Really?” our mother responded, noncommittal. “How was that?”
“Matchmaking,” my dad offered.
Huh? I shot a look at him and then turned to Suzannah, who gave me a guilty shrug.
“Matchmaking?” my mother repeated, then laughed.
I exhaled. First of all, it wasn't matchmaking. I'd read an article about those ladies. Mostly older women, they took their business very seriously, researching suitable mates for their unmarried clients and introducing them over tea or something.
What I'd done was embark on a covert mission, like James Bond. Okay, maybe more like Austin Powers. Or like Will Smith in that movie Hitch. But still, I'd treated it like I would any business venture, with seriousness, flexibility, and multiple points of contact, and I'd even outsourced some of the work to a top-notch contractor. Best of all, I'd succeeded.
And the fact that my mother was laughing . . . well, I'd get that five thousand dollars if I had to wade through sewers for pennies. Okay—yuck. If I had to take Lexie to that New York City qualifying competition myself. Actually not such a bad idea.
“I'm surprised that little scheme didn't blow up in your face, Kate,” my mother said. “Didn't I tell you not to mess with affairs of the heart?”
No, Mother Dearest, I must have missed that lecture while you were showing me how to grocery shop and vacuum under the couch and all the other duties you should be here doing.
“Well, I did just fine,” I answered, and braced myself for a slam.
But it didn't come. In fact, her voice took on some warmth. “I'm glad, honey. And . . . you know I'm proud of you. After you get the right degrees, the Fortune Five Hundred companies are going to be breaking their necks trying to get you.”
The right degrees! She still wasn't hearing me about how I wasn't going to do things her way.
I felt the blood rushing to my face. And who was she to tell me what to do, a woman who wasn't even here to make her husband his birthday cake?
Dad shot me a warning look.
Suzannah shook her head.
So I took a deep breath and gave my mother a dose of her own medicine. I laughed.
The party wasn't quite the same after that. We did presents and cake, but then Dad wanted to go watch TV. Suz called a friend, and I ended up in my room, surfing the Web.
I couldn't concentrate on anything, and eventually I fell asleep on top of my bedspread. At some point, I kicked off my sneakers and crawled under the covers. And at another, I woke to the sound of my IM me
ssage chime. I ignored it and rolled over.
•
In the morning, I wasn't sure if I'd dreamed the pesky IM chimes or imagined them in a falling-asleep hallucination. But as I climbed out of bed, I squinted at my laptop to see if I had a waiting message. And sure enough, the text box was open on my screen, and there was a message from SPEEDBALL:
u there?
cant believe Im going 2 tryouts 2morrow
cant sleep.
And then another:
kate?????
A shiver ran down my spine. Brandon, feeling anxious? Brandon, wanting to talk about his feelings? With me?
This was a whole new animal from the guy I knew in chem lab. One I didn't particularly want to know. It felt too . . . personal. Too connected. And what could I possibly say to help?
Just as well that I'd kept sleeping.
Eight
I snagged a premium space in the senior lot when I got to school. It was on an end, which cut the risk of getting dinged, and I took it as a sign that the day would go my way. Good thing, because I had an essay test that could have been the death of my A, and after school I had my bimonthly Future Business Leaders meeting.
Suzannah was leaning against the car, trying to stuff a lunch sack in a too-full compartment of her backpack, when a shrill female voice rang out from the next lane.
“There she is!”
I reached to help Suz with the bulging zipper, not bothering to look up. Sorry to say, but neither of us had ever achieved that level of she-dom.
But the voice grew louder. “Hey!” That was followed by the sudden rush of footsteps. “Hey, Kate!” that same high-pitched voice called out.
I glanced over to see four girls heading straight for us, smiles plastered across their faces. I'd been in classes with all of them at one time or another, but the only name that stuck in my head was Aimee McDonald, who was the ringleader.
Aimee was one of those people whose skin was so pale it was almost translucent. But since she exuded such a supernatural sense of self-confidence, you pretty much looked past her washed-out complexion to her dazzling blue eyes and dynamic aura.
