by Tina Ferraro
“You're going to be at Vince's party tonight, right, Kate?”
I shrugged and gave her my business card, hoping she'd join my Wait List. “Just in case it's too crowded tonight and I don't see you,” I said. “Call me.”
Later, I met up with Dal outside at lunch.
“Where've you been hiding?”
“Hiding?” I repeated, plopping down next to him and pulling a slightly squished tuna sandwich from its plastic bag.
His gaze bore down on me, forest green. Not his friendliest color, but not a serial-killer look, either. “You didn't come out for morning break.”
“I had some clients to attend to,” I said truthfully.
Under normal circumstances, I would have elaborated, but the air between us held a lot more than breath clouds and tuna stink, and I wanted to clear it. “I wasn't ignoring you, if that's what you think.”
“Why would I think that?” he asked, shivering inside his jacket.
“Well, you know.”
He shifted his weight and his voice dropped. “Yeah.” He was quiet for a little too long, looking straight over my head. “I should probably remind you I'll be gone this weekend. I'm driving out to the U later.”
A stranger would have thought his response was a non sequitur, but he knew that the “you know” was my name for our too-long, too-tight hug. I realized that he thought we'd crossed the line earlier, too, and that it hadn't felt exciting or heart-thrashing or tempting to him.
Being with me had just felt plain wrong to him. The way it should have felt to me.
“Yeah, have fun.” I took an oversized bite of my sandwich, just to make sure no more words or any miserable moans slipped out, even though I had totally lost my appetite. I was going to have to hold these new feelings for him as close to my chest as insider trading tips.
“So we're on target with all the clients, then?”
A change in the subject would have been greatly welcome at this point. I wasn't in complete control of our clients. Or my grades. Or my family. Or him. But it felt a lot safer to talk about Yvette and Lamont, so I
swallowed and explained what had happened.
“Sounds like she freaked him out.”
I cringed, unable to miss the obvious parallel. “I guess she did. So what do we do?”
He scrunched his face. “No more games or tests, that's for sure. Best thing now is brutal honesty. Have her tell him she paid you to help her hook up with him, and you gave her bad advice.”
“What?”
He held up a hand. “So she tells him she's sorry, and she really doesn't want to own him or be his girlfriend or anything, she just wants the chance to hang with him a little.”
“That's not the brutal truth.”
“You asked for something that might work.”
I studied his face. “And that would work on you?”
“If a girl I wasn't sure about was throwing herself at me?” he said, and shrugged. “And I got to choose between, say, going for coffee with her, hurting her feelings, or letting her put a collar around my neck? Coffee would be a no-brainer.”
I nodded, hearing him on numerous levels. Once again, he was coming through with good, sound advice. And in a similar situation, I'd have gone for the safest and kindest option, too—most people would. Plus, I supposed it was only fair for Yvette to make me out to be the bad guy.
Still, I couldn't help internalizing Dal's comments, wondering if he was sharper than I was giving him credit for, if he was tuning in to my new feelings for him.
Was he choosing the lesser evil with me, too? I mean, no way he was taking me over Marissa. Yet he didn't want to hurt me, either. So I remained forever . . . good pal Kate.
When I opened my mouth to respond, I knew full well the words were coming from my heart. “But would you ever—could you ever—start to like the girl?”
A group of people moved passed us, each of them saying some version of “Hi, Kate.” I tried to smile and nod, but it was really hard, considering I couldn't tear my eyes away from Dal's face.
“If coffee went well,” he answered, “if she wasn't too pushy. Yeah, it could happen.”
“Even if you were already going out with someone else?”
“What?” Dal's face tightened. “Lamont has a girlfriend?”
“No,” I said, and then laughed. Too hard. “I just meant hypothetically.”
“I don't know,” he said dismissively. “I can't even go there. I wouldn't encourage someone to pursue a crush on a person who was committed. That's just wrong.”
I tugged on my cap, sort of wishing it would cover my whole face and body. “Yeah, of course. I totally agree.”
Fifteen
When I picked Lexie up after school, I could tell she was having a hard day, too. I couldn't even get her to accept a Life Saver, and as we crossed the parking lot after practice, she didn't take her usual offense when I answered my phone, or when Chelsea stopped me for a good-luck hug before her big date.
I was getting kind of worried about the little brat, so as we pulled into her family's darkened driveway that night, I played my trump card. “I got a voice mail from Brandon a little while ago. Wanna hear it?”
She broke free of her seat belt. “Does he do loveydovey mushy stuff?”
I turned and gave her a look that said “In your dreams.”
“Talk dirty, then?”
“Lexie!”
“Then why would I want to listen?”
I smiled. “Because you're the one with the crush on him?”
She sighed and inched toward the passenger door, then gave me a very grown-up frown. “Nothing lasts forever, Kate.”
Yeah, I wanted to reply. Like my patience with you. But instead of losing my job, I got out of the car and followed her to the door. Maybe this time Mrs. H. would be available.
Lexie bolted into the house, leaving the door ajar. She must have told her mother I was waiting, because before I could knock, Mrs. H. pulled the door open and invited me in. I stepped inside the entryway, spying the circular staircase and hanging chandelier, and shivered a little as I acclimated to the room's warmth.
“I need you to drive Lexie tomorrow,” Mrs. H. said as if she'd called the meeting. “Her father is unavailable.” Then, as fast as she'd approached, she turned and walked away.
I stood on the Oriental rug, confused. Had I been dismissed or should I wait for her to come back? After an embarrassing amount of time passed, I fished for my cell phone, pretended to answer it, and slipped outside as if to take the call. If there was some hidden security camera, I didn't want to look like a total idiot. When another few minutes passed, I headed for my car, feeling as powerless with my employer as I did with my clients.
•
That night, I opened my chem book, knowing full well that across town, Vince Hammer's party was about to blaze into the night sky. It was one of the first times I'd been invited to an A-list event, and here I was, blowing it off.
Suzannah thought I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had. But the bright lights and demands of my newfound popularity were taking their toll on me. I was too tired to go hang with Brandon's friends and to pretend I cared about him as much as they did.
Eventually my sister went off to a friend's and Dad sank into his TV haze. I was alone, with superdull homework and a cell phone so quiet I had to check to see if it was still working. So I did what I always did when the walls closed in. I tried to lose myself in the Dow, the S & P 500, in the Trump Organization Web site—in my future.
The laptop made its usual noises as it warmed up, but for some reason, I couldn't make mine. I couldn't get any more interested in the Consumer Price Index than I had been in electron orbitals. One subject was as just-kill-me boring as another.
It was crazy. Crazier than skipping an A-list party. Crazier than telling the guy who makes your blood race to “have fun” with his girlfriend in her dorm room. Crazier than . . . well, anything I could think of.
The one thing that separate
d me from the rest of the world was my dream. I wasn't settling for the traditional track. I was going to make a mark, make a name, and make lots and lots of moolah. And the only way of achieving that fantastic dream was by careful planning. The amount of energy and research I put in this year would directly affect the outcome of my first big business venture, whether I doubled or tripled my college fund and set myself on track for my next Ideal Opportunity or lost everything.
There was no room for distractions. Not quasi boyfriends or best friends with girlfriends. Or deepseated fears that I might not be as naturally gifted in business dealings as I liked to believe.
No, it was not the time for any of that.
The real trouble was, I thought, staring at my laptop screen, I just couldn't figure out what it was time for.
•
The next morning, Carlton called. He'd watched Brianne and her friend jump up and down in the halls the day before over his anonymous love note.
“What's next?” he asked. “Send flowers to her house?”
I bit my lip. I'd just read an article that suggested that in matters of the heart, time spoke louder than cash. “How about you burn her a CD of your favorite songs? Then type up a playlist, and I'll give her the package on Monday. And maybe Tuesday, after she's had time to listen and really wonder, we'll reveal you.”
“You're a genius!”
I laughed. “Actually, I prefer the term Love Goddess.”
As soon as I hung up, the smile slid from my face. I wished I really did have a fail-safe plan for Carlton—six-point or otherwise. And I couldn't stop worrying that all I was really doing was setting him up for one giant fall.
On my way to the supermarket, I called Yvette and left her a voice mail. I knew Dal had talked to her before leaving for the university yesterday, and I also knew she was pretty pissed off and was demanding her money back, whether or not making me the fall guy softened Lamont's heart. I sure hoped our plan worked.
Lexie was actually ready when I drove up later, and it was clear her tongue was in fine working order again. Lucky me. From the backseat, she told me how to drive, and as we entered the rink, she proceeded to explain that what I really needed to get my business booming was to hire her.
“Think of me as your apprentice, Kate. I'll watch and learn, and make helpful suggestions. And when I get to high school, I'll take over the business.”
I choked back a laugh. The day I needed a twelve-year-old's help was the day I admitted my parents were right and I needed college before making my foray into the business world. “Nice try.”
“Okay, just let me in on a few of your secrets so I can sell them at my school.”
“My secrets,” I said, “are just that. Secrets. And besides,” I added, lowering my voice, “they're getting mixed results.”
Lexie jutted her chin. “So tell me one or two and give me a chance to make them better.”
I just shook my head. She was such a piece of work.
As I steered Lexie through the locker room door, Chelsea was walking out. She looked pasty-faced, and her hair was all stringy again. My first thought was that the banquet had been a disaster. But that would not explain the elation that seemed to radiate from her every pore.
“Oh, Kate, the banquet was so great,” she said, and flashed the hundred-watt smile that had probably cupid-darted Mark to begin with. “He paid attention to me, introduced me to the other guys and their dates, and told me how pretty I looked. Wow, huh?”
“Wow,” I agreed.
Then she let out a sigh, and for some reason, my gaze went to the leftover mascara smudges under her eyes. “The only problem is, he isn't talking much to me today. I mean, every time I walk up to him, he seems to get real busy.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. Technically, she was not my client anymore. But I really did want everyone to be happy, and the solution to her dilemma was such a no-brainer.
“Well, Chelsea,” I said, and swallowed. “You've definitely got the grunge thing going. And last night, you were probably gorgeous, right? You're probably confusing the poor guy.”
Her brow knitted. “You're saying that the normal, regular, everyday me isn't good enough for him?”
Ouch. How to dance around this carefully? “No, but it seems that the better a person looks, the more the opposite sex seems to pay attention. You two did hook up during that breakfast when you looked so hot. And,” I continued, “you've been looking great at school lately.”
I could see the thoughts dancing in her eyes. Finally, she refocused on me, her voice matter-of-fact. “So the secret to your hooking-up business is being what the other person wants you to be. Not your real self.”
“No! Of course not,” I said. While thinking, Omigod, is it? Have I become totally superficial just to close deals?
She shook her head, then marched off. I wanted to run after her, but what if I blurted out something that made things worse?
I tried to tell myself that she just needed to calm down (and brush her hair) and everything would be fine again. But I sure wished Dal was here. He was my voice of reason, the one with the great ideas and solutions, who always knew just what to say.
Of course, he was probably saying incredible things into Marissa's ear right now. And I so didn't want to think about that.
Instead of heading up to my office, I took a seat on the lowest bench, with the mothers. I smiled at the group, willing them to talk to me and distract me from my life, and I kind of didn't mind getting a closer view of Lexie skating, either. The girl was good.
Catching myself smiling at her smooth double-axel landing, I realized I'd actually grown fond of the little whiner. And that in some ways, we weren't all that different. We both had difficult mothers, were headstrong in our pursuits, and probably had more bark than bite. Not that I'd tell her that—she'd likely figure out a way to use it against me.
After practice ended, I said goodbye to a few of the friendlier moms and wandered toward the locker room, only to come face to face with Mark and Chelsea—holding hands. Which was wonderful. Perfect. Relieving.
Except for the death stares they were drilling into me.
“You told Chelsea I only liked her when she had makeup on?” Mark said, and left his mouth hanging open like he had lots more to say.
“Not exactly,” I said, and shifted a bunch of stuff from one hand to another. Why was it suddenly so stuffy in this rink, so hard to breathe?
“You really think,” he went on, “I'm that shallow, Kate?”
“No—”
“If I was blowing her off this morning, it was only because I had work to do. I gotta keep my job, you know? And about me asking her out when she was looking incredible—well, it just so happened that was the day she gave me the signals that she was interested.”
To my supreme relief, Lexie's coach appeared and thrust an invoice at me for her competition costs, with the word overdue tattooed on top. Since I was already in groveling mode, I nodded during the brief lecture on how it wasn't his job to collect the money, and promised to deliver both the invoice and the word on to Mrs. H. personally.
When I turned back to Mark and Chelsea, they were gone. That didn't keep me from wanting the earth to swallow me whole. I grabbed Lexie, who at that moment felt like the closest thing in the world I had to a friend, and ushered her out the door.
•
Back home, I left a message on Aimee McDonald's cell phone that she was being moved from our Wait List to Active Status. I tried to sound all chipper and excited and in control, and not like someone who was having as many failures as she was successes.
That night, Summer called. But instead of a standard hello, she greeted me with “Why weren't you at Vince's party? And don't tell me you weren't invited. Brandon's girlfriend gets invited to everything.”
“I was tired,” I said, without adding exactly of what.
“Whatever. Look, I'm ready to sign up for your little business.”
I grimaced. “My little bu
siness costs one hundred bucks. Twenty now, to be Wait-Listed—”
“Wait-Listed!”
“What can I say? I'm popular.” After a pause long enough to drive that statement home, I continued. “But the twenty's applied to the first fifty when you move to the Active List.”
She made a noise that I took for agreement. “Now,” she said, “as far as the guy, I want you to surprise me. I mean—duh—we obviously have the same taste in males.”
“It doesn't work that way.”
“What—I pick the guy?” She laughed, but it was dry and without humor. “I can pick and get any guy I want. What I want is for you to use that hexagon everyone's talking about to find the right guy to make me prom queen. Someone from a different group, who'll get all his friends' votes, while I get all mine.”
I made a face into the receiver. What she needed was a campaign manager. But money was money. “You're pushing me here, Summer.”
I felt her grinning over the phone line; she thought she was winning me over.
“But I'll do it,” I told her. “For an extra twenty.”
“What?”
“Take it or leave it.”
She grumbled and hung up, but I knew I'd be hearing from her again. And that her money would look oh so good in my shoe box.
•
Church bells rang in the distance the next morning as I slipped my feet into my Uggs. For a moment I thought I heard another bell, too—shorter, louder—but I just shook my head and topped a pair of sweatpants with a Seattle Seahawks jersey. Perfect laze-around-the-house attire.
Suz was suddenly in the doorway, her glasses in her hand, high color in her cheeks, flicking her thumb toward the staircase.
Thoughts of Dal raced through me. Something had gone wrong with Marissa, and he needed me! Yes!
Except that the only time Dal ever talked to me about her was in passing. Like he didn't think I had enough life experience to understand the stuff they went through—or like everything between them was so frigging perfect, there was nothing to discuss.
“Dal?” I asked.
She shook her head, then took the stairs two at a time.
