Rhymes with Cupid

by Anna Humphrey

  “No, Mom. Wait.” I slapped a hand on top of hers to stop her from dialing. “I’m seventeen. I can look after myself. You go.” She gave me a doubtful look. “Take Carolynn.” My mom and her best friend had been plotting for ages about how, when their kids were all grown up, they’d take a girls’ trip to some Caribbean island. Now was obviously the time. “Or Aunt Sarah. I’ll be fine here. I swear.”

  “I don’t think so, Elyse. Carolynn probably can’t get time off work on such short notice, and Sarah’s got Uncle Tom’s CD release on Wednesday night.”

  “So go with someone else. . . .”

  “Who else would I go with?”

  “I don’t know. Anyone . . . It doesn’t matter. Just go.”

  “If I left you here on your own, how would you get groceries?”

  “Mom, I know where the store is. . . .”

  “What if something breaks in the house?”

  “I can use the phone as well as you can to call a repair person. . . .”

  “You might be lonely.”

  “I’ll live.”

  “I’d miss you.”

  “I’d miss you, too. But, Mom, when are you ever going to have a chance like this again? And when’s the last time you had a real vacation? Plus, after how hard the last few months have been . . . this would be good for you. Seriously, it’s about time you did something for yourself.”

  She shook her head like it was all too much to consider, and pulled her hand away, taking the phone with it. She reached for the white pages on the kitchen bookshelf, flipped through, and dialed a number. “Hello. Is this Valter?” she said into the receiver. I sighed heavily. “It’s Michelle Ulrich. From work. Good, good. And you?” She paused. “Listen, I’m having a bit of a problem with those travel tickets from the raffle. My beautiful daughter can’t get the time off work.” She smiled at me across the table. “It’s unfortunate, I know.”

  I stood up, pushing my chair back from the table noisily. Why did my mother have to be so stubborn about this? I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. She should know that by now. When had I ever acted less than responsibly? Why did she have to go and ruin this one good thing that had happened in her life lately, just because of me? I opened the fridge and took out a yogurt cup, pulling the lid off angrily.

  “So, anyway, I was wondering,” my mom went on. “This might sound like a strange invitation—but there are two tickets. What if you and I went together?” I paused, spoon midway to my mouth. Had I just heard that right? “It only seems fair that you come along, since you paid for the raffle ticket in the first place. I’d be happy to pay for the extra hotel room, of course. . . . Really?” my mom said, her face breaking into a grin. “Okay. Well, that sounds perfect. Call me right back when you know for sure. Here. Let me give you my number.” By the time my mom had hung up the phone, my mouth was hanging completely open.

  “You know what, Elyse?” my mom said. “I think maybe you’re right. Maybe it is about time I did something for myself.”

  Valter Bigaskis called back within the hour to say all the details were confirmed. He had rescheduled his clients’ Swedish massage appointments. His favorite cat-sitter was available. The stars had aligned. “Great,” I said, copying down the message. My mother had already dashed out to hit the mall before closing time. The elastic on her bathing suit, which she couldn’t remember when she’d last worn, was all stretched out, and she’d need a new beach towel, and sunscreen, and a better suitcase, just to name a few things. “I’ll let her know.”

  “Your modder,” Valter said with a heavy accent, “iz like an angel. Did you know this?”

  “Umm,” I said. I wasn’t used to strange Swedish men talking about my mother. I wasn’t sure if I liked it. “Yeah, I guess. . . .”

  “She’s at the spa not even a veek, and already she looks out for everyone. Takes them under her ving. If dey need a coffee, she iz pouring it. If dey need to talk, she iz listening. A more deserving person could not vin dis vacation. I am honored to go vid her on a sveetheart retreat.”

  “Okay,” I said, just wanting to get off the phone with this guy. “I’ll be sure to tell her that. Bye-bye now.”

  “Yes,” Valter went on. “Bye-bye now. And I look forward to meeting you soon, Meechelle’s beautiful daughter.”

  “All right then,” I said awkwardly. “Bye.”

  My initial relief and excitement that my mom was going on vacation to Mexico had suddenly turned into a weird apprehension. Did I really want my “angel” mother going on a “Sveetheart Retreat” with Valter the Swedish masseuse? What if they had a great time and became lifelong friends and he started coming over for Christmas dinner every year? Or, worse, what if they fell in love? And got married? And I had to change my last name to Bigaskis?

  I grabbed Dina’s bunch of green balloons and put on my coat, planning to head next door to Patrick’s house. Maybe if I was lucky I could catch Lyme disease before Wednesday and my mom would decide to stay home after all.

  Except that, the second I saw Patrick, I knew my plan was destined to fail. Because unless people suffering from Lyme disease looked totally fine and one of the symptoms was a strange desire to dance around the kitchen waving utensils, Patrick was totally faking it. He was a pretty decent dancer, though, I had to admit. I knocked on the small window in the back door, catching him singing into a spatula and scaring him half to death. I could see the blush on his cheeks even though he was halfway across the room, but I didn’t feel that bad. After all, he’d seen me doing the scuba in my living room window when I hadn’t known he was watching, and that was just as embarrassing.

  “Happy Lyme disease,” I said, shoving the huge bunch of balloons through the door as soon as he opened it. “You look terrible.” He blushed even more.

  “Okay,” he said, hanging his head a little as he turned off the music, which I had recognized instantly. It was “Gloria,” by Van Morrison. It always made me dance around like a moron, too. “So I’m busted.”

  “Very busted.”

  I took in the disastrous scene in the old-fashioned kitchen. Half of the wood-paneled cupboard doors were wide open; mixing bowls, pots, and pans were spilling out onto the floor; the double sink was piled full of dishes; and there was flour all over everything: the brown-and-white flecked countertop, the cracked linoleum floor, Patrick’s socks. Also, something was burning in a serious way. “You might want to deal with that.” I pointed toward the huge, antique oven. Smoke was starting to come out of the vent underneath the back burner.

  “Oh man.” Patrick opened the oven door and reached for the cookie sheet inside.

  “Wait,” I called, but it was too late. He’d already touched it. With his bare hands.

  “Ouch!” he yelped, hopping around. “Ow ow ow ow ow.”

  “Here.” I turned on the cold water in the sink, grabbed his arm, and shoved his hand underneath. Then I reached for the oven mitts and pulled the tray out, shutting the heat off with my free hand at the same time. The tray was coated with a lumpy black mass of something that kind of looked like asphalt.

  “They’re cookies,” Patrick said. “Oatmeal raisin. Or, they were.” I walked over and checked his hand. Two of his fingertips were a bit red, but there were no blisters.

  “I think you’ll be okay,” I said. “But you might want to put some Polysporin on later if it gets red.” I let go of his hand, then walked over to poke at the edge of the “cookies” with Patrick’s spatula. The batter had all run together into one mega-cookie, which was now cemented onto the baking sheet. “They look delicious,” I quipped.

  “Hey,” he shot back. “I’m a beginner here. A little encouragement?” I suddenly regretted teasing him, especially in light of how patient he’d been with me in the car the day before. “You should see me in shop class. I can build a birdhouse in my sleep. I sanded my canoe paddle so well the teacher couldn’t even find the seams in the wood . . . but this . . .” He took the spatula from me and poked at the blackened co
okies. “This is nothing like woodworking.”

  “Well,” I said, searching my brain for something positive to say. “You definitely cooked them very thoroughly.”

  Patrick laughed, and went to drop the spatula in the sink. “I’m glad you think so,” he said. “They’re for you.” I stared at him. “To make up for the whole blossoming-Japanese-cherry-bush thing yesterday. I felt bad, okay? This was supposed to be my peace offering.”

  I was more than a little surprised. “You pretended to have Lyme disease so you could stay home and bake me cookies?”

  “Not exactly. My buddy Jax from the Keyhole needed to pick up some extra shifts at work to cover a few bills. I called in sick so he could take the hours. Plus, I figured you wouldn’t really want to go driving with me today . . . after the parking, and the bush. The Lyme disease thing was kind of off the top of my head.” He pointed at a bag of limes that was sitting on the windowsill. “I’ve never been a very good liar.” He motioned to a kitchen chair. “Have a seat. I’ll get you some juice or something.”

  “No. Thanks, but really, I can’t stay. My mom just won this crazy ten-day trip to Mexico, so I should help her get ready. She leaves Wednesday. I just came to bring you these balloons. And this card.” I handed it over. “They’re from Dina,” I explained.

  “And you.” He’d already torn the envelope open.

  “Huh?”

  He showed me a signature that read “Elyse” in big, loopy writing, nothing like my own. “Oh, right,” I said, not wanting to make Dina look bad, even though I was fully intending to kill her the next day. If she’d been planning to fake my signature, the least she could have done would have been to warn me. “I forgot. It’s from me, too.”

  He flipped the card closed again. The cover had a picture of a bunny rabbit dressed in a lab coat. “Dr. Bunny thinks it just ain’t funny when your nose is runny,” he read, then opened the card. “Hope you’re hopping down the road to recovery soon.” I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets, wishing I could vanish from the kitchen and never be associated with the embarrassing bunny card again. She couldn’t have picked something with a nice neutral landscape on it?

  “A joke card,” he observed, like he was considering what that might mean. “But, it actually rhymes. Thanks.” I looked up, expecting him to be mocking me, but his smile seemed sincere.

  “Yeah, well. Dina picked it out,” I explained quickly. “She was really worried about you. The balloons were her idea, too.” I bopped one at his head. He bopped it back. Quick reflexes. It probably explained why he was such a good driver. “You know, lime green, for Lyme disease.”

  “That was really sweet of her,” Patrick said, giving me an odd look.

  “She’s a sweet girl,” I said. An awkward silence hung between us for a few seconds until it was thankfully interrupted by the sound of the oven timer going off. “Anyway,” I continued. “Like I said, I’d better get going. Thanks for the attempted cookies. You really didn’t need to do that, you know. I wasn’t that mad.”

  “Yes, you were,” he said. “And, yes, I did. I have to prove to you that I’m in the other two percent.” It took me a second to figure out what he was talking about. “You know, not a pig. Except, I guess it didn’t quite work out.” He picked up a butter knife and tried to pry the corner of the blackened cookie lump off the pan. “Plus, now I have the whole lying-to-you-about-having-Lyme-disease thing to feel bad about, too. I can’t believe you brought me balloons.”

  “Mostly from Dina,” I reminded him quickly. But I’m not sure if he heard me. He was already reaching for his cookbook.

  “I can’t figure out what went wrong. Maybe I used too much melted butter. It said three quarters of a cup, but they looked dry, so I put extra. Then they looked wet, so I put more raisins. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t sift the flour. How do you sift flour, anyway?”

  “It was probably the butter,” I said, opening the back door a crack.

  “Yeah. Probably,” he said thoughtfully. He tossed the cookbook onto the kitchen table. “You know, I was wrong. Baking isn’t like parallel parking at all. It’s way harder.”

  My mom got home from the mall about an hour later, a new bathing suit in hand. It was covered in bright orange and pink flowers and had a shockingly low neckline, but she looked so excited about it that I tried not to raise my eyebrows.

  “It’s a little daring, isn’t it?” she said, an unfamiliar glow in her cheeks that I was pretty sure had nothing to do with the temperature (−18 with windchill).

  “You can always wear a wrap over it,” I suggested. “And the colors are nice and bright. You’ll blend in with the Mexican foliage.”

  After that, I went upstairs to get started on some homework and leave her to do her preparations and packing. It was almost nine, and I’d just finished studying for my chemistry test and stepped into the shower, when I heard the doorbell ring. My mom came up the stairs a few minutes later.

  “Patrick next door dropped these off for you,” she said, knocking on my bedroom door as I unwrapped the towel turban from my head. “He shovels the driveway and he bakes. I told you he was a nice boy. I thought you might want one before bed.” She picked up a cookie and took a bite. “They’re still warm. Really, Elyse. He’s too sweet. Why don’t you ask him to that party Dina’s having? It could be fun.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. “Because I’m not interested, Mom. And neither is he. That’s why.”

  As soon as she left I changed into my pajamas, then picked a cookie up off the plate. They were moist this time, and lightly browned. I bit in. Amazing, really, for a beginner. I ate a second, then a third. And that’s when I discovered it, resting against the very bottom of the plate—an oatmeal cookie shaped like a heart. A perfect heart. Obviously not accidental. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands as a queasy feeling filled my stomach.

  Suddenly, things fell into place. Patrick’s strange obsession with ballpoint pens, his question about which valentine to buy, the way he’d asked in the driveway the day before about whether or not I was taking my boyfriend to the panda party. He wasn’t interested in Dina. For some inexplicable reason, he had a crush on me and—worse—he’d just declared it, in cookie form.

  I sank down on the bed, feeling overwhelmed by the mess I’d somehow gotten myself into. Then I ate the evidence before my mother could find it.

  Chapter 8

  By the time Wednesday morning came around, my mother had officially lost her mind. Aside from packing way too much stuff (seriously, how many pairs of flip-flops does a person traveling to Mexico for ten days need?), she had also attached sticky notes to almost every surface in the house. “Back burner heats slow,” read one on the kitchen counter. “Call Parson Plumbing at 555-867-2525 if toilet backs up. Drano under sink if bathtub clogs,” instructed another on the bathroom door. And that’s saying nothing of the humongo list of emergency numbers and random instructions on the table. “If you need anything, call Carolynn or Aunt Sarah. Keep windows closed and locked at all times. Garbage goes out Monday P.M. Do not let strangers into the house!!!”

  “Mom,” I said, holding up the list. “You do realize I’m not twelve, right?”

  “I know,” she said, rewrapping the power cord for her blow-dryer and placing it in her carefully organized luggage. “I know, it’s just, you’ve never been home alone this many days in a row. I can’t help but worry.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I know you will. Oh,” she exclaimed, whipping her sticky notes and pen out of her back pocket. “I can’t believe I almost forgot.” She started scribbling furiously. “Before you go to bed tonight, double-check all the locks, and test all the smoke alarms and the carbon monoxide detector. Promise me? And I should probably leave you the number for poison control, just in case you accidentally—”

  “Mom,” I interrupted her. “I’m not going to accidentally eat poisonous things. Trust me.” She took a deep breath, then scrunched up the sticky note. “You�
�re right. I’m being ridiculous.” She came over and kissed the top of my head.

  “I have to go now, okay? Or I’ll be late for school. Have fun,” I said, emphasizing the word. “Try to forget that winter exists. And don’t worry about me.”

  “I will. I mean, I won’t,” she said. “I mean, I’ll try not to worry. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I answered.

  “Oh, and Elyse,” my mom added as I stepped over the threshold. “I asked Patrick’s grandfather if the two of them wouldn’t mind checking in on you occasionally.” I sighed. “Just in case there’s anything you need help with . . . since they’re right next door. I don’t think you realize how much work it can be to look after everything on your own,” she went on when she saw the withering look I was giving her. “It’s good to have backup.”

  “Right,” I said sarcastically. “In case there’s a pickle jar I can’t open and I need the handsome boy next door to rush to my rescue.”

  “Really?” my mom said, totally missing my point. Her eyes lit up. “Did I just hear you say you think Patrick next door is handsome?”

  I groaned and turned to go. I was not about to have this discussion with my mother. “Good-bye,” I said instead. “Have a margarita for me. Virgin, obviously,” I added when she raised an eyebrow. “I’ll see you on the fifteenth.”

  That afternoon, traffic was lighter than usual (maybe everyone had jumped on a plane to Mexico along with my mother), which meant that Dina and I were a full fifteen minutes early getting to the mall for work.

  “Oh,” Dina said, grabbing my arm. “Can we go into American Apparel for a sec? They have these new micro-mesh minidresses in black and white. I want to try one on. I might get it for the panda party.”

  “Seriously?” I said as she pulled me into the store. I’m not a prude or anything, but the white dress in size zero was being modeled by a particularly twiglike headless mannequin. The thing was practically see-through. “Why don’t you just go naked? It’d be cheaper. . . .”