Rhymes with Cupid

by Anna Humphrey

  “Relax,” he said, giving me a condescending smile. “I was just kidding. Joking? Joshing? Fooling around? Ever heard of it? Plus, I don’t feel that way about you either. Not anymore. You don’t have to worry. My crush on you is ancient history.”

  I exhaled heavily, feeling like an egotistical jerk, yet again. Of course he’d just been kidding. I’d given him the brush-off in a pretty serious way the day before and he wasn’t stupid. Obviously Patrick didn’t have feelings for me anymore. Why would he?

  “So, damsel in distress,” he said, ignoring the pained look on my face and punching me lightly on the arm. “You ready to drive?”

  Chapter 11

  Thankfully after rushing, unbidden, to my rescue and restoring heat to my house, Patrick seemed to know enough not to tease me about it during our driving lesson. I mean, seriously, who hasn’t mistaken a furnace shut-off switch for a light switch at least once in their life? Okay, so maybe I was the only person in the history of the world, but it was an easy enough mistake to make. The idiot who had built the house could have at least made the switches different colors, or labeled them—and that was when I remembered: I knew the idiot who had built the house. Or, at least, I knew who he had been. Patrick had mentioned it during our very first driving lesson.

  His grandfather had lived next door since he was a child. His father (Patrick’s great-grandfather) had built both houses. Of course, that would have been years and years ago. The furnace had probably been replaced since then—so I couldn’t really blame Patrick and his relatives for my stupid mistake. Still though, the fact that Patrick’s great-grandfather had built the house must have somehow explained how the heart-shaped necklace had ended up in our attic.

  Later that night, in my blissfully warm bedroom, I plugged my iPod into its dock and listened to “Gloria”—which had been stuck in my head ever since I’d heard it in Patrick’s kitchen. I danced around, flinging socks out of my way, as I sorted through the laundry basket looking for the old jeans I’d been wearing four days ago when my mom and I had unpacked the last of the boxes. When I found them, I took the small pendant out of the pocket and danced downstairs to the sink where I poured chalky white silver polish onto a rag and set to work. I did the chain first, working methodically down the delicate links until the black tarnish had lifted away to reveal gleaming silver. Then I turned my attention to the pendant. It was tiny—no bigger than the fingernail on my pinkie—and it wasn’t until I’d rubbed off the last of the tarnish and brought it under the light to examine it that I noticed what had looked like an anchor to hold the stone in was actually a very small diamond. I flipped it over. Some tiny script on the back caught my eye. MBW took AC. 23-3-1917. I studied the inscription. Was MBW a person? And, if so, where did he or she take AC? The last initial, I realized, could stand for “Connor”—which was Patrick’s grandfather’s last name. But, then, the date made no sense. March 23, 1917. I did the math in my head. The pendant was nearly a hundred years old! Patrick’s grandfather couldn’t have been older than eighty-five. I let it dangle from my hand for a minute, watching it catch the light.

  As I walked into the living room the music on my iPod upstairs changed to a slow romantic song by Eric Clapton, “Wonderful Tonight.” It’s about an old married couple, and how the man still loves the woman and thinks she’s beautiful after all those years. . . . It always made me kind of sad, actually, because in real life, that was almost never how it happened. Just take my parents for example . . . as the years went on, my dad didn’t think my mom got more wonderful. He just got bored of her and started cheating. Or take Matt Love. It had only been a matter of months before he’d decided I wasn’t worth his time. It was what all men did if you gave them half the chance. Still, the idea behind the song was romantic, and for no good reason, my heart started pounding as I turned the pendant over in my hand. I opened the clasp and held it up to my neck, then went to look at myself in the mirror over the fireplace. The chain was just the right length for me, and the iridescent aqua color of the stone brought out the subtle flecks of blue in my mostly brown eyes. I fastened the clasp and lay my hand over the stone, loving how cool the tiny opal felt against my palm. One thing was for sure: If it did belong to Patrick’s grandmother, I had to give it back to Mr. Connor. It would be wrong not to. Patrick had said that his grandma died of a stroke recently, which meant his grandparents had been married right up until the end. A love like that was incredibly rare, and I was certain Mr. Connor would want the necklace back. I took my hand away and looked at my reflection again. I would take the pendant next door, I decided, first thing in the morning. Or, better yet, I’d give it to Patrick when I saw him the next afternoon—let him be the one to enjoy the look that would cross his grandfather’s face when he saw it again after who knew how many years.

  The Eric Clapton song ended, and I reached around my neck to take the opal heart off, then thought better of it. It was nearly a hundred years old, after all. A family heirloom. It would probably be safest if I kept it on. That way I’d be sure not to lose it.

  “That’s a gorgeous necklace,” Dina said right away when she saw me at school the next day.

  “Oh, thanks.” I glanced up from the lunch table where I was busy cramming for my chemistry test next period. “It’s an heirloom,” I added for no reason. Obviously, I couldn’t mention that it belonged to Patrick’s family. I had exactly forty minutes to perfect my understanding of kinetic molecular theory. I didn’t have time to tell her the whole story, and I didn’t want her jumping to the wrong conclusion—that Patrick had given it to me.

  “How was everything at the store yesterday?” I asked instead as I underlined the definitions of heat and temperature change in my notebook.

  “Awesome,” she answered. Her friends Carly and Cara joined us with their lunch trays. “Even working alone, I still managed to give out some free chocolates and sign fifteen more people up for the customer loyalty program. That makes fifty-six in total. We’re more than halfway there!”

  Dina’s pocket buzzed. She stood up, taking out her phone.

  “Is it Patrick?” I asked casually as she read the text.

  She shook her head and closed the phone quickly. “Just my mom asking what I want for dinner.” She slid it back into her pocket. “I’ll write back later.”

  Carly dipped a fry in some ketchup. “Your mom knows how to text?” she said, obviously impressed. I was, too, to tell the truth. My mom still had trouble working the voice mail on her cell phone. Sometimes she even needed help with the remote control for the TV.

  “She took a class,” Dina said simply, then changed the subject. “Anybody want this muffin? I’m so full.”

  “No thanks,” I said, absentmindedly putting a hand up to the necklace to check that it was still there—something I’d caught myself doing I don’t know how many times that day.

  When we got to the store that afternoon, Mr. Goodman was reviewing our customer loyalty stats. He patted us both on the back with his meaty hands. “There are my top salesgirls,” he said warmly. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up. Fifty-six customer loyalty cards in two days? Now that’s impressive. Sales are up fifteen percent from last week. Fifteen percent!” he repeated, clearly awed. We both smiled and shrugged.

  Whether it was because of our stellar sales skills, our sort-of-stolen chocolates, or just the fact that Valentine’s Day was fast approaching, the store definitely was busier than usual. We were run off our feet most of the shift. Three different times, Dina’s phone buzzed in her pocket with a text, but she didn’t even have time to answer it. “You should never have let your mom take that texting class,” I said when it buzzed the fourth time.

  “I know, right?” Dina sighed dramatically. “Now she can contact me twenty-four-seven. Can you cover the cash for a few minutes? I’ll just tell her I want fettuccine Alfredo for dinner so she’ll leave me alone.”

  I’d barely punched in my login ID when I looked up and saw a familiar face. “Mrs. Conchetti!�
� I greeted my favorite customer. “Back for more cards? You’ll have that Cupid in time for your grandson’s birth for sure. How many days left until your daughter-in-law is due? You must be getting so excited.”

  “Well,” she said, reaching into her purse for her wallet. “Sometimes these things don’t happen quite according to plan.” She pulled out a wallet-sized photo of a tiny baby and held it out to me, her hand shaking. It was obvious right away that something was wrong, and not only because of the tremor in her hand. The baby in the photo was wearing a tiny oxygen mask. “He was born last Tuesday,” she said. “Two weeks premature, which is why I haven’t been in until now. They’ve named him Nolan Conchetti. Five pounds four ounces. The most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.” I looked up at Mrs. Conchetti. A tear was running down her cheek. “The next day, they diagnosed him with a congenital heart defect—a hole in his heart. He’s scheduled for surgery a week from today. He’s just so tiny,” she said, sliding the photo back into her wallet. She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, then ran a pinkie under her eye to clear away her smudged makeup. “Look at me. I’m a mess.”

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Conchetti. Anybody would be. I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.” I meant it, but even as I said the words, I knew how hollow they sounded. After all, what could I possibly do to help a sick baby? I glanced down at her purchase: a single card with a kitten dangling from a tree. Hang in there.

  “For my daughter-in-law,” Mrs. Conchetti explained. “I thought this might remind her to keep her chin up. Nolan’s a fighter. I can just tell. All the Conchetti men are.” I rang up her purchase, then stamped the customer loyalty card she slid across the counter. She was still nine cards short of earning a Cupid doll.

  “I don’t know why I bothered to get that stamped, considering the circumstances,” she said, putting the card back into her wallet. “I don’t think I’ll be buying enough cards this week to get Nolan the Cupid doll.” She sighed. “And I guess the promotion will be over by the time I’m in again. But next year. I’ll get it for him next year.” She said it like she needed to convince herself that there would be a next year for her grandson.

  “Of course you will. Next year. Like you said, he’s a fighter, right?” She nodded. “You hang in there too,” I said, giving her hand a quick squeeze when I passed her her bag. “Let me know how little Nolan is doing whenever you get the chance, okay? I’ll be thinking of him.”

  “Thank you, Elyse. I’ll keep you posted,” she answered, smiling bravely before turning to leave. I took a deep breath and tried to blink back my own tears as I sorted the change she’d given me into the cash register.

  “Hey, Elyse.” I looked up. Patrick was standing beside the counter. How long had he been there? I’d been so focused on Mrs. Conchetti that I hadn’t even noticed him coming in. I sighed. I didn’t know why—I’d only met her three months ago when I’d started working at Goodman’s—but the news about Mrs. Conchetti’s grandson being sick had made me really sad. I needed a minute to pull myself together, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen with Patrick staring at me.

  “Please don’t tell me you need another pen,” I said. I opened the drawer under the cash and pretended to be looking for something so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact. I was too afraid I was about to start crying about the sick baby and I did not want him trying to comfort me on top of everything else.

  “No,” he answered, biting at his lip and shaking his head. “No pen today. Just some cards. But you stay there. It’s cool. I can find them myself.” He wandered away, thankfully leaving me a few minutes to myself. He came back five minutes before our scheduled driving lesson, dumped an armload of Valentine’s Day cards on the counter, then pulled out his wallet, counting out the bills and coins.

  “I’ve got forty-five dollars and seventeen cents,” he said finally, sliding the cash and his customer loyalty card toward me. “How many of these can I afford?”

  “You’ll have to leave these five behind,” I said after I’d totaled up the purchase. “But that still makes eleven cards. Have you met a lot of new girls recently, or something?” I hadn’t missed noticing that the card I’d suggested he buy the other day—the blank one with the silver background and red heart—wasn’t in the pile. But the nauseating one with the puppies wearing floppy hats (which always made Dina go “Awwwwww”) was.

  “Hey, it never hurts to be prepared, right?” But I couldn’t even force a smile in response to his lame joke. He’d just gone and proven to me what I’d suspected all along: Like most guys his age, Patrick wasn’t picky. I’d turned him down, so he was moving on without a backward glance. He’d be covering his bases by giving tons of valentines to tons of girls; then he’d be happy with whoever took him up on his offer.

  Dina, who was standing near the printer paper texting her mom again, looked up and waved at him. I felt my heart sink. I knew that she had a serious crush on him, but if this was the way Patrick was going to be, by encouraging her to pursue him, was I just setting her up to get her heart broken?

  The thought distracted me all through my driving lesson that afternoon. “So, are those cards for girls at your school?” I asked Patrick after I’d steered the car onto the highway ramp for high-speed-merging-hell, part two. “Or will you mail them to girls back home in Toronto?” I pressed when he didn’t answer.

  He fiddled with the CD player. Today’s driving soundtrack wasn’t Surely Sarah, but it was similar. Soft and acoustic, but with a male lead singer this time.

  “I haven’t exactly decided yet,” he answered. “You’re going to want to get into the left-hand lane here.” I checked my mirror and blind spot, then quickly glanced over at Patrick before changing lanes. He was gazing out the window nonchalantly.

  “What do you mean ‘you haven’t decided’?” I said. “It’s almost Valentine’s Day. And, in case you don’t know, you’re supposed to have one valentine. Not eleven. It’s not the time to be keeping your options open.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “Our exit is the one after this. Start moving to the right.”

  “Why did you make me move to the left in the first place, then?” I asked, irritated. I checked my blind spot again and, as I did, caught a glimpse of Patrick grinning like an idiot. “Because it’s not romantic to have eleven valentines. It’s like you’re telling every one of those girls how unspecial they are to you.” He seemed to think about that for a few minutes.

  “There’s our exit,” he said finally. “Get ready to pull off, then let’s try to find a space to practice parking.” He took his hat off and scratched his head, then wriggled out of his jacket. For once, the car heater actually seemed to be working. As he stuffed his coat into the backseat, it was impossible not to notice the way it smelled, even though it took me a few seconds to figure out what it was. A not altogether unappealing mixture of coffee, sawdust, and engine grease—probably picked up from the shops at his school, Middleford Tech. I signaled and pulled onto the off-ramp. “You wouldn’t just happen to be jealous, would you?” he asked.

  “And why would I be jealous?”

  “Because you don’t think you’re in my top eleven.”

  I snorted. “Right, because that would be such an honor.” The second I’d said it, I knew it sounded mean. After all—even if by now it was “ancient history”—he had confessed a crush on me just a few days before.

  “Hey,” he shot back. “Some girls would be honored. I’ve had girlfriends before, you know?” he added, sounding almost hurt. “Lots of them. And, anyway, I didn’t say I wasn’t getting you a valentine. You can be number twelve if you want.”

  Now I didn’t care if I sounded mean. “Awesome. I’ll wait for my card with bated breath.” I turned the wheel sharply to the left. A little too sharply, probably. We came around the corner in a skid. Patrick grabbed the wheel and steered us back on course. “Sorry,” I said. Driving and being irritated with Patrick were two things that obviously didn’t mix well. I knew I
should change the subject to something safer. My first thought was the necklace, but I quickly decided against it. It was a precious heirloom, after all. A symbol of lasting love. Any guy who bought eleven valentines and bragged about how many girlfriends he’d had didn’t deserve to touch it. I’d just give it to his grandfather when we got home.

  “How’s your songwriting going?” I asked instead, as I calmed myself down and accelerated gently. I hadn’t asked him about it since the first day I’d officially met him, when he bought pen number one.

  Now it was his turn to get flustered. He shrugged and looked out the window. “Okay.”

  “Just okay? You know, if you’re ever looking for someone to play for, I wouldn’t mind listening to one of your songs.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know about that,” he said. “I don’t really sing in front of people, besides my friend Jax.”

  “How are you ever going to be a famous singer-songwriter, then? And what about your band? You’ll never make it to the top of the charts if you don’t perform. You know, you just need to work on your confidence,” I said, repeating one of the aggravating things he’d said to me during our first driving lesson. “I’m sure you’re awesome. Plus,” I went on, “most girls are totally into that kind of thing. If you want to impress the top eleven . . .” I trailed off, but, obviously, I was thinking of Dina. If he sang her a song he’d written himself, she’d melt into a puddle of girl-goo.

  “Oh my God,” I said, suddenly coming up with a brilliant plan. “You should write a song for Dina’s party.” He looked at me uncertainly. “It could be, like, your big debut. In front of a real audience.” Just the idea made him turn about two shades paler than usual. “Think of it as extreme songwriting. Do this, and you’ll never be afraid to sing in front of people again. Come on.” I grinned, knowing I had him. “I dare you. Unless, of course, you’re too scared.”

  That sealed the deal. No guy would admit to being too scared. “All right,” he said, gulping. “You’re on. Just be prepared to be blown away.”