We decide to watch TV until she gets home. By ten Miri is asleep on the couch. “Go to bed,” I say, nudging her. “I’ll wait up.”
I’m starting to worry. What if something happened to her? What time should I start panicking? Why hasn’t she called? I try her cell phone, but it goes right to voice mail.
At ten-thirty I’m pacing. At five to eleven I’m about to start calling—well, not the police, but at least the fireman downstairs—when I finally hear my mom’s key in the door.
“Hi, hon,” she says, casually hanging her jacket on a hanger. She notices my scowl. “What’s wrong?”
“Where,” I spit out, “have you been?”
“I am so sorry,” she says, unzipping a pair of stunning new leopard-skin high-heeled boots. Where did those come from? “I didn’t realize how late it was.”
“Next time, Mother, you call home when you’re going to be late.” I’m about to add that I’ll have to ground her if she pulls a trick like this again.
She hangs her head. “I am really sorry, honey.” She gives me a hug. “Where’s your sister?”
“Asleep. It’s eleven,” I say.
She gasps. “I really didn’t realize it was so late. Want to tell me about your weekend? I’ll make some tea.”
Sighing, I follow her to the kitchen and slump into a chair. “How was your weekend? Busy?”
“Oh, boy, yes. I went out—a lot.”
“How many dates did you have?”
She smiles as she fills up the kettle. “Four.”
“Four!” I didn’t even know she knew four men! Who are they? “There’s the fireman, Adam, Geriatric Lex . . . Who else?”
She shakes her head. “I had to reschedule with Lex. By the time he called on Friday to confirm, my weekend was booked.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I fit him into the schedule for cocktails next Saturday from five to seven.” She unwraps two herbal tea bags and drops them into two chipped mugs. She picks up the wall calendar to confirm. “Yup, five to seven.” The entire month is covered with red scribbles.
“Pass that to me, please.” I don’t believe it. There are men’s names and locations written down for every night of next week. Two on Friday. Three on Saturday. Yes, three. Has my mom gone crazy? When did she become Crazy Dating Mom?
How can I get my calendar to look like hers?
11
My Mother, My Headache
On our way to homeroom, Tammy stops me in the middle of the stairwell, looks around to make sure no one can hear, and whispers, “Bosh called me last night.”
“What? No way.”
“Way.” Her eyes sparkle mischievously. “We spoke for three hours. I told him I have a boyfriend, but he wouldn’t let me off the phone!”
“Tammy, what did you possibly have to discuss for that long?” I wonder how many times he said dude during their conversation.
“Everything. Life. Movies. The diving in France. He went with his family last year, and he’s so relieved that the oil spill didn’t damage any of the sea life or underwater wrecks. Can you believe that story? That the oil just disappeared? I mean, one day it was there, and the next day there’s no trace of any—”
Enough with the stupid oil! “But back to Aaron,” I interrupt. The results of our France adventure have been all over the news. Every possible explanation and conspiracy theory has been suggested, my favorite involving Oprah, Bill Gates, and a vacuum cleaner–like submarine. “What are you going to do about Aaron?”
“Can you stop clogging the stairs?” I hear.
I look up to see Melissa glaring at us.
I roll my eyes and lead Tammy to class, to two empty seats in the back row. I wave her on to continue. “So? Your current boyfriend? Go on.”
She slides into her chair and her shoulders slump. “I spoke to him, too. For two minutes. I don’t think we have as much in common as I thought we did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he doesn’t like movies, or diving. All he seems to care about is fantasy baseball. He got off the phone so he could make a trade or something.”
What is it with guys and baseball? “But do you still like him?”
She hesitates. “I mean, he’s a nice guy. I like him . . . but as a friend. Not like . . . you know. The stomach butterflies are gone.”
“It’s not fair of you to lead him on if you don’t feel the same.”
“I know, I know. But how can I dump someone who’s sick in bed? It’s too mean.” Her eyebrows droop. I never noticed what expressive eyebrows she has. “When I bring over his chicken soup, do I just blurt out ‘By the way, I’m dumping you’? I don’t think I can do it.”
She knows how to make chicken soup? Impressive.
It’s four-thirty and I’m in Raf’s living room.
Impossible, you scream. How can that be?
Will made the shocking decision to move the soc meeting from lunch to after school at his town house in the West Village.
Obviously I had a total panic attack when he casually mentioned the development.
“I won’t leave you,” Tammy said, trying to reassure me, which didn’t work, because it’s not being alone that’s making me hyperventilate. It’s seeing where Raf lives. And sleeps. And eats.
Unfortunately, Raf doesn’t seem to be home. Perhaps he’s out gallivanting with Melissa. Or more likely, he’s at Stromboli’s or whatever locale the A-list has decided to make today’s after-school hangout.
Besides us, the town house is empty, since Will’s parents aren’t home yet either. I was kind of hoping to meet them— then maybe we could cancel Friday’s Get to Know Each Other Dinner, otherwise known as Sure to Be the Worst Night of My Life. What if I can’t hide my true feelings for Raf? And then the entire family hates me?
Will and I are sitting on the white carpet in the center of the living room. Hotel and club brochures are spread in front of us.
“These are the only places that still have our date available,” Will explains.
“Can’t we change the date?” Bosh asks, on the couch with his head on Tammy’s lap. Someone’s moving in quick, dude.
“Unfortunately no,” Will says. “The caterer is already partially paid for, and the band is all booked up. Actually, we’re lucky JFK always has prom on a Thursday, because the places are mucho more expensive on the weekend.” A JFK tradition—seniors get the postprom Friday off. “Anyway,” Will continues, “I think we found the right place. I just wanted you guys to run the numbers. It’s called Penthouse Fifty and the room will cost us four thousand dollars. But as opposed to hotels, they’ll let us bring in outside food. And there are wraparound terraces with panoramic views of the city, since it’s on the fiftieth floor of a tower uptown. Kat and I thought it was cool.”
Bosh nods. “Sounds good, dude.”
“Fine with me,” River says. “Jeffrey?”
Jeffrey peeks over from behind the couch. Where did he even come from? I swear he didn’t walk over with us.
“All right,” he mumbles.
We begged Amy to come too, but she just laughed at us. Way to go, head of prom.
Will calls Penthouse 50 to confirm. “We’re in,” he says after hanging up. “I’m going to delay giving them a deposit as long as possible. But we seriously need to come up with some fund-raising ideas. Any suggestions? We only have a few weeks. Rachel, Raf said you’re like a human calculator. How much money do we have to raise to pull this off? Exactly?”
I know my heart should not be swooning, but . . . Raf still talks about me? I am so pathetic. Now, let’s see. “Twenty-seven thousand five hundred was what it cost before, plus four thousand for the room. Minus the profit if we keep the ticket prices at fifty dollars a head . . .” Now I’m just showing off. You can just add four thousand to the missing ten thousand. “Fourteen thousand.” Of course, if there were more cool guys like Will and Bosh, guys who date nonseniors, we’d get more kids to come to the prom. Nah. Scratch that idea. I’m
looking forward to my special status.
“What do you think, Rachel?” Will asks. “Can we raise that kind of money in time?”
I cannot ruin the prom. I cannot ruin Will’s reputation. I look deep into his eyes. This boy is so in love with me that he will listen to anything I say. “Yes,” I answer in my most assuring voice, “we can.”
“All right,” he says. “Let’s brainstorm.”
Kat twirls her purple pen in her fingers. “Open prom up to nonseniors?” she asks hopefully.
“No way,” River says. “Our class will revolt. We don’t want a bunch of freshmen cramping our style.”
I give him the evil eye.
“It wouldn’t help,” Bosh adds, head still in Tammy’s lap. “We’d have to order more tables and more food, and our costs would go up.”
Kat shrugs. “Sell chocolates?”
“That’s a whole lot of chocolate,” River says. “Why don’t we have another fashion show?”
Please, no. I’ve barely recovered from the last one. “Car wash? That’s what people in the movies always do,” I say. I envision water fights and lots and lots of suds, Raf wiping a smudge of soap off my cheek, looking deep in my eyes, kissing me . . . I mean Will. Will, Will, Will.
“That’s a lot of cars,” Bosh says, popping my fantasy bubble, “considering most people in our school don’t drive. This is Manhattan.”
“We need to leverage the skills we have,” River says, fingering an eyebrow piercing.
What do I have that no one else does? A sister for a witch, that’s what. How can I best use Miri’s magic? Maybe we can sell oranges? Maybe Miri can whip up something even better to sell, and all the money can go to the school. Like a flying broom! Okay, not that, but something more feasible. And then we can have—“An auction!”
Will lights up. “That’s a great idea. We can ask people for donations. Theater tickets, gift cards, that kind of stuff. Get parents to donate.”
“I bet I can get free CDs from MTV,” River says.
“I work at Borders,” Kat says. “Maybe they’ll donate some books.”
“Cool!” Will rubs his hands together like he’s starting a fire. “I’ll try for some leather coats. My dad’s in the leather business. We can put up signs all over school asking for donations. And we can ask local businesses. I’ll ask Konch if we can hold the auction after school one day so all the underclassmen can bid too. We’ll even invite parents. It’ll be wild.”
“I like it,” Kat says, “but we need some big-ticket items. We’re not going to sell fourteen thousand dollars’ worth of books and tattoos.”
Will looks concerned.
“I can come up with a big-ticket item,” I blurt out with a confidence I don’t feel.
Tammy’s eyebrows go nuts.
“Like what, dude?” Bosh asks.
“I—I don’t want to say yet. But I have some pretty incredible resources. So don’t worry,” I say vaguely, and then instantly feel queasy. “Where’s the restroom?”
“Up the stairs, then follow the hall to the third door on your left,” Will says, and then starts writing out ideas.
I excuse myself and begin my journey down the hall. Or down the museum. Every space of wallpaper is covered in family photos of the three boys at every stage of their development. Will dressed as a pirate for Halloween. Think it’s Will. Could be Raf. Or Mitch. I take another step. Raf as a five-year-old. Shock of midnight hair (in a bowl cut, ha-ha!), adorable dimple in his left cheek, big grin with missing baby teeth. Tiny plaid jacket, mini corduroy pants.
And this must be—
Raf’s room. I stifle a gasp. I know it’s Raf’s room, because the door is open and from my position outside I can see our fat green freshman Biology: Understanding Organisms textbook on the desk. I wonder what the rest of his room looks like. Is he messy? Neat? Does he have any pictures up? Any photos . . . of me?
I shouldn’t.
I should!
I mustn’t.
I must!
I do. I take a deep breath and plunge straight into Raf’s room. All my senses are overwhelmed at once. Blue paint! Boy smell! Walls of books! Silver laptop! Gray bedspread that has sailboats and . . . Raf on it!
Oh, no. Please no.
“Hi?” says a voice. Raf’s voice.
Raf is sprawled on his stomach across his bed, writing in a notebook. I am a deer frozen in an SUV’s headlights. If only I were a witch. If only I could zap myself back downstairs. Or zap myself into a fly on the wall. Or fly around the world like a superhero and turn time back three minutes. Then I could calmly find my way down the hall and not be caught in this more-painful-than-a-needle-in-the-eye situation.
Heart. R-r-racing. Calm down, calm down. “Oh, hi, Raf,” I say in my most composed voice. “This isn’t the bathroom.”
Please tell me I didn’t just say that. Please. Now he’s associating me with a toilet. How is it possible I managed to make this impossibly bad situation worse?
He places his notebook facedown on the bedspread and arches his left eyebrow. “It’s on the other side of the hall.”
I begin backing out immediately.
“Rachel, hold on,” he says suddenly.
I stop in my tracks. The tingles that have been rushing down my spine are already in my toes. “Um, yeah?”
He spins around so he’s now sitting up against the head-board. “How’s . . . you know . . . everything going?”
In life? In love? I miss you, I think before I can stop myself. I lean against the doorjamb. “Good.”
“Yeah? What are you guys busy doing down there?”
“Trying to save prom.”
He nods and looks at his hands. “Are you going? Did my brother ask you?”
My cheeks burn. “Yeah.”
“Whatever,” he says, and shrugs. Then he looks back up at me. Our eyes lock. “Have fun.”
“Right,” I say. “Thanks. I should get back.” No! Wait! I want to stay with you!
“Can you close the door?”
I back out of the room, confused, feeling like I’ve been slapped. Does Raf still have feelings for me? Does he care that I’m dating Will? Why does he seem upset? He’s the one who broke it off. I said yes to Will only because Raf wanted nothing to do with me.
So why do I feel like I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life?
“I’m just off to MOMA with Jordan,” my mom declares as I walk into her room when I get home. “Finish your homework before you watch TV. And make sure Miri finishes her reading in A2. She’s been falling behind in her training. I left you money to order Chinese food on the kitchen table—”
Again? And who’s Jordan?
Mom slaps her hand against her open mouth.
“What?”
“I forgot the laundry in the washing machine. Do you think you can— Oh, never mind.”
She closes her eyes and purses her lips, and the next thing I know, a heap of our clothes is dry and folded into neat piles on her bed.
All the folding and sorting I’ve done over the years becomes a distant cruel memory.
“How do I look?” she asks, twirling. She’s wearing chocolate-colored pants (new), a white blouse (new), and her heart-shaped necklace.
“Gorge. Have fun,” I say, and kiss her on the forehead.
She takes off in a flutter, and I try to block out my Rafinduced confusion and focus on the task at hand—figuring out what I’m going to auction off. I find Miri at her desk. “I’m really busy,” she says without looking up. “Did you hear about the bushfires in California? What are we going to do?”
“Not much,” I say, lying down in my usual position, my feet propped up on her wall. “Can we take a few secs to discuss the prom debacle?”
She closes her notebook and turns to face me. “Go ahead.”
“So it seems that alumni have donated most of the money to repair the school, right? But since this whole screwup is partially your fault, I still need your help. Like you promised. To rais
e prom money instead. And we’re having an auction. So I need you to poof up something that I can donate. Something that we can sell. Something cool and expensive.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. What can you whip up? Let’s brainstorm.”
She heaves a sigh, then opens her notebook to a clean page. “What do teenagers want?”
No more acne, no more rules. “To be older.”
“Not sure I can do that.” She scratches her nose with the wrong side of her pen and draws a blue line across the bridge. I try not to laugh; I don’t want to interrupt the flow of this brainstorming session. “What about a trip somewhere?” she suggests.
“How would we do that? Fly the person plus guest there on your broomstick?”
“Ha-ha. Maybe I could zap up some airline tickets to Cancun.”
“Yeah? That sounds more like computer hacking than witchcraft.” I take her pillow and balance it on my feet.
“Can you stop? I sleep on that, you know.”
“It helps me think. Maybe we could get Mom to help.”
“Are you kidding? She’s way too busy lately.”
“No kidding. She needs a clone of herself just to meet all these guys. Hey, that would be cool. Can you make clones?” I would get mine to go to school for me. What would her name be? I think of London and grimace. Definitely not Rochelle.
“I don’t think so.”
“An iPod?” I could really use one. I kick the pillow over to Miri and she catches it in her lap.
“A laptop?” She tosses back the pillow.
“A TV?” I kick it right back to her, like we’re playing hot potato.
She throws it right back. “A flat-screen TV? Lots of flatscreen TVs!”
I catch it with my hands and then lie down on it. “Perfect! A fancy TV will get us at least a few grand. We poof one up, then use the multiplying spell, and presto, the prom is saved! Is there a spell for TVs?”
“I doubt it, no. But I have a ton of stuff to do this week. I’m going to try that cleaning spell on the Hudson River, and maybe the Mississippi. So let’s make Saturday spell day. And we’ll figure it all out.”
“Perfect! I have nothing to do Saturday anyway. Will is working and Tammy is babysitting Aaron.” I realize how selfish that sounds. Here I am asking Miri for a favor and expecting her to fit it into my schedule. Still, there’s no reason we can’t be efficient with our time, is there? And as far as the prom is concerned, time is of the essence!
Frogs & French Kisses Page 13
