That encounter in the rest room was only the first of many during the week. Everywhere I went, I heard girls talking about “Gorgeous Gary” Hadley. Overnight he had become a charter member of Carson High’s in crowd. It was also common knowledge that he was Colette Carroll's own personal property, and I even heard a rumor that Colette was going to give a party in his honor. I knew it was only a matter of time before Gary asked her to the prom, and there was no question in my mind that she would accept.
Meanwhile, my two best friends tried to pretend they were immune to Gary fever. Beth and Jan seemed to walk on eggshells whenever we were together, careful to avoid making any reference to him that might upset me. I knew they were thinking that I was eating my heart out over the new Gary Hadley, but they were dead wrong. I had no interest whatsoever in some overnight wonder.
It was the old Gary Hadley I was in love with.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Now that I'd finally admitted the truth to myself, Mark’s bet was more intolerable than ever. Only now there was a major difference. Before, I was afraid that Colette would turn Gary down and break his heart. Now I was even more afraid that she wouldn’t, which would break mine.
The week dragged by, one miserable day at a time, without any mention of whether Gary had asked Colette to the prom. Of course, I didn’t expect to hear the news from Gary. I hadn't spent a single minute alone with him since the rest of the world discovered him. Still, I was sure Mark would have been shouting it from the rooftops if he'd won his bet, and so far he hadn’t.
Then on Friday afternoon my brother charged into the den, where I sat nibbling popcorn and staring at some dumb rerun on television. Something about the eager look on his face made my heart sink all the way down to my toes. I was sure that my worst nightmare was about to come true.
“What’s up?” I asked, hoping I sounded normal.
Instead of answering, Mark said, “Molly, are you doing anything this afternoon?”
“No. Why?”
“Because Gary’s coming over in a little while. He says he needs to see you. It’s really important.”
My heart leapt from my toes right up into my throat. Was it possible that Gary had changed his mind about Colette and realized that I was the girl for him?
“Gary needs to see me?” I squeaked.
“Yeah. He’s got some questions about table manners. He wants to take Colette to a fancy restaurant on prom night—you know, one of those places where they give you a different fork for every day of the week.”
I felt like a deflated balloon. I looked down at the bowl of popcorn in my lap so Mark couldn't see the disappointment in my face. “Sorry. I've got a lot of homework.”
“But you just said you weren't busy!” Mark objected.
“I changed my mind,” I said, scowling. “Besides, what does Gary need my help for, anyway? If he’s taking Colette to the prom, why doesn’t she help him?”
“Because he hasn't asked her yet,” Mark said. Grinning wickedly, he added. “And she doesn’t owe me money!”
I wasn't sure who I was more annoyed with—Mark for putting me into this impossible situation, or myself for being secretly thrilled at the prospect of seeing Gary alone again, even if it was only to continue preparing him to impress Colette.
At any rate, by the time Gary arrived twenty minutes later, I was ready for him. After looking up formal dining etiquette in an old book of Mom’s, I’d set out a single place setting of her best china at one end of the dining room table, flanked by what seemed like an endless array of silverware. I sat at the other end, determined not to let my personal feelings interfere with the task at hand. And if Gary found all those knives, forks, and spoons so intimidating that he lost his nerve and decided not to take Colette out to dinner after all, surely no one could blame me for that.
“All right,” I told Gary briskly, motioning for him to sit down. “To your left, you have forks.”
“No kidding,” he remarked, eyeing them warily. “And a third here.”
I consulted Mom’s etiquette book. “That’s the dessert fork which, as you can see, goes over the plate. The one on the far left is the salad fork, and the one next to the plate is your main dinner fork.”
“Got it. But do I really need three different knives, too?”
“We’ll get to the knives in a minute,” I said. “First, let's take the spoons. The spoon on the saucer is for coffee, the big one beside the plate is the soup spoon, and the little one over the plate is the dessert spoon.”
“Hold it!” Gary said. “If I have a dessert fork, why do I need a dessert spoon?”
I glared at him. “How should I know? That's just what it says in this book.”
“Now for the three knives, right?”
“Right. The first one is a salad knife, the next one is for the main course, and the one on the bread and butter plate is for—”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess!” Gary interrupted. “Bread and butter! I’ll bet all this nonsense was invented back in the Dark Ages by a little old lady with too much time on her hands. What do they do to you if you use the wrong one at a restaurant? Do they toss you out, or just poke you to death with a salad fork?”
“Oh, we haven’t gotten to the really good stuff yet,” I said, flipping ahead a few pages. “Let’s see—there’s the salt shovel, the sugar shell, the ice cream knife—”
“Ice cream knife?” Gary repeated. “Who eats ice cream with a knife?”
I shrugged. “I guess Emily Post did.”
“Well, I’d sure like to ask her a couple of questions,” Gary muttered.
“You can’t,” I informed him. “She’s dead.”
“And I’ll bet I can guess what killed her,” he said, waving his butter knife menacingly.
I completely destroyed my businesslike image by giggling. “Remember, this whole thing was your idea,” I pointed out. “You're the one who wants to take Colette to a fancy restaurant.”
“Actually, it was Mark's idea,” Gary told me. “He seems to think she’ll expect it. Personally, I’d rather stick with something that doesn't need forks—like hamburgers and french fries, or pizza.”
“Well, if you don't want to take Colette to a fancy restaurant, you don’t have to,” I said. “You shouldn’t let Mark push you around.”
Gary glanced down at the silverware. “I know, but he's counting on me to win the bet for him,” he said, balancing the butter knife on the rim of a wineglass. “This is really important to him.”
“And what about you?” I asked seriously. “Isn't it important to you, too?”
“Well, sure,” he said. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but he didn't sound very sure at all. Before I could say so, Gary spoke up again. “Gosh, I wish there were some easy way to keep all these knives and forks straight.”
Suddenly I felt ashamed of myself. Until four days ago, Gary's love for Colette had been every bit as hopeless as my love for him was now. This was his big chance, and if I really cared about him, I should be doing my best to help him, no matter how much it hurt.
“Okay, let’s try something else,” I said, getting back to business. “Suppose you want to add cream and sugar to your coffee. Which spoon do you use to stir it?”
“This one,” Gary said, pointing to the spoon resting on the saucer.
“Very good! Now, suppose the waiter brings your salad, and the pieces of lettuce are too big. What do you use to cut them up?”
Gary studied the two knives beside the plate, muttering, “Eeny, meeny, miney, moe. This one?” He picked up the one closest to the plate.
“Wrong,” I said, checking Mom’s etiquette book. “That’s the entree knife.”
He shrugged. “Oh, well, it was a nice try.”
“There is a way to remember that might be a little easier,” I suggested. “Start with the silverware that’s farthest from the plate, and work your way in to the middle, course by course. Do you think that might work?”
“Maybe, but I just th
ought of another way that sounds even better. I’ll bet it would be a lot easier to remember if these plates had real food on them.” He grinned at me. “Well, how about it?”
“How about what?” I asked warily. If Gary expected me to whip up a multicourse meal so he could practice eating it and impress his dream date, he could just forget it! I might be head over heels in love, but I still had my pride.
“How about us going out to dinner tonight and trying this stuff out for real?”
My heart began to pound so loudly, I was sure Gary could hear it all the way down at the end of the table. “Us? You mean—you and me? Together?”
“I know it’s short notice, but I could pick you up at six, if you want to give it a try.”
“I—I’ll be ready,” I managed to reply.
At a quarter of six I sat on the edge of the living room couch, nervously smoothing the full skirt of my favorite turquoise-blue dress.
This is not—repeat not—a date, I kept telling myself. This is simply a trial run for Gary's prom date with Colette, and you'd better not forget it. But no matter how often I said it, I couldn't help feeling thrilled.
I almost jumped out of my skin when the doorbell rang promptly at six. Determined not to appear too eager, I forced myself to remain seated and let someone else answer the door.
“Hey, Moll! Gary's here!” Mark bellowed, and a moment later Gary entered the room.
I had never seen him dressed up before. He was wearing a gray suit, a pale pink shirt, and a gray and pink paisley tie. The padded shoulders of his jacket helped to fill out his beanpole frame. Gary looked absolutely wonderful, from his new haircut all the way down to his...
“Reeboks?” I said, staring at his sneaker-clad feet. Who else would wear sneakers with a suit? “Wouldn't wing tips be more appropriate?”
“I can tell you’ve never tried to buy shoes for size-fourteen feet,” Gary answered with a rueful grin. “I have to take what I can get.”
I could have hugged him. Success would never spoil Gary Hadley, that was for sure!
We drove to the Lamplighter, an elegant new restaurant on the other side of town. The parking lot was crowded, but Gary finally found a vacant space marked “One Hour Parking Only.”
“This ought to be okay,” he said as we got out of the car. “No matter how many forks there are, it shouldn’t take more than an hour to eat dinner.”
A white-jacketed maitre d’ met us at the door and led us across the candlelit dining room to a secluded table for two. After we were seated, I opened my enormous menu. My heart sank when I saw the prices printed there. If Gary was willing to shell out that kind of money for a trial run, he must have high hopes for prom night!
I decided to skip the appetizer and selected an entree that I hoped wouldn’t strain his budget too much, then gazed wistfully at Gary, who was still absorbed in studying his own menu. In spite of his new look, he would never be handsome in the classic sense of the word, like Steve or Mark. Gary was too long and skinny for one thing, and his nose hadn’t shrunk any. If I looked closely enough, I could still find traces of the boy with the shaggy hair and the thick glasses—the boy I had fallen in love with.
Just then Gary looked up from his menu 0 and caught me watching him. “What is it, Molly?” he asked anxiously. “Have I done something wrong already?”
I smiled and shook my head. “Not a thing.” Reminding myself of the purpose of this outing, I asked, “So, is Colette going to the prom with you?” I figured he might have invited her after our cutlery session that afternoon.
“I haven’t asked her yet. What about you? Have you got a date?”
“I don’t think I’ll be going,” I said as casually as I could. I had a sudden vision of myself at the prom, sitting alone on the sidelines with the other wallflowers while Colette glided across the floor in Gary’s arms. It was a pretty bleak prospect.
“Oh, yeah? Have you got other plans?” Gary asked.
I nodded. Of course I did. I planned to do what any red-blooded American girl would do if the boy she loved was in the clutches of another woman—buy a box of chocolates and eat myself into a sugar-induced coma.
We ordered then, and soon our food arrived. It was delicious and the service was excellent, but I was too depressed to enjoy the meal. Gary concentrated on using the proper utensils, and I didn't have to correct him once. But as I was eating my dessert, I noticed that Gary hadn’t touched his.
“Don’t you like the chocolate cheesecake?” I asked him. “I think it’s awfully good.”
“I haven't tried it,” he confessed. “I can’t. I've run out of forks.”
We retraced our steps through the entire meal, matching each piece of silverware to the appropriate course. Sure enough, Gary was one fork short. I caught the eye of our waiter, who came to our table in an instant.
“Madame?”
“The gentleman needs a dessert fork,” I said. The waiter looked appalled and hurried off to fetch one.
“Hey, you’re pretty good at that,” Gary said, grinning at me. “I can tell you’ve had a lot of experience bossing guys around.”
I smiled to keep him from seeing how much his remark had stung. So that was what he thought of me! I was just a girl who bossed guys around. I had to admit that I’d certainly bossed him around, and look where it had led. If I hadn’t forced Gary into changing his image, Colette Carroll still wouldn’t know he was alive, and there might have been a chance for me.
The waiter returned with Gary's fork, and we finished our dessert. As we were getting ready to leave, Gary reached for his wallet. Then he looked at me with the oddest expression on his face.
“Molly, do you have any money with you?” he asked in a strange, constricted voice.
“I’ve got a few dollars and some change,” I said, reaching for my purse. “I think I can handle the tip.”
Gary laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “I’m afraid I’m going to need more than that.” He swallowed. “A lot more.”
“Gary? What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed. By this time his face had taken on a sickly greenish cast.
“I don’t have my wallet!” he whispered. “I must have left it to my other pants!”
I thought fast. “Don't panic! I remember seeing a pay phone in the lobby as we came in. Go call your parents and ask them to bring your wallet. Here,” I added, pressing a quarter into his hand. “You'll need this.”
Gary was gone only a couple of minutes. Even before he reached the table, I could tell by his stricken expression that he’d had no luck.
“There was no answer,” he reported, “and I just remembered why. My dad’s company is having a dinner tonight. He and Mom probably won’t be back for hours!”
“I’m sure my parents are home,” I said, standing up. “I’ll call them right away.”
Gary grabbed my arm. “Molly, no! I can’t let your family pay for this.”
“You can pay them back tomorrow,” I said, gently removing his hand from my arm. “Back in a flash.”
My luck was no better than Gary’s. I got a busy signal, and I was almost positive that Mark was tying up the phone. I hung up, waited a few seconds, and tried again, with the same result. If I could have gotten my hands on my brother at that moment, I would have choked him. I tried two more times without success, so I finally called the operator, intending to ask for an emergency interrupt. But she informed me that nobody was talking on the phone—there was trouble on the line. By that time, several people were waiting to use the phone and giving me some pretty dirty looks. I was forced to admit defeat. I hung up the receiver, collected my quarter, and returned to the dining room.
“Were they home?” Gary asked hopefully.
I sighed. “I don’t know. There’s something wrong with the phone, so all I got were busy signals.”
At that moment our waiter reappeared. “Will there be anything else?” he asked.
Gary and I exchanged helpless looks. Neither of us knew what to do. Final
ly Gary spoke.
“I’d like to have a word with the manager, please.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Oh, my aching feet!” I moaned two hours later as we left the Lamplighter through the back door. “I can hardly wait to get home and take off these heels!”
Gary took my arm as we crossed the parking lot. He looked very different from the boy who had picked me up earlier that evening. His tie was loosened, his collar unbuttoned, his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and he had slung his jacket over one shoulder.
“See? And you laughed at my Reeboks!” he teased. “Seriously. Molly, thanks for helping out. But I wish you had let me call a taxi to take you home.”
“How would we have paid for it?” I asked. “Anyway, it’s not like I’ve never washed dishes before, you know.”
“Yeah, but there’s a difference between washing dishes for a family of four and washing dishes for a whole restaurant full of people,” Gary replied. “And you looked so pretty tonight, too.”
My heart was too full of pleasure at Gary’s compliment to mind his use of the past tense. “Gary, I don’t mind,” I said softly. “Honestly, I don’t.”
We had reached the spot where Gary had parked the car, when a man stepped out of the shadows. Moonlight gleamed on the badge he wore, and suddenly I had a sinking feeling that our troubles weren’t over yet. “This your car, son?” the policeman asked.
“Uh—yes, sir,” Gary replied.
“Do you realize you’ve been parked for over three hours in a one-hour zone?” the officer continued.
“To tell the truth, I forgot.” Gary admitted. “But there’s a perfectly logical explanation…”
“Your driver’s license is all the explanation I need.” The policeman held out his hand expectantly.
“Oh, right.” Gary automatically reached for his back pocket, then remembered his dilemma. “Oh, no!” he groaned, covering his face with his hand.
Don't Bet On Love Page 5
