Authors: Emily Franklin
“What kinds of themes are you thinking about?” Mr. Reynolds asks.
“What about Winter Wonderland?” Leyla suggests.
“It’s a
fall
auction,” I say. I try to soften my tone so it’s not an insult, but Josh and the rest of the sports staff crack up. Leyla blushes and won’t look at me. She and Josh went out for a year, and when they broke up he was in charge of spreading some not-particularly-nice rumors about her. “What about cornucopia?”
Steven Bundt coughs and makes some comment—probably lewd—under his breath. Mr. Reynolds rolls his eyes. “Excuse me, Steven?”
“Nothing.” Steven raises his hands and shrugs to prove his innocence.
“A cornucopia,” I explain. “Meaning: abundance, profusion.”
“In English, Cyrie,” preppy Leslie requests. She writes for our gossip section, “Word from the Word.”
Eddie stands up. “I totally get it, Cyr. The fall harvest.” He nods at me and smiles, and we alternate the explanation.
When I stand up, my hair falls from its loose knot, sending a wash of white-and-yellow-blonde across my shoulders as I talk. “So, you know how autumn is this time of reaping what you sow—like seeds or apples or wheat.”
“We’d have, like, a visual theme,” Eddie continues. “Throw a few bales of hay and some pumpkins into the gym and we’re all set.”
“Forget the gym,” I say and swat Eddie’s arm without thinking about it, because I’m just that into this idea. “Why not try to get Wilson Farms to close down for a night and take over their barn …”
Leyla pipes up. “My uncle knows the woman who runs the Seaport Aquarium.”
Silent moment. Leyla looks at me like she can’t figure out what she said that inspired quiet. Eddie turns to her. “That’s a cool offer, Leyla. But … um, I’m not sure if fish would tie in to the autumn theme.”
“No, sure, of course.” Leyla nods. “I just thought it would be an awesome place for a party.”
“You’re right, it would be,” I say, and think how ironic it is that Leyla looks even more beautiful when she’s blushing—her cheeks are sun-kissed pink, her eyes bright. Her nose, of course, is pert and perfect. “Maybe the prom committee would think about that as a place.”
Leslie jumps in. “Totally—great idea, Leyla.” Later, Leslie will claim the idea was her own, but right now, Leyla is just glad she wasn’t ridiculed—again.
“Let’s get back to the auction,” Mr. Reynolds says.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware that my right foot is asleep; the pins-and-needles effect is driving me crazy. “We could also have an intellectual theme of cornucopia—the abundance this community has to offer. People would contribute stuff to the auction …”
Eddie moves so he’s standing next to me. I try not to flinch with joy and surprise when his thigh brushes against mine. He’s in his soccer uniform, a blue shirt that brings out the blue rings in his oceany-green eyes, and yellow shorts that reveal his still-summer-brown bare legs. “And there’d be this mixing of harvesting produce, and donating items, and harvesting money for the scholarship fund.”
Mr. Reynolds nods so enthusiastically that his head is in danger of coming off. Even Leslie and the other gossip writers (Gossip Girls, we call them) are happy—they envision lots of chatter and couples getting together among the scarecrows and hay.
Steven Bundt raises his hand out of habit (we don’t have to raise hands at the
Word
) and Mr. Reynolds calls on him. “This sounds kind of cool, but what’s really going to set this year’s auction apart?”
Without missing a beat, I respond. “The theme will be a great way for us to encourage—and this is the phrase we could use—‘ultimate giving.’ My mom’s a fundraiser and she’s always telling me how the best way to ask for something is to let the other person offer.”
Leyla looks at me. “But how would that work—aren’t we supposed to ask them to donate?”
“Yeah, but if you use the psychology of fundraising, then it’ll work better.”
“This is lame,” Josh from sports says. “I have to report on Coach Basker’s new drills.” He checks his watch against the giant clock on the wall, which is perpetually six minutes fast.
“Give Cyrie a chance,” Leyla says. I grin at her, to thank her and to make up for my fall auction comment.
“Josh—your dad’s got a fashion company, right?”
Josh nods, no doubt wishing his dad did something more sports-oriented. “Yeah, he’s a buyer for PJ Clarkson’s. Last year he got them to donate an outfit.”
“PJ Clarkson’s is a huge, high-end chain, so push it a bit more. See if he can get them to ask a really cool company, like Theory or something, to donate an entire wardrobe.”
The fashionistas among us get excited. “I love Theory!”
“Right,” I say. “And Steven, don’t you go to the Bahamas every year?”
Steven nods. “Sure. Beaches, babes, beers …” He looks at Mr. Reynolds. “Just kidding about the beers. What’s your point, Cyrie?”
Wordlessly, Eddie gets my okay to explain. “So, call the place you go—the hotel or private rental—and ask them if they’ll give a two-week stay for a good cause.”
“They’ll never donate two weeks,” Steven says.
“Of course not,” I agree. “But the psychology of fund-raising is to ask for something outrageous, that you’ll never get. So then the person feels bad, and gives you something a bit less …”
“Like a free week—or weekend?”
“Exactly,” Eddie and I say at the same time.
“Wendy Von Schmedler’s family has a cabin on Lake Chevageaux,” Leslie says. “I bet they’d go for it.”
“And instead of a free bunch of helium balloons this year, we should ask Up Up and Away to donate a hot air balloon ride,” Josh says.
I make a mental note to ask about a free something (lifetime coffee?) at Any Time Now, glad to have an excuse to go there. Then the meeting dissolves into a mess of ideas about which companies to pester for gift items, which individuals to ask about donating, and culminates with Mr. Reynolds making an announcement.
“Guys—everyone! I know we’re excited, but listen up.” He does one of those whistles with his fingers that’s loud enough to stop a train. We all get quiet. “The auction is only a couple months away—so let’s use our time well. Cyrie, Rox, since you two seem to work well together and you’re both seniors, I think you should co-chair the event. Run everything by me, of course.” He waits for our reactions.
“Sounds good,” I say and smile.
“I’m game,” Eddie says and licks his amazing lips.
“You two make quite a team,” Mr. Reynolds says. The sports bell rings, telling us the meeting is officially adjourned.
I’m bubbling inside. Ideas are swirling and racing in my brain, and the fact that I have yet another reason to partner up with Eddie Roxanninoff makes my feet feel like they’re gliding on the scummy school linoleum.
Eddie is halfway out the door when he turns to me. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Chief. Again.” He pauses and snaps a fake photo of me. “Girl Wins Award for Most Creative Ideas …”
“Story to follow,” I say, and snap one of him. “Boy Wonder Helps Girl Get Her Point Across.” This is my thank you to him. Not that he needs one, but I feel it shouldn’t go unmentioned.
In the corridor, Eddie snaps one last fake shot of me. It’s a close-up and I can see him leaning in, moving me so I’m leaning up against the wall of lockers. I can envision him giving the faux photo a headline, like
Class King Makes Unlikely Choice for Queen,
before he kisses me …
And just as I’m relishing our imagined moment together, Leslie and her Gossip Girls go by. Eddie waves at them, the fashion crew giggles, and, worst of all, Eddie’s hand—still frozen in picture snapping mode—accidentally swats me. His palm lands squarely on my nose, causing a rush of pain. A slow but steady drip of blood spatters my light blue shirt, and stains Eddie’s soccer sweatshirt.
“A
RE YOU SURE YOU’RE
okay?” Eddie asks for the fifteenth time.
“I’m fine,” I say and look both ways before we cross Maple Street, the main drag in town.
In front of Any Time Now, Eddie hands me my book bag, which he insisted on carrying. I take it dramatically, fake dropping it until he smiles. My nose is still throbbing slightly. I dread seeing what it looks like in the mirror, so I fight the mental image of it and focus on Eddie instead.
“You sure you’re good?” He runs his hands through his wavy hair. His natural color is a rich brown, close to wet bark. But right now he has leftover summer hair, with kind of auburn and gold bits on top from working outside. Painting shirtless outside. Ahem.
“I’m sure I’m good—it was just a bloody nose. It happens to everyone, even those of us blessed with a specimen such as this.” I wave my hands at my nose like it’s a game show prize, and Eddie laughs. “You didn’t have to miss practice for me.” Once the words are out, I blush because it makes his actions sound heroic. “Even though it was just drills.”
“I didn’t miss it
for
you,” he corrects. He gives a wave to someone over my shoulder. Standing at the corner of Maple and Main are a group of his sports buddies, no doubt wondering what could have kept their top forward from showing up. “I missed it
with
you.”
He leaves me there, pondering the slight difference, and walks away with a small thumbs-up. “See you tomorrow?”
“Without a doubt,” I say and start to walk toward the arched doorway of Any Time Now.
As if it’s an afterthought, he adds, “You’re a good friend, Cyrie.” Then, like it meant nothing, he points to his bloodied sweatshirt. “I’ll be up doing laundry all night.”
Guys are so confusing. So random. Or at least Eddie is. Before I can comment, he’s met up with his friends and been swept away into the group of popular and pretty guys who will probably go to Comet, the trendy diner halfway down Main Street.
Comet is where the Wendy Von Schmedlers and Leslies and Gossips and fashionistas all hang out. It’s where the PBVs drape themselves over the overstuffed red velvet couches and order complicated coffee drinks. It’s probably where I’d go, too, if I weren’t likely to spend my time there fending off insults or being asked to do people’s homework while they make out in the corner.
Instead, I’ve become a regular at Any Time Now. And the truth is, the place has grown on me.
I walk in and admire the new scene. Any Time Now is run by Hanna Fisher, who graduated from Weston High and had a short-lived but fruitful adventure in Hollywood (she was that pretty-but-quirky redhead on that oceanside teen series). When she came back to town, she opened Any Time Now and decorated it with “borrowed” props from various film sets and television sound stages in LA.
I know all this only because I am such a frequent customer that she tends not to mind if I stay past closing time. She even lets me have free refills on the frozen hot chocolate, the house specialty.
“Look what the lion dragged in,” Hanna says from behind the counter, when I walk in.
“I think the expression is, look what the
cat
dragged in.” I look around for a table.
“You’re way too literal, Cyrie.” Hanna folds napkins into neat piles, stacking them so they alternate colors. “Of course that’s the expression, but it never made much sense to me. Sure, a cat could drag in a dead mouse or a wounded bird or something, but it couldn’t possibly drag in a human. So I substitute lion. Gimme a little space.” She smiles at me and adjusts her bonnet.
Normally, the sight of a woman in a bonnet might be surprising, considering I live nowhere near Amish country. But in Any Time Now, I have come to expect anything. Or rather, nothing surprises me in here.
Any Time Now’s “thing,” as Hanna calls it, is that its decor, food, music, and overall air changes every month. One day a month, usually the last Sunday, she closes the doors, papers shut the windows, and spends hours upon hours with her staff changing the entire restaurant. Last month the whole thing was a Grecian Palace, with the baristas in glamorized togas, white columns adorning the dining area, faux marble painted onto the counter, vines and grape leaves draped from the ceiling, and amazing Greek food served on platters.
Today, I am standing in an amazingly near-perfect replica of a Victorian tea shop. Standing lamps with ornate glass shades cast soft hues of light onto layered rugs. Little round tables, covered by cloths, are topped with three-tiered trays that hold a bounty of finger sandwiches and pastries.
“Celedon? Darjeeling?” Hanna offers.
“Don’t call me Darjeeling.” I smirk and point to a black raspberry tea on the handwritten menus. “And I’ll take a scone while you’re at it. Please.”
Hanna flits off to deal with other customers and leaves me with a dark blue cloak and bonnet, just in case I want to dress up in theme. Which I don’t. Whenever the theme changes, Hanna hangs up extra costumes on the coat rack in hopes people will join in and wear flapper outfits, or kimonos, or—in this case—Victorian garb. I drape the cloak over the handrail, and clear a table so there’s enough room for my various books and binders.
I look at the frenzied list we drew up of possible auction items, but before I get sucked into thinking about that, I make myself focus on the task at hand. The task being—college applications and essays.
The applications I’ll do mainly online, but the essays take more time. Mr. Reynolds says he has a fail-proof formula for college essays, but he’ll only show it to us after we’ve written a draft of our own.
“Here you are, Miss,” trills Hanna in a fake, though totally believable, English accent. “Scones and cream tea.”
She sets a currant-dotted scone in front of me and stares a little too long at my face. My hand instantly flies to my nose. “What?”
“Nothing, Miss,” says Hanna, still in character.
I look up at her. The ties from her bonnet have come undone and sway under her chin. If I wore that hat I’d look like a face with a broomstick. She looks adorable, like a hot Holly Hobbie.
I stir a teaspoon of sugar into my teacup and sigh. “Fine. I’ll tell you. I got hit in the nose by … someone that I …” I take a pause to consider whether I should admit my feelings for Eddie, and decide against it. No one should know. Once you say that kind of thing out loud, there’s no taking it back.