Frogs & French Kisses #2 (3 page)

My stomach is somersaulting and I don’t think it’s because we’re suspended twenty feet in the air. Although I’m sure that’s not helping. Now that school is less than forty-eight hours away, I can no longer be in denial about the trauma I’ll be forced to endure.

See, a few months ago I convinced Miri to cast a dancing spell on me so I could be in the JFK High fashion show and finally be on the A-list. But when my mom freaked out and reversed the spell, my dancing ability sank to zero and I made a complete fool of myself. And I don’t mean that in the annoying I-look-so-fat-says-the-ninety-pound-model sort of way. I knocked over castmates like they were bowling pins. I smashed up the sets. And then I (sob) stood up Raf, because I thought he’d never want to be seen with me. I’m officially socially ruined.

Maybe Miri will sprinkle some of the safety spell on me. I need to be protected from London Zeal, the senior who headed the show, whose leg I broke when I accidentally knocked her off the stage.

Although I might need the spell more to protect myself from Melissa Davis, I realize as we pass over Sammy’s fence. I know it’s wrong to hate, but she’s evil. She’s a mini London Zeal, a fellow freshman who tortures anyone not A-list, flirts with my quasi-used-to-be-almost-boyfriend, Raf, and stole my ex–best friend, Jewel. Although Jewel might be slightly evil these days too, since the fashion show corrupted her. Like it did me, temporarily. But at least I’m reformed. I realize that there are more important aspects to life than the A-list. I’m practically a do-gooder. I’m saving cows!

“Ready?” I ask as Miri steadies the new broom. I tried to convince her to buy the one with the hot pink bristles, but she thought we should get traditional straw to blend in. And so potential witnesses don’t think they’re seeing a fuchsia comet.

“Yup.”

We spent the day finding a spell, finding the ingredients, and mixing, and now all we have to do is sprinkle the concoction over the cows. I keep one arm around Miri and use the other to open the fanny pack around my waist and pull out the Ziploc bag. The pack is my mom’s, obviously. I would never own anything this obscenely orange and tacky. Or anything referred to by the word
fanny.
In the bag is a potpourri of garlic, mint, salt, and rice. It looks more like laundry detergent than magic ingredients if you ask me, but what do I know?

Miri takes a deep breath and recites:

“From a danger direct,

I vow this day forward,

To cherish and protect.”

Who writes this stuff? I cringe at the bad poem. The spell sucks up the energy and warmth around us, causing the air to become instantly freezing. All right, I admit I can’t really tell the difference between the magic and the cool April wind.

Meanwhile, Miri sprinkles the substance onto the livestock, reminding me of throwing rice at a wedding. Congratulations! Mazel tov! The concoction lands on the cows, sticking to them like snowflakes on a playground, or dandruff on a black sweater. It’s all very scenic.

And then the cows disappear. Yes, vanish. Evaporate. Like a stain being washed out of a shirt. Or like Raf’s feelings for me.

I can feel the (super-small, practically nonexistent) hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. “Um, Miri?”

“They must be moving somewhere safe,” she says, speculating as she continues sprinkling.

Eventually, all that’s left is an empty field. The spots where the animals were grazing are bare. The night is suddenly quiet. Not a moo anywhere. Kind of creepy. “They’re not . . . dead, are they?”

“No way. That would kind of defeat the purpose of a safety spell,” she says, handing back the Ziploc. “We saved the cows.”

“At least they’ve escaped their cheeseburger destiny, right?” I say, trying not to slip off the broom as I zip up the fanny pack. Why would my mom even own something so ugly? She’s a witch! She could zap up the hippest purse in the world! Louis Vuittons on Monday mornings; Izzy Simpson bags for the afternoon. She doesn’t even have to carry a purse at all. She could just zap up money, credit cards, keys, lipstick (not that she wears lipstick) whenever she needed them. She doesn’t even need credit cards. She could zap up whatever she needed into the living room, direct from the Home Shopping Network or the Internet.

“Let’s get out of here before the butcher spots us,” Miri says. “I was thinking we’d fly back to the drive-in and see if anything good is playing. We deserve to reward ourselves. We’ll tell Mom we had a really long practice session.”

“You’re the best, Miri.” I’d give her a hug, but I don’t want to mess up our balance. My sister snaps her sneakers together, and we jet off toward the drive-in. As we approach, I see the latest Spider-Man movie blasting on the screen. Fun! Some entertainment, finally.

Miri hovers over a tree.

“Why don’t we get off and sit on the branches?” I suggest. “That way we’ll have a good view.”

I gingerly climb down first and find a makeshift ledge in a fat V-branch. Miri parks the broom and then squeezes in beside me. I’m watching a drive-in movie! There are no branches directly above me, and I can see straight up to the twinkling stars. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

Fine, if I were the luckiest girl in the world, I’d be here with Raf in a Mercedes and not with my little sister up in a tree, but whatever. And the branch is hurting my bum. I try to make myself comfy as Spider-Man swings from telephone line to building. “You know,” I whisper over a budding leaf, “in a way, you’re kind of like Spider-Man.”

Miri turns to face me and her eyes glow in the moonlight. “How so?”

“You have powers, and you can use them to help the world. Like you did tonight by saving the cows.”

She bites her pinky nail and asks, “But what else can I do?”

“You can do anything you want,” I answer, suddenly excited by the idea of being a superhero’s mentor. “Stop wars, find homes for orphans—”

“Save the whales!” she squeals.

“Exactly. And you could wear a silver cape, a pink leotard, and some kind of sexy eye mask. With sparkles! Of course, I’d wear something similar as your sidekick.” We’re like Batman and Robin!

She reaches for the thin branches above her and pulls herself up. “Let’s go home and make a list,” she says excitedly.

I was wrong. My mom is clearly not the only person who can make magic geeky.

3

The Wheels on the Bus Go . . . Kazam!

“Girls,” my mom says as she swerves into the right lane, totally cutting off an unsuspecting driver, “I have a confession to make.”

I’ve ridden with my mother three times in my entire life, which is three times too many. She. Is. The Worst. Driver. Ever. She’s caused at least six almost-accidents in the last twenty minutes. I cling to my seat belt for safety. “Let me guess,” I say. “You don’t have a driver’s license?”

My mom giggles. “Hilarious. Actually, smarty-pants, I’d like to discuss something important. Something serious . . .”

Maybe she’ll finally tell us why she gave up witchcraft! About what caused the rift between her and Aunt Sasha, the aunt we never see.

“I want to talk about dating.”

Oh, no. A sex talk from Mom. Can anything be more embarrassing? To add vinegar to the wound, I’m trapped in a car driving back to the city, so I can’t even feign doing homework. My only option is to fake sleep. I roll my head so that it leans against the passenger’s side window, close my eyes, and exhale a thunderous fake snore.

“Rachel,” she says, “relax. Not about you dating. About me dating.”

I pop my eyes open. That I can handle. “You dating?” This should be fun. My mom dated a bit after the divorce, only on weekends when we were at my dad’s (she didn’t want to be the type who brought home lots of “uncles”), but then she gave up. She hasn’t so much as grabbed a cup of mocha joe with a man since then. “Anyone special? Someone at work? Do you have a crush?” Cuteness! Mom with a crush! Mom with a secret boyfriend? Has she snuck out of the apartment to see him at night?

“There’s no one in mind. But I’d like to start again. Seeing your father remarry has made me think that it’s time for me to move on. And I wanted to know how you two felt about it.”

A new boyfriend! Fun! Someone who will explain the inner workings of the male mind to me. Or—someone who has a hot son. Now we’re talking. They’ll get married and I’ll have a sizzling stepbrother. Too bad Raf’s parents are still together. What a horrible thing to think. Wishing him years of divorce anxiety just so my mom can marry his dad. And anyway, then he’d be my brother, which would make it
mucho
creepy if we got married. Or worse: what if my mom and his dad then got divorced? Raf and I would be forbidden to see each other. Just like Romeo and Juliet. How romantic.

“You should definitely start dating again,” I say. “It’s time.” At the very least, we would have a man around to change lightbulbs. My mom is so lazy about that. The one in my bedroom ceiling lamp blew out just the other day. And what was my mom’s response to my claim that she should change it? That I should do it myself. Come on. What if I got hurt? That’s such a stepdad’s job. So is taking out the garbage. And setting the table. And taking my mom on trips so I can have wild parties.

“Miri?” my mom asks. “What do you think?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Miri mumbles.

“Come on, Sis, be supportive!” I twist my body sideways to glare at her. Doesn’t that girl ever watch Oprah? A “Go, Mom, go!” or at the very least a “Go, girl!” seems situation appropriate.

My mom sighs. “I asked for
her
opinion.”

Miri wraps a frizzy strand of her brown hair around her thumb, making the tip turn red. “It’s just that I’m not ready to wear another pukey pink bridesmaid dress so soon.”

My mom laughs. “I said dating, honey, not marriage.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, Mir. Way to get ahead of yourself.”

“Whatever makes you happy, Mom,” Miri says.

Anyway, there’s no chance we’d wear pukey pink dresses to Mom’s nuptials. I’m thinking long, sexy black. Maybe we should get out of the country and do a location wedding. Like in the Caribbean. Fun, no? Then we can get married on the beach—I mean, she can get married on the beach—and we can tan at the same time.

“So do you have anyone lined up?” I ask, excited. She should ask out Fireman Dave from the second floor. He’s
hot.

“No,” she says. “Truth is I don’t even know how to go about meeting quality men these days. The last time I had a real boyfriend was seventeen years ago!”

Ping! “I’ve got it!”

“No, you are not signing me up for one of those dating Web sites again, Rachel. They’re so humiliating.”

“That’s not what I was going to suggest, big shot,” I say haughtily. I was actually thinking she could apply to the reality show
Who Wants to Marry My Mom?
Even though I hate watching reality TV, at least I’d get to star on it. But if potential for humiliation is her litmus test, I’d better think of something else. “It’s best you realize now that it won’t be so easy to meet good men in Manhattan. Don’t you watch TV? Aren’t the chances of remarrying in your forties like one in a hundred? Aren’t most men in your age group married, dead, gay, or jerks?”

“First of all, I’m thirty-nine.” She veers into the path of an oncoming car but just before impact swerves back to her lane. “Maybe you’re right. My single friends haven’t found it so easy. Where am I going to meet men?”

I wish that my mom has more luck than I have. If I haven’t been able to find a guy in my age group and none of them are married, dead, or out of the closet yet, the odds are not in my mom’s favor.

She raises her hands as if in question and veers to the left, cutting off a bus diagonally behind us. She really is the worst driver. As the bus passes us, I peer into the windows and almost faint in shock.

One hot man. Two hot men. Three . . . omigod. It’s a bus
full
of hot men.

I don’t believe it. My heart pounds against my rib cage. Did I . . . did I just make that happen? Maybe I’m finally a witch! I attempt telekinetically to roll down the car window.

Nada.

A coincidence. But still. How lucky is that? “Chase that bus!” I scream, pointing.

My mom gapes at me like I left my brain at the cottage. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a bus full of men! Talk about a dating pool. Go get it!” I’m bobbing up and down in my seat like a yo-yo.

“I am
not
chasing a bus,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t want a speeding ticket.”

“Do you see a cop?” I do an exaggerated look out the window. “I don’t see a cop. Go get ’em!”

“You’re crazy.”

“Use magic!” I cry.

“I don’t use magic! I’m a nonpracticing witch!”

“Mom! It’s a new chapter in your life. Make some changes!”

The gulf between us and the bus is widening. “I don’t know,” she says. “That’s not what I meant. . . .”

“Now is the time. Give the bus a flat tire! Empty its gas tank!” The bus is now almost a football field away. Two football fields! Three! They’re getting away! “Follow that cab!” I scream.

“It’s not a cab,” Miri snarls from the backseat.

Why must she be so literal? Anyway, I know, but I’ve always wanted to say that. It sounds glam.

“Rachel, give it a rest,” my mom says, but as her mouth forms the words, her eyes tell a different story, lusting longingly for the Hunks-on-Wheels. And that’s when a gust of cold air bursts through the car.

I’m wondering why the air conditioner just kicked on when
boom!

The bus is tilted to its right. Oh my. Oh yes! My mom just gave the bus a flat tire! It grinds to a halt and pulls to the side of the road.

I’m bursting with pride, like I just watched my child take her first steps. “You did it!”

“I—I—I,” my mom stammers.

“Quick, pull over beside it,” I instruct.

She listens and parks the car on the shoulder of the road, right behind the bus.

“Well, what do we do now?” Miri asks, kicking the back of my seat. Big baby.

“We offer our assistance,” I say. “I know I’m not the best wingman at the moment because of the scrape on my face, but it’s better than it was yesterday and Miri looks pretty cute in her overalls—”

“What if they’re dangerous?” my scaredy-cat sister complains. “They could be serial killers.”

“Yes, a bus full of serial killers, that’s realistic.” Come on, Miri, get with the program. “Let’s go!” I sing, and unlock my door.

I glance over at my mom. She looks completely shell-shocked, blinking repeatedly as if specks of dirt just flew into her eyes.

“Come on! Now or never!”

She ogles the bus, looks at me, and then, just when I think she’s going to reverse right out of there, flips open the overhead mirror and gives herself the once-over. “All right, let’s do it.”

Wahoo! I wish she wasn’t wearing her nerd-o jeans pulled up right to her waist. Although they do make her butt look all J-Lo.

I flip open my mirror for a quick peek. Besides the chin absurdity, everything looks normal. Complexion = clear, nose = small, eyes = brown, teeth = straight.

“This is so stupid,” Miri says, sulking. “What are you going to do? Help change the tire?”

“We’re not going over to help them. We’re going so Mom can meet men. Now, put on a pretty please-date-my-mother smile and let’s go.”

“Forget it. I’d rather stay here and edit my Save the World list. And leave me the cell phone in case you two get accosted, so I can call the police for backup.”

Such a drama queen.

“Keep the doors locked,” my mom says insistently, and then jumps out of the car. She cautiously checks for oncoming traffic, hesitates, and then, holding my hand, leads me toward the bus.

Before we can get to the front, the door swings open and a tall, skinny man wearing a brown suede hat (in an obvious attempt to cover his thinning gray hair) steps outside. He’s wearing a thick green Patagonia sweatshirt, and a badge that says
Baseball Hall of Fame, Tour Leader
dangles from his wrinkled neck. A baseball tour! Excellent. The tour guide stretches his arms over his head and then scratches his burly gray eyebrows, looking startled to see us approaching. His gaze sways from Mom to me, then back to Mom, and then he smiles. “Hello.”

My mom stands up straighter. Go, girl! “Hi,” she says, sounding almost . . . coy?

“Hi,” he says. Excellent to the power of two! We’ve made contact.

I elbow my mom in the side.

“Anything we can help you with?” she asks, feeling my not-so-subtle cue. “Give you a ride?”

Old Man Tour Guide shakes his head. “Nah. Thanks, though. Much appreciated. Very sweet of you to offer.” He (oh yes) tips the front of his hat as if he’s some sort of cowboy. Maybe he was a cowboy. In the 1940s. “The driver just called Triple A, but it will take them at least thirty minutes to get here.”

“Great,” my mom says, eyes still on him. Old Man Tour Guide doesn’t look away.

Yikes. Old Man Tour Guide is flirting with my mother! He’s a hundred years old! Fine, he’s at least fifty.

OMTG sticks out his pale hairy hand. “My name is—”

“How’s it going, Lex?” says a booming voice. As the owner of the voice steps off the bus, my heart literally swoons. Like if I were a cartoon, it would pop out of my shirt and jiggle. He’s
gorgeous.
About half OMTG’s age, at least six feet tall, thick light brown hair, and topped off with deliciously chiseled cheekbones. He’s wearing faded jeans and a Yankees jersey. I wonder if he’s a ballplayer.

“I think the boys are getting restless,” he says, and cracks his knuckles. “Hello, ladies,” he adds as he notices us.

Ten more men follow him off the bus. Ten more
hot
men. As each man steps off, he smiles at my mom. This is the dating pool jackpot.

“So what kind of tour is this?” my mom asks Lex, who hasn’t yet realized he should get out of the way. I mean, come on. My mom should not be spending precious time with him when there are more appropriately aged step-fathers available. Lex could be my stepgrandfather. I could fix him up with my
bubbe.

“I lead a day-trip tour to the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown every Sunday from April to October. Have you been?”

“Nope,” she says. And bats her eyelashes. Oh, no, what’s she doing? She’s wasting her flirting! I raise my eyebrow as a suggestive cue to move on.

“I’d be happy to take you one day, Mrs. . . .”

My mom blushes a deep fuchsia. “Ms., actually. But please call me Carol.”

“I’m Lex,” he says, and sticks out his pale hairy hand again. Mom takes it, apparently oblivious to my eyebrow signals. Abort plan!

“And this is my daughter Rachel.”

I shake his hand reluctantly. And then I turn to the crowd of younger, hotter men and extend my hand to the specimen closest to me. “And what’s your name?” I ask.

“Jimmy,” the guy says. He’s cute. Red hair, jean jacket, nice teeth.

I tug my mom away from Lex. No need to date the frog when we’re surrounded by princes. “Mom, meet Jimmy.”

She giggles. “Hi, Jimmy. I’m Carol.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says, sounding gruff yet sexy. “You live in New York?”

“Yes, I do,” she answers in a chirpy Mouseketeer’s voice I didn’t know she had. Impressive. Somewhat nauseating. The old broad has some tricks up her sleeve. “You?”

Go, girl!

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Florida. I came up to visit my wife’s brother and . . .”