Frogs & French Kisses #2 (7 page)

Drat. “Another lunch in the bathroom for me.”

She smiles again and holds up what looks like a homemade tennis ball, except it’s made of rubber bands, glue, and aluminum foil. “Not necessarily. But you have to bounce this against London Zeal.”

“What?”

“Throw it at her, let it bounce, and I promise your day will get better.”

I feel a flush of excitement. “What did you do?”

She tosses me the ball and winks. “You’ll see.”

6

Bounce, Baby, Bounce

I don’t see Raf or London all morning. Unfortunately, I do see the drawings of me still on the stall doors.

I finally cross paths with Raf when I’m on my way outside for softball, in full gym attire. He hesitates but then gives me a half smile and walks away.
A half smile!
Wahoo! Does that mean the spell is working?

After gym, I spot London hobbling down the hall alone, looking like an icicle. White baggy pants, white hoodie, white fedora. She must have invested in an entirely new leg-cast-appropriate colorless wardrobe. “Nice outfit,” she snarls at me. “It really suits you.”

Now’s my chance. I’ve been carrying the gluey ball around with me all day, gripping it in my hand, which didn’t improve my note-taking or softball skills one bit. I throw it at her leg.

“What are you doing, you freak?” she demands as it hits her in the good ankle, bounces twice, and then rolls down the hall.

I lunge. Got it!

“You are such a weirdo,” she says. Nothing happens. Too bad. I was kind of hoping she’d turn into a frog.

“Have a good day,” I say, and run toward the stairs. It’s not like she’s going to run after me. She’s not very mobile these days. I sprint to my locker (where I left my clothes for safekeeping) and try to remember my new combination. Doesn’t work. Oh, no. Did she change my lock again?

The thing is . . . this lock looks a lot like my old lock. My original lock. I try the combination: 27, 12, 33 . . . It works! My old lock is back! How did that happen?

I open my locker and find my clothes. And not only the clothes I was wearing today but the clothes I was wearing on Wednesday. As well as my—gasp!—pink shoes. Abracatastic!

Miri’s spell must have something to do with all this. I grab an outfit and run to a bathroom stall to change. And on the door where the beard drawing was? There’s a picture of a girl inserting a wad of Kleenex into her bra. It’s a rough drawing in black marker, but I know it’s of London. How do I know this? Because on the picture are the words “London Zeal stuffs.”

“You have to tell me what that fantastic spell was,” I say, throwing myself onto Miri’s bed. I haven’t stopped smiling all day.

She swivels in her chair. “With this rubber and glue, your actions will bounce right back to you. It’s temporary but still a goody.”

I laugh. “It was awesome. You have no idea. When I got to computer class, everyone was on the freaks site, and it was filled with weird pictures of London. London bleaching her mustache. London before her nose job. London drooling on her pillow. All of my photos were replaced with shots of her! She was furious and yelling at her entire posse, because apparently they’re the only ones who know the password to get on the site. And then, when I walked down the hall, everyone was doing this weird dance-shuffle thing. And you know what they were calling it? The Hobbling London Limp! Ha! By the end of the day, she was practically Z-list!” Okay, fine, maybe just B-list, but still, she had undergone a definite demotion. Her own posse was avoiding her! “But do you want to know the best part of the day? Her clothes went missing! She had to wear her gym clothes all day.” At least they’re all green, so she didn’t have to break her one-color rule.

Miri giggles. “And what happened with Raf?”

Sigh. “Not much.”

“I thought so. I warned you it might take a while.”

“I know, I know. I’m just so excited! It was the best day ever!”

“You know,” she says coyly. “Being happy is really the best revenge. And one way to be happy is to help others. So will you help me with the feeding-the-homeless spell tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” I promise. “Your wish is my command. And I owe you big time.”

I’m still hopping about at dinner.

“Girls,” my mom says, dishing us mashed-potato-and-broccoli stew. Ew. “Remember Adam from the tour?”

“Um, yeah,” I say. “The Yankees hottie.”

My mom laughs, her arm jiggles, and the gravy she’s holding splashes on her shirt. “Oops. Yeah, him. He left a message asking me out.”

“Go, Mom, go!” I shriek. Score! “I knew my plan would work. See? I told you. Now do you promise to listen to me whenever I have suggestions?”

“Yes, Rachel, you were right. I promise to take your dating advice.”

I pass her a napkin. “So when are you going?”

She scrapes the spill and shakes her head. “Going? I’m not. I already have a date with Lex.”

I don’t believe this. “Hello? Don’t be crazy, Mom. You can date more than one man.”

“Rachel, that’s not fair to them,” she says.

Snort. “Mom, until there’s a ring on your finger, you can date a hundred men. A thousand.” Although I don’t know how she’d remember all their names. Sometimes she has difficulty remembering mine. I guess it comes with the territory when you’re over thirty. Anyway, she’d definitely need some sort of dating filing system.

“I don’t know, honey. I don’t have that much free time.”

“Mom, what are your plans for tonight? Read a romance novel? Tomorrow a murder mystery? You’ll find the time.”

She chews a piece of broccoli, looking thoughtful. “Maybe I’ll see how it goes with Lex first and then set up a date with Adam.”

I throw my spoon down in disgust. “Mom, Adam called today. You’re not seeing Lex for two weeks. Adam is a hot commodity. In two weeks he could be engaged.” She obviously doesn’t read
Cosmo.
“This is what you’re going to do,” I say authoritatively. “You are going to call Adam back. You are going to tell him that you
will
go out with him
this
weekend.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I know Miri and I are in town. Big deal. We’re practically grown-up. We don’t need to be babysat.”

She looks doubtful. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” I scream, and kick Miri under the table. Backup?

“Yes,” she adds reluctantly.

My mom takes a sip of her zucchini juice, sets down her glass, and then says, “Okay, I’ll call him back.”

“When?” I ask.

“Tomorrow?”

Zap! Wrong answer. “Call him now before you chicken out.” I reach over and pick up the phone. “What’s the number?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t talk to him with you two watching.”

“We’ll go to the other room.” I drag Miri out by her arm.

Once we’re safely on the other side of the closed kitchen door, Miri smacks my hand away. “She’s not ready.”

“She’s ready. And she’s dialing, so let her do her thing.”

“What do you know?” Miri grumbles. “You’ve been on, like, one date.”

I shush her with a wave of my hand. “How did you know how to make a broom fly? Some things are innate.”

“You’re innate,” she counters.

“That didn’t even make sense. Can you shut up now?” I press my ear against the door.

“Hi, Adam? . . . Yes, it’s Carol. . . . Good, thanks, how are you? . . . Saturday night? That’s tomorrow. Well . . . I . . .”

Normally I would never recommend that a woman accept a date
the day before.
But this is a special case. I push my way back into the kitchen and nod vigorously.

She shrugs at me and says, “Okay, sure. Why not?”

Wahoo to the power of two! My mom has a date!

“Does he have any sons?” I mouth to her, but she doesn’t get it. Oh well. I need her to hurry up the call anyway, to keep the line free for Raf’s declaration of love.

“I can’t go,” my mom cries, blond hair dripping down her shoulders, fluffy pink towel wrapped around her skinny body. “I have nothing to wear.”

That’s true. And trust me, I’ve attempted to raid her closet on many occasions. “Try on what I put on your bed,” I say.

Luckily for her, while she was in the shower (for an entire hour, I might add; I hope she took the time to shave her legs for the special occasion), I set out the outfit I felt was her most date appropriate. Her sexy (sexiest, anyway; she seriously needs to do some shopping) black pants, a lime green low-cut sweater, her highest black heels, and her heart-shaped silver necklace that she bought years ago and never wears. I asked Miri if she agreed with my choices, but she wasn’t the least bit interested. Not that she’d be any fashion help. She thinks polka dots and stripes match. Anyway, she’s too busy finishing up her homework. Yes, English essays on a Saturday night. Real winner, huh? Not that I have anything wild and crazy on deck. No A-list parties to go to. No plans except helping Miri with her Save the World spells.

“How do I look?” my fully-dressed mom asks, pirouetting.

“Awesome.” She looks feminine and classy. Her boobs are sagging a bit, but there’s nothing she can do about
that.
I promise you, I’m never breast-feeding. What I should do is encourage her to buy a push-up bra. I might have to become her full-time stylist. Maybe that’s what I’ll do when I grow up. Seriously. I could work exclusively for stars. Designers will send me all their latest, desperate to dress my clients. Of course they’ll send extra pieces for little old
moi.

Although I’m not sure I really want a career in which I have to deal with people’s fragile egos all day. I need to find a job that I can do on my own. Maybe I’ll be a painter. Or a novelist. After all the pain I’ve been through lately, I’m sure I could come up with something really dark and terrifying, something that will really sell.

“What’s your makeup strategy?” I ask my mom. Not that she isn’t cute on her own, but adding color to her cheeks won’t hurt. If we had some extra time, I would encourage a visit to the hair salon (i.e., make the appointment) so that she could get rid of her absurdly dark roots.

“I want to look natural,” she says. “Some blusher?”

“All right, that’ll work.” I lead her to the bathroom mirror as though she’s on a leash. “With a little mascara and lip gloss.”

She sucks in her cheeks and applies the color. I didn’t even know she had blush! I flip the compact over. Plum Fairy. I’m impressed. She seems to know what she’s doing. Why doesn’t she put on makeup more often?

When she’s finished, she starts fidgeting with her outfit and biting her nails.

“What time is he coming?” I ask.

“Not till seven-thirty.”

“It’s only seven! You’d better relax or you’re going to be too eager and he’ll sense your desperation.”

“I’m not desperate. I’m nervous. Why am I nervous?”

I take her quivering hand and pull her toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you pour yourself a glass of wine, sit down, and read one of your books? Get in the mood for romance.”

Nodding, she uncorks a bottle of Merlot. “Now just chill,” I say, and hand her a book. For the next twenty minutes I don’t hear a peep from her. Until . . .

“Oops.”

A large blob of red wine has somehow landed on the left breast of my mom’s pretty sweater. “What did you do?” I ask incredulously.

“Spilled.”

The clock on the wall says she has five minutes. What am I going to do now? I’ve searched her wardrobe and there are no other choices. And that’s when I notice her teeth. Why do they look so . . . dirty? “Mom, have you brushed your teeth lately? They look brown.”

She rests the wineglass on her book and runs to the mirror. “I think it’s because of the red wine. They’re stained.”