Rhymes With Cupid (4 page)

He turned. I froze—and not because of the temperature, which was a bone-chilling −25 with windchill. “You’re Mr. Connor’s grandson?” I said. The pom-pom of his blue and white hat bobbed when he nodded his head.

“And you’re Elyse,” Patrick said simply, as if he wasn’t surprised. He must have noticed the shocked look on my face because he went on. “We kind of met the night you moved in, remember? You saw me through the window.”

I shook my head.

“I waved? You were helping your mom hang up curtains? And kind of dancing on a chair with the music blasting?”

The dancing part sounded right. The first night in the new house, my mom and I had turned the radio up loud while unpacking . . . and we’d had the windows open to air out some paint fumes. But it had been dark by then, and I hadn’t seen Patrick at all, or even really thought about the obvious fact that anybody walking past on the sidewalk would have seen me dancing on a chair like an idiot.

“You did this scuba diver move.” Okay, now I really wanted to die. I knew the exact one he meant. It was this cheesy dance move I used to do with my best friend in first grade. You kind of pinched your nose with one hand and wiggled your body like you were going underwater. My mom and I had been listening to “Yellow Submarine” by the Beatles at the time. “You smiled, and I was pretty sure you waved back, so I thought you recognized me at the mall yesterday. I could have sworn you did.”

I shook my head.

“Sorry! I probably should have come over to say hi and introduce myself as your neighbor, just in case, but my break was almost up.” He looked more than a little uncomfortable, like maybe he
had
wanted to talk to me yesterday at the store, but hadn’t been able to work up the nerve. “Anyway . . . it’s nice to formally meet you.” He extended a mittened hand. “Small world, right?”

I bit at my lip, returning his handshake. Unfortunately, where Patrick was concerned, the world seemed to be much, much, much too small. And then, partly because my eyes were going to freeze open if I kept staring at him in disbelief, and partly because I didn’t know what else to do, I walked around to the driver’s side of the car and got in.

Chapter 4

W
here exactly are we going?” I asked for the third time as I turned my head left and right, then checked my rearview mirror before executing a cautious right turn into a totally empty intersection.

“Just drive straight for a while,” Patrick answered. “I’ll know it when I see it.” He stared out the passenger-side window, barely seeming concerned about the fact that his life was in grave danger. Come to think of it, he hadn’t even acted worried when, after helping me to adjust the side mirrors and seat back, I’d asked him which pedal was the brake and which was the gas. I mean, obviously, I knew the gas was on the right side in our car, but when you were driving an unfamiliar vehicle you could never be too careful about these things.

“Go left at the next stop sign,” Patrick instructed. “You’re doing great.”

I wasn’t, actually. I’d already nearly given us both whiplash when I’d slammed on the brakes halfway down our street. I’d been testing to make sure they worked well on the icy road conditions (they did), but in retrospect I probably should have warned Patrick first.

“So,” I started, hoping some small talk would calm me down. I was gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles were white—first because I was driving, but also because I was still in shock that pen-buying, tooth-checking, Dina’s-crush guy was my new driving instructor
and
neighbor. So much for my plan to avoid him. “How long have you and your grandparents been living on Gamble Avenue?”

“It’s just me and my grandpa now,” Patrick answered. “He’s been there forever. My great-grandparents were the original owners of the house. It’s one of the oldest in the area. They built it themselves in 1910, way before all the prefab houses started popping up around it, or any shopping malls were nearby. My great-grandpa even built the house you and your mom just bought.” My ears perked up. So that explained why our new house looked so much like Mr. Connor’s—and why they were the only two older homes on a block full of cookie-cutter houses with two-car garages. “Then my grandparents eventually divided up the land and sold it. But I’m telling you a million things you probably don’t care about,” he apologized. “Sometimes I talk too much. Sorry.” I didn’t actually mind, especially since the more he talked, the less I had to participate in the conversation—which was a good thing, since I was concentrating pretty hard on not getting us killed. “You wanted to know when I moved here,” he went on. “My grandma died in November from a stroke. I just moved down from Toronto to help my grandpa out around the house. I’m finishing high school here.”

“Really? You left all your friends behind and everything? That’s nice of you.”

He shrugged like it was no big deal. “Not really. I mean, I only have a semester of high school left. I figured everyone would be going their separate ways soon, anyway. I keep in touch with a bunch of friends back home. Plus, I’d do anything for my grandpa. I like helping him out and keeping him company. But I have selfish motives, too.” He took his gloves off and rubbed his hands together to warm them. Even though it felt like we’d been driving forever, the heater hadn’t quite kicked in yet. “He gets all the good cable channels. And instead of complaining that I play my music too loud, he just shuts off his hearing aid. He never gets upset about anything.” Patrick started fiddling with the heating vent flap things, turning them all to blow in my direction. “Stop!” he said, looking up all of a sudden. My heart leaped up and I slammed on the brakes, throwing us both forward against our seat belts.

“Oof.” He rubbed at his chest.

“Sorry!” I squeaked, making a pained face. First I’d accused him of stalking me in a parking lot, and now I’d nearly given him whiplash for the second time in half an hour. I was clearly off to a wicked awesome start getting to know my new neighbor.

“No. My fault,” he apologized. “I got so busy talking, I forgot you’re nervous on the roads. I should have used a calmer voice. I just meant, ‘You can stop now. We’re here.’”

“We’re where?”

“Here. The place where we’re going.”

I looked around, my heart continuing to beat loudly against my ribs. We were in old Middleford, on Carlton, six blocks from where my mom and I used to live. It was a street full of big, old trees and expensive, historic, three-story houses.

“See that car?” Patrick asked. It was a red convertible parked at the side of the road. “Pretty nice, right?” I nodded, still trying to catch my breath. “That’s an Audi A4. It’d run you somewhere around forty thousand dollars. Why anyone would drive a convertible in the winter, I have no idea, but some people are idiots.”

I gave him a weird look. I definitely didn’t have $40,000. And I didn’t need to learn about buying a luxury car. I just needed to learn about driving a regular one. “And see that one?” He pointed to the one in front. “It’s a BMW 7-Series. You’re looking at eighty thousand, minimum.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

“You think so?” he asked. “I always thought they were kind of squashed looking. And my friend’s dad back in Canada has one. He says they guzzle gas. Personally, when this one dies, and I graduate and get a decent job, I’m buying a hybrid.” We sat in silence for a few seconds.

“Okay, now what?” I asked.

“Now you parallel park between those two cars.” I must have given him a look like he had banana trees growing out his ears, because he started laughing.

“You can’t be serious,” I said. “Shouldn’t we be practicing this in, like, a deserted parking lot somewhere? Plus, you just told me that those two cars combined cost at least a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. You
do
realize my mom and I don’t have that kind of cash, right? How do you expect me to pay when I total them?”

“You’re not going to total them.”

I let my head fall forward against the steering wheel and shut my eyes. “Okay, Patrick, you’ve obviously never driven with me before. If you had, you’d know that there’s no point sitting here discussing this. I can’t do it.”

“I’ve been driving with you for the past half hour,” he answered. “That’s how I know that you can.” I obviously didn’t look convinced. “There won’t be a scratch on those cars when you’re finished. I promise. I’m going to be right here beside you, helping.” I sighed. “Parallel parking is like riding a bike—” he started.

I cut him off. “The last time I rode a bike I broke my ankle and came this close to killing some lady’s cat.”

“Okay.” He paused. “It’s like learning to swim—”

“I sink.”

“Okay. What
can
you do?”

I sighed again. “I read. I bake cookies and cakes. I study. I pretty much excel at all things safe and boring that involve sitting at home and
not
parallel parking between a hundred and twenty thousand dollars worth of cars.”

“Baking!” he said. “Parallel parking is exactly like baking.” I was
not
going to be parallel parking in that spot. No way, no how. But I had to hear this. “You’ve got your ingredients, right?” I could tell his mind was racing. “The car and the spot. And you’ve got your recipe. Here. Pull up beside the BMW. Not too close. About two feet away. Line the bumpers up, then put on your turn signal.”

“Patrick. That’s a really bad idea. I don’t think you understand. . . .”

“Here,” he said, ignoring me. “Give it a tiny bit of gas.”

“No way.”

“Just try.” Against my better judgment, I gave in and Patrick guided the wheel as I pressed gently on the gas pedal. We pulled alongside the BMW. “Okay. So you take one car.” He pointed at the steering wheel. “Check!” I was trying not to hyperventilate. “You take two feet of space.” He rolled down his window and leaned out, letting in a gush of cold air. “Check!” He motioned for me to take the wheel again. “You put it in reverse.” He adjusted the gear shift for me. “Then use juuuust a little gas, and you stir it all the way to the right. Stir,” he said, and I wrenched the wheel around, feeling like I was about to barf. The car inched back. “Stir stir stir stir. Good. Okay. Brake.” I stepped on the pedal. Hard. We both lurched forward. Again. “Okay. Good. We’ll work on smooth braking later.”

I pulled my hat off and shoved it between the seats. I could feel my forehead sweating, and I was sure I had a brutal case of hat head, but I didn’t care. I was so mad at Patrick for making me do this. I didn’t have anything to prove to him, and I didn’t care how bad I looked.

“Okay, now just a little bit of gas again and stir it to the left. Keep looking over your shoulder to watch where you’re going.” I wrenched the wheel around, swearing under my breath. “Okay, brake.” I did, more gently this time. “There. Now just pull forward and center the car, like you’re sliding a cookie sheet into the oven. You want at least two feet of space at the front and back, and about half a foot from the curb.” I pulled forward, hit the brake again, put the car in park, and shut off the ignition.

“See?” he said, grinning. “I knew you could do it. And that was, like, extreme parallel parking. Now that you’ve parked between two cars that cost more than your entire university education will, you’ll never be scared again.” He held up his hand for a high five.

I did
not
high-five him back. Instead, I unbuckled my seat belt and got out, slamming the door behind me. Patrick got out, too.

“Check it out.” He walked around the car. “You’re exactly half a foot from the curb.
Exactly
. Honestly, I kind of want to take a picture of this parallel park and frame it, because
that’s
how perfect it is. It’s like the
Mona Lisa
of parallel parks, or something.”

I was fuming too much to listen. It was a miracle I’d made it into the space without damaging $120,000 worth of luxury cars. He was an idiot if he thought there was any other explanation. And I was an idiot for letting him talk me into doing something so risky. If I’d hit those cars, we never would have been able to pay for the damages—even with Patrick’s insurance coverage. My mom and I would have probably had to sell our new, cheaper house. We’d be on the streets, sleeping next to Jack the homeless guy and kicking ice chips at strangers who wouldn’t give us their bus money. I walked past him, opened the passenger-side door, got in, and slammed it shut.

“Hey!” Patrick knocked on the window but I refused to look at him. My hands were shaking in my lap. I wiped some sweat off my forehead and blinked back tears. He knocked again. This time I rolled the window down a crack. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“You’re driving,” I said, then looked straight ahead again. He came around to the driver’s side and got in. Neither of us said a single word the whole way home.

“You working tomorrow?” Patrick asked finally as he effortlessly backed the car into the driveway of his grandfather’s house.

“Noon to four,” I answered, unbuckling my seat belt.

“I’m off at three thirty,” he said. “I’ll wait for you. You can practice driving home. We’re going the same way, anyway. Makes sense, right?” It did. But just because it made sense, didn’t mean I wanted to do it. “What’ve we got left? Thirteen days before your road test? There’s no way you’re failing this time. You’re an awesome driver, Elyse. You just need to work on your confidence.”

I knew he was trying to help, that he was trying to be nice. So why was it that I couldn’t seem to keep the sarcastic tone out of my voice? “Right,” I said, closing the car door and walking away. “Because I’m the Leonardo da Vinci of left-hand turns.” I didn’t look back, but I’d swear I heard him laughing at me softly as I trudged up the path to my front door.

I kicked off my boots and glanced at the clock on the DVD player. It was 7:10, plus our car was in the driveway, so I knew my mom was home. “Hello?” I called. Nobody answered. There weren’t any cooking smells coming from the kitchen. “You won’t believe what the neighbor made me do.” I started telling the story, figuring my mom was just in the bathroom and would hear me through the door. “I seriously think we should cancel these driving lessons before something goes horribly wrong.” Still no answer. “Hello?” I stuck my head up the stairwell. And that was when I heard it: a faint banging noise. It got louder as I walked toward the kitchen, but there was nobody there. I opened the door to the basement.

“Elyse?!” The banging resumed. “Elyse?!” My mother’s voice was muffled, but I didn’t miss the hint of panic in it. “Elyse, come help me.” I flew down the stairs, taking them two at a time. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, but when they did I gasped. The huge, heavy wooden wardrobe my mom had been sanding to keep our extra winter coats in was lying facedown on the cement floor—its doors open. A single hand—my mother’s—was reaching out from underneath a small gap between the floor and the wardrobe, waving frantically for my attention. I knelt down on the ground. “Oh my God. Are you okay? Are you crushed? Do you need an ambulance? Mom, can you breathe? I’m calling 911.” I raced toward the stairs, my knees trembling.

“Elyse, I’m fine.” Was my mother laughing or crying? I couldn’t tell for sure without seeing her face. She gestured with her single visible hand, telling the story just like she would have if she weren’t underneath a 200-pound wardrobe. “I had a few minutes when I got home, so I thought I’d sand the insides of the doors before making dinner. I stood up on the shelf to reach the top and the whole thing tipped on me. I’ve been trying to bang my way through the back panel, but it’s no use. Can you lift up the wardrobe, sweetie? Just a little? Get the cement block that’s in the corner under the bag of peat moss. Prop it underneath and I should be able to crawl out.”