Rhymes With Cupid (8 page)

“Hey,” he shot back. “I’m a beginner here. A little encouragement?” I suddenly regretted teasing him, especially in light of how patient he’d been with me in the car the day before. “You should see me in shop class. I can build a birdhouse in my sleep. I sanded my canoe paddle so well the teacher couldn’t even find the seams in the wood . . . but this . . .” He took the spatula from me and poked at the blackened cookies. “This is nothing like woodworking.”

“Well,” I said, searching my brain for something positive to say. “You definitely cooked them very thoroughly.”

Patrick laughed, and went to drop the spatula in the sink. “I’m glad you think so,” he said. “They’re for you.” I stared at him. “To make up for the whole blossoming-Japanese-cherry-bush thing yesterday. I felt bad, okay? This was supposed to be my peace offering.”

I was more than a little surprised. “You pretended to have Lyme disease so you could stay home and bake me cookies?”

“Not exactly. My buddy Jax from the Keyhole needed to pick up some extra shifts at work to cover a few bills. I called in sick so he could take the hours. Plus, I figured you wouldn’t really want to go driving with me today . . . after the parking, and the bush. The Lyme disease thing was kind of off the top of my head.” He pointed at a bag of limes that was sitting on the windowsill. “I’ve never been a very good liar.” He motioned to a kitchen chair. “Have a seat. I’ll get you some juice or something.”

“No. Thanks, but really, I can’t stay. My mom just won this crazy ten-day trip to Mexico, so I should help her get ready. She leaves Wednesday. I just came to bring you these balloons. And this card.” I handed it over. “They’re from Dina,” I explained.

“And you.” He’d already torn the envelope open.

“Huh?”

He showed me a signature that read “Elyse” in big, loopy writing, nothing like my own. “Oh, right,” I said, not wanting to make Dina look bad, even though I was fully intending to kill her the next day. If she’d been planning to fake my signature, the least she could have done would have been to warn me. “I forgot. It’s from me, too.”

He flipped the card closed again. The cover had a picture of a bunny rabbit dressed in a lab coat. “Dr. Bunny thinks it just ain’t funny when your nose is runny,” he read, then opened the card. “Hope you’re hopping down the road to recovery soon.” I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets, wishing I could vanish from the kitchen and never be associated with the embarrassing bunny card again. She couldn’t have picked something with a nice neutral landscape on it?

“A joke card,” he observed, like he was considering what that might mean. “But, it actually rhymes. Thanks.” I looked up, expecting him to be mocking me, but his smile seemed sincere.

“Yeah, well. Dina picked it out,” I explained quickly. “She was really worried about you. The balloons were her idea, too.” I bopped one at his head. He bopped it back. Quick reflexes. It probably explained why he was such a good driver. “You know, lime green, for Lyme disease.”

“That was really sweet of her,” Patrick said, giving me an odd look.

“She’s a sweet girl,” I said. An awkward silence hung between us for a few seconds until it was thankfully interrupted by the sound of the oven timer going off. “Anyway,” I continued. “Like I said, I’d better get going. Thanks for the attempted cookies. You really didn’t need to do that, you know. I wasn’t
that
mad.”

“Yes, you were,” he said. “And, yes, I did. I have to prove to you that I’m in the other two percent.” It took me a second to figure out what he was talking about. “You know, not a pig. Except, I guess it didn’t quite work out.” He picked up a butter knife and tried to pry the corner of the blackened cookie lump off the pan. “Plus, now I have the whole lying-to-you-about-having-Lyme-disease thing to feel bad about, too. I can’t believe you brought me balloons.”

“Mostly from Dina,” I reminded him quickly. But I’m not sure if he heard me. He was already reaching for his cookbook.

“I can’t figure out what went wrong. Maybe I used too much melted butter. It said three quarters of a cup, but they looked dry, so I put extra. Then they looked wet, so I put more raisins. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t sift the flour. How do you sift flour, anyway?”

“It was probably the butter,” I said, opening the back door a crack.

“Yeah. Probably,” he said thoughtfully. He tossed the cookbook onto the kitchen table. “You know, I was wrong. Baking isn’t like parallel parking at all. It’s way harder.”

My mom got home from the mall about an hour later, a new bathing suit in hand. It was covered in bright orange and pink flowers and had a shockingly low neckline, but she looked so excited about it that I tried not to raise my eyebrows.

“It’s a little daring, isn’t it?” she said, an unfamiliar glow in her cheeks that I was pretty sure had nothing to do with the temperature (−18 with windchill).

“You can always wear a wrap over it,” I suggested. “And the colors are nice and bright. You’ll blend in with the Mexican foliage.”

After that, I went upstairs to get started on some homework and leave her to do her preparations and packing. It was almost nine, and I’d just finished studying for my chemistry test and stepped into the shower, when I heard the doorbell ring. My mom came up the stairs a few minutes later.

“Patrick next door dropped these off for you,” she said, knocking on my bedroom door as I unwrapped the towel turban from my head. “He shovels the driveway
and
he bakes. I told you he was a nice boy. I thought you might want one before bed.” She picked up a cookie and took a bite. “They’re still warm. Really, Elyse. He’s too sweet. Why don’t you ask him to that party Dina’s having? It could be fun.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. “Because I’m not interested, Mom. And neither is he. That’s why.”

As soon as she left I changed into my pajamas, then picked a cookie up off the plate. They were moist this time, and lightly browned. I bit in. Amazing, really, for a beginner. I ate a second, then a third. And that’s when I discovered it, resting against the very bottom of the plate—an oatmeal cookie shaped like a heart. A perfect heart. Obviously not accidental. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands as a queasy feeling filled my stomach.

Suddenly, things fell into place. Patrick’s strange obsession with ballpoint pens, his question about which valentine to buy, the way he’d asked in the driveway the day before about whether or not I was taking my boyfriend to the panda party. He wasn’t interested in Dina. For some inexplicable reason, he had a crush on
me
and—worse—he’d just declared it, in cookie form.

I sank down on the bed, feeling overwhelmed by the mess I’d somehow gotten myself into. Then I ate the evidence before my mother could find it.

Chapter 8

B
y the time Wednesday morning came around, my mother had officially lost her mind. Aside from packing way too much stuff (seriously, how many pairs of flip-flops does a person traveling to Mexico for ten days need?), she had also attached sticky notes to almost every surface in the house. “Back burner heats slow,” read one on the kitchen counter. “Call Parson Plumbing at 555-867-2525 if toilet backs up. Drano under sink if bathtub clogs,” instructed another on the bathroom door. And that’s saying nothing of the humongo list of emergency numbers and random instructions on the table. “If you need anything, call Carolynn or Aunt Sarah. Keep windows closed and locked
at all times
. Garbage goes out Monday
P.M.
Do not let strangers into the house!!!
”

“Mom,” I said, holding up the list. “You
do
realize I’m not twelve, right?”

“I know,” she said, rewrapping the power cord for her blow-dryer and placing it in her carefully organized luggage. “I know, it’s just, you’ve never been home alone this many days in a row. I can’t help but worry.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will. Oh,” she exclaimed, whipping her sticky notes and pen out of her back pocket. “I can’t believe I almost forgot.” She started scribbling furiously. “Before you go to bed tonight, double-check all the locks, and test all the smoke alarms and the carbon monoxide detector. Promise me? And I should probably leave you the number for poison control, just in case you accidentally—”

“Mom,” I interrupted her. “I’m not going to accidentally eat poisonous things. Trust me.” She took a deep breath, then scrunched up the sticky note. “You’re right. I’m being ridiculous.” She came over and kissed the top of my head.

“I have to go now, okay? Or I’ll be late for school. Have
fun
,” I said, emphasizing the word. “Try to forget that winter exists. And don’t worry about me.”

“I will. I mean, I won’t,” she said. “I mean, I’ll try not to worry. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I answered.

“Oh, and Elyse,” my mom added as I stepped over the threshold. “I asked Patrick’s grandfather if the two of them wouldn’t mind checking in on you occasionally.” I sighed. “Just in case there’s anything you need help with . . . since they’re right next door. I don’t think you realize how much work it can be to look after everything on your own,” she went on when she saw the withering look I was giving her. “It’s good to have backup.”

“Right,” I said sarcastically. “In case there’s a pickle jar I can’t open and I need the handsome boy next door to rush to my rescue.”

“Really?” my mom said, totally missing my point. Her eyes lit up. “Did I just hear you say you think Patrick next door is handsome?”

I groaned and turned to go. I was
not
about to have this discussion with my mother. “Good-bye,” I said instead. “Have a margarita for me. Virgin, obviously,” I added when she raised an eyebrow. “I’ll see you on the fifteenth.”

That afternoon, traffic was lighter than usual (maybe everyone had jumped on a plane to Mexico along with my mother), which meant that Dina and I were a full fifteen minutes early getting to the mall for work.

“Oh,” Dina said, grabbing my arm. “Can we go into American Apparel for a sec? They have these new micro-mesh minidresses in black and white. I want to try one on. I might get it for the panda party.”

“Seriously?” I said as she pulled me into the store. I’m not a prude or anything, but the white dress in size zero was being modeled by a particularly twiglike headless mannequin. The thing was practically see-through. “Why don’t you just go naked? It’d be cheaper. . . .”

“You wear another shirt underneath it, silly. Plus, I’d get leggings. It’s cute though, right?” She took one off the rack and held it against her to check the size. “Do you think Patrick would like it?”

I hesitated. All through lunch hour that day, I’d been trying to work up the nerve to tell Dina about Patrick’s heart-shaped cookie confession. I’d even tried to broach the subject once by bringing up the fake Lyme disease and my forged signature on the card . . . both of which I’d hoped would take me up to the cookie part, but I never quite got there.

“Oh my God. I meant to tell you I signed your name,” Dina had apologized instead. “I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s just . . .” She’d paused, biting her lip nervously. “I don’t want to seem desperate when I’m flirting with him. Damien always said I was too clingy, you know?” I made a face like I thought that was the most outrageous thing I’d ever heard, but she didn’t buy it. “I know I come on strong sometimes, and that I get attached too easily. I just think Patrick is someone I could totally see myself with. Long-term, you know, even five years from now. I
so
don’t want to mess this up. Whatever you do, Elyse, you
can’t
let him know I have a crush on him, okay? I want to take it really slow so I don’t freak him out.”

I’d gulped, then nodded. Five years from now? She’d barely known Patrick a week, and already she was practically planning to marry the guy. This was way more serious than your average crush. Plus, getting her to like him had been all my idea in the first place. If I broke her heart now—and with Valentine’s Day right around the corner—she’d go back to semi-stalking Damien, and I’d officially be the crappiest friend in the whole world.

I’d eaten my cafeteria Jell-O and silently revised my plan. The best way to deal with this would be to talk to Patrick, and to be honest. Well, partly honest, anyway. I’d tell him flat-out that I wasn’t interested in him that way—that I just wanted to be neighbors; and driving instructor and student; and friends, and then I’d hope like hell that I could convince him how wonderful Dina was without actually revealing to him that she had a superbad crush on him. Simple, right? Totally.

“If I try the black, will you try the white?” Dina asked, holding a micro-mesh mini out to me, a hopeful look on her face. “Here.” She grabbed some camisoles and leggings off another rack before I could say no. “Please. I’m too chicken to try it on alone.”

Five minutes later, against my better judgment, I was wriggling out of my jeans in a cramped changing room while I listened to Dina chatter excitedly about party plans on the other side of the wall. “Mr. Goodman is donating black and white helium balloons
and
panda-themed paper plates. I know they’re not the most environmentally responsible choice, but they’re just so cute. And I figure we can limit it to one plate per person to minimize waste.”

“Dina,” I said anxiously. “I think we have a problem.”

“You’re right,” she sighed. “It’s still wasteful. I should probably tell him thanks, but no, right?”

“No. It’s not about the paper plates.” I stared at myself in the full-length mirror. The leggings Dina had picked out for me had to be a size double-zero—if such a thing existed. They were so short that they barely covered my knees, and so tight that my stomach bulged over the top. The camisole was even tinier. I was a reasonably thin, flattish-chested person, but even I couldn’t pull it down over my boobs properly. “The camisole is way too small. The pants are tiny, too.”

“Okay. Just gimme a sec to finish changing. I’ll go get you different ones.” I waited, shivering slightly. “What about the dress? Does it fit? Try it on over your bra, okay? That way I can get you another micromini, too, if it’s the wrong size.” I pulled the dress over my head. It fit, but that didn’t mean it looked good. For one thing, I was still wearing the tummy-bulge leggings, but that wasn’t the worst of my problems.

That morning, the laundry situation had been verging on desperate, and I’d ended up wearing my grossest-ever underwear—a super comfortable, but extra-embarrassing Christmas-themed bra and panties set covered in candy canes and little reindeer. My mom had given it to me the year before, and I’d worn it so often there were holes where the underwire had rubbed through the bra. I’d also accidentally put it in the wash a time or two or three with red towels, so the fabric was a sickish pink color. All that, plus the tiny red noses of the Rudolphs were shining brightly through the sheer white micro mesh, making it look like I had some strange boob rash.

“Do you have it on? Does it fit?” Dina asked again.

“Yeah. The dress part fits,” I said miserably.

“Just a sec, ’kay? I’ll grab you a new camisole and leggings.” While she was gone, I tried not to make direct eye contact with myself in the mirror. It was too horrifying. “That’s the only size of white camisole they’ve got,” Dina said from outside the changing room door a minute later. “And for leggings, they’ve got that, or extra large.”

“Oh darn,” I said happily. “Guess I’ll have to pass on the dress then.”

“No, wait,” Dina urged. “I want to see what it looks like on you, at least. And you have to see the black on me so I can get your honest opinion.”

“No way. Nuh-uh. Not coming out. Not ever,” I said. “Not until I change into my regular clothes. Sorry.”

“Please? Just open the door a crack. I swear, there’s nobody out here.”

“Okay, fine,” I sighed. “I’m opening the door for one second, and one second only. You aren’t allowed to laugh, and then I’m closing it again. Ready?” I pushed the changing room door open about half an inch, then half an inch more. “Oh my God, Dina,” I exclaimed, peeking through the crack. She was standing out in the open near the full-length mirror, twirling around. “That looks incredible on you.”

Her soft curves pushed the sheer black fabric out in all the right places, and the camisole and leggings made the look sexy, but not indecent.

“Do you think?”

“Definitely.” If Patrick saw her in that, convincing him to have a crush on her instead of on me would be a cinch.

“I think the zipper might be broken, though,” she said, reaching over her shoulder with one hand and fiddling with it. “It gets stuck at the top.”

“Let me see.” And that was my fatal mistake. Without even thinking, I stepped out of the changing room and walked toward her, reindeer bra on full display for the world to see.

“Come and tell me if these are too tight,” I heard someone say from the other end of the hallway. A girl was opening her changing room door. I should have recognized her voice, but I didn’t. Not right away.
His
voice, though, sent shivers down my spine instantly.

“Nah. Nothing’s too tight on you, according to me.”

I turned. Why? I don’t know. Probably out of shock, or stupidity. Or both.

“Elyse?” Matt Love, my ex-boyfriend, was staring directly at me. No, correction: Matt Love, my ex-boyfriend, was staring directly at my Rudolphs. I froze, blinking at him like a reindeer in the headlights. Then I came to my senses and crossed my arms awkwardly over my chest.

I hadn’t seen Matt in nearly eight months, since last June, when tenth grade finished for the summer. After that, I’d begged my mom to let me enroll early at Sir Walter Scott High in the neighborhood we were planning to move to. But even though it had been a long time, besides the fact that his hair was a bit longer at the sides and he was wearing a T-shirt I didn’t recognize, he didn’t look all that different. Matt Love smiled at me—that same slow, slightly crooked smile I remembered—and my heart started hammering with a mixture of panic and fury, the same way it used to when I’d pass him in the halls at my old school after that fateful February 14. “How’s it going?”

Before I had time to answer, my former best friend Tabby stepped out of her changing room in a pair of white, skintight jeans. All of her attention was focused on Matt Love as she pranced in front of him, shaking her butt. “What do you think?” She took both his hands in hers and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, pressing her body against his and leaning back. She tipped her head to look into his eyes, and that was when she noticed the distracted look on his face. She followed his gaze. “Elyse?!” she exclaimed, hugging Matt’s arms even more tightly around her. Her voice had a fake-friendly tone that made my stomach lurch. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” I said numbly.

“At American Apparel? Seriously?”

I didn’t answer. Just because I’d moved to another school, and just because nearly a year had passed, it didn’t change the way I felt about her. I had nothing to say.

“Hey, do you get discounts?” she asked.

Tabby, while once fun to hang out with, had never been the brightest person on earth. Did she honestly think I’d be wearing a see-through dress over supertight leggings and a reindeer bra if I was working a shift there? And even if I did work there, did she truly believe I’d be buying her skanky jeans with my employee discount after she stole my boyfriend and stabbed me in the back?

“Yeah,” I said, looking at her squarely. “I get an awesome employee discount. Forty percent.” Then I turned, marched into the changing room, and slammed the door so hard the mirrors shook. I hugged my arms around myself and pressed my back into the corner, closing my eyes tightly against the tears that were threatening to start flowing.

Outside in the hallway, I could hear Tabby and Matt talking.

“God! Hold a grudge much?” Tabby was saying. “If I had a forty percent employee discount, I’d totally offer to buy her stuff. I mean, we used to be friends. I used to do everything for her.”

“Let it go.” Matt tried to soothe her. “She really liked me, okay? She’s just still pissed about what happened.”