Kissing Kate

  A blue Saturn. Not Kate.

  Of course not Kate. She was probably at the movies, because she always went to the movies on Saturday afternoons. We used to go together, and sometimes after one show, we’d sneak past the usher into another. Only today she’d be with Ben. She’d have her popcorn and her pink and blue heart candies from the Candy Jar, which she ate together to mix salty with sweet, and Ben would have his arm around her shoulder. Or maybe he’d rub her neck like he did that night at Rob’s party, after they found us at the gazebo. Slow, lazy circles, while Kate relaxed and leaned closer.

  I twisted the key in the ignition. It was stupid, lurking outside Kate’s house like this. I never should have come.

  At the Old Corner Bookstore, the clerks pretty much let you fend for yourself, which I liked. I knew I didn’t want to go home and truly be alone—which was different, somehow, than being alone in a crowded store—and so I’d driven here with the vague notion of finding some way to get Kate out of my head. I stood inside the front entrance for a moment, then frowned and headed for the section labeled “Self-help.” I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I figured that was as good a place to start as any.

  The first book I picked up was a book on candles called Light Your Inner Fire. I riffled through the first couple of chapters, then flipped to the back and found a chart indicating what color candle you should burn to achieve spiritual harmony. It had to do with when you were born. If you were born in January, your candle color was midnight blue, and if you were born in April, like Kate, your candle color was dusty rose. I was born in October, and according to the chart, my birth candle was brown. Not black, a Halloween-y color that at least had drama, but brown. I didn’t know candles even came in brown.

  I reshelved the candle book and moved farther down the aisle. Aroma therapy, past-life regression, astral projection . . .

  Hmm. I’d heard of astral projection; it had to do with letting your spirit leave your body and go floating around the universe. As a concept, it had potential—talk about a great way to escape your problems. But the book I pulled out bugged me. On the cover a dreamy-looking woman lay face up in a field, while her astral self rose gently from her body. That part I could handle. What bothered me was the fact that her astral self was naked, but her physical self was wearing a peach leotard. It made no sense.

  I glanced around, suddenly embarrassed to be here. The only other woman in this section wore a flowing shirt and a crystal necklace, and yes, that was definitely patchouli I smelled. I put back the book on astral projection and was heading for the exit when the title of a light blue paperback caught my eye. It was called Lucid Dreaming: The Power of Being Awake and Aware in Your Dreams. I tugged it free. The notes on the back said the author was a professor at Stanford, that he worked in something called a “sleep research center.”

  I paused. Placing too much importance on dreams was awfully New Age-y, but the author of this book had a Ph.D. The cover photo showed him wearing a white lab coat and glasses. I turned to the first chapter and scanned the page.

  “Being ‘awake in your dreams’ provides the opportunity for unique and compelling adventures rarely surpassed elsewhere in life,” I read. “Yet adventure may prove to be the least important of a variety of reasons to cultivate the skill of lucid dreaming. For example, lucid dreaming has considerable potential for promoting personal growth and self-development, enhancing self-confidence, improving mental and physical health, facilitating creative problem-solving, and helping you to progress on the path to self-mastery.”

  I weighed the book in my hand, then thought, What the hell, and strode to the cash register. I felt silly as the guy behind the counter read the title, but I hugged my arms across my chest and tried to act nonchalant.

  “Here you go,” he said, passing me the book with the receipt stuck inside. He tapped his fingers against the counter. “Dreams, huh? Does it tell you how to interpret them? Because I had one a couple of nights ago that was absolutely wild.”

  He wanted me to ask about it, I could tell, but I smiled noncommittally and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 4

  DARLIN DUPRIEST, THE WOMAN WHO RAN Entrées on Trays, met me at the door when I showed up at 5:15. I’d come straight from the bookstore, and I was a little early.

  “My dear,” she said, placing her hand on her chest. “Don’t you look fabulous.”

  I blushed. Darlin was always fussing over me, complimenting my outfit or brushing lint off my shirt. Usually I liked it, even if I acted like I didn’t, but this time my embarrassment was real. I looked nowhere near fabulous, not with my shorn hair.

  “I have wonderful news,” she said, pulling me inside. “I’ve finally hired a second driver, and she is such a doll.”

  “That’s great,” I said. For about a month now I’d been doing all the Saturday night deliveries myself, ever since Harold Schwartz fell in love with a girl named Tina and decided to work only on Fridays. I’d miss the extra tips, but Saturday was the busiest night of the weekend, which was why I’d been hired in the first place. Having a second driver again would definitely make things more manageable.

  “I have snacks in the parlor,” Darlin said. “We can sit and chat until she arrives.”

  In the parlor, which to anyone else would be the living room, Darlin watched as I tried one of her small golden tarts. For Darlin, every snack, side dish, and main course deserved the utmost care, which I guess was why she started Entrées on Trays. Even though she was delivering restaurant orders instead of her own creations, she was still working with food.

  “Mmm,” I said, reaching for another. “What are they?”

  “Spicy mushroom wheels,” Darlin said. “Burl about fainted, he liked them that much. Made with Blue Plate mayonnaise, of course, since he won’t eat any other.”

  Burl was Darlin’s boyfriend. He and Darlin liked to watch Antiques Roadshow together, and whenever he came over, Darlin would fix elaborate trays of appetizers for them to munch on. I’d met Burl only once. He was a narrow, stoop-shouldered man with circles beneath his eyes, and when he’d glanced at me from the sofa, I’d thought of a mole. He’d mumbled an unintelligible greeting, then gone back to his bean dip.

  “Did you know you can’t get Blue Plate mayonnaise anywhere but the South?” Darlin asked.

  “Huh,” I said. I tried to think how to respond. “Has that been a problem for Burl? I mean, when he goes out of town?”

  Darlin looked surprised, as if she’d never considered that before. “You know, I’m not sure he’s ever been out of town. Now isn’t that something?” The phone rang, and she rose from the sofa. “Give me a minute, hon. Bet you anything it’s Pete Rossey wanting his scampi from the Crab Shack.”

  She crossed the room and picked up the phone. “Entrées on Trays,” she said. She winked at me. “You bet, Mr. Rossey. How about some leafy greens to go with it? Got to keep those tubes clear, after all.”

  I took one more mushroom wheel, listening to Darlin and marveling at how easy and natural she acted with someone she’d never met face to face. That was probably my favorite thing about Darlin, how comfortable she seemed with herself. I wished I were more like that.

  Kate met Darlin once, and I could tell she didn’t like her. She didn’t come right out and say it, but I saw her eyes travel from Darlin’s wide hips to the collar of her blouse, where a roll of white skin pushed up from her bra strap. I saw how Kate hugged her arms around her ribs, as if reassuring herself that she would never be fat like that. And later, when Kate and I were alone, I made things worse by describing the Slim-Fast six-pack I’d seen in the back of Darlin’s pantry, so old it was coated with dust.

  “Oh, ick,” Kate had said, laughing and covering her face. “Seriously, that is just so pitiful. I feel sorry for her. Don’t you?”

  I looked at Darlin now and felt ashamed.

  She hung up the phone. “Well,” she said, “I suppose you better head on over to the Crab Shack.” She glanced at her watch.
“I really wanted you to meet Ariel, though. I thought she’d be here by now.”

  I shrugged. I’d worked with Harold Schwartz for three months before he decided to cut back his hours, and the most we’d ever talked was when he needed directions from Alpharetta to Mary Mac’s Tea Room. I liked it that way.

  I slipped into my white caterer’s jacket and grabbed my cash bag and walkie-talkie. “Want me to bring you anything?”

  “Maybe a Reuben,” Darlin said. “Or if someone orders from Fat Matt’s, maybe some ribs?”

  “Right,” I said. “See you later.”

  A little before 7:00, as I was on my way to Babette’s Café for an order of cassoulet, I heard a voice that wasn’t Darlin’s over the walkie-talkie.

  “Uh, Ariel here,” she said. There was the dead-air sound that meant she’d let go of the talk button, and then a click that meant she’d pressed it down again. “Over,” she added.

  I smiled. I’d had trouble with the walkie-talkies when I first started, too. And I still felt goofy saying, “Over” and “Ten-four.”

  “Good girl,” said Darlin, her voice rich and full, despite the tinny reception. “I’ve got a pick-up for you at Canoe, going to 112 Arbor Gate Drive. Over.”

  “I’m on my way,” Ariel said. “Over.”

  “Got one for you, too, Lissa. Stop by Sotto Sotto before delivering your Babette’s order. It’ll save you the trip back. Over.”

  I picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed the talk button. “Ten-four,” I said. “Over.”

  She gave me the second address, along with the nearest big intersection for reference, and I did a quick calculation of the best route to get there. Then I picked up both orders and headed north on Peachtree Road. Taillights danced in front of me, and the smell of warm bread drifted from the carrying case to my right. This was what I loved about this job, the smooth peace of being alone on the road. It reminded me of being little, of driving somewhere late at night and hearing Mom and Dad chat softly in the front seat. Sometimes Dad talked about stars, which he’d loved. I remembered him telling Mom how the stars were all moving away from each other, and Mom saying something about how sad that was. But Dad said no, that was just the way the universe worked. Everything changed. It was a fact of life.

  Mainly what I remembered was how safe I felt, with Beth asleep in her car seat and my head resting against the window. Mom would rub Dad’s neck when he got tired, and he’d reach over and rest his hand on her thigh.

  “Uh, Darlin?” Ariel said over the walkie-talkie. “I think I’m lost.” Dead air, and then a click. “Over.”

  I frowned. I waited a few seconds, not wanting to give up the floaty feeling I’d achieved. But it was too late. I raised my walkie-talkie and pressed the talk button.

  “Um, hi,” I said. “This is Lissa. Darlin’s probably not listening; she only uses the walkie-talkies to relay orders. Where are you? Over.”

  “Oh,” Ariel said. “Well, I’m kind of near the big chicken. Under it, actually.” She laughed nervously. “There are all these cars behind me. I think I’m causing a traffic jam.”

  I started to reply, but she cut back in.

  “Over,” she said. And then, “Sorry. I keep forgetting.”

  A heaviness settled inside me. First of all, the big chicken, which was literally this huge fake chicken guarding a KFC off Highway 41, was way out by Marietta—nowhere near Ariel’s destination. But on top of that, there was something about Ariel’s voice that niggled at my brain. It sounded familiar, although I knew I didn’t know anyone named Ariel.

  I raised my walkie-talkie. “Take 41 south to West Paces Ferry—that’ll take you about fifteen minutes. From there it’s not that hard.” I gave her directions, which she repeated. “Well, good luck,” I said. “Over.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Over.”

  I put the walkie-talkie on the seat and tried to ease back into autopilot. I turned right off Peachtree onto East Wesley, appreciating the diminished traffic. I relaxed my shoulders, which I hadn’t even realized were tense.

  “Hey,” Ariel said, cutting back into the silence. “These walkie-talkies are pretty cool, aren’t they? I mean, we could be spies. Or security guards. Or truckers, yeah. What’s your twenty, good buddy? Want to form a convoy?”

  My fingers gripped the steering wheel.

  “Lissa? You still there? Oh, hey—there’s East Conway.” I heard car horns and the squeal of brakes, and then an abrupt silence, which meant that Ariel had released the talk button. I grimaced, imagining why.

  “So anyway,” Ariel said, coming back on and sounding as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “What were you saying?”

  I grabbed my walkie-talkie. I took a deep breath and tried to sound reasonable “Listen, we should really leave the line open in case Darlin needs to get through. Over.”

  “Ten-four,” Ariel said. “Guess I’ll keep on trucking, then. Watch out for the smokeys, you hear?”

  I jammed down the button. I couldn’t help myself. “CBs. Not walkie-talkies. Truckers use CBs, okay?”

  “Hokey-dokey,” Ariel said. “But they’re pretty much the same thing, aren’t they? Oops—missed my turn. Over and out, good buddy!”

  I pulled into the driveway of the Babette’s lady, coming to a hard stop. I was annoyed with myself for getting so irritated with Ariel, and I was annoyed with Ariel for being irritating. And I’d finally figured out who she reminded me of: Kimberly Thomas, a girl in my grade who had the same habit of going on and on about irrelevant topics. Kimberly believed in UFOs, for example, and she had a bumper sticker on her Volvo that said, “Ship Happens.” Her research paper in last year’s English class was on alien abductions, which she claimed to have experienced. “See this nose ring?” I once heard her say. “Believe me, it’s not what you think.”

  Ariel and Kimberly had the same lilting speech pattern, the same flower-child way of saying whatever came to their minds. And the same way of sounding so incessantly cheerful that I wanted to scream.

  I turned off the truck and let my head fall back against the headrest. Just because my life sucked didn’t mean everyone else’s did, and Ariel could be cheerful if she wanted to. More power to her. Just, God, let her be cheerful with someone else.

  I took the Babette’s order up to the house. The lady who answered the door pursed her lips.

  “I’ve been waiting and waiting,” she complained, taking the white paper bag I pulled from the carrier.

  “Just be glad you don’t live on Arbor Gate,” I said under my breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

  She sniffed and handed me a twenty-dollar bill, which, after subtracting $18.58 for her order, left me a whopping tip of $1.42.

  I put the money in my bag and turned to go.

  “Young lady?” the woman said. “My change?”

  I looked back, saw that she was serious, and grimly counted out her change. Back in the truck, I shifted into reverse and pulled onto East Wesley. I’d gone only half a mile when Ariel’s voice blared from the walkie-talkie.

  “Breaker, breaker, good buddy. This is Red Rover to Blue Bandit. Over.”

  I snatched the walkie-talkie. I pressed the talk button. “What?”

  “Uh, should I be seeing signs for Stone Mountain? I think maybe I—”

  Static drowned her out. I only caught a couple more words—something about a shortcut, something about I-85—before her signal disappeared completely.

  I wanted to enjoy it. I wanted to put everything out of my mind and to sink into the solitude of the dark Atlanta night. But if Ariel had any sense at all, she’d pull off the highway and turn around. It wouldn’t be long before she’d be back in range.

  At 9:30, I pulled into Darlin’s driveway and cut the motor. Parked in front of me was a pale blue Volvo, and on the bumper was a white bumper sticker. “Ship Happens,” it said in black letters.

  No, I thought. It can’t be. But Ariel’s voice still rang
in my head. She’d gotten lost three more times during the course of the night, and the more I replayed her chirpy “Um, Lissa?”s, the more I realized that yes, it could be and almost definitely was. How else could I explain the identical blue Volvo?

  Unless there were hundreds of Kimberly/Ariel clones wheeling across the city in their spaceship-mobiles. My head throbbed in protest. I grabbed my stuff and climbed out of the truck, squaring my shoulders and heading to the house.

  “Come in, come in,” Darlin said when she opened the door. “I hear you’ve had quite a night!”

  A few feet behind her stood Kimberly Thomas. Her face lit up and she said, “Lissa! As in Lissa Lissa, from sophomore English. I thought it was you!”

  I thought it was you, too, I wanted to say. And I wish it weren’t. Instead, I glanced at Kimberly’s burgundy hair and heavy eyeliner and said, “I don’t get it. Why’d you tell Darlin your name was Ariel?”

  “Because my name is Ariel,” she said.

  “Your name is Kimberly,” I said.

  She waved her fingers in the air. “On my birth certificate, sure. But my spiritual name is Ariel.”

  I handed my walkie-talkie and my cash bag to Darlin, raising my eyebrows like are you getting this?

  Darlin smiled and placed my things on the hall table. She picked up a Styrofoam container of what looked like Uno’s cheese sticks and dipped one in marinara. “My real name is Deirdre,” she said. “Such a bad fit. I changed it to Darlin when I was twenty-nine.”

  “‘Darlin’ is a thousand times better than ‘Deirdre,’” Kimberly/Ariel said. “So much softer.”

  I stared at them both.

  “Cheese stick?” Darlin said, holding out the box.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll take one more,” Kimberly/Ariel said.

  I watched her scoop up a blob of marinara, and I thought, Wait a minute, I didn’t bring those to Darlin. And Darlin didn’t ask Kimberly to bring them, either, because I’d have overheard it if she had. Which meant that Kimberly thought to bring them on her own.