“Twizzler?” I offered him. Maybe we could eat instead of talk.
No such luck. When he leaned over to take it, he said, “Can I ask you an honest question?”
No.
“I guess so.”
“Do you think I’m, like, the most obnoxious person you’ve ever known?”
“Wow,” I said. “That is an honest question.”
He looked at me and smiled, but not in a hurt way. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
It seemed clear to me that this was my own doing, too. Whatever I had said about Glenn, as Frannie, to Jeffrey had obviously gotten back.
“No,” I said automatically. “I didn’t mean—”
Glenn stopped me with a ducked-chin-and-raised-eyebrow look that was something along the lines of, Don’t even try.
“Well,” I started again, “not the most obnoxious. There was a kid in third grade one time who threw up on me on purpose.”
Glenn laughed and then I actually did too.
“So I get second place,” he said.
Astrid came into the aisle and sat down. “What are you laughing at?”
“Vomit,” Glenn said, and I laughed harder in spite of myself. I didn’t want to super-size his extra-large ego, but the look on Astrid’s face was pretty funny.
“I’m not getting you,” she said to Glenn. She put her big pink feet up on the seat, and my mind snapped right back to Frannie like a boomerang.
“So, is Frannie laying low or what?” Glenn asked me.
I looked over at him in that way you look at someone when they pluck a thought out of your brain. It seemed to be happening to me a lot these days.
“What is it?” Glenn asked.
“Nothing, I was just . . . thinking about her.”
“Jeff said she’s been kind of scarce lately.”
I was starving for information here. Did that mean Frannie and Jeffrey weren’t out tonight? Was she avoiding him? Why was she scarce? But the last thing in the world I wanted was for Glenn to know any more of my business than he already did.
“Yeah,” I said in that way that sounds casual and detached but is actually very close to depressed. “I guess she’s got a lot to do these days.”
I could just imagine her to-do list:1. Get some of Marcus’s hair.
2. Make voodoo doll.
3. Stick pins in voodoo doll’s head.
4. Skip funeral and go out with my new boyfriend.
5. Forget Marcus ever existed.
Twelve
Blink. Blink. Blink.
The cursor on my screen just blipped on and off, daring me to write something. But it was so hard! Jeffrey and I were online, but the conversation wasn’t going so well. Here’s what we had so far:
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The truth was, I’d racked my brain trying to come up with a clever new name, but the only thing I’d thought of was “total_jerkwad,” which was what I felt like, but it seemed a little harsh for a chat. So I’d just gone with what Marcus had been using—which I instantly regretted, by the way, because it reminded me of how I’d left things with him, which made me feel even worse.
So, back to blinkblinkblink.
Okay, I told myself. What would Marcus say?
Something clever.
Okay, think clever.
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I know, I know. The wit is blinding.
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Oh, jeez. Now what?
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Yeah, right. Laugh out loud. More like groan quietly.
That cursor was really starting to get to me. Did it really have to blink so much? I mean, okay! I know you’re ready for me! You don’t need to constantly remind me that I’m not writing something.
The truth was, I didn’t feel like talking to Jeffrey. Actually, I’d been avoiding him for the past couple of days. I couldn’t face him . . . or Marcus. I guess I still just had so many questions that I wasn’t sure I wanted answered. I mean, ever since my conversation with Jenn, I couldn’t help thinking: Straight or gay? Straight or gay? Straight or gay? every time I saw Jeffrey.
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So he’d noticed. Did it mean he was sensitive—ergo, queer? Or really into me—ergo, straight? Typical Jeffrey—could be either.
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Hey, I realized suddenly, this conversation is going better than it ever has before. So what does that mean? asked another voice in my mind. That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe you and Jeffrey have flow. Maybe Jeffrey and Marcus have more flow. You have no idea, do you?
Grr. Hate you, evil little voice in my brain! I thought. Oof, if only Marcus were here right now! He was good at finding out information. But if he were actually here, then I’d have to talk to him . . . and that would lead to all kinds of problems.
Wait a minute. If I can’t have Marcus with me, maybe I can channel him. I mean, what’s a brain twin for? Okay, if Marcus wanted to find out if someone was gay, what would he do? Aside from ask, I mean . . .
Brainstorm!
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Heh, heh. It’s also called “gay or straight?” And Jeffrey Osborne, step right up, because you’re our first contestant!
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Okay—that’s definitely a couple of points on the queerometer, I thought. All straight guys like football. I mean, that’s a real straight-guy thing, right?
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My heart thudded hopefully in my chest. Basketball isn’t very queer.
Wait—unless you’re just watching it because you like guys in shorts . . .
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Hockey? Okay, so now Jeffrey was definitely edging up the straightometer. Gay boys do not like watching men with no teeth bash each other on the head with sticks while wearing three tons of padding. At least, none of the gay guys I knew did. . . .
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Okay, so I had to try a different tack. > I typed.
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Can’t name a supermodel, eh? Well, come to think of it, that didn’t really mean anything. I mean, I’d been thinking that a straight guy would know the names of supermodels because they were hot. But on the other hand, any gay guy who was into fashion would have been able to name his favorite supermodel too. I bet Marcus could have named twenty models with his brain tied behind his back. Dumb question, Frannie, you’ll have to do better. Give him an arty one.
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Oh, perfect, I thought with a groan. The guy who did both Gladiator and Thelma & Louise. I glared at the computer screen. Jeffrey, I thought at it, are you trying to make me insane?
Just then, my cell phone started to sing its cheery little song. I picked it up.
“Hello?”
“You are getting nowhere,” Jenn’s voice informed me.
“What?”
“Don’t you want to find out if he’s gay?” she asked. “Because this little game is so not working.”
“Wait—have you been watching me online?” I peered at the screen. Jeffrey and I weren’t in a private chat room. We were just in the normal bulletin board, but we had it to ourselves. After all, it was Friday night, and most normal people were out doing normal-people things.
“Girl, what was that question about supermodels? Who has a favorite supermodel?”
Wait a minute—that wasn’t Jenn’s voice.
“Belina? Hold on—Jenn—do you have me on the three-way?”
“I just thought you wanted some help!” Jenn wailed.
“You let Marcus help you,” Belina huffed.
“And look where that got me,” I snapped. “And Jenn, I can’t believe you told Belina the whole thing. Thanks a lot!”
“Okay, I am choosing not to take offense at that,” Belina cracked. “Look, Jenn has a point—all chat and no action makes Frannie a very confused girl.”
I sighed. Belina was right, and I knew it. My game was lame. “So what should I do?”
“Get him over there!” Belina cried. “Give him the big eyes and ask him to smear suntan lotion on your back.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ha, ha.”
“No, really,” Jenn agreed. “You’ve got to put the moves on him, Frannie. That’s the only way.”
“There isn’t a straight boy in this world who can resist a butt like yours,” Belina added.
Why do we always end up talking about my butt? I wondered. But the fact is, I knew that my best friends had a point—I’d never really given Jeffrey the chance to kiss me . . . so who knew if he secretly wanted to or not? So maybe it was time to put myself out there. . . . “Okay, you two,” I said finally. “Thanks for the ‘help.’ Now please stop spying on me.”
“We aren’t spying,” Jenn insisted. “We’re helping!”
“Hanging up now,” I singsonged.
“Good luck!” Belina called just as I clicked off.
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Do or die, I thought grimly as my fingers flew across the keyboard.
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Said the spider to the fly.
Okay, I thought as I scanned the living room, this place looks great. The soft music was playing, the lights were dim . . . I’d even lit a few candles. The family was gone, and I was ready.
“Hello, Jeffrey,” I said, practicing my sultry voice as I fluffed a couch pillow. “I’m so glad you could make it—”
Just then, my cellie chirped its cheery ring.
“So what are you wearing?” It was Jenn’s voice.
“Is this a pervert?” I asked.
Jenn giggled. “Is he coming over?”
“On the way,” I announced proudly.
“So what are you wearing?” Jenn repeated.
“Frannie,” Belina piped up, “if you are wearing that black-and-red T-shirt and those orange camouflage pants you were wearing in school, girl, you’d better get your butt upstairs to change.”
I looked down at my outfit—which was exactly as Belina had described. “What’s wrong with this outfit?”
“You have to wear something sexy,” Jenn urged.
“Jenn, I don’t do sexy,” I informed her. “I do everything but sexy.”
“Just wear your underwear,” Jenn suggested. “Put a trench coat on over it, then give him a little peek.”
I snorted. “That is the dumbest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I informed her.
“Then just wear the underwear,” Belina suggested.
“Hanging up again,” I singsonged cheerfully. “Talk to you tomorrow!”
“Just remember to use physical contact!” Belina called before I could hang up.
Flipping closed my phone, I hurried into the kitchen, where my secret weapon lay waiting. I’d read online that ginseng increases “desire for the human touch,” so I’d dug around in my mom’s medicine cabinet and finally come up with a couple of her drugstore herbal tablets. Apparently, it’s also supposed to be good for your memory or whatever. Anyway, I broke the tablets and dumped them into the hot chocolate (okay, pay attention, people—chocolate is another aphrodisiac) that I was warming on the stove. Looks good, I thought as I gave the sweet, dark liquid a stir in the pan. And smells just like normal hot chocolate. I turned the stove down to warm and hurried upstairs.
I dashed into my room and closed the door, then hustled over to my closet and started flipping through outfits. Something sexy, something sexy, I thought as my wardrobe flicked past. Peasant blouse, striped pants, ugly green sweater, sparkly thing I’ve never worn, comfy jeans, bathrobe—no, no, no, no, no, no!
“Ugh—what happened to all of my sexy clothes?” I murmured to myself. As if I’d ever had any. I mean, I had a couple of clingy tops. But I was already wearing the clingiest T-shirt I owned, and Belina had said it wasn’t going to cut it. I needed something that screamed, “Jump me!”
At that moment, my eye fell on the red bag at the bottom of my closet.
Intimate Pleasures, it whispered at me.
“Oh no,” I told the bag. “No way. You’re grossing me out just with your very existence.”
But you don’t even know what’s hidden inside my hot pink tissue paper, the bag murmured. It’s something a little too big for your mom, which means it might fit you. . . . Besides, what choice do you have?
“Damn you, Intimate Pleasures,” I growled as I reached into the bag. I couldn’t believe I was actually so desperate that I was willing to borrow my mom’s negligee. There’s something sick about this, I thought as—wincing—I pulled the article of clothing that was supposed to rejuvenate my parents’ sex life out of the bag.
I held up the whatever-it-was and opened my eyes wide enough to get a quick peek.
Actually, I thought as I inspected it, it’s not so bad. It was supposed to be a slip, I guess. It was black stretch satin and had red flowers embroidered at the bustline. It wasn’t even that revealing or anything.
I might just be able to pull this off as a dress, I thought as I held the thing against my body. A very, very sexy dress.
I pulled off my clothes and yanked on the Intimate Pleasure, then looked in the mirror. I looked . . . good. The slip thing was shoving my boobs up so that they were on prominent display somewhere near the vicinity of my neck, and the fabric glowed softly in a very “touch me” way.
“Oh, hello, Jeffrey,” I cooed huskily. “Why, yes, my boobs have always been this rotund.” I laughed out loud and spun around. If this doesn’t work, then I’ll know Jeffrey’s gay, I thought. Dang, even I want to jump me right now!
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
I froze.
“Ohmigosh,” I murmured. “Ohmigosh! What am I doing?” I can’t go downstairs in a negligee! I realized. Am I crazy?
The doorbell rang again, twice this time.
“Just a minute!” I shouted. What to do? What to do? Where’s a trench coat when you need one? Finally, I grabbed my hot pink bathrobe off the hanger and scurried downstairs.
Once I reached the door, I fluffed out my hair and then remembered that I was supposed to be sick, so I shouldn’t look too good, so I patted it back down a little.
Ding-a-ling-a-ling!
“All right,” I snapped, then let out a tiny cough as I yanked open the door.
Jeffrey was standing there, holding a box of tissues and a stack of DVDs. He smiled that super-cute smile. “Hey,” he said as he stepped into the entranceway. “Thought you might need some cheering up.” He handed me the videos.
I flipped through them, my brain scanning for clues.
Young Frankenstein? Straight.
Casablanca? Not so straight.
Some Like It Hot? Totally confused.
“Thanks,” I said, leading him into the living room. I put the videos down on the coffee table and perched next to him on the couch.
I smiled at him.
He smiled back.
Soft music played in the background.
And the silence between us yawned on.
Hmmm . . . I was starting to realize that I didn’t really know what I was doing when it came to this seduction stuff. I mean, Jeffrey wasn’t leaning toward me lustily or anything, despite all of the ambience I’d manufactured in the living room.
Well, okay, I realized, maybe I’m not looking too sexy in this huge pink bathrobe with the flowers on it. I remembered Jenn’s suggestion—open up the trench coat and give him a little taste of what’s underneath. Maybe I could do that with the robe, right? I shifted a little, subtly loosening the belt on my robe. The front fell open a teensy bit, but not enough to show any cleavage. I leaned forward, pretending to read the back of one of the movies, and loosened it a little more. Still not too wide open, but it was something.
“I love Some Like It Hot,” I said, scanning the back of the movie. I was kind of trying to make it sound like maybe I liked it hot too, but Jeffrey didn’t seem to pick up on it.
“It’s one of my favorites,” he said. “Totally cracks me up.”
Suddenly, Belina’s advice rang through my mind—“Don’t forget the physical contact!” With a jolt, I put my hand on Jeffrey’s knee. His eyebrows flew up, and he stared at my hand. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Hmmm, I thought. Too much? Or too much girl? Either way, the response wasn’t really what I’d wanted. So I played it off like I was just giving him a pat, then I cleared my throat and said, “Uh—I have a treat for you. Close your eyes, I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” Jeffrey said. He looked kind of confused, but he played along, closing his eyes as I scurried into the kitchen.
“Still closed?” I called as I poured ginseng-spiked hot chocolate into two mugs.
“Still closed,” Jeffrey confirmed.
“Good.” Quickly, I loosened my robe so that it was now fully open, exposing my entire chestal region.
Deal with these, I thought as I picked up the mugs and headed back into the living room.
“Keep them closed,” I sang as I floated toward the couch.