“None for me, thanks,” I said, simultaneously patting myself on the back for sticking to my diet and planning to sneak a brownie later, when nobody was looking.
“Marcus?” Mom prompted.
My dad held out the plate.
“Thanks, Mrs. Falconer,” Marcus said as he took one. “These look delicious.”
I rolled my eyes at him. There’s something about my parents that makes Marcus turn into Eddie Haskell from Leave It to Beaver. Gee whiz, Mrs. Falconer, I thought sarcastically. These tasty treats look scrumptious!
“Laura was just telling us about the fund-raiser she’s planning with her sorority,” Dad said as Marcus went crazy, making yummy noises over the brownie.
“It’s for the local battered women’s shelter,” Laura explained. She lives at home but goes to college nearby. She’s one of those people who takes a full class load and does about eight zillion activities, all while maintaining a 4.0 GPA. “Did you know that in this country, a woman is abused every nine seconds?”
“You’re amazing,” What’s-his-name said, gazing at Laura like she was some kind of goddess incarnate and pulling her close for a hug.
“No, you’re amazing,” Laura replied, cuddling him.
This made my mom and dad look at each other with this love-you-cuddle-bug glance, and my dad put his arm around Mom’s shoulders while she sighed happily.
Okay, now do you have the picture of what my family is like? It’s nauseating. I’m surrounded by superwomen. It makes my natural—well, Marcus would call it “artistic inclination” but most people call it “spazziness”—seem even worse by comparison. I looked at Marcus for support.
“This is the best brownie I’ve ever tasted,” Marcus said, his eyes locked on the treat in his hand. “How do you do it?”
“I never use a mix,” Mom replied.
“It doesn’t pay to cut corners,” Dad put in. That’s basically his life philosophy.
“Marcus and I are going upstairs,” I volunteered. “We have to work on a project.” I didn’t bother mentioning that it was a boyfriend project. Of course, we would study for our quiz, too—eventually.
“Don’t work too hard,” Dad joked. This was a joke, because my father doesn’t believe that it’s possible to work too hard.
“We won’t,” I singsonged.
“May I?” Marcus lifted his eyebrows at the plate of brownies.
“Take as many as you like, sweetheart,” Mom said, her blue eyes twinkling. The easiest way to get my mother to love you is to compliment her cooking, so basically she thought Marcus was a little piñata of joy.
“Nuestras pasteles son tuyas pasteles,” Laura said. Whatever that meant. Laura speaks Spanish, and sometimes she just throws these things into conversation. That’s why I take Latin—it’s a dead language, so I never have to speak it and make other people feel like jerks when they have no idea what I’m talking about.
“God, you’re amazing,” What’s-his-name said to my sister.
“No, you’re amazing,” Laura countered, and then the whole round of cuddling started all over again.
“Ooo-kaaay,” I said, walking out the door. “We’ll check you guys later.”
“Dinner is at eight!” Mom called after me.
“And don’t be late!” Dad rhymed.
“It’s a date!” Marcus joined in, and I glared at him. “Sorry,” he whispered as we walked up the stairs to my room. “Reflex.”
“God, Marcus, maybe we can just trade families,” I griped as I tossed my fake-fur bag onto my unmade bed and shut the door. My room is the only one in the house that Mom doesn’t touch. I convinced her a long time ago that if I kept the door closed, we could all just pretend that it was as tidy as the rest of the house, which would be easier than arguing about it. “Sometimes I think they love you better than me, anyway.”
“Oh, come on,” Marcus said as he tidied my bed and then sat down on it gingerly. “They’re so nice. And you have the best house—”
“If you’re into neutral tones from the Crate and Barrel catalog,” I shot back. Stabbing a finger at my computer, I booted up and flopped into my desk chair. “You have no idea what it’s like to live with the Perfects.” Okay, this was only partially fair. I do love my mom and dad. And they really are sweet and supportive and all that stuff. It’s just that sometimes I feel like I was switched at birth. My parents are totally into hard work, cleanliness, and clothes from J. Crew, and Laura’s just like them. But I’m totally into movies, hanging out, and clothes from my favorite store, Buy the Pound, where they actually put the used clothing on a scale and you pay a dollar for each pound of stuff. “I mean, seriously—Mom and Dad have been together since they were seniors in high school, and Laura’s been with What’s-his-name—”
“Steve,” Marcus prompted.
I rolled my eyes. “I know his name is Steve,” I snapped. “That’s not the point. The point is, he could be anybody. Laura has always had a boyfriend—from the minute she set foot in high school, there has always been a guy by her side. And if she ever breaks up with this one, there will be another one waiting to take his place. This is a family of perfect love—and I can’t even talk to Jeffrey Osborne!”
“You will talk to Jeffrey,” Marcus said confidently. “Laura hasn’t got anything you haven’t got.”
“Are you kidding?” I demanded, typing in my favorite web address. My sister and I are polar opposites. I inherited my dad’s beaky nose and my mom’s plump curves, while Laura got the opposite package—Dad’s tall, slender form and Mom’s soft, feminine features. Also, I’ve got Dad’s swarthy Mediterranean skin and dark hair, while Laura is like Mom—blue eyes, blond hair. Plus, Laura has perfect skin, perfect grades, and never seems to spill anything on herself.
Marcus flipped idly through a copy of Vogue that had been lying half under a throw pillow on my bed. “I’m speaking from a purely technical standpoint.”
That was when I glanced at the screen and made this tiny, tiny, we’re talking microscopic, little tooth-sucking noise.
Marcus was all over it. “What?” He looked up at me like a vulture eyeing prey.
“Nothing.” I minimized the screen.
“Like hell.” Marcus leaped off the bed and wrestled the mouse out of my hand. The window I’d been looking at reappeared. “It’s the school’s closed chat room.” He sounded kind of confused.
“Yeah, you know. . . .” I tried to make it sound like, Hey, no big deal, lots of people hang out in the school chat room. The fact that I always refer to it as Dorks-dot-com shouldn’t suggest that I never go there myself.
Marcus looked at me, his hazel eyes boring a hole in my skull. “Why would you hang out here?” It wasn’t really a question. It was more like he was trying to figure it out for himself.
He looked back at the screen, and we saw it appear at the bottom of the page at the same time:
>
Marcus narrowed his eyes at me. “You sly dog,” he said admiringly. “Have you been chatting Jeffrey up online?”
“No.” This was the truth.
“No? You mean you don’t actually talk to him? Then what are you—”
I shrugged. “Jeffrey hangs out online a lot. I like to see what he has to say.”
Marcus stared at me. “So you just sit here ‘listening in’ on his conversations?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, that’s borderline creepy.”
“It’s covert intelligence-gathering,” I corrected. I could hear the defensiveness in my own voice. “It’s reconnaissance. It’s research so I’ll know what to say to him when the time is right.”
“I said it was creepy,” Marcus repeated. “I didn’t say it wasn’t brilliant.” He thought for a moment. “But can’t he see that you’re in the chat room?”
“Well, you can change your screen name as much as you want,” I explained. “See? Right now, I’m whoosie1988, but I use a different name every
time I log in.”
“It just gets creepier and more brilliant,” Marcus said.
“Thank you.”
“So—do you know who these other people are?” Marcus asked, squinting at the names that were scrolling across the screen.
“I think a lot of them are from the International Club,” I said.
“International Club?” Marcus repeated.
“Jeffrey’s Canadian.” As I’d learned from eavesdropping on his conversations.
“Canada? Didn’t we annex that along with Puerto Rico?” Marcus asked. “Who’s Lola227?” he added as the name scrolled across the screen next to the comment >
I grimaced. “I’m pretty sure it’s Astrid.”
“Oh no, she di-en’t,” Marcus said. “Get in there.”
“And say what?”
“Say anything!” Marcus’s eyes glittered, and for a minute, I thought he might just lunge at my keyboard and start typing away himself. “Say hi. Say, ‘I’ll be at Green Up Day if you make it worth my while.’”
“Are you nuts?”
“Look, he doesn’t even know who you are,” Marcus said, pointing to whoosie1988 onscreen. “You could be anyone from Arnold Schwarzenegger to Melissa Carpenter,” he said, naming this girl in our history class with a serious case of BO who’s always trying to eavesdrop on our conversations. “It’s perfect, don’t you get it? This way if you say something dumb, you can just exit, then come back with a different screen name and try again, and he’ll never even know the difference.”
My fingers hesitated over the keyboard. “I don’t know. . . .”
“Francesca Falconer, as my grandmother would say, it’s time to poop or get off the pot.” Marcus’s usual faint Southern accent stretched into his grandmother’s drawl. To tell the truth, Marcus’s imitation of Patricia is frighteningly dead-on.
I bit my lip, thinking. He was right. This was my golden opportunity, and if I didn’t take it, then I didn’t have any right to gripe about not having a boyfriend. “What should I say again?”
“Say, ‘Hey, what’s the deal with Green Up Day?’”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“You can’t let Astrid win!” Marcus cried.
“Okay, okay. Jeez. Take a Xanax.” My fingers flew across the keyboard as I typed in the question.
I held my breath, waiting for the response. The cursor blinked, and I realized I was counting silently. I had reached eleven when Jeffrey’s screen name appeared again.
>
“Ohmigosh!” I said. “Ohmigosh! It worked!”
Marcus chuckled. “See?” he said eagerly. “You’re talking to him!”
“Now what?” I asked.
“Play hard-to-get,” Marcus commanded. “Tell him you’ll have to check your busy schedule.”
I typed it in. It seemed like we had to wait forever until the response scrolled upward.
>
I squealed. “He’s funny!”
Just then, Astrid piped in with >
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “That wily little Wiener schnitzel,” he snarled. “Okay, we’re taking it up a notch. Tell him to meet you in one of the private chat rooms.” I obeyed.
> was the reply.
A few moments later, Jeffrey and I were all alone in cyberspace, and Astrid was smoked sausage. My heart was starting to pound.
“Okay, go for it!” Marcus said.
Like it was just that simple. “What do I say?”
“What do you mean? Say anything!”
“You know I’m no good at writing,” I told Marcus. This is true. English is my worst subject. My teacher, Ms. Fleiss, is always telling me to “write the way I speak.” But whenever I do that, she writes frag and run-on all over my papers. So, whatever, I’ve just given up on the whole thing. “You’re the writer. I have to rely on my in-person charm.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Marcus griped. “Gimme the chair. Okay, so what do we know about him? Classes? Interests? Aside from Canadian politics.”
“I don’t know—he’s a junior, so he must take health.”
I hopped out of the desk chair and flopped on my bed as Marcus took over the keyboard. I propped myself up against the pillows as Marcus’s fingers pounded the keys. “‘How do you like health class?’” Marcus read aloud.
“No, no,” I said. “Then he’ll know that I know he’s a junior.”
“Intrigue without commitment,” Marcus suggested.
I sighed. “Send.”
>
“Okay, now I’m going to ask him how he likes Ms. Hay—if you approve.” Marcus was laying on the sarcasm.
“Just do it.”
Marcus paused for a moment, reading, then laughed out loud.
“What’s he saying?” I asked.
“He said that only Ms. Hay could make sex into something boring.”
I sat up straighter. “That’s what I said the minute I saw her—that they must have picked the most unattractive person on earth to teach sex ed as some kind of pro-teen abstinence thing!”
“I know,” Marcus said, typing away. “This is perfect—you two were made for each other. Okay, now you’re going to sign up for Green Up Day.”
“What?” I screeched. “Oh no. No way.”
Marcus turned to look me in the eye. “Frannie—this is going really well.”
“Yeah?” My voice was a dare.
“So . . . you can’t just hide behind a computer screen and hope that he’ll fall in love with your emoticons.” Folding his arms across his chest, Marcus leaned back in my chair. “You’ve got to talk to him in person.”
I sat down on my bed, picturing Jeffrey’s blue eyes fringed with dark lashes. He was so perfect in every way . . . and I was so . . . well, not. And now I was just supposed to start talking to him—in person? It just seemed like too much. Like the first word out of my mouth would make him see how imperfect I was . . . and the whole thing would be dead then and there. “I can’t,” I whispered.
Then Marcus said the last thing I expected him to say. “I’ll come with you.”
“What?” For a minute, I couldn’t even speak. I mean, Marcus hates school-activity stuff. This was a really sweet offer. “I don’t—”
“And I’ll bet Jenn and Belina will too,” Marcus went on.
That did it. I could face Jeffrey if I had my friends for backup. And I knew I’d never get a better offer. “Okay,” I said finally. “Do it.”
Marcus’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “I’m telling him that you’ll come . . . and bring a few other people for the heavy lifting.”
“Perfect.”
The response came right away. >
My heart thudded in my chest. Ohmigod, I thought, he’s going to know it’s me. Somehow.
“‘I’ll be the one in the red shirt,’” Marcus said out loud, typing away.
I blinked, not getting it. “What?”
“Let’s tell Jeffrey you’ll be wearing red,” Marcus suggested, his hand hovering over the mouse.
“Oh . . .” For a minute, I wanted to say, No, no, forget it! But Marcus was staring me down. It was too late. I was on the brink of going for it . . . and I knew that Marcus was going to shove me over the edge, no matter what I said. “Okay. Yeah. Red.”
Marcus typed it in.
>
“That’s ironic,” I said. “What do you think, Marcus? Are we M or F? After all, you’re doing all the typing-slash-conversational work.”
“But you’ll be doing the dating,” Marcus pointed out. > he typed.
Marcus clicked send, and I flopped back on my bed pillows, overwhelmed by a sickly combination of excitement and dread.
So this is what going for it fe
els like, I thought.
Jeez, I feel like I’m about to barf.
“What am I doing here again?” I whispered to Marcus as we walked toward the rear yard at the community center. A card table had been set with snacks and drinks, and a bunch of people—about half of whom were from our high school—were milling around. I waved to Julie Miller, who was standing in a little knot of girls from the pep squad over by a wheelbarrow full of sod. Jeffrey was standing in a group next to hers, holding a clipboard and looking gorgeous in a navy plaid shirt and faded jeans. He didn’t look my way, thank God. I wasn’t ready for him to see my red T-shirt with EVIL GENIUS written across the front in sparkly letters—not yet. I still hadn’t decided on the perfect opening line.
“You’re here to start living happily ever after,” Marcus said, just as Ethan Schumacher hustled over to us.
“Hey, guys!” Ethan chirped, grinning hugely. “Marcus, I should have known I’d see you at a beautification project.”
Marcus looked bored. “I’m really into plants,” he lied.
“Hi, Ethan,” I said, feeling kind of sorry for the guy. I mean, Ethan is nice. He’s kind of like a Jack Russell terrier or something—all crazy energy and misdirected affection. But Marcus basically thinks that Ethan is a big yawn. Not that it stops Ethan.
“Do you guys want to join our mini-squad?” Ethan asked. “We’re in charge of digging up old bulbs.”
“Actually, we’ve got some friends joining us,” Marcus said.
“Oh.” Ethan looked kind of disappointed, but he recovered. “Okay, well, you know where to find me!” Giving a cheerful wave, he trotted off.
“Frannie! Marcus!”
I turned to see Jenn trotting toward us, followed closely by Belina and Keith. I only got to feel about a split second of relief before I realized that something was horribly wrong.
“What the . . . ?” Marcus murmured.
“What are you wearing?” I asked as the group walked up to us.
Jenn and Belina exchanged looks.
“Jenn said we were supposed to wear red T-shirts,” Belina explained.
I looked at Jenn, who looked confused. “Well, I asked you what you were wearing,” Jenn explained in this don’t-you-remember? voice. “And you said a red T-shirt and jeans. You just sounded so definite, I thought that was what we were all supposed to wear.”