“But—”
“But you’ll feel better if you do,” she said. “I know it.”
I rolled over on Frannie’s bed and pulled a pillow close to my chest. “Do you see anything else in that crystal ball of yours?”
“I see another double date,” she said. “For me and Jeffrey, and you and your new boyfriend.”
“Right. Because there are so many gay boys at Boring Brook to choose from,” I said.
“It doesn’t have to be someone from school. It could be . . . Goatee Guy. You could get off your butt and ask him out once and for all.”
“Well,” I said, “For one thing, he doesn’t work at the mall anymore. And for another thing, we don’t even know his real name.” Goatee Guy was the probably gay, definitely cute former assistant manager at Made in the Shades, where in the past year I’d bought not one but three pairs of sunglasses I didn’t need.
“What happened to him?” Frannie asked.
“That’s the point,” I said. “You’ll have to check the crystal ball again.”
“Well, then, what about . . .” She trailed off.
I sat up on the bed and looked straight at her. “Yes? Who?”
“Well . . .”
“Exactly. So can we go online now, please? I already know what screen name you should use.”
“What is it?”
“Tempeh Burger.”
“Mmmm,” she said. “Very sexy.”
I got up and swiveled her chair so she was facing the computer. “It shows him you have a sense of humor. And he’ll know it’s you right away.”
“Well, then why don’t I just say Frannie?”
“Because then everyone will know it’s you,” I said.
“Oh yeah.” She typed in TEMPEHBURGER and went in. Almost right away, she pulled her hands back from the keyboard. “There he is,” she said. I looked down and saw that the first lines of chat had come in, including one from Jeffrey.
>
Frannie still looked like she had been caught at something. “Uh, you know he can’t see you, right?” I asked her.
Her response was a glare in my direction. “Just . . . tell me what to say.” She put her hands tentatively back on the keys while another line scrolled by.
>
Astrid. Of course.
“Ee-ew,” Frannie said. Then she stood up. “This is too much for me to handle. You go.”
I could have told Frannie that no, in fact, this wasn’t too much for her to handle and that she owed it to herself to keep going. But the alternate response meant I got to do a little of the driving. And I like to drive.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked, sitting in her place.
“Tell him I said hi. And . . . I had a good time at lunch. And I didn’t know if maybe . . . um . . . I don’t know. Maybe . . .” Her face brightened. “Should I ask him about going out again?”
“I have a better idea,” I said, and typed in a private message to Jeffo.
>
“That’s good too,” she said, and I hit send. He came back a second later.
>
“He knows it’s me!” Frannie sounded glad and surprised. “Good name choice.”
“Told you so,” I said.
>
>
In the main chat room, Astrid wasn’t giving up so easily.
>
Frannie saw it too. “Go back to Germany!” she yelled at the screen.
>
“Auuugh,” Frannie groaned. “He’s talking to her too.”
>
>
“Genius!” Frannie said. She grabbed my shoulders and started rubbing them.
“So where do you want to tell him you’re off to?” I asked her.
“The library. No, wait. Maybe it should be some kind of good cause, community-service thing.”
“At nine at night?” I asked.
“See that?” she said. “This is why I need you.” She bit her lower lip and shifted from foot to foot. “Okay, tell him my parents make me get off the computer after nine.”
I made a wrong-answer-buzzer sound. “That doesn’t seem—”
“I don’t want him trying to chat me up when you’re not around,” she said. “Not yet.”
I wasn’t so sure this was a good idea, but I typed it in anyway.
>
>
“All right,” I said, “Jeffo’s starting to show a little heat.”
>
“Hey!” Frannie dug her thumbs into my shoulders a little too hard. I had just typed and sent the last response without checking first.
“Sorry,” I said. “It just felt like we were getting into a rhythm. I got carried away.”
“Well, put it back in your pants, Mr. Gigolo.”
“I think I’m more of a pimp than a gigolo right now.”
Frannie turned my head back to the screen. “Focus, please.” Jeffrey’s next line was already waiting.
>
“Yes!” I turned back to lock eyes with Frannie. “Okay, I’m checking with you about what you want to say, but you are going to say yes.”
Frannie stared at the screen. “Ummm . . .”
“Why are you thinking about this? There’s only one answer here,” I told her.
“Maybe it’s still too fast.” She stepped back and sat on the bed.
“He’s waiting,” I said.
“Okay, okay. Fine.” She flopped back and pulled a pillow over her face, just like I had done when the topic was me and my grandmother.
“Don’t smother,” I said. “Blue’s not a good color for you.”
>
>
“Wait!” Frannie bolted up. “Astrid’s still back there. I can’t leave yet.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told her. “You’re exactly where you want to be. This is perfect. I’m going to say goodbye, okay?”
>
>
After I logged off, Frannie looked exhausted. “I can’t take this pressure,” she said.
“Sure, you can. You’re totally on track. And he really is easy to talk to,” I said. “I’ll bet you guys will be an and by the end of the month.”
“An and?”
“You know, like Belina and Keith. Frannie and Jeffrey.” I thought that would make her smile, but she let out a big sigh. “What is it?” I asked her.
“Nothing,” she said.
“What?”
“Well.” She sighed again. “I’m going to have to do this on my own at some point.”
“Omigod, you are so your father’s daughter,” I said. “Don’t you think it’s totally normal for friends to help friends with their relationships? I know you’re nervous, but that’s all it is—nerves. Jeffrey knows you and he likes you.” I waited for her to look up at me. “He likes you. Okay? Just keep going. I swear you’ll be glad you did.”
“Unless he turns out to be a serial killer and hacks up my family in the middle of the night and steals my car.”
“Right. But otherwise, you’ll be glad even if it doesn’t work out, ’cause then you can at least say you went for it.”
“Yeah,” she said. “File that one under H for hypocrite.”
&
nbsp; “We’re talking about you right now.”
Frannie sat on the edge of her bed, knotting up the blankets in her fists. I let her think.
“All right,” she said finally. “But here’s the deal.”
“There’s a deal?” I said.
“Yes. Next time something comes up for you, you positively, absolutely, no excuses have to go for it. Okay?”
I scoffed. “I can’t agree to something that hasn’t even happened yet.”
“Marcus . . . ”
We sat there doing brain wave karate, trying to stare each other down. Usually, I win every time, but she’d gotten me right where I was vulnerable. I looked away first. Then I groaned and fake died onto the floor with my hands around my neck. “Fine,” I choked. “You win.”
“Such a drama queen,” she said.
I lifted my head. “That’s Mister Drama Queen to you.”
I was happy for Frannie. I really was. So I just left it at that. It didn’t make sense to tell her absolutely everything I was thinking. So what if I was a little bit jealous? What was she supposed to do with that? And so what if I wasn’t just jealous of her for getting into Boyfriend Land, but also for getting there with Jeffrey Osborne? The only reason I felt that way was because I was kind of sort of being Frannie. It made perfect sense that I’d start to see him the same way she saw him. It was nothing. It would pass, I was sure. In no time at all, I’d stop thinking about Jeffrey like that, stop imagining what kind of kisser he might be, and stop wondering what he looked like naked.
Sure, I would.
Four
My lipsticks stood lined up like little soldiers on my vanity before me, arranged from light to dark. Usually, I like the darker colors, but this occasion seemed to call for a more neutral shade. Sahara Shimmer? I thought, twisting it open. I smeared some onto my lips, which immediately seemed to disappear into my face. Too neutral. Tissuing it off, I reached for an unused tube of Lilac Breeze, a freebie cast off from one of Mom’s department store makeup bonanzas. It had always seemed like a boring color to me, but I had already been through about thirty shades (did I mention that I have a problem throwing stuff away?), and I was running out of ideas. Actually, I thought as I put it on, it looks pretty good. It picked up the pink in the crazy paisley vintage blouse I had chosen after tearing apart my closet in the search for The Outfit. I’d finally settled on this pink, maroon, and apple green shirt, a black mini, black fishnets, and high-heeled boots. The effect was sort of Naughty Secretary . . . which wasn’t exactly what I had been going for but wasn’t bad, either.
See, I was going on a Date. I know, I know, no one dates anymore—but there was no other word for what this was. Jeffrey and I had been chatting online, and it had gone a little something like this:
>
“What am I doing tonight?” I said into the phone. “I should tell him I have plans, right?”
On the other end of the line, Marcus let out a groan. “Seriously, if you aren’t going to pay attention, I don’t know why I bother.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded. “Isn’t that one of the basic rules of keeping a guy interested—he has to think that you have a life?”
“Look, he’s not just making conversation,” Marcus explained. “He’s asking you out.”
I ran my fingers through my hair impatiently, giving silent thanks that I had Marcus around to translate. Belina and Jenn are absolutely no help when it comes to decoding these things. “So I should tell him that I’m available.” It was a question, but it didn’t really sound like one.
“Only if you are available.” Marcus sounded kind of huffy.
“Am I?” Marcus and I have this standing Saturday night movie date thingie, and I knew that was what he was huffing about. We get together to watch crazy Indian musicals (Marcus’s favorite) or Hong Kong kung fu (my usual choice) and pig out on Hawaiian-style ham-and-pineapple pizza. It’s our thang.
Okay—truth: I wanted to go out with Jeffrey. Who wouldn’t? I mean, pizza and a movie with Marcus was fun, but I could do that anytime. Quality time with the hottie of my choice wasn’t usually on the menu. But I didn’t want to say that to Marcus.
“I don’t know, are you?” Marcus repeated.
Two could play at this game. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Am I?”
> scrolled across the screen.
“Clock’s ticking,” I said.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Marcus snapped. “Tell him you’re free.”
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. “But what about us?” I had to offer some kind of alternate hangage. “Do you want to have brunch tomorrow?”
“Ooooh, brunch,” Marcus said sarcastically. “I just love sloppy seconds. Besides, brunch is so eighties, and you know I’m into anything retro.”
“Okay, I’m telling him that I can’t make it.” I started to type.
“Don’t you dare!” Marcus shouted. “Frannie Falconer, you will go on that date, and you will wear something low-cut, and you will dish up all of the details while we watch Sholay tomorrow night. Type it in.”
So that’s what I did.
>
>
A few things flashed through me at that moment—a thrill that it was a real “date,” as in the Scoops-crew-approved two-person date formula and everything . . . and a little, tiny, microscopic pang of jealousy that Jeffrey thought that Marcus was cool and funny. Does he think I’m cool and funny? I wondered.
I hit the keyboard.
>
“Okay,” I told Marcus. “It’s on.”
“Good,” he replied. His voice was a weird combination of satisfied and hurt, and I really felt bad for ditching on our plans at the last minute. But wasn’t that what he had told me to do?
Anyhoo, so Marcus and I firmed up our brunch plans, and then I hung up and started to get ready. And then I started to get nervous about the Jeffrey date. And then I started feeling like a jerk about the whole Marcus thing, like if I was a better friend, I would have insisted that we keep our plans. And then I started to think that maybe Lilac Breeze was making me look kind of yellow, and I was just about to tissue it off when Laura walked into my room.
“Pink or blue?” she asked. She was wearing low-riding black pants and a formfitting pink cashmere sweater and holding up a baby blue one that was exactly the same as the one she had on in every respect except for the color.
I wanted to say, What difference does it make? But I’m a nice person, so I actually said, “I think the pink really goes well with your skin tone.”
“Really?” Laura asked, giving me a huge smile. I don’t usually hand out compliments on her Banana Republic wardrobe, but I was in a good mood. “You’re pretty dressed up,” she said, eyeing my skirt. “What’s the deal? Cute guy at the video store?”
“Actually, I have a date.” I tried to sound nonchalant while still putting enough emphasis on the word date so that Laura would know it was important.
“Really?” Laura squealed. “With who?”
I fought the grin, but the grin won. “Jeffrey Osborne.”
Laura waggled her eyebrows. “Ooh—I remember him.” Laura had been a senior at my high school last year. “Cute!” She shoved aside a mountain of reject clothes and flopped down on my bed. “What are you guys doing?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said truthfully. “What are you up to?”
“Well . . . Steve is taking me for a moonlight picnic at Simms’s Peak.” Laura smiled dreamily. “You can see stars and all the city lights from there. Then we’re going for chocolate fondue at the Melting Pot. They have a really cozy back room, with a fireplace and everything.” She tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder and leaned back on her elbows, blue eyes shining.
“Wow,” I said, feeling unbelievably lame. Suddenly, my date didn’t even sound like a date at all. This is how most of my interactions with Laura go. Even when she’s being sweet, she manages to make me crazy.
I heard a car stop in front of our house. Laura and I both rushed toward the window—but she got there first. “Yours,” she said.
At that moment, I was all nerves. I had this weird urge to ask Laura to go out on my date for me—I was sure she’d do a much better job than I would. “Tell me that I look okay,” I begged.
“You look great,” Laura said.
She sounded sincere, so I decided to believe her. “Thanks.” I gave her one last nervous smile and darted out the door. “’Bye, Dad!” I shouted as I thudded down the stairs. “Be back before eleven-thirty you can reach me on the cellie I won’t do drugs or get into any trouble see you later!”
“Have fun!” Dad called from the living room as I busted out the front door, successfully avoiding the whole awkward parent-date interaction heinousness. This is already going brilliantly, I congratulated myself silently. Just brilliantly.
“Hey!” I said as I headed down the front walk toward Jeffrey. He was walking toward our house, and my heart did this thuddy little freak-out when I saw him. He was wearing a soft slate blue flannel shirt over brown corduroys, and Timberlands. He looked clean and rugged at the same time, and it basically took all of my energy not to either (a) jump on him or (b) run back inside the house in terror.
“Hey,” Jeffrey said warmly. He looked me up and down, then smiled.
Note to self: Naughty Secretary works. We both turned toward Jeffrey’s car, and we reached for the door at the same moment, knocking heads.
Okay, this is the problem with modern culture: chivalry is in a coma. I mean, usually, you think it’s dead—hardly anybody lays a cloak across a mud puddle or opens doors or stands up when a woman joins the table anymore. But every now and again it’ll give a little death rattle, and someone will go to open the car door for you when you’re least expecting it, and you’ll end up giving your date an accidental head butt. Very romantic.
“Ooh,” I said, wincing and rubbing my forehead. “Sorry.”
“My fault,” Jeffrey replied, blinking hard—to clear the stars from his eyes, I guess.