The Girl Who Invented Romance

by Caroline B. Cooney

  The poster slid off the bed and landed softly on my carpet, the huge hearts sideways, and then it flipped over so the hearts were hidden.

  “Don’t say things like that,” said my brother.

  He still loves her, I thought. She could be a rabid dog and he would still love her. How awful love is. Or how awful Wendy is.

  I put my arm around Park.

  Not all love is romantic. Some is brother/sister love.

  Love is also comfort.

  CHAPTER

  8

  I was sound asleep on top of the covers. School had exhausted me. I had not even undressed, but was sprawled over my homework and had a pencil poking me in the side. I answered the phone groggily.

  “This is important,” said Megan. “You’re going to get a call at ten o’clock, Kelly, and you and I have to sort out the details so you don’t screw up. Do you remember Blaize?”

  Nobody named Blaize came to mind.

  “I dated him in eighth grade,” said Megan, as one referring to ancient civilization. “He’s from Prospect Hill. There’s a big dance Saturday night and his girlfriend broke up with him and he called and asked me to go with him but I can’t—I’m far too busy—so I gave him your number. I promised Blaize that you are good company, a great date, pretty, slender, interested in sports.”

  “I’m slender, anyway.”

  “Do you have a formal gown or do you need to borrow one of mine?” Megan sounded so crisp. Perhaps she had a checklist in front of her. Steps to Take When Fixing Up Your Friend with Blaize.

  “I need to borrow one of yours,” I admitted. Megan has been to so many formal dances, she has a wardrobe of gowns the way I have a wardrobe of T-shirts.

  “Fine. Tomorrow after school we’ll do the dress part. Now. On this date. Be sure to joke a lot. He’s a bad dancer, so don’t force him to dance. Be very relaxed. He’s into sports but he didn’t make varsity in basketball so don’t mention basketball.” Megan went on and on. I was dazed. How could I be relaxed when I had to memorize a forty-point checklist?

  “Blaize is good stuff, Kelly. You don’t want to mess up.”

  My hands were sweaty and my cheeks were feverish and I hadn’t even talked to Blaize yet. I promised Megan that I would be slender, pretty, interested in sports (except basketball) and full of jokes.

  A person needs a snack to consider this kind of thing. I headed for the kitchen and was immediately joined by Mom in her robe and Parker in his pajama bottoms. The sound of one person opening the refrigerator always brings the rest of us.

  “What did Megan want?” said Mom.

  “She’s fixing me up with her old friend Blaize, who needs a Saturday night formal dance date because his girlfriend walked out on him.”

  “Perfect for your romance game!” cried my mother. “Can’t you see a whole life together built on the coincidence of Blaize’s girlfriend dumping him and you appearing in his life that very week?”

  It sounded pretty darn similar to the coincidence of Ellen, Dad and Mom. “How do you know about my board game?” I said.

  “I vacuum in there. You leave it out.”

  “You snoop,” I said indignantly.

  “She isn’t a snoop, Kelly,” said Parker. “You’re messy. And there is nothing romantic about the dance. This poor guy Blaize gets dumped. He feels lower than low. He calls the only other girl he can think of and what does Megan do? Passes him on to a stranger like a helping of mashed potatoes at the table. What’s so romantic about that?”

  “It has romantic potential,” said my mother stiffly.

  “Romance is a crock,” said Parker.

  The clock chimed ten and my phone rang. “He’s punctual, anyway,” I said to them. I left them in the kitchen and tore back up the stairs so I could talk in the privacy of my room. “Hello?”

  “Kelly there?”

  “This is Kelly.”

  He said nothing more.

  “Really,” I said, remembering the instruction to joke a lot. “It’s true. This is Kelly.”

  He forced a laugh. “And this is Blaize Devaney. Did—um—Megan—um—?”

  I was thinking of Will. Would it ever occur to Will to ask me out? Would going someplace with this complete stranger jeopardize that? But of course, Will would never know I was going anywhere with Blaize because Blaize was from Prospect Hill. “Yes,” I said. “Megan called.” Am I insane? I thought. Worrying whether I should stay loyal to Will? Will, who would rank me one on a scale of one hundred? What is my problem? “And I’d love to go to the dance with you, Blaize.”

  “Oh. Great. Well.” His voice sounded as if it came from a corpse. “Thanks for bailing me out,” he said finally.

  “You’re welcome.” I struggled to think of something amusing but failed and gave him driving directions to my house instead. Maybe it was a bad sign that Megan had been too busy for this guy. With whom was she so busy? Not Jimmy. Not Will. Not me or Faith.

  “I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said, and we hung up.

  I scooped up my board game. I put my finger on the Start Heart and slid myself slowly over the lacy pink line into the first square. “Romance,” I told myself. “You asked for it, you got it, Kelly.”

  All week, the dialogue repeated itself.

  “I love romance.” That was Mother, of course.

  “Poor Blaize.” That was Parker.

  “My little girl, starting to get flowers from guys.” That was Dad, listing possibilities for the corsage Blaize would surely bring. “Carnations, orchids, roses, baby’s breath. I can see them all out there, a whole greenhouse, coming your way, Kelly.” He was proud of me, as if he’d done something special, bringing up his daughter to swoon over flowers.

  My mother wore a peculiar expression. All of a sudden I didn’t want those flowers after all. I didn’t want to be like Mother, not feeling loved unless little gifts littered my life to prove it. I wanted love that was kindness and forgiveness and laughter and—and all the other things Will had said.

  I wanted to call Will up and tell him about my parents’ marriage. The most romantic marriage in Cummington, frail enough that a weekend one month away was tearing it apart. A marriage whose cement was Hallmark cards and silver violets.

  Marriage, maybe, that had lasted eighteen years on romance, and not on love?

  My hair is slippery. Other girls with long hair can put it up in little braids and twists and interesting details. Mine just slides out and slithers down my cheek and neck. Clips and barrettes and scrunchies cascade to the floor and my hair is back where it started, flat, shiny and smooth, as if it had never been disturbed.

  “It’s like a law of nature,” said my mother, struggling to do something unique with it. “It never allows anything to interrupt its chosen path.”

  “Stop worrying,” advised Parker. “All Blaize needs is a presentable female body walking in the door with him.”

  It was Daddy who brought me a present: a gold charm to slip on my necklace. It wouldn’t show because of the way the neckline of Megan’s dress was cut, but that didn’t matter. The charm was a tiny delicate eighth note. “Because tonight is music,” said my father, who was happier about my date with Blaize than anybody, including me. “A prelude of things to come.”

  He sounded like a line off a greeting card. Were his gifts to Mom, his attentions to her, just a curtain to stand behind? Was he simply lubricating life so all things would slide his way? And now Mother was demanding more: love and reassurance instead of plain old romance? And he did not have that to give?

  “Park,” said Dad, “you sound as if you could use a presentable female body of your own.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have an important affair on Saturday where I have to appear in public.”

  “You have a senior prom,” I pointed out.

  “Months away.”

  “It’s not that far off, Park,” said my mother. “My goodness, I wasn’t thinking. How the calendar flies by. You’ll have to put Wendy out of your mind and
start dating other girls.”

  “If Park can put Wendy out of his mind,” said my father, “how about you put Ellen out of your mind?”

  We stood there, my family and I, and Ellen was in there with us, and a million bouquets that meant nothing, and a future that frightened us all. I couldn’t see my parents clearly. Dad seemed angry and menacing. Mother shrank and turned wispy. Parker reduced himself to a shadow so he wouldn’t have to participate.

  Talk about it, I prayed. Talk about how dumb this is. Admit that Ellen doesn’t matter. We matter. We, the Williams family. Say you love each other.

  But nobody said anything.

  The doorbell rang. My father went downstairs to let Blaize in and Parker followed to take a look at Blaize. Mother began folding things strewn around my room. She likes to fold. Make order out of chaos.

  So make some order out of your own chaos, I thought. What is a sweatshirt on the floor compared to a marriage in shambles?

  “Kelly, come on down,” said my father loudly, with such gusto that he sounded like a quiz show emcee.

  I swallowed, shivered and went down.

  Blaize was very, very handsome. Megan was too busy to go out with this? He intimidated me just standing there. Just existing in all his male beauty. My steps faltered halfway down the stairs.

  “What a great dress!” exclaimed Blaize.

  I relaxed. One compliment and I had my act together again. So this is why Mom needs compliments, I thought. You feel so much better. You feel so much more in control when somebody tells you that you look good.

  Blaize, smiling, took a half step toward me.

  My mind moved at the speed of light, whipping through the next several years. I took Blaize through dating, being seniors together, going to both of our senior proms, attending the same college and getting married.

  I wasn’t even at the bottom of the stairs yet.

  “Kelly,” he said, greeting me, but also confirming that he liked what he saw. If there was a test, I had passed his, and he had passed mine.

  The room felt soft.

  My parents were united and in love, wishing me love. Parker was glad for me. And Blaize was relieved; Megan had not steered him wrong.

  Ever so gently he slid a wrist corsage over my fingers and eased the elastic strap so it didn’t bite my skin. His hands held mine only for a moment, but it felt like the touch I had been waiting for all my life: concern and affection and interest and full of gifts to come.

  And in the drive, waiting, was a long sleek black limousine.

  My eyes met Mother’s.

  Her face was lit in sparkles, and she tilted her chin ever so slightly and pursed her lips in a tiny kiss to me. She was as thrilled as I was.

  A dance.

  A limousine.

  A nosegay of flowers on my wrist and a handsome boy in a dark romantic jacket.

  “Good night,” I said to my family. Even my voice felt softer, my hand already in Blaize’s. He was no stranger. His clasp was warm and strong as if he, too, had been waiting for this hand, this moment.

  I smiled at Blaize and he smiled back and for an instant we paused in the door, already caught in romance.

  I heard a sigh.

  Parker. A sigh for love and its joys.

  But tonight it was my turn.

  CHAPTER

  9

  The limousine brought me home at quarter to midnight. It was the driver and not Blaize who walked me to the front door.

  It was earlier than my family had expected and when Dad opened the door—because of course he’d been waiting up—he knew there was something wrong. I meant to go straight to my room and keep my sorrows to myself and say nothing ever. But I couldn’t bear it. I told Dad everything. “Everything” took a short sentence.

  “He didn’t like me, Daddy.”

  Parents can’t tolerate that kind of sentence. “Of course he did, Kelly,” said my father. “He was just shy.”

  “No, Daddy. He didn’t like me. He didn’t talk or try to get to know me. I was just a stuffed doll he towed around so he wouldn’t be alone. He propped me up in front of his friends and especially his old girlfriend, but I wasn’t special enough. He needed somebody really dazzling and I’m not dazzling. I’m just an ordinary pretty girl. I disappointed him.”

  My father dropped into his recliner and yanked me down on top of him.

  I sat in my father’s lap and wept into his heavy woolen sweater. Megan’s lovely long gown was caught between us, dragging behind me like torn rags. I pulled off the wrist corsage and let it fall. All that was left of the evening was a painful red mark where the corsage band had gripped me too tight.

  I don’t like the recliner. It’s big and ugly. But when Dad tilted back, I felt as if I were still his little girl. All my life I’d wanted to grow up and stop playing games and have the real thing. But the real thing hurt.

  The real thing is being ignored. Not measuring up. Not being talked to. Not being danced with. “Daddy, I thought it would be perfect. It was all there. Flowers and a limo and music and a handsome boy. Romance is terrible.”

  “Aw, Kell.” Daddy shifted me around so I was sitting next to him, squished up against the fat leather arm. We stared at the oil painting of the sea and sand that my mother bought years ago on their honeymoon—the view from their hotel. “Don’t hate romance,” said my father. “I’m into romance. I think it’s neat.”

  “Not for me it isn’t.”

  “Don’t write it off just because of one lousy boy and one lousy night.”

  “But, Daddy, it was my first date. And what if it’s my only date?”

  “First dates are hard,” he agreed. “Takes practice to figure out what you’re doing.”

  “Blaize has had lots of practice,” I said miserably. “And he didn’t want to do anything with me but have me there.”

  “But he was so nice when he picked you up!”

  All night long, Blaize had been showing off. He showed off to my family, to the chauffeur, whose services he had engaged when he was still going with Jill. That was her name, Jill; she was just like Wendy, a Queen of Romance. He showed off to his friends, to his teachers, to the chaperones and most of all to Jill. But he didn’t show off to me. I wasn’t worth it.

  “The flowers were just flowers and the music was just notes,” I said. “I was another purchase, like the corsage. But less successful.”

  Daddy smoothed my hair, always silken, always soft. Hair I had wanted Blaize to touch. “If he’s that dumb, who needs him?” said my father.

  “I need him. I want a boyfriend.”

  “Your time will come.”

  “Daddy, I can’t stand it when you say that. I don’t want my time to arrive out there in the future when I’m old. I want it right now, in high school, during my junior year, right this minute. I want it like Megan has it and Wendy has it and the way you and Ellen used to have it.”

  Oh, was I sorry I had said that. Now I couldn’t even wallow in my own disaster. I had to think of my parents’ misery as well.

  “Sweetie, I learned a lot in those eight years with Ellen,” said my father after a long pause. “You know I’m addicted to buying stuff. I just love to give presents. If I’m working all day, and the day is hard and rotten and I had to be nice to people I despise or work on a project I think is pointless or finish one I think needs another six weeks—well, it’s so nice to do one thing right. Buy a long-stemmed red rose, hand it to your mother and see her light up. And I found out from Ellen that you can run a long, long time on romance. It can fuel years of dating.”

  The last thing I wanted was a heart-to-heart talk about Ellen. I wanted to talk about me. Was that so selfish? Once in sixteen years? To have the focus on me?

  “But it can’t supply love,” my father finished.

  Had Daddy bought Ellen? The way Blaize bought me? Flowers and music and great cars? And had Ellen let it go on for eight years because she liked dating, she liked attention—but she didn’t love him and ne
ver had?

  Incredibly, it was Ellen I agreed with. I wanted to flirt and be liked and have presents and dance gracefully with the handsome boy. I hadn’t asked Blaize to love me, just have fun being with me.

  And he couldn’t be bothered. I wasn’t worth his time. I was worth nothing.

  I began crying horribly.

  “You matter to me,” said Daddy.

  Every father in the world, and every mother, has tried to end a talk with that line. You matter to me, dear. I love you. So what if there’s not a boy on earth who does? Your old daddy loves you and that’s what counts, huh?

  “You just have to get through it, Kell,” he said, hugging me fiercely. “You’ll feel better eventually and manage to be happy and there will be somebody there for you. I guarantee it.”

  “But, Daddy, some girls never find anybody. I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to be a loser.”

  “Of course not. Everybody hates being a loser.”

  “It’s worse than that. Everybody hates the loser, too. They don’t associate with her and then she’s even more of a loser.”

  The kitchen clock chimed the hour. My father’s breathing was regular. He was all but asleep. The tears had dried on my cheeks and their tracks were itchy. “I’m stiff, Dad. I’m wrinkling Megan’s dress. I’m going to bed.”

  He tilted the recliner forward so fast it flung me onto my feet. “I didn’t have any words of wisdom, did I?” said my father sadly. “I’m sorry. I wanted to help.”

  “The only thing that could help right now is my phone ringing and some terrific boy telling me he adores me and he can’t go another twenty-four hours without seeing me.”

  My father was laughing. “I could pay somebody off.”

  “That’s like Megan fixing me up. I want it just to come. Like a door opening. Fireworks exploding.” I could see it so well.

  The door—a glimpse into an unknown room at the unknown boy who would love me.

  The fireworks—seeing this unknown boy, feeling explosions and fire and laughter and joy.