Love? Maybe.

by Heather Hepler

  “Candy!” They both shriek.

  “No screaming please,” my mother says. She relieves them of the bag with promises that they can each have one after dinner if they are good. Fat chance. “Piper’s here to take you home!” She says it in her bouncy, happy voice. It’s the same voice she uses for everything she thinks might get an argument: cleaning the litter box, getting shots at the doctor, eating Brussels sprouts. It only takes a few minutes to get Dom and Lucy rounded up and out the door. My mother is taking an order on the phone as we leave, but she offers me a grateful smile and mouths thank you.

  I follow Lucy and Dom down the sidewalk toward Commerce Avenue. We’ve been spending a lot of time together over the last couple weeks. With Valentine’s Day roses, Easter lilies, and then the march of the June weddings, this is the start of a busy time of year for florists. Mostly I don’t mind helping out, but occasionally I miss the days when I was an only child. The peace and quiet and first dibs on the bathroom were nice.

  We are home exactly four minutes (I know this because that’s the amount of time necessary to microwave two bowls of Easy Mac) when the kitchen sink explodes. No—really. Suddenly there is water everywhere. I try to turn off the miniature geyser that is erupting from the faucet, but twisting the knobs doesn’t help. I start digging cleaning supplies out from under the sink and find the water valves below. Living in an old building has made me pretty handy. I manage to shut off the water, but not before I am thoroughly drenched and there is a good inch of water on the kitchen floor.

  “Whoa,” Dominic says from the doorway. He begins jumping up and down in the puddle, sending streams of water everywhere.

  “Stop,” I yell, running for the hall closet. I pull out a stack of beach towels and head back to the kitchen. My wet socks leave a trail across the living room floor. I notice that Lucy has left her spot in front of the television and joined Dom in the kitchen. Sighing in defeat, I watch them splash for a while, grateful that it’s just water spraying the cabinets and not ketchup like last time.

  Once they’ve worn themselves out, I hand them each a towel and make them help me clean up the mess. Of course, this is a mixed bag because soon Dom is snapping his wet towel at Lucy and she’s screaming at him to stop. I finally get them settled in front of cartoons with a bowl each of pasta covered in a sauce so orange that I’m pretty sure it glows in the dark.

  Just half an hour until bedtime. I keep repeating this to myself.

  I take our recycling bin out to the curb for pickup. I take a deep breath of the night air, savoring the quiet. Mr. Wishman, from next door, is just setting his recycling out, too. Their dog, Duncan, runs circles around his legs. I wave hello and start to ask him when Charlie is getting back, but I guess he doesn’t hear me because he quickly heads back inside, Duncan following close at his heels.

  I walk back into the house and peek at Dom and Lucy, who are thankfully still parked in front of cartoons. I return to the kitchen and pull out the jar of peanut butter and a spoon. Gross, I know, but whatever. I’m just about to take my first bite when the phone rings. (Jillian wonders how I stay so thin. Big secret: no time to eat.)

  “Hello?” All I can hear is sniffling. Then my name, soft and watery.

  “Claire?” More sniffling.

  “He still hasn’t called.” Another sniff. “Why hasn’t he called?” I look up at the ceiling. Here is where things get tricky. Do I tell her he’s probably just busy or out of range? Or do I tell her what I’m pretty sure she already suspects. I mean, I like Stuart in general, but he’s never really been the great guy that Claire thinks he is.

  There’s really no choice. Even over the phone, I’m a terrible liar. “Claire, I think—”

  “Pipe, I gotta go. Stuart’s on the other line. See you tomorrow.” She’s gone before I can even say good-bye. I want to tell her to stop being so available, to stop making herself nuts over him, but then I don’t even pretend to know what love feels like. I sigh and put my phone back on the counter. Hopefully Stuart has an awesome excuse, like he fell off the ski lift and is in a full body cast. Or maybe he’ll just tell Claire the truth. I won’t hold my breath for either.

  “Dom! Luce! Let’s get cleaned up for bed.” I brace myself for the tears and the begging, but instead they’re totally quiet. With them, quiet means trouble. I walk into the living room and see Dom holding Miss Kitty, our fifteen-year-old cat, on his lap while Lucy uses a purple Sharpie to draw curlicues all over her white fur. Mac and cheese, love-struck friends, a tattooed cat, and an exploding sink. Just another day in the life of Piper Paisley.

  chapter two

  Just one more chapter?” Lucy begs.

  “No,” I say. “You have to get to sleep.”

  “Mom always reads us two,” Dom says.

  He’s right. “Okay, one more and then bed.” They both nod. I settle back into the beanbag. At this rate, I’ll never get my English paper finished. I hate admitting it, but sometimes I resent my mom for dumping all of this on me. But then I’ll look at Lucy’s sweet smile, or Dom will say something that makes me laugh harder than I can ever remember laughing and I’ll feel really lucky to be so close to them. That is, until they do something awful, like shaking up a can of soda and opening it just to see how far it will spray. (The answer is all over my laptop.)

  I finally get Lucy and Dom to bed with promises to send Mom up when she gets home. Feeling sticky-nasty from chocolates, cheese sauce, and the four spoonfuls of peanut butter that were my dinner, I decide on a shower. I stand under the hot water until I realize it’s making me sleepy. Knowing I still have about two hours of homework in front of me, I twist the knob, sending cold water raining down on me. I have to stifle a scream. It’s horrible, but it does the trick. I am definitely awake.

  I hurry into my pajamas, trying to make my teeth stop chattering. I drag my newly refurbished laptop onto the bed and open a new file. I stare at the blinking cursor until it threatens to hypnotize me. I have to write five to seven pages of brilliance and I can’t even come up with a title for my paper. “Focus,” I tell myself. If I can’t finish this paper tonight, I’m going to have to rework my schedule for the rest of the week. I rub my eyes, trying to concentrate, but then I hear a noise on the roof.

  Normally, noises on roofs scare people, but not me. A noise on my roof means one of two things: Either the ginormous pecan tree out front has finally fallen on the house like my stepfather, Beau, always worries it will—and come on, that’s never going to happen—or it means that Charlie’s home.

  There’s another big bump on the roof above my head. I quickly hop out of bed and grab a sweatshirt from my closet. I hurry to the window and open it. A blast of cold air hits me hard, making me gasp. My room is the smallest one in the house, but what it lacks in size, it more than makes up for with access to the roof. I grab the chocolates Jan gave me (minus the two I gave to Lucy and Dom) from my desk and climb out on my windowsill, using the trellis to hoist myself up. My mother would freak if she knew I was up here. But I’m such a good daughter ninety-nine percent of the time that I figure I’m allowed this one bit of rebellion.

  “Hey,” I say into the dark. “When’d you get home?”

  “Couple of hours ago.”

  I smile toward the dark shape outlined against the sky. Charlie and I have been friends ever since his family moved in next door nearly eight years ago. I walk over and sit beside him, hooking my heels on the gutter.

  “Here,” I say, sliding the bag of chocolates over toward him. “I can’t promise anything.”

  “Oh man, I was hoping—” He opens the bag and pops one of the truffles into his mouth. I hear him chewing and then silence. “Um, Piper?”

  “Kalamata Caramel,” I say.

  “As in olives?”

  “Yep,” I say, trying hard not to laugh. I couldn’t bring myself to try them.

  “Huh,” he says, popping another one in his mouth. “Actually, they’re pretty good.” Charlie puts the bag down on the roof betwe
en us.

  “Dom and Lucy liked it,” I say. “Of course, I didn’t tell them they were olive flavored.”

  “Did you make these?”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t think in a million years I would have guessed that olives and caramel might taste good together.” But that’s why Jan’s the artist and I’m the bookkeeper. Six months ago, Jan did finally get me to make something. He helped me create a whole line of unusual taffy flavors. At first it was just the underappreciated fruit flavors like plum and cantaloupe. Then I really started branching out. The breakfast collection (flavors included bacon, orange juice, and pancake) was mentioned in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution last fall along with the Readers’ Picks. Jan was really proud of me. The added exposure, along with the new Flavor of the Month truffles, helped earn Jan’s the title of Best Candy in Atlanta. My mom’s flower shop was named the Best Florist for the third year in a row.

  “So what do you have brewing for Valentine’s this year?” Charlie asks.

  “Well—” I pause for dramatic effect. “Consternation Hearts.” Charlie doesn’t say anything. “You know, like conversation hearts—but instead of I Love You or Say Yes, mine say Buzz Off and No Way.”

  “Pretty clever,” Charlie says.

  “I know, right?” I say. Charlie shakes his head. We sit there looking out at the lights of the city and the handful of stars you can see from in town. “How was your trip?’ I ask finally.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay? What about all those California girls you were talking about before you left?”

  “Well, that part was pretty good,” he says.

  “Heartbreaker,” I say.

  Charlie puts up his hand. “No hearts were broken.”

  “How was it with your mom?” I ask.

  “Weird,” he says. Charlie’s dad and mom split up at the end of last summer and his mom moved out to California. This was his first trip to see her.

  “Weird how?” I ask.

  “Just weird seeing her without my dad, you know?” I nod. I’m familiar with that kind of weirdness, having lived through my mom’s two divorces.

  “Tell me it gets easier,” he says. I can’t see his face in the darkness, but I can hear the sadness in his voice.

  “It gets easier,” I say, but I can’t really muster any conviction. It took me a long time to get used to seeing my mom with Beau and it’s never been easy seeing her without him.

  “The truth, Piper,” he says.

  “It stinks,” I say.

  “Yeah, it does.” We sit like that for a few more minutes, just watching the twinkling lights from downtown. “So how’s it going with Pete?” Charlie asks.

  “You really have been gone awhile.”

  “Already?” Charlie asks. “I thought he’d at least make it through the end of the month.”

  “Had to cut him loose,” I say.

  “Why did you agree to go out with him anyway? I thought you had a no-dating policy.”

  I sigh. “I thought maybe it wouldn’t be awful.”

  “Well, what did him in?” Charlie asks. “Bad breath? Cold hands?”

  I shake my head. “We were watching The Day the Earth Stood Still. But instead of calling the guardian a robot, he kept calling it a row-butt.”

  “So you broke up with him because he mispronounced a word?” Charlie shakes his head. “Harsh.”

  “I was nice,” I say. “I just told him we probably shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

  “On account of his row-butt.”

  “Exactly.”

  Charlie shakes his head again. “Harsh.”

  “Harsh? At least I was honest. Guys just sort of evaporate,” I say, thinking of Stuart. Charlie doesn’t have a response to that.

  “Hey, I brought you something,” he says. “Close your eyes.” I do, listening to the rustle of plastic, and then silence. “Okay,” he says. I open my eyes to see Charlie holding what looks like a heart, but not a Valentine’s Day heart. A real heart.

  “Eww,” I say, poking at the heart-shaped blob in his hand. It’s not solid, but made out of silicone, so it even feels like a real heart. Or what I imagine one would feel like. “It’s awesome,” I say, poking it again.

  Charlie shrugs and hands the heart to me. It feels cool against my hand. “I know you collect them.” I laugh. What Charlie really knows is that I definitely do not collect them. It’s more like other people collect them for me. Because my birthday is on Valentine’s Day, everyone gives me things with hearts on them. However, this is the first anatomically correct heart I’ve ever gotten.

  I look over at Charlie, but he’s staring up at the sky. “Make a wish,” he says, pointing above us. I look up just in time to see the falling star. “What did you wish for?” he asks, looking at me.

  “I can’t tell you,” I say.

  “Afraid it won’t come true?” he asks.

  “Well, duh,” I say.

  “I should go,” he says, standing up and brushing off the back of his shorts. “I still have to finish my trig and my chem lab write-up.” Charlie doesn’t go to the private school I attend. He goes to public, but he’s in all the honors classes, which means he usually has as much or more homework than I do.

  “I’m slammed too,” I say. I stand up and start making my way back toward my window, catching the edge of the roof in my hand.

  “Stop by tomorrow after school,” I say.

  “Can’t,” he says. “I have practice.” Charlie is totally dedicated to swimming. Most of the time his hair is slightly greenish and he reeks of chlorine.

  “Friday then.” Charlie mumbles something as he hops across to his roof. “I’ll bring chocolate.”

  “I’m there,” he says, ducking inside. He sticks his head out. “Can you get Jan to make some Peanuttiest truffles?”

  I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.” I climb back into my room, closing my window tight behind me. I lay my heart on my desk, smiling as it quivers when I release it. Yuck.

  I climb back onto my bed and pull my comforter around me, trying to get warm. I stare at my laptop. I give up after my eyes start blurring again. I decide to get some sleep and get up extra early in the morning to work. I set my alarm for 4:30 and climb under the covers.

  I lie there thinking about Claire and Stuart and Dom and Lucy and poor Miss Kitty. I think about how tired my mom must be and olive candies. I think about The Plan and Jillian’s assertion that we need one. And I think about how I lied to Charlie. It’s not that I’m afraid my wish won’t come true if I tell him what it is. It’s that I didn’t make one. I don’t believe in wishes. Wishes make you hopeful and being hopeful is just a big setup for disappointment.

  chapter three

  I wake up when I hear my mom calling up the stairs. The first thing I notice is that it’s already light out. The second thing I notice is that the numbers on my clock are blinking at me.

  I curse, kicking my covers off. Stinking power outage. I hurry into the bathroom, stubbing my toe on the corner of the door. I cuss again, but then regret it when I see Dom poking his head out of his room.

  “Mommy!” Dom calls. “Piper said a bad word.” I shoot him a dirty look, then hustle Lucy out of the bathroom and shut the door before I can hear my mother’s response. The good news is my hair is clean. The bad news is I slept on it wet and now half of it is plastered to the side of my head and the other half is sticking straight out to the side, giving me a weird bird of paradise look. I ignore the knock at the door. I brush my hair, trying to make both sides look even, but all I manage to do is make it all a big mess. There’s another knock. I pull a headband out of the drawer and slip it on. A little better. There is another knock.

  “Lucy!” I yank the door open. “Can’t you see—” It’s not Lucy at the door, but my mother. She tilts her head at me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Super,” I say, stepping past her. I clomp into my room but stop as soon as I see the bed. Not only is my bed
made, but there is a big stack of folded, clean clothes piled at the end of it. I turn to look at my mother. “Thanks,” I say, feeling about an inch tall.

  “It’s nothing,” she says. She turns to tie a ribbon to Lucy’s ponytail before shooing her downstairs. It’s not nothing and I know it. There’s no telling how late my mother stayed up last night doing laundry, and if the smell of bacon wafting up the stairs is real, there’s no telling how early she got up to make breakfast.