“How were they?” Mom asks, poking her head into my room.
“Good,” I say. And it’s the truth. For Dom and Lucy, they weren’t terrible. I was able to clean most of the toothpaste out of their hair before I got them back into bed. Anything I missed will just give them that minty, freshly brushed scent.
“How are you?” she asks.
“I’m good,” I say. My mother frowns and tilts her head at me. “Really.” If I can just squeeze another half hour out, I’m pretty sure I can finish my paper, the one I begged an extension for.
“Don’t stay up too late,” my mother says, pulling my door shut behind her.
I sigh and rub my eyes. Literary criticism is so confusing. It seems like everything is symbolic. Nothing is just what it is. How am I supposed to know that a gray scarf is supposed to symbolize unrequited love? I manage to pull together something that should earn me at least a B, then take out our next novel, Emma. It seems that even my Brit lit teacher is conspiring against me in matters of the heart. I can only make it through a dozen pages before I have to admit that I’m just too tired.
I put down the novel and slide under my quilt. I think about one of the ten random questions that Dom asked me earlier. He wanted to know if I thought the sun got lonely. I told him I hadn’t really thought about it, but that I imagine he did. It was the wrong answer. Dom got pretty quiet for the rest of the night. I turn off the light beside my bed, wondering if I should have told him something else. Something a little more upbeat. But, when I think about it, I’m sure the sun does get sad sometimes. He just sits up there, shining on everyone and keeping everyone rotating the way they’re supposed to. But what about him? I wonder if sometimes he just looks around and says “Hey! What about me? Who’s keeping the lights on for me? Who’s making sure I’m not going to fall out of the sky?” I shake my head. Too much literary symbolism.
It’s not until I’m almost asleep that I remember my promise to Claire. I try to come up with a plan—anything—but I’ve got nothing. I’m praying that Jillian has at least some idea of how to find Claire a boyfriend. I’m praying just as hard that she won’t try to snag someone for me in the process. If there is one wish I have for Valentine’s Day and my birthday, it’s this: I’d like a little peace and quiet. A little fun maybe, and no drama.
chapter six
I’m doing the dishes in the bathroom sink when the doorbell rings. I’m hoping it’s the plumber, but I’m pretty sure I know who it is.
“I’ll get it,” Dom hollers.
“Hold it,” I yell, wiping my hands on the dish towel I have slung over my shoulder. Dom waits at the door, hopping from one foot to the other. Lucy is sitting on the sofa, her pink suitcase at her feet. I’m not sure what’s worse, Dom’s enthusiasm about seeing his father for the first time in a month or Lucy’s sadness. I take a deep breath and open the door.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Beau says, leaning forward and kissing my cheek. He reaches down and tussles Dom’s hair. I step back to let him in. “It’s so good to see y’all,” he drawls. I hear my mother’s footsteps above us. “Hey, Lucy. Don’t you have a hug for your daddy?” Lucy stands up and walks over to him, giving him a stiff hug around the legs. “Hold it,” Beau says as she starts to walk away. He reaches behind her ear and pulls out a necklace of pink beads and hands it to her. The necklace earns him a real hug and a smile.
“Now me!” Dom says, jumping up and down in front of him. Beau does the same trick with Dom. He opens his hand to reveal a new Matchbox car. Even though I’ve seen the trick about a million times, I still never see him palming anything.
“How about you, darlin’?” he says to me. I just shake my head. When I first met Beau, I begged him to marry my mother so he would be my father. Now I’m too old to be taken in by his charms. Hearing my mother coming down the stairs, I amend that thought. Maybe I’m just too cynical. “Hey, beautiful,” Beau says when my mother appears. He walks over and kisses her cheek. She stiffens slightly, but she also blushes. I wonder where Stacy, his girlfriend, is.
“It’s good to see you, Beau,” my mother says. Beau offers her his best smile and I see her blush again.
“Whoops,” he says, looking at his watch. “We’ve gotta skedaddle if we’re going to make the movie.” Dom and Lucy both start jumping up and down when he says that. “You sure you don’t want to join us?” he asks me. I just shake my head. There was a time when I was younger that I would wait for Beau to get home just like Dom does, but not anymore. Beau Paisley is charming and handsome, but he’s also unreliable and selfish.
My mother heads upstairs after saying good-bye to Dom and Lucy. I watch them through the kitchen window as they make their way toward Beau’s enormous truck parked in front of the house. The overhead light goes on as he opens the door, illuminating the inside of the truck. Perched in the passenger seat is Beau’s girlfriend, Stacy. After Beau gets the kids settled in the back, he climbs in himself. The overhead light in the truck doesn’t quite go out before he leans across and kisses her. Ugh. I didn’t need to see that. There are soft footsteps above me. Someone else saw that too, and she really didn’t need to see that. Or maybe she did. Maybe that will finally make my mother get it.
Claire and Jillian arrive within minutes of each other. We scrounge in the kitchen for snacks.
“Wasabi peas?” Jillian asks, shaking a plastic container of tiny green marbles. She goes back into the pantry and comes out with a bag of textured vegetable protein in one hand and a box of steel-cut oats in the other.
“My mom’s a little bit of a health nut,” I say.
“A little?” Jillian asks. “Your pantry looks like a mini Whole Foods. Don’t you have any junk food?” I start to shake my head, but then I remember the chocolate. I have to climb onto one of the bar stools to reach it. I pull down a couple of long, flat boxes. “That’s what I’m talking about,” Jillian says. She grabs the box and pulls it open. The chocolates inside are all a little off. Most are misshapen or maybe have a hole in them.
“They’re chocolate irregulars,” I say. Jillian picks one up and sniffs it. “They taste the same. They just look funny.” I tossed the rest of the Kalamata Caramel that Jan gave me. I just couldn’t get over the olive and chocolate hurdle. Jan told me he’s already sold out of them. Just one more reason why he’s the confectionary genius and not me.
Jillian bites into one of the chocolates. “Oh man, I would weigh a thousand pounds if I worked there.” She holds the box out. Claire takes one, but I shake my head.
“You’d get sick of it,” I say. “I don’t really like candy all that much.” Jillian frowns at me. “After a million Saturdays being around chocolates, you’d swear off the stuff too.”
“I doubt it,” Jillian says, popping another into her mouth. She puts the top back on the box. “How did you start working there anyway?”
“When my mom and Beau were splitting up, it was someplace to go. Someplace quiet,” I say, remembering the tears and the furious whispered arguments. Jillian nods like she understands. It makes me realize I know almost nothing about her family. It’s like she’s so out there, she’s hidden.
“Piper’s just being modest,” Claire says. “When Jan first hired her to ‘help him get organized’”—she makes air quotes as she says it—“Piper kept finding money everywhere.” Jillian looks at me.
“It’s true,” I say. “There was seven hundred dollars stuffed in a plastic tub in the refrigerator and almost two thousand shoved in a file in one of the desk drawers.” Jillian smiles at this. “I didn’t have to do much. Start a filing system, set him up with electronic fund transfers for his vendors—” Jillian is staring at me. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“Uh-huh,” she says before popping another chocolate in her mouth.
“No, really. Jan’s the genius,” I say. “I’m just good at details.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Claire says to Jillian. “Last year there was this whole write-up in the paper about Jan’s. And the photo on the Fo
od page was of Piper’s taffy.” I shrug, trying to play it off. The truth is I prefer being the behind-the-scenes person.
“Pretty cool, Piper,” Jillian says. She lifts the top off the box and pops another chocolate into her mouth, looking a little sheepish.
“Have as many as you want. There are three more boxes up there,” I say, pointing to the cabinet over the fridge. My mom always wanted me to bring them home. It kind of makes me sad. The only person who really ate them was Beau. Now I just hand them over to Charlie when he comes over.
Jillian swallows her chocolate and grabs her notebook. “Let’s get down to business.” She looks at me. “Knowing that you are so good at organization makes this all sort of weird, but I think we need to make a plan.”
“I already have my plan,” I say. “A large Vegetarian’s Delight from Artie’s and a stack of sci-fi movies and I’m all set.”
“Pizza and spaceman movies?” Jillian asks. “That’s your big plan? What about you?” she asks, elbowing Claire. “Do you really want to spend Valentine’s Day on the couch?”
“No,” Claire says. I raise my eyebrows at her. Claire looks over at me. “Please, Piper.”
I take a deep breath. This is what best friends are for, I tell myself. “Fine,” I say. “What do you want me to do?” Claire gives me a grateful smile.
Jillian smiles at me and puts the notebook on the counter, flipping pages until she finds one with a grid drawn on it. “We have less than two weeks until V-Day. It’s important we are all committed to this. No matter what.”
“No matter what?” I ask. “That seems a little intense. I mean, it’s just a holiday.”
“It’s not just a holiday. It’s love,” Jillian says.
“Love?” I ask. I start to shake my head. I did not sign up for love, but the hopeful look on Claire’s face makes me pause. “Okay.” I sigh. “What’s the plan?”
“The first step is finding two guys you want to target.”
“Why two?” I ask. “I thought the plan was to find love.”
“You always have to have a fall-back plan,” Jillian says.
“A plan B,” Claire says.
Jillian nods while I concentrate on not rolling my eyes. “Claire, you first.”
Claire looks out the window for a moment and then back at us. “Stuart, obviously.” Jillian writes his name in her notebook. “Then, I don’t know.”
“You need a backup,” Jillian says.
“Alex Muñoz,” she finally says.
Jillian stares at her. “Alex Muñoz?”
“You said I needed a backup and he’s nice.”
Jillian shrugs. “It’s your heart.” She looks at me. “Now you.”
I feel my cheeks get red. “I don’t think—”
“Ben Donovan,” Claire says. I give her a dirty look, but Jillian just nods and writes him in her notebook then looks back up at me.
I think for a moment. “I don’t know,” I say. Jillian keeps looking at me. “The new exchange student. The one from England. I don’t know his name.”
“I do know his name,” Jillian says. Of course she does. “Andrew Spence. He’s sort of nerdy,” she says.
“There’s nothing wrong with nerdy,” I say, feeling a little defensive. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m a little nerdy.
Jillian puts her hand up. “I love a good nerd as much as the next girl, but just because I like nerds doesn’t mean I want to date one,” she says. “Okay, Andrew Spence.” She writes his name under Ben Donovan. “He’s a good choice.” She starts to turn the page.
“Hold it,” I say, putting out my hand to keep her from flipping to the next page. “What about you?”
Jillian shrugs. “Sam Harbo and Brett Rosen.” Both Claire and I stare at her. She just named two of the most popular guys at Montrose Academy. Both seniors. Both cute. Both with girlfriends. And both completely out of our league.
“Wow,” I say. “Nothing like aiming high.”
Jillian shrugs. “They are my ideal,” she says. I start to ask her how two different people can be her ideal, but again, she keeps moving forward. “I made notes for each of you,” she says. She tears two pages from her notebook and hands one to each of us. Piper is written at the top of mine, with a bulleted list below. Jillian takes another chocolate from the box, watching us. I read the first few.
Dye hair.
Wear better shoes.
Stop slouching.
I look up at her. “What is this?” I lean over and look at Claire’s. She has her own list. I notice dye hair is number one on her list too.
“Phase One of The Plan,” Jillian says.
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Claire asks. I look at her and shrug. I mean, my hair could use some work for sure, but Claire’s looks, well, like Claire.
“Don’t think of it as how it’s wrong, but how it can be right,” Jillian says.
“Isn’t that the same thing?” I ask.
“It’s all in the perspective.”
I scan the rest of my list. “So all we have to do is become completely different people?” Claire looks at me and I remember my promise. “Okay, so where do we start?”
“I am so glad you asked,” Jillian says. She riffles in her bag again and pulls out three boxes of hair color. I relax a bit when I see it’s only semipermanent. She pulls out a bunch of other items, most of which I recognize, but several of which bear a strong resemblance to the medieval torture devices pictured in my history textbook.
An hour later, the three of us are sitting in my room with towels wrapped around our freshly dyed hair and green goop on our faces. Claire is tackling bullet number seven on her list and painting her toenails. Jillian keeps talking about my room and how it looks like cupid threw up in here.
“For someone who hates Valentine’s Day…” she begins, gesturing at the twinkling heart-shaped Christmas lights I have strung on the ceiling over my bed. I’m lying on my back on the floor, trying to decide if the burning on my face is good burning or bad burning.
“Take a look at this,” Jillian says. I lean up on one elbow, struggling to lift my head under the weight of the wet towel. I brace myself for more ribbing about my décor, but she’s holding up a thin book. She tosses it to me. The cover is blank. I open it and flip through it quickly.
“A magic book?” I ask. Jillian nods. Claire glances at me, but she doesn’t say anything. She just keeps painting her toenails.
“Look at chapter four,” Jillian says. I flip through the pages. The first two spells seem pretty lame. If you sprinkle an infusion of roses and coriander on your front porch, true love will come calling. Holding my place, I flip back to the beginning, looking for an author’s name. There isn’t one. The date of publication, though, is listed as 1872. Weird. The second spell claims that your love will never stray if you feed him or her raw garlic at least once a day. I smirk. Yeah, that’s some good magic. I keep flipping pages. Nothing seems very magical. Most of it seems like common sense that at best might work. The last spell in the chapter makes me pause. Love Potion. I look over at Jillian, who is smiling at me. I read the spell. Unlike the other spells, there isn’t much explanation with this one. Just a list of ingredients and a couple of sentences about harmonizing and steeping and infusing.
I toss the book back on the bed and Jillian picks it up. “So what do you think?” she asks me. “Do you think this actually works?”
“No.”
Jillian barely pauses. “But if it did,” she says.
“If it did, don’t you think someone else would have figured it out by now?” I ask.
“Maybe,” Jillian says, but then she’s quiet. A silent Jillian is even more disturbing than a chattering one. Before she can start up again, there is a huge thunk on the roof above us. Jillian screams, dropping the spell book behind the bed.
“It’s just Charlie,” I say. I go to the window and lean out. “Come to the front,” I say. Charlie leans down over the edge of the roof.
“What’s on yo
ur face?” he asks. I had forgotten the green stuff on my skin. I feel my cheeks heat up.
“Hush. Be nice or no chocolate for you.” He keeps smirking at me. “Come to the front,” I repeat. He waves and I hear his footsteps retreat across my roof and back to his own. I pull my head back in and close the window. Jillian is looking at me from the bed. Claire is trying to wipe the nail polish from the top of her foot where it landed when Jillian screamed.
“Who was that?” Jillian asks.
“Just Charlie,” I say. “He’s coming over.”
“A guy is coming here?” Jillian asks. I nod. Jillian launches from the bed. “I’ve got to get cleaned up.”
Charlie reeks of chlorine, which at the moment is probably the least offensive thing about him. In the few minutes he has been here, he’s eaten half a loaf of bread, an apple, all six of the Peanuttiest truffles I brought him, and most of a block of cheddar. He eats it all standing up, letting the crumbs fall into the kitchen sink. My mother is always after Charlie to eat, telling him he’s too skinny. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t need the encouragement. Charlie reaches into the cabinet over the fridge and pulls out one of the boxes of candy.
Love? Maybe. Page 5