Love? Maybe.

by Heather Hepler

  He drops two chocolates in his mouth and is silent for a moment. “Mocha and…” He pauses and tilts his head to one side. “Strawberry.” He grabs two more. “So, I told coach he can either let me anchor or he can take me off the IM roster,” he says. I nod. Jillian and Claire just look at him. Claire seems slightly horrified by him like she always is, but from the way Jillian is looking at him, you’d think Charlie was wearing wings and a halo instead of a pair of ripped sweatpants and an old thermal shirt.

  “What did your coach say?” I ask. I still have a few days before my spring practices start up. Unlike Charlie, I am not a natural swimmer. I have to work really hard just to stay on the team.

  “He said I could anchor if I swim the thousand.” He grimaces at me, but I can’t tell if it’s from the swimming or from the pickle he’s inhaling.

  “Ouch,” I say.

  Charlie nods. “Hey, you know what would be even better than candy?” He nods at the half-eaten box of chocolates. “Freshly baked cookies.”

  “Dream on,” I say, shaking my head.

  “We could make them,” Jillian says. She looks at me with big eyes and nods slightly.

  I squint at her. “I guess,” I say and shrug. I start pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator and the pantry.

  “I like oatmeal raisin,” Charlie says. He leans against the counter and watches me, smirking.

  “You’ll eat what I make and like it,” I say.

  “So, Pipe, how many days until your birthday?”

  “Sixteen?” I crack an egg against the counter. “Seventeen?”

  “Who are you?” Charlie asks. He turns toward Claire and Jillian. “What have you done with Piper?” I throw the bits of eggshell in his direction and he ducks, laughing. “This from the girl who used to start the countdown weeks out. She used to tell everyone how many more shopping days until her birthday.”

  “That was a long time ago,” I say, stirring the mass of sugar, butter, and eggs in the bowl.

  Claire laughs from where she is sitting at the counter. “Piper, you were still doing that in middle school.”

  “That was before,” I say.

  “What? Before you got cynical?” Charlie asks.

  “I’m not cynical,” I say.

  “Well, you’re not not cynical,” Charlie says.

  I frown into the bowl as I stir. It’s more like I just learned not to get my hopes up about anything, but I guess now that I think about it, that sounds pretty cynical.

  Jillian perches on one of the bar stools pulled up to the counter and watches. Even though she’s the one who wanted to make cookies, it’s obvious I’m the one who is actually going to do the work. She starts firing all kinds of questions at Charlie. Where does he go to school? What movies does he like? What music does he listen to? He does his best to keep up, but she’s relentless.

  “Where’s Stuart?” Charlie asks when Jillian pauses. I make a slicing motion at my throat, but Charlie just looks at me. I shake my head and start spooning mounds of dough on the cookie sheet.

  “I don’t know,” Claire says. Her voice cracks a little in the middle, but her face remains placid. Luckily Charlie gets the point and doesn’t ask anything else. Not that he has a chance to. Jillian starts attacking him with questions again.

  Claire keeps taking her phone out of her pocket every three seconds to look at it. I told her to block Stuart’s calls, but she won’t. She said he might need her. I think he lost the right to need her when he dumped her. I also think that if she blocks his calls, she can pretend that he called, but she just couldn’t get them. I know it’s a silly game, but it works with me. I blocked my dad’s calls on my cell a long time ago. Not that he’s calling, but at least I can pretend that he still thinks about me.

  I slide the pan of cookies in the oven and twist the tomato-shaped timer to twelve minutes. I lean against the counter and watch Jillian flirting with Charlie. He seems mostly oblivious to her, more interested in sneaking fingerfuls of dough out of the mixing bowl than listening to her talk about where she spent her winter break. Jillian is about to launch into a description of the boat she and her family stayed on when Charlie stretches. She stops talking and just watches. I look over at him, but honestly I can’t see what she’s getting so bunched up over. He’s just Charlie.

  The timer rings and I take the cookies out. The four of us stand around and eat them hot off the pan. I notice that Jillian only takes one. I wonder if it’s because she already filled herself up with candy or if she’s trying to be dainty in front of Charlie. I hate it when girls do that. It’s not like it’s some big secret that we eat. Besides, I don’t think guys care about half the stuff girls think they do. As far as I can tell, guys care about sports and food and sleeping. And maybe girls. But as Dom says, only if they’re not too yucky.

  “Does your girlfriend come watch you at your meets?” Jillian asks. Smooth, I think.

  “No,” Charlie says, scooping up another hot cookie. I look at him. Last I knew he was dating Julie Reynolds.

  “No as in she doesn’t or no as in you don’t have one?” Jillian asks. I have to hand it to her. She’s nothing if not direct.

  “Don’t have one,” Charlie says. This seems to cheer Jillian considerably. She smiles as she takes another bite of her one cookie.

  “Listen, I have to take off,” Charlie says. He pushes the rest of cookie number five into his mouth. “Early practice.” He scoops up two more cookies and heads toward the door. “Thanks for the cookies, Pipe.” He opens the door. Miss Kitty bolts between his legs and bounds up the stairs. He doesn’t say anything about the purple Sharpie swirls that still decorate her fur. “Nice meeting you,” he says to Jillian. He looks over at Claire, who is sliding her phone out of her pocket again. “Hey,” Charlie says. She looks up. “His loss.” She gives him a smile. I smile at him too. Charlie can be incredibly thick sometimes, but every once in a while he does something that reminds me of why we’re friends. He has barely closed the door behind him when Jillian turns to me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.

  “Tell you what?” I slide the sheet pan into the sink.

  “Tell me your next door neighbor is such a hottie!”

  “Did you just use the word hottie?” I ask, shaking my head at her. I have to fight the impulse to roll my eyes. Sometimes she talks like she’s the star of her own reality show. I look over at Claire, hoping she’s going to field this one, but she’s staring at her phone again. I pull out some plastic wrap to cover the rest of the cookie dough. Maybe I’ll surprise Dom and Lucy with homemade cookies when they get home from Beau’s.

  “Have you and Charlie ever gone out?” Jillian asks.

  “Ew,” I say. “No.”

  “Why ew?” Jillian asks. “He’s dee-lish.”

  “Double ew,” I say. “Charlie is just…” I pause. “He’s just Charlie,” I say. “We’ve known each other forever.” I slide the bowl of dough into the fridge. “Besides, I’m not his type.”

  “What is his type?” Jillian asks with considerable intensity.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I just know it’s not me. He’s seen me at my worst. Trust me.” Jillian’s still looking at me. “He’s seen me with poison ivy on my eyelids, blue hair, and dressed up as a pineapple.” I hold up my hand. “I can promise you Charlie Wishman has no romantic designs on me whatsoever.”

  “Well, he is droolable,” Jillian says. “Seriously.”

  I roll my eyes and look to Claire for backup. She is looking at Jillian too, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing I am. Mental. We clean up the kitchen. By we, I mean me. Jillian watches, peppering me with questions about Charlie every seven seconds. Claire alternates between staring off into space and checking her phone. As I push the eggshells down the disposal, I consider chucking Claire’s phone in there as well. She has to stop.

  When we head upstairs, I pause in front of my mother’s door. She’s quiet and I wonder if she’s fallen asleep. We decide
to postpone any more of Jillian’s list until the weekend. I am just about to fall asleep in the nest I constructed out of a couple of camp blankets and a pillow from Dom’s bed when Jillian leans over the side of the bed to look at me.

  “I think we should try the potion,” she says.

  “The love potion?” I ask. She nods. Definitely mental. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “We should do this for Claire,” Jillian says. I look over at Claire, but she’s sound asleep. I think about the look on her face when she saw Stuart on the stairs and how she keeps checking and rechecking her phone.

  “Okay,” I say. I sigh and close my eyes. “For Claire,”

  “It says for best results, they have to ingest it.” I try to imagine handing Ben Donovan a vial of pink goo and asking him to drink it.

  “Not going to happen,” I say.

  “I have a plan.”

  “Tell me,” I say, although I’m not one hundred percent sure I want to know.

  “We need a kitchen and about twenty bucks.” I think about the kitchen at Jan’s.

  “We?” I ask.

  “Yes, we.”

  I sigh and roll onto my side. I’m sure any other girl on the planet would be all over Jillian’s Love Makeover plan. But even if a tiny part of my heart bumps when I think of the way Ben Donovan keeps smiling at me whenever we pass in the hall, if it weren’t for Claire, I’d bail on the whole idea. Then I look over at her, still holding her phone set on vibrate, and I know I’m in this. At least as long as she is.

  chapter seven

  Most Saturdays I help out in Jan’s. It’s easily my favorite place in all of Atlanta for many reasons. First, working at Jan’s gets me out of watching Dom and Lucy and helping Mom at the flower shop. Second, Jan finally talked me into making candy last year, and although I grumble about it, I secretly really love it. Third, what Claire and I told Jillian is true. Jan is sort of eccentric and a terrible businessman. He’s always giving out free stuff. If it weren’t for my help with the books, half of me wonders if he wouldn’t have already gone out of business. Helping Jan makes me feel like I’m actually making a difference, even if it’s a small one. And fourth, Jan is about the best listener I know. He doesn’t say that much, but when he does, he’s all deep and mystical.

  Jan and I are restocking the Valentine’s Day corner. “I told Claire she just needs to forget Stuart.” I straighten the sign advertising my Consternation Hearts, which go on sale Monday. “But she can’t. It’s like her whole world ended.” I fill a glass vase with a dozen heart-shaped lollipops. “And Jillian,” I say, standing up to look at Jan, who is stacking box after box of gummy hearts, “she is driving me nuts with The Plan.” So far The Plan seems to consist of makeovers and a love potion, but I have a feeling there’s a lot more to this than Jillian is letting on. I bend and plug in the twinkling pink and red lights around the window. I take my banana out from under the counter and peel it. I love bananas, but only if they are completely yellow. No brown and definitely no bruised parts. I take a few bites and study the candy case. There are a lot of empty plates that need to be filled.

  “What about you?” Jan asks.

  “What about me what?” I ask around my mouthful of banana.

  “You talk a lot about what Claire and Jillian think about love. What about you?”

  “Love? No thank you.” I take my last bite of banana and toss the peel into the trash.

  “I don’t know,” Jan says. He pauses so long I think he’s finished, but then he takes a deep breath. “I think love is like candy.”

  “I don’t like candy, either,” I say. I pick up a rag and wipe off the menu board on the wall and start listing the new flavors.

  He smiles at me and shakes his head. “I think anyone who says they don’t like candy just hasn’t found the right flavor.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Thank you, Master Yoda.”

  “See the wisdom of my words one day you will.” I shake my head and add a sketch of a coconut kissing a pineapple beside Island Paradise. Jan plugs in the jukebox and punches a button. He starts singing along with some song about a guy trying to place a call to someone who broke his heart. He moves chairs, stools, and various other seats around as he sings. He has a little café set up in the middle of the store. For seats there’s a saddle mounted on a sawhorse, one of those huge exercise balls glued to a platform, and a throne fit for a king—all for customers to sit on. He had a toilet seat for one day, but everyone was pretty grossed out by it.

  I fix my ponytail, pulling my freshly-colored hair through my pink elastic. Honestly I can’t tell the difference, but Jillian said it looks a thousand times better.

  “You ready?” Jan asks, flipping the sign. I nod and climb down off the stool. From the moment Jan turns the lock on the front door, we’re slammed. Everyone keeps asking about my Consternation Hearts. There was a write-up in the paper along with all the other Valentine’s Day hoopla coming up. I had originally wanted to start selling them mid-January, but getting the packaging together so they look like the original conversation hearts was trickier than I thought.

  The big seller of the day is one of Jan’s inventions: Fortune Hearts. I’m pretty sure he works all year on the little sayings he has printed on the foil wrappers of the tiny chocolate hearts. He’s been selling them since he started this shop and he sells out every year, usually way before Valentine’s Day. People actually start calling in with orders for them right after Christmas.

  Jeremy comes in mid-afternoon. He barely looks at me, but makes a beeline for Jan. He and Jan spend several moments deep in conversation. Then Jeremy leaves, still without making eye contact with me.

  “What was that all about?” I ask Jan when he comes back around the counter. Either he ignores me or he just doesn’t hear me because it’s so noisy, but either way he doesn’t answer.

  Jillian and Claire arrive just as we’re about to close up. They help mop the floor and wipe down tables while I fill napkin holders and replenish the jar of fortune hearts Jan keeps by the register.

  When we are finally finished, Jan corners me in the kitchen. “Okay,” he says, holding up his key ring. “Do not turn on the stove or lock yourselves in the walk-in.” He starts to hand the key to me, but yanks it back at the last moment. “Do not set your heads on fire or cut off any digits or otherwise maim, injure, or damage yourselves.”

  “We promise,” I say, putting my hand over my heart. Jan looks over at Claire and Jillian, who quickly do the same.

  ”I’m locking the door on the way out.” He pulls his denim jacket off one of the pegs on the back wall. “I’ll be back in two hours,” he says. We begged him to let us have the kitchen to ourselves. We told him we wanted to try to create a new truffle (which is true) and that we wanted it to be a surprise. He pushes the back door open and steps out into the alley behind the shop. I start to pull the door closed, but he stops me. “Don’t answer the door or the phone.”

  “You worry too much,” I say. “We’ll be fine.” He lets the door shut and I hear him lock it from the outside. We can still get out, but no one without a key can get in. I gently push the door open to make sure he’s gone. I watch him climb into his car. I shut the door and walk back into the kitchen. Claire and Jillian are already unpacking the backpack that Jillian brought with her. A dozen baggies soon litter the counter. I pick up the nearest, a bright gold one, and read the label: Tumeric. I scan the others: crystallized ginger, curry, cat’s claw, fenugreek, burdock root, and several I can’t even pronounce. Along with the bags, there are several plastic tubs: raw honey, acai extract, rose water. “Promise me we aren’t going to poison anyone.”

  “I promise,” Jillian says, putting her hand over her heart just like I did with Jan. Hopefully I was a little more convincing.

  I pull two big bowls of the truffle base out of the refrigerator. Jan left us some of both the vanilla base and the chocolate base. He was really excited when I told him I wanted to try and develop a new flavor o
f truffles. Of course, developing the chocolates for Jan is just a cover. All we needed was private access to a kitchen. Somewhere away from the prying eyes of parents and the two munchkins who live at my house.

  Jillian has the spell book on the counter in front of her. “There’s not much in the way of directions here,” she says. “I guess we just mix it all together?” She looks at Claire and me and we both shrug. She nods to herself like that settles it. Claire retrieves a big metal bowl from under the counter and we start adding all of the ingredients. A soft pattering sounds on the roof above us. Rain.