Love? Maybe.

by Heather Hepler

  “Hey!” I yell. He stops mid-twirl and looks over to where I’m standing. His face turns as red as the tomato sauce I was heating up.

  “Not a word,” he says, pointing toward me. I start laughing again, so hard this time that tears spring to my eyes. He walks over to the stereo and turns the music way down.

  “Isn’t Charlie a great dancer?” Lucy asks.

  I nod, trying to catch my breath. Charlie shakes his head and smiles at me, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “He is a very interesting dancer,” I say. Lucy nods, smiling. Lucy has a crush on Charlie. She frequently tells me that she is going to marry him. When she gets old, like eighteen. I don’t have the heart to remind her that when she’s eighteen, Charlie will be really old. Over thirty.

  “Dinner is ready,” I say. “Unless you guys want to keep dancing.”

  “Charlie loves to dance,” Lucy says, walking over to take his hand. She looks up at him expectantly.

  “I love to dance with you, Lucy-lu,” he says. He throws her over his shoulder, making her squeal. Then he goes for Dom, who bolts out from under his grasp and heads for the stairs and freedom. Charlie walks downstairs carrying Lucy over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  “Thanks,” I say, and I don’t mean just for the dancing. It’s bigger than that. Charlie’s had dozens of tea parties with Lucy and played hours of LEGOs with Dom. He has no idea what that means to them. To Mom. To me.

  “They’re fun,” Charlie says. “Course now I think I need to take a nap.”

  I smirk. “He can bust out a three-hour workout in the pool, but fifteen minutes with these two and he’s down for the count.”

  “They have a lot of energy.”

  I laugh. “If that’s code for they are the spawn of the devil, then yes, they have a lot of energy.”

  “I’m not the debil,” Lucy says, her voice nasally from hanging upside down.

  I ruffle her hair. “No,” I say. “You’re not the debil.”

  Mom arrives just as I’m dishing up the plates. She sinks into one of the chairs and sighs. “Long day?” I ask. She nods and accepts a plate of pasta with a smile. We eat as she tells us about this woman who came into the shop demanding blue roses.

  “I just kept telling her there’s no such thing, but she refused to believe me. She said she saw a painting of one.” Mom shakes her head. Lucy tells us she’s going to grow blue roses. “Do you think you can do that before Valentine’s Day?” my mother asks, smiling.

  Lucy looks serious for a moment. “If I do, will you be home more?” she asks. Mom smiles at her, but her eyes are sad. She opens her arms toward Lucy, who climbs into her lap. I can tell Mom doesn’t know what to say. I mean, I hate it that she’s gone all the time too, but I can understand why. Supporting three kids on your own is hard, especially when all your money comes from flowers. I start clearing the table. Charlie helps by finishing up the rest of the pasta, eating it straight out of the strainer in the sink.

  “So how’s the training going?” Mom asks Charlie.

  He shrugs. “Good.” I shake my head as I rinse off the dishes. Even when Charlie broke three state records his sophomore year, he still said “good.” I’ll bet he could make the Olympic team and still he’d keep it to himself. Mom smiles too but doesn’t press him. Charlie always seems so embarrassed when he has to talk about himself.

  “Are you still seeing Julie?” Mom asks. I look over at Charlie.

  “We decided that we make better friends,” he says.

  “So she dumped you?” I ask.

  “No, Pipe. Unlike when you say it, sometimes people actually mean it.” I flick some bubbles at him. “Is it okay if I just hang here for a while?” he asks my mom.

  “Of course, Charlie. You are always welcome here,” she says. “Sure your dad won’t want you home?” Charlie looks over in the direction of his house for a long moment, then shakes his head.

  “He’s busy,” he says. He slides a box of chocolates out of the cabinet over the fridge and sits at the table. He rummages in his backpack and pulls out his notebook and a textbook that has ORGANIC CHEMISTRY printed on the spine.

  I resolve to ask him why he’s acting so weird about his father next time we’re alone. I’m scrubbing the pot I heated the sauce in when I start hearing seagulls and the crashing of ocean waves. I look up, trying to figure out where the noise is coming from, but then I see Charlie grinning. I look at my cell, which is peeking out of the front pocket of my backpack.

  “I’ll get it,” says Dom, sliding down from the table.

  “No, just—” I begin, but it’s too late. Dom already has my phone to his ear.

  “What do you want?” he asks. Someone needs to work on his phone manners. My mother tries to take the phone from him, but he scoots out of her reach. Finally Dom extends the phone toward me. “It’s for you.” I smirk and resist the urge to say duh. “It’s a boy.”

  “Ooooo,” Lucy says from my mother’s lap loud enough for the person on the phone to hear. I quickly dry my hands and reach for the phone, looking at the screen. I don’t recognize the number. Instantly I feel sort of wobbly. I try to remember the number printed on the slip of paper still sitting on my desk upstairs, but I can’t.

  “Hello?” I say, hesitantly. I avoid looking at anyone else in the room, especially my mother.

  “Hello?” the voice on the other end says. “Piper?” It’s not my father, which makes my heart start thudding a little less.

  “Yes,” I say. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Ben,” the voice says, which of course makes my heart start up again. “Is this a bad time? I mean I can—”

  “No,” I say, turning to walk into the living room where I can maybe have a tiny bit of privacy. “It’s fine.”

  “Peter gave me your number,” Ben Donovan says. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Don’t mind? I think. I can’t imagine anyone minding if Ben Donovan called. “No,” I say. “I don’t mind.”

  “I just wanted to call and see if you wanted to hang out this weekend.”

  I start to say no, because even if Ben Donovan is my ideal, I just don’t date. But then I remember Charlie calling me cynical and Claire begging me to go along with The Plan. I take a breath. “Sure,” I say all casual, like getting asked out by someone like Ben Donovan happens all the time to someone like me.

  “Cool,” Ben Donovan says. “After the meet then,” he says.

  I nod, but then remember that this is a phone and he can’t see my head move. “Yeah,” I say.

  “Cool,” Ben Donovan says again. “See you tomorrow then,” he says. All I can do is keep nodding, but it’s okay this time because he’s already hung up. I stare at the phone in my hand and then tap “Save number” and type in B-e-n-D-o-n-o-v-a-n. I look at my phone until the screen goes dark. I am now a girl with Ben Donovan’s number in my phone. No wait, I think. I am now a girl who is going on a date with Ben Donovan. I feel disconnected from myself. It’s like I’m watching myself to see what I’ll do next.

  “Piper?” my mother says. I look up and see her looking at me from the doorway. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Everything is okay.”

  “I’m going to get the kids to bed,” she says. I hear her shepherding Dom and Lucy up the stairs.

  I walk out to the kitchen and slide my books from my backpack. I sit across the table from Charlie and open my notebook. Charlie looks at me, his eyebrows raised, but I just give him a big smile. I try to make it through the reading for Brit lit, but I’m so distracted that I give up and slide out my biology book and a box of colored pencils. We have to color in the digestive system. Coloring I can do. I’m trying to figure out how I feel about agreeing to go out with Ben Donovan. Any other girl at Montrose would be dancing through her house, having already called her friends and told them. Me? I’m doing homework.

  “So, who’s the new guy?” Charlie asks, without looking up from his homework.

  “No one you know,”
I say. It’s a tiny lie. Charlie knows who Ben Donovan is.

  Charlie looks up at me. “Just be careful,” he says.

  “Always,” I say, sliding a blue pencil out of the box.

  “I mean it,” Charlie says.

  “You can stop with the big brother stuff,” I say. “I’m good.”

  “I’m not trying to be your big brother, Piper,” Charlie says. I look back at him, but he’s staring down at his textbook. Even though he’s not looking at me, I can tell he’s blushing. I shake my head and start outlining the pulmonary veins in blue. Charlie is definitely acting weird. I switch to red to color in the arteries.

  “Hush,” Charlie says from the other side of the table.

  “What?” I ask, looking up.

  “You’re humming.” He shakes his head and looks back at his textbook.

  “Sorry,” I say. I stop humming aloud, but I can’t stop the song from sliding around inside my brain. I don’t recognize the tune, but I’m sure Jan would. I’m pretty sure it’s Sinatra.

  The next few days run one into another. Swim practice, homework, working at Jan’s. Mom is home more thanks to Claire’s help. And Claire seems way better. I’ve only seen her tear up once and that was when we saw Stuart holding Christi’s hand on the front lawn. Jillian’s new idea has been to teach Claire and me how to flirt. She forced me to give my second box of chocolates to Andrew Spence (my plan B) in person. I tried the eye gazing, the giggle, the arm touching. I tried to do the hair toss thing that Jillian taught me, but all I did was whack my head on the edge of his locker door. I got out of there as fast as I could after that. I’m pretty sure the impression I left on Andrew was less cute girl who might make a good Valentine and more irrational mental patient who could possibly be dangerous. I told Jillian that I wasn’t going to participate in any more of her flirting seminars.

  Jillian has been going into overdrive, leaving little presents in my locker almost every day. I guess the gifts are just Jillian’s way of trying to get me into the spirit. Tuesday’s bag contained a jar of peanut butter and a plastic spoon. Then there was a pin that read BE QUIET. I CAN’T HEAR THE VOICES IN MY HEAD. I actually laughed out loud when I read it, making people in the hall look at me funny. Then there’s a windup toy cockroach that I can’t wait to show Dom.

  The closer we get to the weekend, the more Claire and Jillian want to talk about my date with Ben Donovan. I’m trying to match their enthusiasm by imagining how other girls would be acting if they were going out with him. Jillian tells me I’m the ultimate average-girl hero. I’m not sure I like being called a hero and even less an average girl.

  Jan texts me to say that my Consternation Hearts are selling so well he decided we need to order more. I drop by the shop after school to help box up all the stock we have left.

  “I’m just not sure how I feel about this,” Jan says, after the door closes behind a woman who just bought two dozen boxes of them. I brace myself for another one of Jan’s fatherly moments. Sometimes his whole paternal thing makes me crazy, but I know he means well.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought you’d be psyched.”

  “I don’t know,” Jan says, straightening the boxes of taffy on top of the glass case. “I mean, I’m really happy that your candy is selling so well, but it just seems sort of—” He leaves off and looks out the window for a moment. “Cynical,” he finishes quietly.

  “Cynical?” I ask, bristling at the word being tossed in my direction again. “I just thought they were funny.”

  “Oh, they are,” Jan says, smiling at me. “It’s just that… I don’t know… Valentine’s Day is supposed to be hopeful, you know? Love and romance and all that.” He takes off his glasses and polishes them with a handkerchief he takes from his pocket. He puts them back on and looks at me. “I just don’t want you to be cynical about love,” he says.

  “I’m not cynical,” I say. “I’m just realistic.”

  “You want to make sure it’s a safe bet before you put your heart on the table.”

  “Okay, other than that being the world’s worst metaphor, yes. Exactly.”

  “Piper—” Jan begins.

  I hold my hand up. “Before you start, you should know that I have a date this weekend.”

  That makes Jan smile. “Tell me,” he says, so I do. In between customers I tell him all about Ben Donovan. “Well, Piper. There might just be hope for you yet.”

  “Gee thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But what about you? You’re single. Youngish. And you’re not ugly—”

  “Nice,” Jan says, shaking his head at me.

  “Why have I never heard about you going on a date?”

  Jan takes a deep breath and looks back out the window. “I guess I’m just not—” He pauses to polish his glasses again. I don’t know anything about Jan’s past, other than the fact that he used to be married and he has a daughter a little older than me who is in college in California. He looks back at me. “I guess I’m just not quite ready,” he says. I wait for him to say more, but he just nods as if that settles it and walks over to the jukebox and selects another song. “Crazy” by Patsy Cline. I smile at him as he waltzes toward the back of the store, pushes through the swinging doors, and disappears.

  chapter eleven

  I slide three truffles into the box, one each of peppermint, raspberry, and cinnamon. The order just said to box up anything red. I was tempted to add in some of the ancho chili ones until Jeremy tried one. His eyes started watering almost immediately and even after drinking about a gallon of water, he still can’t talk above a whisper. “How many is that?” I ask Jillian, who is helping put the little boxes into bigger boxes to be delivered later to a fund-raiser.

  “Seventy-eight,” Jillian says, tucking in another box.

  “And we need how many?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  “Two hundred and fifty,” Jillian says. Jan was happy when Jillian’s mom, who is also the president of the Umlaut Foundation, ordered boxes of truffles as favors for their fund-raiser, but Jillian’s mom keeps calling every few hours and upping the total as the RSVPs roll in.

  I hold up one of the Love Potion No. 9 truffles. “I guess these were a bust.”

  “Maybe they aren’t strong enough,” Jillian says. “Or maybe—”

  “Maybe there’s nothing strong enough to make someone love you,” I say. I brace myself for another lecture about my cynicism, but Jillian just shrugs.

  “It was worth a shot,” she says, smiling at me. I smile back. That is one of the best things about Jillian. Nothing fazes her. She’s always positive.

  I close one of the boxes and look at it before I hand it off to Jillian. An embossed silver seal with the name of the foundation is on the top. “Who is Umlaut?” I ask. “And why does he or she have a foundation?”

  Jillian smirks at me. “An Umlaut is that pair of dots that they put over letters in some German words.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “Seriously.” She starts on a new box, unfolding it and taping the bottom closed. “It’s actually not as lame as it sounds.”

  “That should be their motto. The Umlaut Foundation. We’re not as lame as we sound.”

  Jillian laughs. “They actually do some cool stuff. Every year the Umlaut Foundation features a Need to Know artist from Atlanta at their fund-raiser. Last year it was Kiki Bird.”

  “She’s the one who does the thing with the shoes, isn’t she?” I ask.

  “See?” Jillian says. “It’s a pretty big deal for an artist to be selected.”

  “Are you going?” I ask.

  Jillian rolls her eyes. “I’m trying to get out of it.”

  “It might be fun,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she says. She purses her lips and gestures toward the wall. “Excellent use of color.” She makes her voice lower. “Superb use of negative space.” She rolls her eyes at me. “These things are excruciating.”

  “Maybe the art will be good,” I say, trying to salvage something for her. “
Who is it this year?” I ask.

  Jillian shrugs. “Some painter. He does these huge landscapes with found objects.”

  I nod then look back over at her. “What’s the artist’s name?” I ask.

  “Frank something. I don’t remember.”

  “Is it Frank Wishman?” I ask.

  She nods. “How did you know?”

  I smile. I am very familiar with the paintings she’s talking about. “Frank Wishman is Charlie’s dad,” I say.