My head jerks behind me as people shuffle into the empty seats, and I catch a whiff of a familiar citrusy perfume.
I twist all the way around in my seat, dread seeping through my body.
Chelsea Blake.
I swallow hard and face forward, pulling my hands into my lap and scooting as far away from Charlie as my seat will allow.
I think I hear him whisper my name, but between the blasting trumpets and the roar in my head, I can’t be sure. I’m suddenly grateful I didn’t e-mail Mr. Diamatti’s grandson and cancel his Friday night appearance. Bring on Mr. Italian Beefcake. If I even go to Charlie’s party, that is.
Chelsea leans down, her face between us. “Hey, guys.” She smacks her gum, and it’s everything I can do not to grab her long blonde hair and pull her over the seats and onto the floor. “Charlie, thanks for the tickets. My dad really appreciates the night out.”
I turn my head where she is not in my peripheral vision and focus on the stage. I would bawl, but it’s just not worth it.
He can have her.
But he can’t have both of us.
At the end of the play, Captain Von Trapp holds his Maria close, and together, with the children, they sing. One couple finally reunited.
And another . . . definitely over.
Chapter eight
DING-DONG!
My stomach does the rumba, followed by a quick cha-cha.
He’s here. Brian Diamatti, aka Joey Farmer, is here.
God, forgive me. I know this is dishonest. But what could I do? Frances opened this can of worms.
I jump off my bed and race downstairs. I have to get to the door before James or Millie. I mean, they know he’s coming. Well, that is, they know I’m riding to the party with Frances, Nash, and a friend. If they don’t meet this friend, though, then they won’t ask questions like, “Is this a double date? I thought you liked Charlie — why are you taking a boy to his birthday party?”
After Tuesday night, I ignored Charlie for the rest of the week. He texted me and tried to talk to me at school, but I just shut him down. I don’t even want to know. Don’t care.
But if Brian is as cute in person as he is in the picture, then it will be a good dose of “in your face” for Charlie.
Halfway down the stairs, I hear the door open and Maxine’s voice.
“Why . . . hello, young man.”
I halt at the bottom step.
“Do come in.” Maxine’s voice takes on an odd airy quality. He must really be something to look at. “My granddaughter will be down shortly.”
I’m torn between savoring the moment of Maxine calling me her granddaughter — like I’m the real deal — and charging into the living room before she continues talking and says something embarrassing like, “Katie still secretly watches Hannah Montana.” Or “She has yet to pass all of her driver’s test, but third time’s a charm!”
I ease into the kitchen and head toward the foyer.
Can’t wait to see what my Date of Duplicity looks like.
“So . . . you’re Italian?” I frown at Maxine’s odd tone.
“Yes,” a voice replies in a high-pitched squeak. Aw, how cute, he’s nervous.
“Do you know George Clooney? I hear he has a villa in Italy.”
I roll my eyes and round the corner, bringing my date into view.
“I don’t live in Italy. My grandfather is Ital — Oh, hello. You must be Katie.”
And unfortunately . . . I am.
My feet freeze to the floor. The room spins and tilts around me as imminent doom closes in. Doom as in “Luke, I am your father.” Or doom as in the time I presented my book report with my pants unzipped.
Doom as in Jesus take me now.
“Um . . .” My palms sweat. “Hi?”
Before me stands Brian Diamatti, in all his five-foot, double chin, two hundred and fifty pound glory. Dark eyes squint behind glasses as thick as a car windshield.
He steps forward and grabs my hand to shake. “Nice to meet you in person.”
My tongue, heavy in my mouth, refuses to move. I can only stare.
Seriously, God, I’d like to order up one big Rapture. Or maybe one ticket just for me to the Pearly Gates because I’m looking at phase one of my own dating apocalypse right now.
I look down a full ten inches at this perspiring boy, and take my hand back. “Uh . . . uh . . . nice to . . . meet you.” Forgive me for lying. Sooo lying. “I’m crazy, er, I mean Katie! I’m Katie.”
He tosses his head back and laughs, the noise coming out in nasally honks. His lips part, revealing oversized teeth held together by shiny braces and crisscrossing rubber bands.
My eyes laser into Maxine, who for once in her life appears to be speechless. I could strangle her. But what did I expect? I can’t be mad at her for her part in something already so corrupt. I have no one but myself to blame.
You’re totally laughing right now, aren’t you, God? Great. Thanks. Glad to give you this Holy Knee Slapper moment.
Maxine clears her throat, her blue eyes still wide as bike tires. “So . . . young man . . . you’re Antonio Diamatti’s grandson?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Maxine steps closer. “Are you sure?”
He runs a small hand through his orange hair, not-so-artfully parted down the center. “Last time I checked Papa Diamatti was my grandfather, yeah.” He giggles.
Silence hangs as Maxine and I both stare and nod.
Nod and stare.
I look at her.
Help me!
She looks at me.
I don’t do miracles.
Maxine clasps her hands behind her back and pastes on a smile. “I’ve seen pictures of your brothers, Brian. You don’t . . . er . . . that is to say . . .”
“Oh, you mean we don’t look alike. Is that what you’re getting at?”
Maxine jumps on this. “Yes! Exactly.”
“Yeah, my nose is a bit smaller than my brothers’, but other than that, we might as well be triplets.” More snorts. “Which is wild because I was adopted from Canada.”
Maxine’s mouth falls.
Brian throws up his hands. “Shocking, I know.”
I nod. “Totally. Unbelievable.”
Somewhere there has to be a camera on me. Am I on America’s Funniest Home Videos? A YouTube prank?
This cannot be real.
“Well, um . . . I guess you should be going.” Maxine jerks her head toward the back door where, just beyond, James and Millie work in the yard.
I swallow hard. “You know, I don’t feel so well. I’ve been trying to fight it all day, not wanting to miss this opportunity to spend time with you, but there’s this tickling in my throat and — ”
Brian grabs my hand and sticks a warm cough drop in my palm. “Probably your allergies.” He sniffs loudly. “I’ve been having lots of drainage too.”
There is no way on God’s green earth I am walking out that door with this boy.
“Katie, tonight means so much to me.”
I can hardly find my voice. “It does?”
“See . . . my precious Felicity died last week.” He bows his head. “Killed tragically by an out-of-control car.”
I suck in my breath, shame roiling through my body.
“She was my everything. I never thought I’d be so lucky that God would bring me together with someone like her.”
“Ohh, Brian. I am so sorry.” You have no idea how sorry.
He wipes a lone tear from his cheek. “We only met last year, but she became my best friend. She loved me for who I am.”
Maxine sniffles. “You dear boy.” Her gaze latches onto mine, a look that says, Only the lowest life form would cancel this date.
“So you see . . . when Papa Diamatti called me, it was like a ray of hope. I put down my advanced soduku puzzle and said, ‘Brian, Superfly Math Stud — that’s what I call myself.’
“Of course.” I nod.
“Brian, this is like a sign. A sign from Feli
city that it’s okay to move on.”
He steps closer. “Tonight I have hope. Tonight . . . I return to life and living — and I want to thank you for that.”
Somewhere in my head violins play. Oh, the drama. How can I tell him it’s off? I am so stuck with this. My life — ruined. I will never recover from this.
“This is for you.” He holds up a corsage the size of a small shrub.
“How . . . nice.” Okay, God — lesson learned. Now let’s rewind to last Sunday. I won’t choose this path. This social-life-imploding path.
I feel like Jonah in the whale — full of ick and desperate to get out.
Brian’s voice squawks. “The carnations match your skin.”
They’re pee yellow.
He stands on tiptoe, and his hands aim straight for my —
“Okay!” I grab the corsage before he commits his first date foul. “I’ll just put this on in the car.” I smile through clenched teeth.
“Actually I brought my dad’s van tonight.” His fingers run under the collar of his starched, short-sleeve button-down. “It has a rockin’ bass.”
“Grrreat.” And the last nail in the coffin of my reputation hammers home. “Nash and Frances should be here any second.”
The back door creaks open, and I hear my foster parents’ voices.
Maxine flings open the front door. “You kids have fun. Out you go. Scoot!”
“Katie?” Millie calls from the kitchen, and the sound of her sandals follows.
She walks into the entryway, a smudge of potting soil on her cheek and a confused expression on her face. My foster mom adjusts the scarf covering her head and offers Brian her hand.
“Hello. I’m Millie Scott.” James appears behind her. “This is my husband, James. You must be Katie’s new friend.”
“Yes, I’m . . . Brian, er, I mean Joey Diamatti . . . No, I’m definitely Joey Farmer.”
Oh, here we go.
Millie quirks an eyebrow and turns to me and Maxine. “Why do I smell trouble?”
My date flushes a shade of purple. You can tell he’s a total novice at mayhem.
“This is Brian Diamatti.” I shrug and laugh lightly. “It’s a long story, but believe me” — I pin Maxine with a heavy stare — “this is Brian.” Every nerdy inch of him.
James zeroes in on his mother-in-law. “I’d like to hear this story.”
“Uh . . . you see . . .” Maxine is saved by the bell as Frances and Nash knock on the door right on time.
“I’ll have her home by eleven, Mr. Scott.” Brian pushes his grandpa glasses up his nose.
“James would prefer I come by ten. He’s strict like that.”
“Actually, your curfew is — ”
“See ya!” I silence James and push Brian toward the door, opening it to greet Frances and Nash.
“Let’s go,” I growl at my best friend. “No time for chitchat. Keep moving, keep moving.”
We’ve reached the porch when James calls me back to the door. I leave my friends openly gawking at my “hot Italian” date.
“I know you and Maxine are up to something.” He hands me some blankets for the drive-in.
I sigh. “You can trust me on this. Frances . . .” I stop myself from blaming it on someone else. “No, I wasn’t exactly honest last Sunday with Charlie about my date for this evening. It’s a huge mess. It was dishonest.” I watch the trio load into the ugliest brown van the 1970s ever coughed up. “And it has so backfired.”
James rubs a hand over his evening stubble. “Lying tends to do that.”
“I know.” I silently implore him not to intervene. “But now I can’t get out of it. It’s just snowballed.”
He peers over his own perfectly normal glasses. “Can’t get out of it?”
“The dude’s girlfriend died last week. He said I was like hope from heaven.” Or something like that. “Believe me, I’m about to commit social-life suicide here. If I could get out of this, I would.”
He lays his hand on my shoulder and gives a squeeze. “I am relying on you to do the decent thing and make this right by the time you get home.”
“Okay.”
“And that boy had better see nothing but kindness from you and your friends.”
“I know. Promise.” I pat his hand. “See you at ten.”
“Eleven.” James steps back into the house. “I have a feeling you’re going to need that extra hour.”
Chapter nine
I SLAM MY VAN DOOR shut. “You totally Photoshopped your picture.”
“What do you mean?” Brian revs up his engine. It may have a fine sound system, but who could hear over the choking noises of the motor?
“I mean your picture looked a lot like Orlando Bloom.”
Brian beams. “I am proud to say that picture was me.”
“Yeah, morphed with the photo of one very famous actor.” This is so what I deserve. “You know, maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. Perhaps — ”
“I can’t thank you enough for asking me to this party. Even if it is under dubious pretenses, I’m thrilled to be going.”
I glare at my date, who drives his van to Bubba’s Big Picture as cautiously as any senior citizen.
“Just to have a few hours in which I won’t think about . . . Felicity. You’ll never know. It’s a huge gift.”
With a sympathetic nod, I focus on breathing through my mouth so his dangling air freshener doesn’t asphyxiate me. Number one, those things never smell anything remotely like pine. And two, why would you want your car to smell like a big, tall, sappy tree?
With longing and regret in my eyes, I watch in the mirror as the familiar scenery of my neighborhood gets farther behind us. Maybe I should’ve stayed home. Millie’s been wiped out with her intense chemo this week. Probably needs my help.
For the next few minutes, I steam. And think. And inwardly freak out.
Every time I get brave and open my mouth to call off this ill-planned charade, Brian launches into another tale of Felicity. Seriously, I think the poor guy needs some grief counseling.
Frances leans forward from the back seat. “Okay, Brian, er, Joey, I should say. Just to review, be vague about how you met. Say something about Maxine and your grandpa. No elaborate stories though.”
Yeah, because we wouldn’t want to lie.
“And you and Katie are just friends, but you want to make it clear you are really into her.”
Brian’s eyes rove my way. “I can do that.”
“Do you have any last minute questions?” Frances asks.
“No. I think I’ve got it. My name is Joey Farmer. We met through our grandparents. And we’re friends, but I should subtly make it known I’m interested in her.”
Right. And no snorting.
“I think he’s going to do just fine, Katie.”
Of course. Now if only I could snap my fingers and turn him into a six-foot-tall hunk. I glance over at him. He tries to engage Nash in a conversation about a computer game, then sticks his hand out the window to signal a turn. A half-mile before the street.
Yeah, Charlie’s really gonna be jealous of this. Look out. He’ll probably feel so threatened, he’ll want to fight Brian for me.
“Sure, I play some video games. My favorite is Guitar Hero. Love that one. How about you?” Nash calls from the back.
“Never heard of it,” Brian says.
“How about some Madden?”
My date shakes his head. “Who?”
I sink into my brown seat. Let’s just get this over with. Quickly.
Brian navigates the beastly van down the drive that leads to Bubba’s Big Picture. We wave at Wanda Carlson, who has worked the ticket booth since before she had grandchildren, and she waves us on through. I’m glad Charlie rented out the drive-in tonight so there’s no awkward “who pays” moment.
We cruise on through, and I fight to catch my breath as something clutches at my chest.
I think it’s humiliation.
“Brian, when Ch
arlie asks about playing in Nash’s band, just tell him you’re off duty tonight.”
He turns off the engine and pushes his door open. “Fear not, my fake date.” His smile does nothing to soothe me. “I happen to be able to rock out with the best of them.”
“That’s great, but I don’t want you to — ” With the slam of his door, I’m cut off. I reach for my door handle, but it won’t budge. My breath catches. I’m stuck in here. I’m stuck in this stinky, carpet-lined van. Get me out. Must . . . get . . . out . . .
“Push on the door.” Brian yells from the other side.
I lean into it, but nothing gives.
“Push harder!”
I push until I’m grunting like a body builder.
Then I rear back and heave myself into the door, pulling the handle with all my might. “The stupid thing won’t — ”
I feel myself dropping as the door releases, emptying me to free-fall.
Right on Brian.
“Oomph!”
We both tumble to the ground.
“Well, aren’t you two cute?”
I lift my head and see Chelsea Blake standing over us. And next to her — the birthday boy himself, Charlie.
I shove myself off Brian as Chelsea’s giggles echo in my ear. “I um . . . uh . . .” I can’t think of a thing to say. I turn to my left and see Frances, and I beg her with my eyes to intercede.
“Happy birthday, Charlie!” She engulfs him in a friendly hug as I help a stunned Brian up from the ground. “This is our friend . . . Joey Farmer. Joey, meet Charlie and Chelsea.”
Brian dusts his hands off on his black jeans, rights his glasses, then smiles his rubber-bandy smile. “Nice to meet you. Hey, you two are a cute couple.”
My face falls. What?
Chelsea giggles some more. “Oh, that’s so sweet. Did you hear that, Charlie?” She tosses her blonde hair. “I’m so glad you’re here, Joey.” Her words are for my date, but her eyes are on me. “You guys are cute too.”
Oh. My. Gosh. If she were a cat, she’d be purring.
Charlie frowns.
At least I think he frowned. Please tell me that was a look of unhappiness that crossed his face at the mention of Brian, er, Joey, being my boyfriend.
The Big Picture Page 6