The Sweetest Thing

by J. Minter

  “He smiled at you,” said Meredith. “Adam McGregor smiled at you. And then he looked at you with his sensitive eyes like he knew your very soul.”

  “Oh, Meredith, he did not!” I reached up and touched my cheeks, which were kind of flushed.

  “Well, he checked you out, that’s for sure.” Judith stared at me accusingly. “Why didn’t you tell us you were friends?”

  “He wasn’t checking me out, Judith. And we’re not friends. We’re lab partners.” I tapped my textbook like it was evidence for my case. “For biology.”

  “He’s your lab partner?” they both squeaked in unison.

  I slapped my forehead. “Look, I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you guys would flip out. Now stop it, okay? You promised. And grilling me about this guy totally counts as breaking the No Adam Rule.”

  “Sure, and having joint custody of a tadpole doesn’t?” Judith grumbled.

  “Judith, we’re sharing a microscope, not a martini at the Carlyle.” I said with finality.

  Meredith let out a little lovesick sigh, and they both went back to their homework. I set the biology textbook aside—I’d already spent way too much time thinking about Bogie the tadpole and, yes, Adam—and picked up my English book instead. I flipped to the assigned story, but before I even got through the first page, Meredith asked, a little too casually, “So, has Adam talked at all about what kind of books he likes to read? Just out of curiosity?”

  “Meredith …” I warned her.

  “I was just wondering, that’s all,” she said defensively. “I mean, for future reference, I want to know if I’m a good judge of what a guy is like. It seemed to me like he had the heart of a poet, so I was just wondering if I was right.”

  I rolled my eyes. Heart of a poet? She needed to stop renting all those costume dramas from the video store.

  “Listen, it’s not like he’s poured his heart out to me. Mainly we just study this frog, okay? And he’s not making up haikus on the spot about its webbed feet or the flakes of food we feed it.”

  Meredith looked back at her economics worksheet so sadly that I almost told her about how much Adam liked Hemingway and old movies. But it would’ve only encouraged her to obsess about him more.

  “While we’re on the subject of Adam—and for the record, I didn’t bring it up,” Judith added sharply to Meredith, who had just opened her mouth to protest, “I was just wondering if you two ever talked about me.”

  This time I refused to look up from my book. “No, Judith, we haven’t.”

  “Now, come on. I’m not going to make a big deal about it. I just want to know what he said about me. For my own peace of mind.” She tucked a pencil behind one ear. “I’d appreciate your honesty.”

  “Okay. Honestly, we’ve never talked about you. Not even once. If something’s not green and slimy, you can pretty much bet we’ve never discussed it.”

  Judith looked crestfallen. “He never asked about me? Doesn’t he know we’re friends? Because when he talked to me about the weather that time, it seemed like he really wanted—”

  I shook my head emphatically. It’s always so weird talking to Meredith and Judith about guys. They always have these elaborate love affairs going on in their daydreams, and then they act all confused when, in real life, the guy in question has no clue what’s going on. Not only had Adam never asked me about Judith, but I kind of doubted he even remembered their supposedly meaningful conversation. That seemed like a pretty harsh thing to point out, so I decided to change the subject instead. I stood up and looked down over the ledge of the roof, into the street below. A bunch of the shops and apartment buildings had haystacks and jack-o’-lanterns sitting on their stoops. One creative person had balanced a papier-mâché witch on a broomstick out on the rail of a fire escape.

  “I can’t believe it’s almost Halloween already,” I said. “Are you guys going to the Halloween parade?”

  Fortunately for me, Meredith took the bait right away. “Oh, absolutely. My mom and grandma have been taking me every year since I was little. They get tons of ideas for designs from the costumes.”

  “We should all go to the parade together this year,” I suggested. “Judith? You in?”

  Judith set down her calculator. She still looked peeved, but she tried to match Meredith’s enthusiasm. “Sure. It’ll be … fun.”

  As the two of them started talking about what kind of costumes we should wear—fishnets and smoky eye makeup seemed to figure into every ensemble—I let myself sneak one last look at Adam. He was drinking neon green Gatorade from a bottle, and his hair had almost dried in the sunshine. I tried to tell myself that I was keeping Meredith and Judith away from him for their own good, but it was hard not feeling like a hypocrite. Who was I to enforce the No Adam Rule when I was developing a soft spot for the guy myself?

  CHAPTER 15

  CUPCAKES, COSTUMES, AND CYNTHIA ROWLEY

  Bright and early Saturday morning I went off to go shopping with SBB. Since she moved in next door, it’s kind of become a tradition of ours. At first, she needed things for the house—like towels and bath mats and sheets—because she considered everything from her old apartment to be contaminated with bad energy and allergens and other things that made her wake up screaming from nightmares. More recently, she’s needed clothes for photo shoots, new sunglasses, and a pillbox to hold all her anti-anxiety drugs, which she stopped taking a week later because she said she “couldn’t think.” That morning, though, we were shopping for the most fun thing of all: Halloween costumes.

  I figured we’d go to someplace like Halloween Adventure or Abracadabra Superstore, but Sara-Beth Benny had other plans.

  “I’m sure those places are super, super cute, Flan, but they sell fake barf and whoopee cushions. And those little black-and-white saddle shoes like Gwen Stefani used to wear when she was still in No Doubt.” SBB shivered at the memory.

  “So where are we going?” I asked.

  “Let’s try Ina first—they have the best vintage clothing. Wouldn’t it be wild if I were a zombie queen from the seventies?” Sara-Beth checked her BlackBerry. “Oh my God, this is horrible, horrible, horrible!” She frantically pushed little buttons as we walked along Perry Street.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s just too terrible for words!” Somehow, this didn’t stop Sara-Beth from rapidly typing on her tiny keypad. “My new decorator, Yvette St. Lucien, hasn’t been able to find the watered silk curtains I wanted. She’s been searching all over Paris!”

  “Paris?” I asked as we turned onto Bleecker. I peered into the Marc Jacobs accessory store—there was a cute elephant key chain in the window—and at the line of people waiting outside Magnolia for cupcakes.

  “Of course. You know, I didn’t realize this until a couple of days ago, but did you know that if you want really high-quality materials, you have to go over to Europe and get them yourself? Yvette explained the whole thing to me, so of course I put her on the next plane. But now it looks like it’s all been a big waste of time!” Sara-Beth scrutinized her little screen. “Oh, wait, she just texted me. Wait … wait … she found them after all!” She shut off her BlackBerry and held one hand to her forehead, like she was about to swoon. “This is such a relief. I really didn’t want to wait another week while she tromped all around Venice.”

  “Why do you want these curtains so much?” We passed a leafless tree that had cute mini pumpkins with painted smiley faces dangling from the branches.

  “Well, I haven’t seen them myself, because they only have them in certain very exclusive boutiques overseas, but Yvette tells me they’re the very best—the same kind that were hanging in Versailles when Sofia Coppola shot her Marie Antoinette movie. And you have to trust a Frenchwoman in matters of taste—I mean, it’s absolutely in their blood.”

  “Yvette is French?”

  “I think so. Or French Canadian.” She waved the question away with her birdlike hands. Then she grabbed my arm and pulled me along beh
ind her as she made a beeline for Cynthia Rowley.

  “What about Ina?” I gasped, trying to keep up. But Sara-Beth just rushed over to a high-necked red silk dress that was hanging on the back wall.

  “Isn’t this hideous?” she shrieked. “Imagine it with stilettos. It’s totally, totally something from the depths of hell.”

  “Can I help you?” a saleslady asked, stepping briskly from behind the counter. Her hair was swirled up into this kind of tornado of hairspray, and she had on such dark eye shadow that, even if she hadn’t been glaring at us, she would’ve looked a little bit like an evil arch-villain from one of Bennett’s favorite superhero comics. After one look at her, I was ready to get out of there. But Sara-Beth had already veered over to another clothing rack.

  “Thanks, we’re just browsing,” I said sheepishly, and slunk over to where Sara-Beth stood, pawing at a black-and-white patterned tube dress with multicolored ruffles around the middle.

  “This is like something from my pod nightmare.” She picked the hanger up and held the dress to herself for size. “It’s absolutely schizophrenic! A psychotic clown suit.”

  “It seems like you ladies are looking for something in particular,” said the salesgirl, following us across the room. Her arms were crossed, and I noticed that the top she had on was made from same fabric of the dress that had now reduced Sara-Beth to tears of laughter.

  “We’re just shopping for Halloween costumes,” Sara-Beth exclaimed. “And it looks like you’ve got a whole store full of them. Ooh!” She seized a white pleated skirt from a nearby clothing rack and swung it around, making ghost noises.

  “I’m afraid we don’t carry anything like that,” the salesgirl said, touching the oversize beads of her chunky rainbow-colored necklace.

  “You must be joking! This place is insane!” Sara-Beth spotted something else she wanted to look at—probably a metallic silver minidress that looked a little like a skimpy spacesuit—but the saleslady stepped in her way before she could dart over to grab it.

  “You might want to try another establishment.” The girl smiled, fake-nice and condescending. “There’s a Duane Reade down the street. If you hurry, they might have some Dora the Explorer outfits left.”

  “Excuse me? Do you even know who I am?” For someone who’s always hiding from the paparazzi, Sara-Beth asks that question a lot. She straightened up, draping the little white skirt over her arm. But either the saleslady didn’t know or didn’t care. She gave Sara-Beth a once-over.

  “Actually,” she said, “I take that back. You don’t need a costume at all. You can just wear light brown and go as a toothpick.”

  Sara-Beth burst into tears. “You horrible, horrible woman! How dare you make fun of my metabolism! Come on, Flan, let’s get out of here!”

  The saleslady smirked. I shot her a nasty look as I followed Sara-Beth out of the store.

  “How could she speak to me like that?” she demanded, storming down the street. Trying to keep up with her, I almost tripped over someone’s little dachshund. “It’s not my fault I have small bones!”

  “She was pretty awful,” I agreed. Sara-Beth had been loud and kind of rude, but the toothpick remark was still totally uncalled-for.

  “I eat! I eat all the time!” Sara-Beth looked at me angrily, as if daring me to contradict her. “Come on, Flan, let’s get a cupcake right now!”

  So the two of us walked down the street to Magnolia Bakery. I could already smell the sugar from half a block away. Magnolia Bakery is a really cute bakery, and they’re open pretty late—more than once I’d been there at eleven-fifteen, waiting in line with February for an icebox cake and two coffees. Of course, that was before she became a total psycho dictator over my personal life. Anyway, Magnolia Bakery is famous for its cupcakes, which are sweet and fluffy and just about everything you can hope for. They’re so popular there’s actually a limit of one dozen per person. We grabbed two pale pink–frosted ones from the counter and paid.

  As we turned the corner onto West Eleventh Street, Sara-Beth still seemed upset about the toothpick remark, so I started talking about whatever I could think of to take her mind off it. I started describing Bogie, the tadpole, and how cute he was with his bugged-out eyes and weird little tail, how he bumped his nose up against the side of the jar when he wanted to say hello, and how I thought he’d already started to recognize Adam and me. Which got me talking about Adam and how good he was with animals, and how now even Bennett thought he was a great guy—which was great, sort of, but kind of weird too. Before I knew it, I was complaining about how Meredith and Judith were so obsessed with him that it was practically destroying their friendship.

  “I mean, they keep acting all competitive with each other—they were even jealous of me, just because Adam and I were saying hi to each other up on the roof. It’s totally out of control. Really, no guy is worth throwing away your friendship over. Even if he is handsome … and friendly … and athletic … and, okay, funny and generous and good with animals—there’s still no way I’d ever go after someone like him if it meant ditching Meredith and Judith. Even if he does like to read and watch old movies …”

  I trailed off, because Sara-Beth Benny had stopped in her tracks. For a second, I thought she’d spotted a paparazzo and we were going to have to run and hide behind a parked car or something. But instead she just stared at me. She’d taken one bite of her cupcake, but now she let the rest of it fall dramatically into the street.

  “Oh. My. God,” she said.

  “What?” I finished my cupcake and wiped icing from my lips.

  “Flan, why didn’t you tell me?” Sara-Beth seized my arm. Her fingers dug into my skin.

  “Why didn’t I tell you what?”

  “You’re in love with Adam!”

  “What? No way!” I protested.

  “It’s so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.” Sara-Beth threw her arms around me exuberantly. “I’m so sorry! I’m the first to admit that I can be a tiny bit self-involved. I’ve been so wrapped up in this decorating business. …”

  I shook my head and tried to laugh it off. My heart was racing so fast I felt like it might explode. “Listen, Sara-Beth, I’m not in love with Adam. It just doesn’t make any sense. I have a great boyfriend, remember? And Meredith and Judith—”

  “Flan, you’re so silly.” Sara-Beth grabbed my hands. “Love is absolutely not supposed to make sense! It’s crazy, crazy, crazy. That’s why they call it love.” She linked her arm through mine and began tugging me down the street. “Now I see we’ll have to go a whole other direction with your costume—historical. You could be … oh, what’s-her-name, King Arthur’s wife.”

  “Guinevere,” I said. I couldn’t help smiling, imagining what kind of bizarre getup SBB would have me wear.

  “Yes, that’s her!” She smiled dreamily. “And Adam can be your knight in shining armor. Or you could be that other one, that poor Russian lady who threw herself on the train tracks for love. I know a wonderful, wonderful makeup artist who can make it look exactly like your head was severed and reattached. It’s mostly a question of fake blood and glue and railroad spikes … unless you’d rather be that pilgrim lady from The Scarlet Letter!”

  I laughed. “I’m not sure I want to wear buckles on my shoes all night.”

  “Ooh, and they had those ugly bonnets, too. Good thinking, Flan—we need to make you look cute. But, anyway, this will be so much fun.”

  As Sara-Beth kept chattering, I bit my lip and stared into the windows of the stores we were passing. Even an eyeglass outlet had a Halloween-themed display. I was glad SBB was wrong about Adam and me, because if I did have a crush on him, the holiday would be a total disaster. So would the rest of the school year, most likely.

  Sara-Beth and I wandered all over the place looking for dresses. After about four hours of searching, she finally found a crazy black, Renaissance-fair-looking gown at this awesome punk place, Trash and Vaudeville, in the East Village. And even though they
were covered with safety pins and tattoos, the salespeople there were a million times friendlier than the lady in Cynthia Rowley. They suggested a good alterations place where we could go to get Sara-Beth’s dress made small enough, and they even took her picture to hang on the wall before we left the shop.

  Sara-Beth was meeting Philippa and Liesel at the Rose Bar up by Gramercy Park for drinks, and I had to get home to get ready for the football game, so we split up around six o’clock. But as I climbed the steps to my town house, I was still thinking about our conversation. I’d tried to laugh it off, but it was really starting to bother me. Did I like Adam?

  As a friend, of course. Yes, he was charming and definitely cute, but it was Bennett, with his great sense of humor and his hipster tastes, who was perfect for me. Sure I was curious about what costume Adam would choose for Halloween, but it was Bennett who I actually wanted to hang out with on Halloween … right?

  CHAPTER 16

  GETTING IN THE SPIRIT

  Meredith, Judith, and I were meeting that night at the stadium. I’d e-mailed Bennett about the plan and he’d written back that he’d come by around seven to pick me up. When I came to the door, he was wearing a leprechaun T-shirt that said KISS ME, I’M IRISH.

  “Hey, Bennett,” I said, grabbing Noodles before he careened out of the house. “You want to come in for a second?”

  “No, we better get going. You have everything?” “Sure.” I glanced into the hallway mirror and gave myself a quick once-over. I hadn’t gotten a Halloween costume yet, but I had bought some new clothes. When we were wandering around SoHo, Sara-Beth had insisted we go into Betsey Johnson, and I’d bought a cute new dress, which was teal with little yellow roses all over it. I’d also gotten this fuzzy yellow sweater from an awesome little vintage shop just a few blocks away from my house. At first, I figured my new outfit wouldn’t look too dressy for a football game if I wore sneakers, but then I decided I might as well wear my heels too. I’d gotten all dressed up, but then, fortunately, sanity had reclaimed me at the last minute, and I’d changed into jeans and a Stuy tank top, but I decided to keep on my strappy sandals … just in case. I shrugged on a blue cardigan and grabbed my purse. “What’s up?”