by Lisa Aldin
“You aren’t being paid to be yourself,” I say. “You’re being paid to be a polite Republican gentleman. Who would never stick old chewing gum underneath his desk.”
Ollie tugs at his ear. Emma, curious, checks out the bottom of his desk. Her shiny hair flips as she bends over. She straightens, smiling. “Quite a collection you’ve got there.”
“I don’t have time to clean.” Ollie turns away, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “Can we just get this over with so I can get paid?”
Emma returns to the closet and holds up a white shirt and a pair of khaki pants. “These are perfect,” she says. “Now go change.”
Ollie takes the clothes, grumbles under his breath again, and disappears into his bathroom. When he shuts the door, Emma and I exchange a look, both shaking our heads.
“Is he always like that?” she whispers.
“He’s undergoing some changes.” Plus, he sort of hates me right now.
Distracted, I check my watch. Forty-five minutes until Ollie is expected at Lemon’s front door, prepared to schmooze her parents. He’ll need at least twenty minutes to drive across town.
I bang on the bathroom door. “We don’t have all night!”
A muffled “shut up!” sounds through the door. I flip off the door with both hands. Emma opens a drawer on Ollie’s desk and shuffles through the junk inside.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Snooping.” She opens the next drawer, humming softly.
“Why?” I think back to when I left her alone in my room while I changed into my Halloween costume. Did she snoop through my stuff, too?
“I’m curious.” Emma tosses a bouncy ball in the air and places it back in the drawer. “We should know everything we can about our employees, don’t you think?”
“Ollie’s a good guy,” I say. “Mostly.”
Emma’s eyes widen when she opens the bottom drawer. “Bingo,” she says, dangling a black notebook between her fingers. It doesn’t look familiar.
“What is that?” I ask, approaching.
She flips through the pages and says, “Ollie’s thoughts. For the taking.” When the bathroom door squeaks open, she slams the notebook shut and tucks the journal in the back of her jeans as she stands up. Is she crazy? Ollie’s going to flip out if he catches her going through his private stuff like that. Another thought: Ollie has a journal?
He walks out of the bathroom with his arms stretched to the side. “I look like a freak,” he says with a sour expression.
In reality, he doesn’t look too bad. The shirt is wrinkled around the bottom, but all he needs to do is tuck that in to hide it. His tie hangs to the side and his hair appears like wisps of black smoke atop his head. The toothpaste is still on the corner of his mouth. Emma gets to work smoothing out the rough edges, starting with the tie.
“I tied it right,” he says. “I’m not an idiot.”
“Let me do my work.” Emma stands an inch from his face.
Ollie looks away, his cheeks reddening. This is more the Ollie I know, not the one at the party. Ollie’s sort of nervous around girls. When Emma unbuttons the khakis, Ollie jumps back, startled.
“What are you doing?” he stammers. “I don’t move that fast…”
Emma giggles. “Just tuck in your shirt, okay?”
Ollie sighs and tucks in the shirt. Emma circles him. She smooths the blazer around the shoulders, picks off a piece of lint, and attempts to flatten his hair.
“I want my money now,” he says.
“You’ll get your cut when the date is complete,” I say, losing patience. “If Lemon isn’t happy with your performance, she will get a full refund. No one gets paid yet. This is a team effort.”
As Ollie yanks at the tie, Emma slaps his hand away, straightening it again.
“What if she falls in love with me?” Ollie glances at Emma.
I smirk. “You’re not her type.”
Emma disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a tissue. She wipes away the toothpaste on Ollie’s mouth. “I’m not a kid!” he whines.
“Are you sure? You kind of act like one,” she says, smiling. Ollie just stares at her, speechless. Good. Someone who can shut him up.
I clap once and say, “It’s time! Here we go! Rent-a-Gent is officially in business!”
Ollie grabs his keys. “I’m only doing this for money to go to Colorado. You know. To leave this place.”
He stomps out the door. I stand there, annoyed, until Emma whispers, “Like you wouldn’t want to know what’s going on inside his head?” She dangles the journal in front of my face.
“Put it back,” I whisper. “He’ll notice that’s missing.”
“Not in this mess. Besides, this one’s full. It’s old.” She slides the journal into the back of her jeans and saunters out of the room. I follow, too exhausted to protest. As we watch the red VW Bug pull out of the driveway, Emma and I exchange nervous glances.
Now we wait.
thirteen
HOURS LATER, MY STOMACH ACHES from laughing so hard, my nails glitter with pink, and my hair rests in dainty waves over the shoulders of my Mario Brothers T-shirt. All side-effects from hanging out with Emma Elizabeth Swanson. A warning label should come with this girl.
My feet folded underneath me, I sit on my bedroom floor and lean against my desk chair. I nervously toss my phone from hand to hand. A clump of Junior Mints is stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“This must be a good sign,” Emma says, checking her watch. “It’s almost midnight. No bad news. Yet.” She’s sprawled on her back across my black comforter, her head hanging over the edge as she looks at my room upside down. The ends of her hair tickle the floor and the collar of her pale green cotton pajamas brushes her cheeks.
After sending him off like a mother waving her kid off to prom, there has been no word from Ollie. Waiting is agony, and I keep picturing him yelling at me. “When are you gonna grow up, Tonya?”
I pull my knees to my chest and rest my scratched chin on them.
“We should have checkin times,” I say, locking away the resentment toward Ollie. For now. “We need a text or something letting us know that all is well in Fake Date Land. What if he got kidnapped or something? What if Lemon got kidnapped?”
“Please. This is Vermont.” Emma tosses a Junior Mint into the air and catches it with her mouth. Impressive that she doesn’t choke. “Something tells me Ollie can take care of himself. He may not have time to text. He’s got to be alert and prepared for anything. Lemon’s gonna be too distracted to call. Hey, is that his real name? Ollie?”
“Luke.” Again, I think of the four names scratched into the wooden dock. I lift my head up. “Ollie’s a nickname. We all have them.”
Emma turns on her belly. “We?”
“Oh. My friends…” Can I still call them that? “Ollie, Cowboy, Loch, and McRib. The kids of Newbury Lane. Well, we used to be anyway.”
The pink drains from her face as Emma flips right side up again. “I want a nickname. I’ve never had one.”
“Not even when you were a kid?” I dig my toes into the carpet.
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
“Well, what do you want to be called?” I tilt my head.
“You can’t give yourself a nickname.” Emma sighs dramatically. “Someone else has to choose it for you or it doesn’t count.”
As I’m about to suggest Peach or Princess, the bedroom door creaks open and my gut jerks. Loch mentioned he might stop by after work. His shift ended an hour ago.
Not that I’m keeping track of him or anything.
Four black paws stalk into the room. Tom Brady the cat enters with an air of pride, his chin raised high, his tail gracefully moving back and forth as he walks. He stops, gives me a look, and jumps on the bed. He curls up next to Emma.
“Hey there, pretty kitty.” Emma runs her hand down Brady’s back. The cat looks at me with slit eyes as he purrs. He makes no attempt to bite Emma
. In fact, he rubs his head along her hand, putting on quite the love-show.
“The old jealousy tactic,” a voice says from the doorway.
Loch crosses his arms across his white button-down shirt. He smiles as he kicks off his shoes, grabs a bag of chips, and sits down beside me. I’m so, so happy he’s here. I resist the urge to hug him. He offers me the bag of chips. I stuff a handful into my mouth. My palms are slick with sweat, but I can’t figure out why. Is Loch the cause? Makes no sense. He’s the most familiar and stable presence in my life. He shouldn’t conjure nerves.
Emma sits up, disturbing Tom Brady’s resting place. The cat curls up on my pillow. Great. I can look forward to cat hair in my face later. Emma runs her fingers through her hair, straightens her pajamas, and bounces off the bed. She lands with a thud on the pale pink carpet. She raises her index finger and says, “I’ll be right back. Bathroom.” She’s out the door and down the hall before anyone can respond.
Loch’s eyes move to my nails. “Did I interrupt a magical girl ritual?”
I sit on my hands, hiding the evidence. “I know nothing of magical girl rituals. This is a business meeting.”
Loch shifts his weight, pressing his shoulder against mine. I don’t move. I don’t want to move. The air warms like cider on a stove. Loch wiggles his toes. He’s wearing one black sock and one white sock. “How did Ollie’s fake date go?” he asks.
“Still going.” The chair wobbles behind me as I move my feet. My heels tingle with the promise of sleep. Loch catches the chair before it topples over.
As I’m about to thank him, Emma reappears as quickly as she vanished, dressed in a pair of jeans and a black blouse. Hair perfect. Lips glossed. “Opening night is a smashing success, Micah,” she says, strutting into the room. “Toni Valentine’s Rent-a-Gent Service is off to a good start.”
“Catchy name.” He stares at her for way too long. “No need to get dressed for me.”
Is he checking her out?
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
“Vanity is futile here, Emma. It’s just Loch,” I say, attempting to sound casual and normal despite my disgusting palm sweat.
Loch slugs me on the shoulder. I steal the bag of potato chips, but he snatches it back. I punch him in the shoulder this time, nearly breaking my hand. I might as well have punched a brick wall. Loch grins victoriously. I pout, too nervous to continue. He gives me a what’s-with-you look.
Emma flops back down on the bed. Tom Brady opens his eyes, annoyed again. One more disturbance and he will leave.
“I had to at least put on a bra,” Emma says.
Loch almost chokes on a potato chip. His neck reddens. I seize the opportunity and chant, “Bra. Bra. Bra. Bra. Bra.”
“Stop it!” He presses his hands to his ears.
“What’d I do?” Emma asks, mortified.
I laugh and explain. “Certain words make Loch uncomfortable. Bra. Tampon. Pianist.”
“Pianist?” Emma lounges on her side, laughing. She twirls a strand of honey hair around her index finger.
“I can’t explain it.” Loch shakes his head and wipes his greasy hands on his jeans. “I have no control over the physical reactions that take place when I hear certain terms. It’s a mystery. Anyway, I thought this was a business meeting. Ollie. Date. Money? Remember? Money?”
Emma shrugs. “No news is good news.”
“We don’t know that.” I turn to Loch. “No word from Ollie. Or Lemon. Nada.”
“Do you think they got kidnapped?” Loch asks.
“Do people get kidnapped around here or something?” Emma sits up. “Is this, like, a real concern?”
Something vibrates. I check my phone, but it’s not producing the sound. Loch munches on some chips, unconcerned because he rarely uses his cell. He prefers to remain eternally disconnected, as nature intended. He once told me he only uses it to text me. I wipe my sweaty palm on the carpet.
Emma scrambles to snatch her phone from the floor and flips it open. Her expression changes from bubbly to stricken. She looks at me. “It’s him.”
“Ollie?” I straighten up, tense. This could be it. The beginning or the end of the business.
She shakes her head. “Kevin. I’ll, um, be right back.”
Emma hurries to the hallway and closes the bedroom door behind her. Loch slumps against my desk, rubbing his neck. “Kevin,” he says. “The boyfriend.”
“The ex-boyfriend,” I correct, licking chip grease from my fingers.
He nods. “As it should be.”
Why do you care about Emma’s ex-boyfriend? I cringe. “Why’s that good?”
“The guy’s an ass,” Loch says with a shrug. “She can do better.”
Again, the image of Emma and Loch kissing at Ollie’s party flashes in my head. Each time, I swear it gets more vivid. Her lips. His lips. Together. I push the image away and fidget with the string on my sweatpants.
I need to chill out. Change like this can be good. Change doesn’t mean losing my best friend to a pretty new friend with perfect hair.
Emma’s muffled voice floats through the doorway. She sounds calm and controlled, like she’s scolding a five-year-old.
I decide to ask, instead of torturing myself with possibilities. The imagination is far worse than anything in reality. The words drop out slow, like dripping honey, but taste bitter, not sweet.
“So do you want to date Emma or something?” I stretch out my legs and wiggle my feet.
Loch searches the bag for the tasty whole chips, skipping the crumbles, which are my favorite. He chomps down on a chip. I can’t stop wiggling my feet. He’s the slowest eater on the planet.
“Well, I should move on from She-Who-ShallNot-Be-Named,” he says. “And Emma’s cute.”
The word cute settles into my head like a bird’s nest. It won’t leave and seems to keep multiplying, growing louder and louder in my head. Of course I want Loch to move on from She-Who-Shall-NotBe-Named, but is Emma the best rebound? Emma is sweet but also a bit intense. He needs someone dependable, comfortable, and predictable. Someone who won’t play games.
“You shouldn’t rush anything.” I say, praying he doesn’t start asking me details about Emma. What’s her favorite color? What’s her favorite flower? Does she have plans this weekend? I can play the role of matchmaker for fake dates. Not real ones. Fake is safer. I can control fake.
“Listen.” Loch places the bag of chips on my cluttered desk. “I want to thank you. So: thank you.”
I fidget with my phone, grateful for the change in subject. “For what?”
“For being so cool about my situation.” He frowns. “The guys have been giving me a hard time for working so much. I think they’re both pissed about it.”
I don’t know what to say. Maybe I’m not the only one alienated from the group because of circumstances out of my control.
Emma returns, brushing a strand of honey hair from her eye. “I have news,” she says, breathless.
“Are you back with Kevin?” I ask. Please say yes. If you’re back with Kevin, Loch can’t date you. If Loch can’t date you, life remains simple and familiar.
“Forget about Kevin.” She waves her hand. “Lemon texted me.”
My heart jumps up my throat. I accidentally bump Loch’s elbow. He slumps farther to the floor, inches away from resting his head on my shoulder.
Did Ollie screw up? Did he freak out Lemon’s parents? Did he ruin her chances of leaving her house again? Did he forever taint me as the new girl with poisonous public school friends? Will I be tortured at school for this? Will this ruin my chances at college? Will this ruin my whole life?
A splendid little smile spreads across Emma’s glossed lips. “She wants to book him for the rest of the year,” she says. “We’re officially in business, Toni Valentine.”
For a moment, I thinks she’s joking. But when she starts jumping around the room, squealing, I join her, surprised at my own brand of hyper. Ollie didn’t scre
w this up! Woohoo! Loch chills on the floor, applauding like a rich gentleman. I spin around the room and fall onto my bed, composing myself as I remember who I am.
I don’t squeal. I don’t giggle. I don’t spin around the room with unharnessed joy.
Tom Brady the cat jumps up from the pillow, turns his nose to the air, and scurries out of the room as I settle down and clap like a gentleman, too.
fourteen
“DO YOU HAVE PLANS FOR Christmas, Tonya?” Mrs. Kemper asks.
This is the last group session before winter break, and all I can think about is which boy I should choose for my latest client, Carrie Sanders, a girl at my lunch table who needs to prove to her older sister that the imaginary boyfriend she invented does, in fact, exist. Loch is booked through the New Year. It’s a toss-up between Cowboy and Ollie.
“Family. Dinner. The usual,” I reply, remembering to cross my ankles as I sink lower into the arm chair. Flames crackle in the fireplace. We each hold a mug of warm cider, a special treat from Mrs. Kemper today. I don’t mention that I hate Christmas because Dad’s not here anymore. The holiday gives me hives, but I don’t say that because I don’t want to deal with the sympathy.
Thanks to Lemon’s glowing recommendation, business has picked up over the last few weeks. Word of mouth is a powerful thing. By Thanksgiving, Toni Valentine’s Rent-a-Gent Service was officially in business. To start, we’re employing Loch, Ollie, and Cowboy, but we may need more guys down the road.
One critique for Ollie: Don’t fall asleep while waiting in the car again. We need updates so we know that no one’s been kidnapped. Other than that, the guy did good on his date. He told Lemon’s parents everything they wanted to hear. He harbored Yale ambitions. He respected Lemon. He would have her home at a decent hour. After five minutes with him, Lemon’s parents trusted Ollie enough to keep their daughter out past curfew, as long as she checked in with them on the hour. Brian would never trust a teenage boy he had just met like that. He barely trusts Loch.
“Ryan hates the holidays,” Shauna says.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Kemper says, rubbing her temples as Shauna continues talking about the love of her life.
Something tells me the administration would not approve of Rent-a-Gent. They wouldn’t care that our business helps needy souls hide behind the safety of false doors, giving them permission to pursue their passions. I’m thinking about making that our slogan.