Twin one snorts. “Yeah, Mom won’t turn her head to look at him because she’s afraid Monsignor would catch her not paying attention.”
In the midst of their family squabble, my stomach sends a loud and clear message, deciding to accept the breakfast invitation without consulting my brain.
“Um …” I look to Andy for help. He grins, knowing full well how easily food entices me.
“Mom’s waffles are the best in town,” he says, with a touch of pride.
“Oh. Well. If you don’t mind an extra person.” I’ve never eaten an actual homemade waffle. My mother and I are Eggo connoisseurs.
“The more, the merrier,” Dr. Kosolowski says. Behind his bifocals, his blue eyes crinkle when he grins, exactly like Andy’s. I convince myself I’m suffering the effects of low blood sugar.
“I’m not really dressed,” I say, still hesitating.
“Don’t worry, Thadie. I’m ditching this dreth as thoon as I get home,” little Andyette chirps, her voice whistling through the gap in her mouth where two front teeth are missing. Everyone laughs.
“Okay, then. Uh, sure. I’ll come. Who can resist waffles?”
“I’ll help Sadie check out and walk her to our house.” Andy steps away from his family. “In case she doesn’t remember where we live.”
“Of course I remember,” I say. As if I could ever forget. His house is only a few blocks from downtown Harmony, across the invisible line separating those of us with tiny living spaces from those with huge Victorian-style estates situated on acres of wooded property. Kosolowski Manor is practically a landmark. Actually, I think it was recently designated a historical structure. I bet George Washington slept in Andy’s bedroom or something like that.
“So, do you always go food shopping together?” I ask, as he lopes along beside me on the way to the dairy aisle. My question must startle him out of some ultra-intelligent daydream because he takes a minute to answer.
“Oh, um, not really. Mom wanted to stop at the market since it’s on our way home from church.”
“Wow. I can see who wears the pants in your family.”
Andy grins. “She’s the boss.”
Apparently fearing I may bail on breakfast, he stands guard while I buy time carefully selecting a gallon of milk. I reach all the way in the back of the dairy case for the one with the furthest expiration date, allowing cool air to brush over my warm cheeks.
By this point, I’m having difficulty remembering why I even left my apartment.
I heft a gallon from the back row, trying not to bend forward too much when I feel my sweatshirt riding up my back. As soon as I drop the milk into my plastic basket, Andy reaches out to take it from me.
“I’ve got it,” I protest, swaying back and forth while we play tug-of-war.
“It’s no problem.” He stands firm until I release my grip on the handle. Maneuvering the basket higher on his arm, he heads toward the checkout counter. Halfway down the aisle, he reaches his free hand around to tuck in his shirt, revealing his ribbed corduroys stretched tightly over his posterior. My eyes immediately fuse on his retreating form. It strikes me how conditioned I am to seeing Andy in grungy sweats at school. Is that why I never bother to really look at him this way?
After a couple deep, steadying breaths, I emerge from a disoriented haze and remind myself Andy is still Andy, no matter if he’s dressed in sweats or nice pants. Before I’m led further astray by his argyle socks, I chase him to the checkout, cutting him off so he doesn’t pay for my groceries.
Chapter Eleven
Traffic sails by as Andy and I stroll through town. I take two steps for every one of his long strides, but at least he keeps the pace slow. As we walk, I tell him about the Little Shop of Horrors audition, and how I ended up taking on the role of a carnivorous plant.
Keep the conversation light and friendly, I remind myself over and over. Just so I can surreptitiously observe Andy’s eye-crinkling and make sure that it’s not as cute as I imagined. Plus, Andy’s evil, axe-murderer/Muppet laugh should cure my current bout of irrationality. Seriously, the words cute and Andy cannot possibly belong in the same sentence.
But hunger-induced lightheadedness must cloud my senses. When Andy laughs at my description of Audrey II, his “heh-heh” sets off a flash of joy inside of me. Andy’s laughter has somehow morphed into a positive attribute. And combined with his blue eyes, sparkling like sea glass behind his heavy frames, he looks, I don’t know, on the verge of appealing?
“So is your interest in drama the reason you haven’t been at mathletes?” he interrupts my no-holds-barred attempt at small talk.
“Not at all. Play practices are at night. After school, Jana and I are running track. Wait, you noticed we were missing?”
“Did you think you could skip mathletes without anyone noticing?” He fakes a look of amazement.
I smile. “It’s not like Jana and I are an integral part of the team. We just like to talk to Mrs. McCaffrey about girl stuff.”
“You also provide mathletic entertainment. Practicing routine functions isn’t as much fun without the Jana and Sadie dynamic duo.” His voice carries a trace of wistfulness. “I like how you always do a ten-second countdown when I’m working on lightning round problems.”
I scoff. “Anyone in mathletes can count backward from ten to one. If not, the team is in trouble.”
“Heh-heh. And you’re the only person who cheers when I get the whole worksheet correct. But, you’re probably making fun of me, right?”
“Um, not one hundred percent making fun. Deep down, I’m extremely impressed. I’ve never aced a worksheet the way you do,” I confess, craning my neck skyward to catch his expression. He’s not looking at me, though, just swinging his head back and forth to check out the leftover Valentine’s Day decorations hanging in the shop windows.
Ugh. Big pink hearts and a red foil cupid aiming an arrow directly at Andy’s mess of blond curls. I must be delusional. For some reason, I imagine Melinda Banner popping out from behind a pine tree, camera in hand, looking for the truth behind the Senior Superlatives. I step to the side, adding space between Andy and me.
“Here, let me carry the groceries.” I reach for the bag.
He moves it to his other hand, out of my reach. “We invited you, so I’ll carry this. You didn’t plan on walking all over town with a gallon of milk.”
He casts his bright, blue eyes my way again and without warning, I plunge into freak out territory. I can’t stop looking at him, and he’s openly staring back.
Geez, I need to stop overthinking this Andy stuff. Andy is supposed to be Andy. You know, a geeky guy who knows everything about everything. Annoying, right? Not in any remote way physically attractive. Andy should not be permitted to pay me compliments and carry my bags through town.
But I’m not fighting very hard to get my stuff back, am I?
Hung up on this question, I stumble on a crack in the uneven pavement. Andy reaches out a hand to steady me before my knees scrape concrete.
“Shoot. Thanks.”
“No problem.” Once I’m balanced, he removes his hand from my arm and launches into a warbling, off-key tune about lots of beer, a pickup truck, and a broken heart.
“Country? Really? I pegged you as more of a smooth jazz kind of guy.”
In answer, he increases his obnoxious caterwauling. Squirrels scratch their claws over bald tree limbs to drown out his horrific tonality. When Andy repeats the refrain a third time, I surrender and join in, laughing my way through the chorus. Deciphering country music lyrics isn’t rocket science, unlike most of Andy’s preferred verbal interactions.
Together, we must wake up half of Harmony before arriving at the end of his driveway. At least the musical interlude distracts me from my discomfort over the Sunday morning version of Andy. That’s a road I can’t let myself follow. Ever.
We step inside the Kosolowski’s mud room. Andy kicks off his shoes and a wave of
panic crushes me. Under my fake Uggs, my socks are filled with toe and heel holes. And I’m pretty sure those same socks have been worn at least two days in a row, because their prior location was my bedroom carpet.
Quickly, I decided politeness trumps embarrassment, so while Andy hangs my jacket on a wall hook, I tear off my socks and stuff them inside of my boots.
“What color is that?” Andy points to my painted toenails.
I feel like my entire body is naked, not just my feet. “Um, I think it’s called Purple Passion.”
“Cool.” And with that un-Andylike comment, he ducks out of the mudroom, into the large open kitchen where the rest of his family preps breakfast in assembly line fashion, standing around a huge granite-topped island. Breakfast scents of cinnamon, coffee, and maple syrup swirl in the warm air. The room goes a little fuzzy, and I cut off a delighted gasp before embarrassing myself.
Andy opens the refrigerator and pours himself a glass of water, his eyes glued to a football game playing on the television.
“Andrew, did you get Sadie a drink?” Mrs. K. asks the instant before the glass touches his lips. Somehow she caught him without even glancing up from the bowl of egg whites she’s whipping with a small appliance resembling a mini-torture device. Andy passes me the glass and reaches back in the fridge for the water pitcher.
At Mrs. K.’s request, the younger Kosolowskis set the long plank table in the center of the kitchen. When their mother turns her back, the twins toss plates from the cabinet to the table while Andy’s sister counts aloud the number of forks she picked from the drawer. Geez. This family is so un-dysfunctional that they’re abnormal. I take a step backward, separating myself from their closeness, and watch Mrs. Kosolowski fold the egg whites into the batter with a huge paddle, another instrument that could double as a parental weapon against misbehaving children.
Then Dr. Kosolowski tosses his tie over his shoulder, pulls out a cast iron skillet and begins frying bacon. I suppress a smile. The physician who lectures my mother on the benefits of force-feeding broccoli to youngsters is flipping grease-soaked meat with heavy, metal tongs.
“Sadie, have you ever used a waffle machine?” Mrs. Kosolowski notices me standing against the wall. “Andrew tends to over-pour, which spills the batter. But I bet you’ll have a knack for this.” She demonstrates the correct technique before handing me the ladle. I drizzle batter in the center of the grid, close the machine and quickly flick my wrist. The machine completes its one-eighty before anything oozes out. Everyone applauds my success.
Actually, the Kosolowski family does a lot of cheering and clapping. They celebrate every one of life’s little victories.
As I manufacture a steady stream of waffles, hoping to appease the twins’ nearly insatiable appetites, Andy stands at the sink behind me, washing strawberries and slicing bananas. Andy’s sister sets up a buffet of toppings in glass bowls. Mini chocolate chips, granola and rainbow sprinkles.
“This isn’t breakfast, it’s dessert,” I say, and Andy throws me a quick grin over his shoulder. When I finally manage to outpace the demand, I lower myself into a seat at the table and dig in. For the next hour, I indulge in enough calories to cover my three meals for the day and then some. The Super Ks are nonstop talkers; their conversation peppered with good-natured taunts and private jokes, some of which the twins take the time to explain to me.
Eventually, though, I remember my mother, waking up alone in our sad little apartment.
“Thanks so much, Mrs. K., but I have to go.” I pop one last syrup coated strawberry in my mouth before placing my empty plate by the sink.
“It was nice seeing you again, Sadie,” Mrs. K. says. “Tell your mother she has every right to brag about you.”
My insides cringe. Mom has been known to stop random people on the street and mention that her daughter recently made the honor roll. I can’t imagine what she says to her unfortunate captive audience of co-workers and their spouses stopping by the office.
“Andrew, walk Sadie out,” Mrs. K. says. Andy drops his silverware and rises from his seat.
I wave him back down. “I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Andrew.” Mrs. Kosolowski directs a stern mom-look toward her son. He gets the message. So do I.
Andy removes my groceries from the refrigerator, which I completely forgot about in my current food-induced walking coma. He waits for me to slip on my boots. We walk to the end of the driveway in silence. I sense that he wants me to say something, so I give it a shot.
“Thanks, Andy. I would return the favor, but I don’t have a waffle maker at my disposal.”
“You could take me out for breakfast,” he says, his eyes perking up and doing the happy twinkling thing again. “Or I could take you.”
“Maybe I’m being dense, but how does you taking me out equal me returning a favor to your mother for inviting me to breakfast?”
“You’re right. It’s stupid.” The words rush from his mouth. He hands me the plastic bag then shoves his hands in his pockets. “Just send my mom a thank you note. She eats that stuff up.”
And without even a see you later, he disappears inside of his house.
Fill It In - Random List
Sadie’s List of Reasons to Move in with the Kosolowskis
1. Increased closet size would allow me to stash a greater inventory of clearance rack items.
2. Their pantry shelves are fully stocked. No one would notice how much covert snacking takes place.
3. I bet Mrs. K. could use help with the little Super Ks because Andy is busy studying. I could live with them and earn money too.
4. Ditto for waffle making and other cooking and household chores.
5. I hate how everyone thinks that because I’m an only child there’s something wrong with me. Like I had anything whatsoever to do with my lack of siblings. It’s not as if I was such a freak that my dad moved away even before I was born, vowing never to return, and my mom refused to consider having another child after raising me. Okay, I’ll admit, I don’t know that for sure.
6. Thanks to Mrs. K.’s secret recipe, I now dream about waffles. Camping out in her kitchen is the best way to feed my addiction.
7. If I told Mrs. K. I was playing the part of a big green plant in the school musical, I’m sure she wouldn’t fall out of her chair from laughing so hard like my mom did.
8. The Kosolowskis must have a maid because no way can four kids live in a house as spotless as theirs is. So unless they want to pay me to work (see numbers 3 and 4), no need to worry about cleaning my room.
9. They have TVs strategically placed around the house so you can watch your shows no matter where you’re sitting at the kitchen table. In my apartment that’s physically impossible unless I sit on the floor with my plate on my knees. Even then, my neck hurts when I look up.
10. I would be part of a big family. I love my mom, but sometimes I wish I knew what that feels like—both the joy and the pain.
Chapter Twelve
“You never called me back yesterday.” Jana pounces the minute I open my locker, ready for a pre-homeroom gossip fest.
“I accidentally left my bedroom door open.” One clue as to how much breakfast with Andy’s family threw me off. Based on my afternoon-long stupor, I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone told me Mrs. K. mixed a few questionable spices in her waffle batter. “My mom freaked out, and I spent the day cleaning up the mess.”
No way can I mention breakfast with Andy’s family. Jana would question me to death about a nonevent.
“Ooh, did you find my silver sandals? The ones you borrowed last summer? Under your bed or something?”
“Still no sign of your fancy footwear. Colette must have taken them, not me.”
“I remember you asking for them. Besides, Colette can’t squeeze her mammoth toes in those shoes.” Jana lifts her foot to model a black sequined-covered boot. “Do you like these? Are they too middle school?”
/> “On me, they would look middle schoolish. But they work for you.”
She points her toe and the sequins ripple under the yellow florescent lights. “Darn right they do.”
“What happens when you step in a puddle?”
Jana shrugs, unconcerned. “I ran across the street to make the green light on the way to school and lost about thirty sequins.”
“I guess you’re not expecting to take them with you to college, then.”
As we work our way down the senior hallway, I notice Andy stacking his books into a neat pile on the top shelf of his locker. Despite his just-got-trampled-on appearance, he’s the king of organization when it comes to schoolwork.
“Yoo-hoo! Hi, Andy!” Jana calls. I develop a sudden fascination in the SAT Prep Course flyer hanging on the opposite side of the hallway.
“Morning, Jana,” Andy answers in a somber tone. “Sadie.” I glance over when I hear my name. He nods in my direction.
“Wow, who died?” Jana asks, a little too loudly, as I stand there wishing she would be the one to keel over. Not literally, of course. But sometimes Jana opens her mouth and inserts her foot. Repeatedly.
I wonder if Andy’s still fuming over our breakfast payback conversation. Did I say something completely offensive? I was genuinely confused, and he didn’t seem to want to bother clearing things up. I rewind the discussion in my head. After my inane response, he must have realized I could never match his level of brainpower, and simply grew tired of dumbing down our verbal sparring.
Irritated by his attitude, I hurry forward, adding space between us. Jana rushes to catch up, ready to continue her footwear discussion.
***
In Calculus, Andy lives on, enraptured by the latest set of equations posted on the SMART board. He barely glances up when I pass him on the way to my desk. Before diving into math, I tear off the corner of a page in my notebook and scribble a short note.
My Senior Year of Awesome Page 7