Love Inc.

by Yvonne Collins

  I love searching the net for quirky new Web sites, and once Dad and I moved, it turned into a bit of an obsession. Dad said I was becoming ‘withdrawn’ and cut back my Internet time to weekends. A typical overreaction of the type that landed me in group. It’s no surprise Dad assumes I’m getting a surfing high now.

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you’re staying in touch with your friends.’

  Actually, I’m doing prep work for Operation Eric, which goes down tomorrow, although I did send happy-happy life-is-great notes to Shanna and Morgan earlier. I can’t bring myself to tell them about what happened with Eric just yet.

  ‘Have you made any new friends?’ Dad persists, sitting on my bed and thumbing through my latest issue of Interview magazine.

  I try to be patient. Dad didn’t hang around chatting when we were still living with Mom. Back then, he was always too busy with work. Now that he’s the only parent in the house, he’s introduced these awkward Oprah moments.

  ‘I’ve met some people.’ I don’t intend to cough up details about group, although now I’m glad he forced me to go. Otherwise, I’d still be getting played by Rico. Better to be informed and miserable than deluded and happy. I think.

  ‘And how’s Rico these days?’ Dad glances up from the magazine, and I realise he knows. Mom must have been worried enough over Thursday’s impromptu visit to send out a news alert.

  ‘Fine, I guess.’ It already seems like eons since I found out about Eric. I guess that’s because I’ve spent so much time going over every detail of our relationship: every date, every call, and every text, trying to figure out where I went wrong. I’ve concluded that I’m boring. The time I wasted scheming to keep my parents together should have been spent trying to become fascinating, like dark, arty-rebel Syd or carefree, sexy Kali. Sticking too close to home has made me as precise and predictable as my recipes.

  But that’s all going to change. I’m putting myself first from now on. After all, I’ll never land my own cooking show if I put an audience to sleep.

  Dad says, ‘I heard you and Rico broke up.’

  I sigh. ‘It’s OK, Dad. We hadn’t gone out that long.’

  ‘You’re too young to tie yourself to one boy anyway,’ Dad says. ‘At this age, they’re all trouble.’

  I give him a sly grin. ‘Nana says the same thing.’

  There’s no love lost between Nana and Dad, but he blunders on. ‘Forget about dating for a while. One day, you’ll meet the right person and just know.’

  ‘Right. Because that strategy worked for you.’

  He closes the magazine. ‘I did marry the right person – at the time. But somehow your mother and I—’

  ‘—grew apart. I know.’

  The breach opened around the time Dad started his own graphic design company. Mom got frustrated that he was never home, and he got frustrated that she didn’t see how hard he had to work. I did what I could to try to get them to see things from each others’ perspective, and even set up ‘dates’ for them. Last Valentine’s Day, for example, I cooked a four-course dinner and took Saliyah to a movie so my parents could be alone. For their twentieth anniversary, in April, I packed a fabulous meal and sent them to see a free outdoor performance of Love’s Labour’s Lost.

  I did my part, but they didn’t hold up their end of the bargain. They gave up on our family.

  I’ve vowed not to say it, but the words slip out anyway. ‘You could try again.’

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ he says, standing and edging toward the door.

  At the very least, this line of attack usually gets him off my back. ‘Any parenting book will tell you not to shut down conversations just because they make you uncomfortable.’

  ‘Log off,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘I brought home takeout.’

  It’s curry again. I can already smell it. Dad used to complain about Mom’s cooking, so I figured when he cut out on his own it would be steak and potatoes all the way. Instead all he wants is curry.

  It’s the sign of a man in denial. But denial means there’s hope of a reunion. So I’ll push some curry around my plate without complaining. Consider it an investment in my future.

  Chapter Six

  The bus that runs along East 12th Street is empty except for the three of us and a couple of guys with baggy pants and shaggy hair who look like they’re heading home after an all-night party. When we stop at a light, I see a handful of seniors in tie-dyed shirts assembling their paints and easels on the corner. Otherwise the sidewalks are deserted. I guess most of Austin is still sleeping off its Saturday night.

  ‘Screwdrivers?’ I ask, taking inventory. ‘Wrenches, pliers, and flashlights?’

  Kali rattles a large toolbox. ‘Check.’

  ‘Cameras, superglue, spare batteries, and spray paints?’ I continue.

  ‘Check.’ Syd pats the knapsack sitting on the empty seat beside her. ‘None of it’s biodegradable.’

  Kali shrugs. ‘Desperate times call for toxic measures.’

  ‘I’ve got the overalls, gloves, and owner’s manual,’ I say. ‘Plus the secret ingredient.’ I tap my foot on the cooler in front of me. ‘Fish guts – three days old and at their prime.’

  Banksy’s been showing an awful lot of interest in the cooler, so Syd pulls him around to her other side. Dogs aren’t allowed on Metro buses, but Syd nonchalantly flashed the medic alert bracelet she got off the Internet, and the driver didn’t bat an eye. ‘Looks like we’re good to go,’ she says.

  ‘Not quite.’ Kali takes a comb, blush, and lip gloss out of her bag. ‘You two have to look extra hot today. Z, you’ll need to unleash the hair later.’

  I put makeup on this morning, but it obviously wasn’t enough to conceal the signs of insomnia. At least the hives are fading, although they probably mean I’ve become allergic to love. Reaching for Kali’s makeup and a compact, I apply rose lip gloss and blush. Rico doesn’t deserve the effort, but looking nice will give me the psychological advantage.

  Syd looks good in faded jeans and a fitted red vintage top that shows off her athletic physique. Her eyelids are still too puffy for liner, but she’s made up for it with dramatic shadow and flaming lips. At Kali’s prompting, she runs the comb through her sleek hair.

  I pull out a container of hand cream and pass it to Kali after using it myself.

  ‘That smells amazing,’ she says. ‘Sort of like chai tea.’

  ‘My mom makes her own natural beauty products,’ I say, handing Syd a coriander lime cream instead. ‘We don’t want Eric to notice we smell the same.’

  When the bus lets us off near the Albany Hotel, a Chihuahua at the end of a rhinestone-studded leash growls at Banksy. The girl holding the leash doesn’t look much friendlier than her dog, despite a T-shirt that reads EASY TO PLEASE in sparkly letters. Pulling Banksy away, Syd leads us down the block to our base of command: a parking lot behind a dry cleaner that’s closed for the day.

  Kali goes over the plan, although we did a thorough dry run yesterday. ‘At oh-nine-hundred hours, Syd meets Eric at Copelin’s Bakery.’

  That stings a bit. Eric had a shift scheduled at the music store where he works, but he dropped it the second Syd called. As far as I know, Eric never once changed his plans for me.

  ‘At oh-nine-ten,’ Kali continues, ‘Syd texts us to confirm the target’s in position and she’s liberated the car keys. At oh-nine-twenty, Syd meets us at the back door with the keys. At oh-nine-thirty, after the security guard finishes his morning rounds, Zahra and I get to work. At ten thirty, you two switch off and Syd does her stuff. At eleven ten, Syd and Zahra switch back and we regroup here, well before the guard does his noon circuit.’

  We chose this location for a good reason. As it turns out, Syd’s dad owns the Albany and plans to turn it into a boutique hotel in a couple of years. With the hotel and the bakery being in a dodgy area, Syd suggested that Eric leave Miss Daisy behind the hotel and got her dad to clear it with security.

  ‘My dad’s stupi
d real estate scheme is finally good for something,’ she says.

  When Mr Stark inherited money last year, he quit his job as a landscape worker for the city and poured every cent he had into the Albany. If this venture fails, he’ll be bankrupt.

  Standing watch at the corner, Kali announces, ‘Miss Daisy’s pulling into the Albany now.’

  Syd kicks a recycling bin with a steel-toed combat boot that leaves a dent. ‘I can’t do this,’ she says, running both hands through her hair. ‘I can’t. Zahra, you distract him.’

  ‘Calm down,’ Kali says, coming over. ‘We’re going to stick with the plan. Eric came to see you, Syd. Not Zahra, and not me. You want payback, don’t you?’

  Syd’s breath comes in short panicky bursts. ‘I thought I could face him, but I can’t.’

  ‘Sit,’ I say, gesturing to the curb. ‘Kali, give me your purse.’

  Kali hands it over, but tries to snatch it back when she realizes what I’m after.

  ‘A smoke will calm her down,’ I say, although I’m really just creating a distraction for Syd.

  ‘Gauloises!’ Syd says, as I toss her the pack. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Give them back,’ Kali says.

  ‘Picasso smoked Gauloises,’ Syd says. ‘Eric’s favorite artist.’

  Kali just shrugs. ‘So?’

  ‘Where’d you get them? They don’t even import Gauloises anymore.’

  ‘You can find anything on the Internet,’ Kali says. ‘Like your medic alert bracelet.’

  Syd pulls out a cigarette and runs it under her nose. ‘Straight out of a museum,’ she says, offering the cigarette to me. ‘Stale – with a faint hint of poseur.’

  ‘Well, you don’t think I’d pollute my lungs for a guy, do you?’ Kali says, tossing the pack back into her bag. ‘Anyway, Zahra’s worse. She faked an interest in art and his favorite band.’

  ‘Plus spicy food,’ I offer.

  Poseur times three,’ Syd says. I notice she looks calmer now. My distraction technique has worked.

  ‘I bet you faked stuff with Eric too,’ Kali says. ‘That’s why you won’t give us details.’

  ‘That’s not why,’ Syd says. ‘And I was one hundred percent honest with him.’

  ‘All the more reason to stand tall when you face him,’ I say, hauling her to her feet, and taking Banksy’s leash. ‘Give him our love.’

  ‘Not,’ Kali calls after her, and Syd manages a faint laugh.

  Kali slides the flat head screwdriver all around the windshield, under the weather stripping. ‘According to my research, we should be able to peel this off now.’ She tugs gently at the black rubber, and sure enough, it begins to separate from the glass. ‘With the storm coming in later, this baby’ll leak big-time.’ She reaches over and snaps the clip that holds the windshield wiper in place so that it will fly off after one or two passes. ‘For good measure.’

  Pulling the pail of fish guts out of the cooler, I distribute its contents in a few hard-to-reach locations under the hood. Once I stop gagging, I say, ‘It’s a hot day. Miss Daisy is going to smell fantastic.’

  I worried that when push came to shove I’d feel guilty about trashing Eric’s beloved car. Instead, I feel euphoric. It’s as if the scales of justice are being rebalanced.

  We use a couple of screwdrivers to deflate the tires, and daub glue onto the valve caps before replacing them.

  ‘I’ll finish while you freshen up,’ Kali says, tossing me a container of baby wipes and pointing to something on my cheek with one gloved finger. ‘You’re on in five.’

  The euphoria fizzles. ‘Remind me again why you couldn’t do this?’ I ask, peeling off my latex gloves and dirty overalls. ‘You’re the performer.’

  ‘It makes more sense that you’d be checking out a bakery,’ she says. ‘And I—’

  Her own singing cuts her off. It’s her new ringtone:

  Eric Rick Rico, one guy with three names

  It isn’t a shock he’d get caught playing games

  Eric Rick Rico, one guy with three girls

  He’s not going to like how this story unfurls.

  ‘Catchy,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure about that “unfurls” line, though.’

  ‘Everyone’s a critic,’ Kali says, reading the text. ‘It’s Syd. All systems go.’

  My legs feel rubbery as I step inside Copelin’s Bakery and see Eric’s profile. He’s sitting alone in a booth.

  Step one of my role is to place my order, turn around, and look surprised when I see him. Shaking my hair back, I walk to the counter and stall over the selection as long as I can before finally turning to the condiment stand with my coffee and a bag of croissants.

  Eric is hiding behind an oversized menu. Hiding! The guy who had the guts to juggle three girlfriends has suddenly lost his nerve. He’s afraid of what Syd might do if she comes out of the restroom to find me fawning all over him.

  What he doesn’t know is that Syd’s already behind the Albany applying a fresh coat of paint to Miss Daisy. All I have to do is keep him occupied for the half hour she needs. ‘Rico!’ I call.

  He lowers the menu and gives me a forced smile – an Eric smile, not a Rico smile, and the fact that I now know the difference sends a shiver down my spine. My hand twitches to grab his menu and beat him over the head with it.

  ‘Hey, Zahra,’ he says. ‘What brings you to this part of town?’

  ‘I wanted to check the place out for ideas. It’s gotten some great reviews lately.’

  After a glance toward the restroom, he half stands and gives me a peck on the cheek. ‘You look great,’ he says. ‘I love that top.’

  I know he does. That’s why I wore it, although it was kind of like choosing what to wear to my own funeral. Our relationship is dead and all that’s left is today’s memorial service.

  Picking up his fork, Eric moves a few bits of lettuce around on his otherwise empty plate. I slide into the booth opposite him without waiting to be asked.

  ‘Where’s your friend?’ I ask, pointing to Syd’s meal, which is sitting in front of me virtually untouched. ‘Or are you eating for two?’

  ‘Restroom,’ he says. ‘Just a buddy from the art gallery. You don’t know him.’

  Actually, I never met any of Eric’s friends, a warning sign I managed to ignore.

  ‘He’ll be back any second and we have to take off,’ Eric says. ‘How about I pick you up later and we go on a safari? I heard some parrots turned up in Pleasant Valley.’

  No one will be volunteering for a ride in Miss Daisy anytime soon. ‘I can’t today. I’ve got stuff to do. Let’s just hang for a few minutes now.’

  ‘Actually, I said I’d pay and wait for my friend at the car,’ Eric says, sliding to the edge of the booth.

  ‘OK, I’ll walk with you. Just let me get this.’ I pretend my phone is vibrating and quickly text Syd: Rat about 2 run. Use 911 plan.

  Eric’s phone rings almost instantly. ‘Oh, hey. Where’d you get to?’ I make a show of staring around the shop while he talks. ‘He is? He must’ve gotten into some garbage, poor guy. Want me to drive you? OK, no worries, I’ll wait. Call when you’re on your way back.’

  As he puts the phone away, the old Rico smile emerges like the sun from behind the clouds. Sydney’s plan worked beautifully. She told him that Banksy was tied up out back, and when she checked on him he wasn’t feeling well. So now she’s supposedly taking him to her dad’s condo a few blocks away.

  ‘We’ve got a few minutes to catch up while my pal runs an errand,’ Eric says, getting out of the booth and sliding onto my bench. ‘There, that’s better.’ He sniffs the back of my neck and murmurs, ‘I love the way you smell.’

  I know he does. That’s why I used my mom’s vanilla sugar shampoo for the last time. I’ll never be able to use it again without thinking of today.

  I slide away from him until I’m crammed up against the wall. ‘So, how have you been?’

  He slides down to join me. ‘Great, but I’ve missed you. I have
n’t seen you in ages.’

  ‘It’s only been three days.’ We’ve gone longer than that many times, when his dance card was full.

  ‘Nearly four,’ he says. ‘And you’ve barely answered my texts.’

  Just enough to keep him from getting suspicious. ‘Busy time,’ I say. ‘Would you mind if I ordered something?’

  ‘Uh, sure.’ Checking his watch, he summons the waiter and orders for me. ‘The lady will have the cheese omelet, with cheddar, not jack. And a latte with honey.’ He looks at me to confirm.

  Eric is good. We only had breakfast once, yet he remembers exactly what I ordered. I nod at the waiter. ‘Perfect. Thanks.’

  Taking my hand, he leans in even closer. ‘Is everything OK? You seem on edge.’

  He’s the one who should be on edge, but now he’s calm and cool. I guess a professional liar gets used to living that way.

  ‘It’s been a bad week,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?’

  His blue eyes are so kind, so sincere, that I have a momentary pang. What if this has all been one big misunderstanding? Syd’s not a big talker. She might not have spelt out exactly what she wanted. And Kali, well, she was probably just a flirty friend with Eric’s taste in music. If he really thought he was single—

  I pinch my leg under the table. This is the kind of delusional thinking I used to explain his inconsistent behavior throughout our entire relationship. Answering texts while we were out together, ignoring my phone calls, making and breaking dates at the last minute? I justified it by telling myself he’s popular. He’s busy. He’s important. And that I was lucky to be a part of his life. Ha! What a joke that turned out to be. Even now, when Eric expects Syd to walk back in soon, his arm is snaking around my shoulder. The guy is shameless.

  Once I put my mind to it, it’s not hard to get him talking, and by the time my breakfast arrives, I’m calm enough to force some food down. Eric eats the fries.