My Boyfriends' Dogs

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  “Why? What’s wrong with your brother? ”

  “Nothing. Eric’s perfect.” There was zero sarcasm in her voice.

  “Yeah? I mean, he looks perfect. He seems perfect.”

  “And what you see is what you get. My brother looks perfect because he is perfect.” Roni said this with the emotion of a bored weatherperson.

  “So why are you disappointed in me for liking Eric? From afar, of course.”

  She shrugged.

  “Oh, I get it. Now I’m like every hopeless girl in this school. We all have crushes on Eric, but he’s already got a girlfriend who’s as perfect as he is.”

  Roni frowned. “Eric has a girlfriend? ”

  “Man, you guys really aren’t close, huh? I figured he and Jeannette have been together since the beginning of time.”

  Roni laughed.

  “What? ”

  “Eric and Jeannette have been together since the beginning of time, all right, since before they were born. Our mothers are best friends. We were country club kids.”

  “Ah.” I’d always thought it would be romantic to have a childhood romance last through all eternity. “No wonder they’re so close.”

  “Close, yes. Amour, non.”

  I wheeled on Roni. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me—? ”

  “They’re just friends, Bailey.”

  Just friends? Never had those clichéd words sound so fresh, so wonderful, so filled with possibility.

  “Trois minutes!”Madame Jones announced, warning us that our time was just about up.

  Roni turned back to our list and wrote a dozen terms, doubling our amour vocab list.

  The good students discussed amour. The bell rang. The room emptied. And still I sat amazed, flabbergasted, astounded . . .

  4

  I was waiting for Roni the second school let out. “There she is!”

  “She’s traveling in a coven,” Amber observed. “I’ll wait for you in Harper.”

  “Roni!” I shouted, racing up to her. The black-clad pack of goths tightened around her. “Roni, I have to talk to you.”

  The pack turned to Roni. “Go on,” she told them. “I’ll catch up.”

  Reluctantly, they shuffled off, shooting surly glances back at us. Me.

  “Make it fast, mademoiselle,” Roni warned.

  “I just need to ask you something.”

  “I’m betting it’s not about French verbs. Okay. Five minutes.”

  “You promise that your brother and Jeannette aren’t . . . aren’t . . . ? ”

  “They’re not. Eric doesn’t think of her like that. Four minutes.”

  She was making it hard to think. People stormed past us as we held our ground on the step, pebbles in a rushing river. “So does he have another girlfriend? ” I held my breath.

  “No.”

  Yes! “Does he date? ”

  “Sometimes.” She checked her watch. “Three minutes.”

  “Okay, okay, okay.” My mind was spinning. Jeannette may not have been Eric’s girlfriend, but she was still a problem. How could I get to know him—okay, flirt with him—with her around? “Are they always together? ”

  “Eric and Jeannette? ”

  No. Dracula and his bride. “Yeah. Doesn’t Eric go anywhere without his friend who is a girl but not his girlfriend? ”

  She raised her eyebrows. I didn’t think she was going to answer, and then she did. “Golfing. Jeannette hates golf.”

  “That’s great! When does he golf? Where? ”

  She shouted to the goth pack, “There in a minute!” Then she turned back to me. “Every Sunday afternoon. Riverbend Country Club. With Eric Senior.”

  “Your dad?” My balloon burst. My bubble popped. “That doesn’t help. Does he always golf with your dad? ”

  “Sometimes they pick up two more old guys and do eighteen holes.” She tapped her wrist, and only then did I realize she wasn’t wearing a watch. “Time’s up.”

  Defeated, I watched Roni descend the steps into a pool of black. They moved off as one, but she turned back to me. “Saturday mornings. The driving range. Just him.” She left, swallowed into the sea of black before I could offer her half my kingdom, my firstborn child, and my undying gratitude.

  Saturday morning I was at the driving range forty minutes before it opened. Amber had refused to come with me on the flimsy grounds that she opposed the lifestyle of the rich and famous and upwardly mobile. Plus, she had to work for her dad on Saturdays.

  I bought my bucket of balls and got first pick of the tee-box thingies. By the time I’d finished my first bucket, about half of the spots had filled up. I was the only girl and the only person under thirty. I had to lie to three people and tell them the tee next to me was already taken. With any luck, it would be—by Eric Strang.

  I hit another basket of balls. And another. The sun grew hotter, and I was afraid I’d be sweaty by the time Eric got there, but I kept hitting little white balls. In fact, I was getting pretty decent at it. Stroke for stroke, I was crushing the middle-aged guy two tees over.

  “Bailey? ”

  I looked up to see Eric Strang in all his gorgeousness. He put down his bucket of balls and set one up on his tee. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “Me either.” I let that one hang in the air between us.

  He lined up to take a shot, so I forced myself to look away and set up my own ball. I hit a few, without trying my best. Then I watched him. When his bucket of balls was empty, I said the line I’d rehearsed: “You have a great swing.”

  He smiled at me, a nice, friendly smile. I wanted to be so much more than friends.

  “I’m really off my swing today,” I said. “You want my golf balls? I’m wasting them.”

  “That bad?” He leaned on his club and watched me. “Hit a couple. I’ll see if I can help.”

  “Okay.” But the thought of being watched by Eric Strang made breathing nearly impossible. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I hit three balls without trying to make them good. What if he couldn’t hit as far as I could? Femme fatale and all that. When I finished the fourth crummy hit, I turned to him. “I’m not usually this bad.”

  “I know,” he admitted. “I saw you hit earlier.”

  “You did? ”

  He nodded. “Before I came out.”

  “Ah,” said I on the outside. You were watching me! said I on the inside.

  Eric took his club and lined it over his tee. “It’s all a matter of leverage when you’re driving. You get that by the lag, or the angle created by the club and your hand. See? The longer you keep the angle, the more energy you can release in the impact zone, so you get the maximum club head speed.”

  “Sorry. I don’t speak golf.”

  He laughed—a nice, controlled laugh. “All right. Think of the golf club as a whip. You whip the ball and follow through.” He did exactly that, then put down his club and walked over to me. “I’ll show you.”

  I picked up my driver, and he put a ball on my tee. I took my stance in front of the ball and tried not to sweat as he walked up behind me, reached around, and placed his hands over mine. Instantly, I felt a deep attraction to him. We definitely had chemistry—at least, I did.

  “Remember, just think of the club as part of your hand. Relax.” He said this while squeezing his arms around me, resting his chin on my head, and gripping my hands. Not the ideal conditions for relaxation.

  We hit three balls like that. Finally, my palms were so sweaty I couldn’t grip. I let go of the club. When I turned, my face was inches from his. Greenish blue eyes, strong jaw, perfect nose. This was a face I could stare into for the rest of my life.

  5

  For two angst-ridden weeks, Eric and I saw each other every day in writing class, where I had perfect attendance. He even started saving me a seat next to him. Amber didn’t mind. He was always friendly to both of us. So was Jeannette. I’d almost given up on getting out of the “friend” category when he finally called and asked me ou
t.

  “It’s just a movie,” Amber reminded me as I tried and rejected everything in my closet.

  “No. It’s a movie with Eric Strang.” I held up a black tank top. “What about this with those jeans?” I pointed to the hiphuggers on my bed.

  “Great, if you’re trying to say, ‘I’m slutty enough to sleep with you on the first date.’”

  “Amber!”

  “Okay. But Eric Strang has class . . . and, I must admit, a kind of magnetism.” This was high praise coming from Amber. She dove into the pile of clothes covering my bed and came out with black Capris, a funky tank, and a green blouse that tied everything together.

  “See, this is why you’re my best friend,” I told her.

  Eric arrived exactly on time and rang the doorbell. The dogs barked like crazy. I hadn’t finished my makeup, so I sent Amber. Mom had already gone with Sarah Jean to see her son, Rudy, in his school program.

  I hurried, which made me get eyeliner on my cheek. By the time I got it off, Eric was already getting the tour of our eclectic collections. I was painfully aware of how crowded the room was. Eric was no doubt used to the palatial rooms in Riverbend, the exclusive community in East Freemont. “Hi, Eric. Sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem. We’ve got plenty of time. You look great, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” He looked a hundred times greater than I did.

  “I’ve been showing him Big D’s war collection,” Amber said.

  “Why?” I mouthed to her behind Eric’s back.

  “He’s a guy,”she mouthed back. “They love war.”

  “This is real Depression glass,” Eric said, staring into Mom’s cabinet. “My mother loves this stuff.”

  “Really? ” Who knew? Mom got hers at garage sales. I had a feeling that’s not where Mrs. Strang got hers.

  “One question,” Eric said. “Why does your mom collect Goofy? ”

  Amber laughed.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Eric asked quickly. “I mean, she obviously has great taste. There are some fantastic antiques here. Great Hummels. She has two Fabergé eggs and some great Murano glass. I just don’t get all the statues of Goofy.”

  “You think this is something?” Amber said. “You ought to see Bailey’s bedroom.”

  “I confess. The Goofys are mine.” I could confess it, but I couldn’t explain it. I’m not sure I knew myself why I kept collecting Goofy.

  Eric put his arm around me and moved us to the door. “It’s an interesting hobby,” he said. “Just promise me you won’t major in interior design.”

  “Promise,” I vowed, feeling as if I’d promise him anything and happily keep the promise until death did us part.

  Eric gave me a choice of three movies we could make easily. Amber and I had seen the feel-good movie, and I would have loved to see it again. But I had a feeling Eric wanted to see the foreign film.

  “Let’s see that Russian one,” I suggested.

  “The Czech film? You like foreign films? ”

  I started to lie and say that I did. Then I remembered Mitch and Lubinski and where faking had gotten me. “To tell you the truth, I’ve seen exactly one foreign film in my whole life, and I had no idea what it was about.”

  “Well then, pick one of the others, Bailey.”

  I shook my head. “Uh-uh. I really want to see the foreign one. I want to learn to like it.” And that was the truth. I wanted to learn to appreciate all the things Eric appreciated. I even wanted to learn about Hummels and Murano glass, things I’d always made fun of until Eric admired them.

  “Are you sure?” A passing car’s headlights flashed across his face, and the image made me want to throw my arms around him.

  “Totally sure.”

  Three hours later, Eric and I sat at a little table at a café in Riverbend, where Eric and Jeannette lived. I was bleary-eyed from trying to read the subtitles of the most boring movie I’d ever sat through. I was pretty sure this Czech film would have been boring in any language. At least the Lubinski play had been short.

  “What do you want to eat? ” he asked, handing me a menu. “They have great desserts here.”

  “Hmmm . . .” I was starving. I’d turned down popcorn in the movie because Amber said I crunched too loud. What I wanted was an entire chocolate cake with extra icing. I gazed around the café and spotted three rail-thin girls eyeing my date hungrily. I ordered an herb tea that tasted like sand and flower petals.

  “You girls. You never eat. Don’t know how you do it.” Eric had some kind of raspberry flan. “So, what did you think of the movie? ”

  I couldn’t tell Eric that I’d rather watch cattle being slaughtered. “I enjoyed it.” And I did. I got to sit close to Eric for three hours.

  “Really? That’s great. There’s an Italian director whose work I want you to see. We’ll have to take in his films next month at the Riverbend Art Theater, okay? ”

  “Fantastic!” Eric Strang had just talked future with me. He’d said “we,” as in Eric and me. I could hardly wait to tell Amber.

  Eric drove me home, opened the car door for me, and walked me to the front door. Mom had defied the current energy crisis and left on enough lights to dock ships at sea. “I had fun, Bailey.” He faced me, and I wished I were as tall as Amber so I could look into his eyes.

  “I had a great time, too.” I never wanted it to end. Except that I was starving. And I couldn’t wait to talk to Amber.

  “Could I kiss you good night?” His hands moved to my shoulders, which were melting. Every bone in my body felt like rubber. It was a miracle I was still standing.

  “Okay.” Had any guy ever come out and asked me for a kiss?

  His fingers slid to the back of my neck, lifting my hair and sending tiny shivers to my toes. I closed my eyes and felt him move in. His lips brushed mine, and he kissed me. It was a good-night kiss, not a slobbery down payment promising he’d be back for more. Just a lovely, gentle kiss.

  “Night, Bailey,” he whispered. We separated into two distinct people again.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I watched him drive away. My front door opened, and Mom stood there with an empty bowl of popcorn. “So? How was it? ”

  I gave Mom the abbreviated version while I raided the fridge. I found a half-eaten frozen cheesecake and took it, and a fork, to my room so I could eat and talk to Amber at the same time. She was up, waiting for the call. I gave a frame-by-frame description of the night.

  “But you hate foreign films,” Amber said when we got to that part.

  “Well, yeah. Kind of.” Amber’s silence could be so annoying. “But I want to learn to like them. Eric isn’t obsessed, not like Mitch. Eric’s considerate. He would have been fine seeing a different movie.”

  “Then what? ” she asked, after another silence.

  “Then he took me to the coolest café in Riverbend.” I took the last bite of frozen cheesecake and let it melt in my mouth.

  “So? ” Amber pressed. “You ate. He drove you home.”

  “And got out and walked all the way to my car door and opened it for me.”

  “Way to go, Eric,” Amber commented. “And . . . ? ”

  “And he told me he had a great time.” I knew what she was after, and I was going to make her work for it.

  “Bailey, did he kiss you good night or what?” she demanded.

  “He kissed me good night . . . and no what.”

  Again Amber went silent. Then she said, “Perfect.”

  We hung up, and I thought about what Amber had said. Perfect. The date had been perfect. Eric Strang was perfect. Now all I had to do was make him my boyfriend and get him to ask me to the prom.

  6

  Eric and I went out every weekend. We saw movies and football games and had dinners in real restaurants. I was starting to think Mom was right about falling in love with a rich man. There was nothing hard about it.

  “Does my face look flushed? ” Eric asked when he picked me up to go to a party at his friend’s
house.

  I examined his handsome face by the car’s dome light. “I don’t think so.” This wasn’t the first time he’d asked me something like this. I’d asked Roni about it because I was afraid her brother might have some horrible disease he wasn’t telling me about. I could have asked Eric, but I didn’t want to pry.

  Roni had laughed and said her brother thought he had every ailment he read about on the Internet, and this semester he was taking AP microbiology and studying all kinds of rare diseases. It had been a huge relief to know Eric was healthy.

  Now, as I held his face in my hands and gazed into those dreamy but worried eyes, I wanted to help him stop worrying. “Want to know what Mom says about good health? ” I asked cautiously.

  Eric shrugged and started the car.

  I kept my tone light. “Mom says good health is like buying an appliance at a garage sale. You do the best you can to make sure it’s in good shape and then leave the rest to God.”

  “To God?” Eric asked, but it wasn’t a real question. And I was already wishing I hadn’t taken things in such a touchy direction.

  “Funny how talking about God makes you nervous. Not you,” I added quickly. “People in general, I mean.” I had to stop talking.

  Eric grinned over at me. “Perfect time for music, wouldn’t you say? ”

  “Great idea,” I agreed, relieved to see him smile again.

  He found a soft-rock station on his satellite radio, and we listened to soothing music until we pulled up behind a line of cars in a long driveway. I started to get out.

  “Not so fast,” Eric said, his hand on my arm. He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, then let his fingers rest there, sending shivers all the way through me, down to my toes. He leaned in and kissed me, his lips soft but strong. And every anxious thought I’d had drifted far, far away.

  Somewhere along the way, Eric Strang had become my boyfriend, and everybody knew it. His friends had become my friends. They didn’t have names like Steffie and Buffy and Bunny either. Eric’s friends were a lot like him—rich, polite, and nice.