Artificial Sweethearts (North Pole, Minnesota)

by Julie Hammerle

  Dottie shrugged.

  “Do you even like your job?”

  “My parents say it builds character. Whatever.”

  Maurice exited the screening room and shut the door behind him. “You can go in, Sam. Movie’s started.”

  Dottie eyed him expectantly. This was turning into a date, something that had been unappealing before, but seemed unfathomable now that he’d heard Dottie’s story about ruining Star’s birthday cake for vengeance. That was a dick move. “You go on in. I’ll be there in a minute.” Sam was never texting anyone ever again. That much was for certain. His thumbs were retired.

  Taking his time, he grabbed his own drink and some popcorn and trudged toward the back room. When he pulled open the door, he was greeted by Dottie’s voice. “Sam! Over here.”

  Sam’s eyes swung around the dark room. The only open seat was right next to Dottie on a small couch set up along the left wall. She waved him over.

  He made his way toward the front. “I’m gonna sit on the floor,” he whispered as the movie started.

  “Don’t be silly, Sam!” Dottie shouted.

  “Shhh!” hissed Craig.

  “I have a seat right here! Come on!”

  “Go sit by Dottie, Sam,” one of her friends said.

  “Yeah, Sam,” said another. “Why won’t you sit by Dottie?”

  To shut them all up, Sam took the open spot next to Dottie, keeping his body as close to the armrest and as far away from Dottie as possible. He placed his bag of popcorn between them.

  As his eyes adjusted, he started to make out people scattered around the room, well, making out. Brian and Abby were on the couch across from him. Other people were similarly entangled. It appeared only Craig in the front row was focused on the film. Sam had never figured Waiting For Guffman for an aphrodisiac.

  Dottie moved Sam’s popcorn to the floor and scooted closer to him. He tried to shift away, but he was already at the end of the couch. He started to stand, but Dottie placed her hand on his knee and Sam froze. This—something—was really happening. Dottie was actually making a move on him. He adjusted his leg and she lifted her hand, thankfully.

  “Dottie, I—” He was going to tell her right then and there that this couldn’t happen, it wouldn’t happen. Texting her was a mistake. He wasn’t interested in her—or anyone. His focus was on the wedding and hanging out with his friends—the people he actually wanted to spend time with—before leaving for college.

  But Dottie cut him off. “You’re the only good one in this town.”

  “Thanks?” Was he, though? Maybe he was too good. A less “good” guy would’ve left Dottie several scenes ago. In fact, a less “good” guy never would’ve sat next to her in the first place, putting himself in this precarious position.

  Sam tried to focus on the film, but Dottie wasn’t making that easy, either. Every time something happened on screen, she’d say, “That’s so funny,” instead of laughing.

  The tenth time she did it, Sam finished her sentence for her. She said, “That’s—”

  And he responded with a “So funny.”

  She took that as a green light and fully pivoted toward Sam. She put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him. Again, Sam froze, too shocked to shut this down.

  His friends did this kind of thing all the time. To them, it was no big deal. But it was a big deal to Sam. Kissing Dottie wasn’t right. It wasn’t what he wanted. He ended it, backing away and hugging the hard, scratchy armrest.

  Dottie licked her lips and leaned in again.

  Sam put his hand up, heading her off. “Dottie, we can’t.”

  “Sure we can. You texted me. You said you wanted to ‘hang out.’ I know what that means.”

  He searched the room for divine intervention—a skipping DVD or a smoking popcorn machine. A fire would be great right now. “I…” He spotted Danny Garland and Star Lyons—as solid a North Pole couple as ever there was—cuddling on a couch across the way. “I already have a girlfriend.”

  Dottie backed away, affronted. “No, you don’t. Who?” She forgot to whisper.

  “Shhh!” hissed Craig.

  “Um…no one,” Sam muttered.

  “No one? Your girlfriend is no one?” Dottie’s voice had, thankfully, come down to Sam’s level.

  Sam shook his head. “No one you know.”

  Dottie narrowed her eyes.

  Sam shut his eyes for a second, thinking of the blond girl from the Fosters’ balcony, not believing what he was about to do. This was not wise. This was not a good guy thing to do, but these were desperate times. “She—she just moved here. She’s my neighbor.” He hoped this would never get back to her…whoever she was. He’d be devastated. She’d be creeped out. And she’d have every right to be.

  “You texted me.”

  Sam shook his head. “Harper did. She took my phone.” This was all Harper’s fault anyway. Besides, she was leaving for camp tomorrow. She’d be far from the heat.

  “Harper. Of course.” Dottie narrowed her eyes. “But I’ve never seen you out with any girl.”

  “We’re keeping it on the down low for now.” Forever, if possible. Or at least until Sam left town in August.

  “Why?”

  “Reasons.” Man, he was terrible at lying.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I swear.” He held up his hand, Scout’s honor. He was really in it now.

  “You kissed me,” Dottie said.

  “You kissed me,” Sam countered.

  “And you didn’t stop it right away.” Dottie shook her head in disgust. “I should’ve known better than to trust Harper Anderson’s brother. You’re all alike.” Dottie leaned toward him. “If you are even messing with me right now…” She got that look in her eyes, the same one she’d had when she’d talked about putting flour in Star’s frosting.

  Sam pictured Matthew and Hakeem’s wedding cake crashing to the ground and bursting into a million pieces. “I’m not. I swear.”

  Dottie stood up and drained the rest of her pop. “You better not be.”

  Chapter Three

  On Wednesday afternoon, Jane grabbed Tinka the second she returned from yet another round of golf with her father.

  “We’re going running!” chirped Jane.

  Tinka wiped sweat from her brow. With no A/C in this house, she was in a perpetual state of perspiration. Golf had been a disaster, and her dad had kept questioning Tinka about her practice regimen at Florian’s and whether her coach at school (the great Gregor Kiln) had been messing with her swing. At least her poor golfing had distracted him from trying to set her up with Dylan Greene for the time being.

  “Go running with Jane or help me fix this bannister,” yelled Tinka’s mom from the spiral staircase to the second floor. She was using wood glue to fix the broken spokes.

  Tinka glanced around. The living room couch and chairs were covered with drop cloths. Paint samples and balled up paper towels littered the ground. The kitchen was a staging area for every other project. Her parents’ new bathroom vanity sat where the refrigerator should be. They’d been working in this house for days and there seemed to be no improvement. Tinka sighed and dragged herself toward the basement stairs to change. “Running it is, I guess.”

  In moments like these, Tinka missed her old friend Karen. Karen never would’ve made Tinka go running, especially not on a hot day like this. Tinka would’ve made them some kind of no-bake cookies that didn’t require use of the oven, and they’d have lounged around watching movies and doing crossword puzzles all afternoon.

  But Jane was Tinka’s guest, and Jane wanted to run.

  In the scorching afternoon sun, Tinka’s already sweating brow became a waterfall as she and Jane scampered along the asphalt path that jogged through the entire resort, up and down hills, through the woods, along the golf courses, next to the main thoroughfare. Tinka’s parents now lived in a place where other people vacationed. How bizarre was that? They’d spent sixteen years ignoring reality and n
ow they were dwelling in an actual fantasy world.

  The girls ran about two miles out and walk-jogged the rest of the way home. As they approached Tinka’s house, Jane slowed down, gazing with mischief at the mansion next door.

  “Let’s keep going. We’re almost home.” Tinka needed a cold shower—even if it had to be in a low-flow, avocado bathtub that was never lacking for spiders. Resting her hands on her knees, she checked out the house. It was beautiful, magazine-ready. A circular drive, flanked by colorful blooms, went from one end of the property to the other. Jane stepped onto the driveway and tiptoed toward the house.

  Tinka glanced around. “What are you doing?”

  Jane flipped her long black braid over her shoulder. “A quick detour. I want to see this place up close.”

  “Jane, no.”

  But Jane kept traipsing along a path to the back of the house. Groaning, Tinka followed her into the backyard.

  Their neighbors’ place was everything Tinka’s parents’ new house was not. It was sparkling, pristine. There was a vibe of joy here. The huge, glossy deck glistened in the sunlight. The lawn shone bright green, and the flowers were every color of the rainbow. Even the sandy beach at the edge of their property was cheerier than the rocky one over at the Fosters’ new house.

  Tinka glanced over at her parents’ money pit. It was the house on the block that little kids might dare each other to walk past, all dark wood and cobwebs. The dock at the end of their property was practically falling into the lake. Even the bench on the shore was decrepit and sad and looked like it was about to throw itself into the water to end it all.

  “Um…” came a voice from behind Tinka.

  She swung around and found herself face-to-face with a tall guy in long basketball shorts and no shirt. His brown hair curled out from under a Twins cap. He was holding a pair of hedge clippers and he seemed as shocked to see Tinka as she was to see him.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. He’d caught her trespassing and gazing at this house like a common weirdo. She tripped over a rock as she tried to simultaneously walk and flag down Jane, who was standing on the dock, shading her eyes from the sun as she peered out at the shimmering lake. “My friend and I will leave right away. Don’t tell the owners we were snooping around.”

  The guy laughed. He had a friendly, robust laugh. “The owners don’t care.”

  Tinka wished he’d put down the hedge clippers already. “Jane! Let’s go. We’re trespassing.”

  Jane waved and ran from the pier, but her eyes went right past Tinka. She affixed a flirty smile to her face and held out her hand. “Hi. I’m Jane.”

  The guy dropped his clippers and accepted Jane’s hand. Then he turned to Tinka. “And you are?”

  “Tinka. I live next door.” He wasn’t unattractive. He wasn’t normally the type of guy she’d notice, but the way his biceps rippled under his tanned skin, well, it was hard to miss that.

  “Okay, Tinka-I-Live-Next-Door, what kind of name is that?” He grinned down at her, and, against her better judgment, she found herself smiling back at him. He had these cute dimples she kind of wanted to press with her finger. She shook her head. Not productive, Tinka.

  “It’s short for Christina.” She kept looking squarely at the ground, actively avoiding the appealing features of this (potential) hedge clipper murderer.

  “I was just about to take a break.” He stretched his tanned, muscular arms, pulling Tinka’s focus back to them. “Would you girls like some water?” He gave Tinka a side glance, like he knew this decision was up to her.

  Jane, however, took a step toward the house. “We’d love some. Gotta stay hydrated.”

  As the guy led them up to the deck, Tinka glared at Jane and mouthed, “What the hell?”

  Jane skipped cheerfully and flopped onto a bench that ran along the perimeter of the deck.

  “Is anybody home?” Tinka asked.

  “Ain’t nobody here but us chickens.” The guy opened the sliding glass door and disappeared into the house.

  When the door had shut behind him, Tinka said, “We need to get out of here.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jane draped her arm luxuriously over the side of the railing, looking every bit like she belonged here. She was the picture of summertime decadence.

  “We’re trespassing, and this guy could murder us. He has hedge clippers.” She blushed at the thought of his arms holding various gardening implements.

  “He’s not going to murder us.” Jane closed her eyes and soaked in the warm rays.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “True,” Jane said, “but I tend to assume people are innocent until proven murderous. Plus, he’s nice. He’s getting us water.”

  “He’s shirtless and—”

  The sliding glass door whooshed open behind them. Their opportunity for escape was lost. Tinka spun around as the guy headed toward them. He was carrying three bottles of water and had put on a T-shirt, a faded movie tee, over his mesh shorts. Jaws. A story about a terrifying shark that kills people. The guy handed a bottle to Tinka. “Take a seat.”

  Ready to flee at any moment, she perched next to Jane on the bench, where the hot, sticky varnish stuck to her legs immediately. Tinka unscrewed the cap, which gave off the familiar rip-pop sound that proved the bottle had not been tampered with. Tinka tilted it back; and as the cold water coated her parched throat, she forgot for a moment she was about to be murdered.

  “This is a gorgeous house,” Jane said.

  The guy knocked back his water, then screwed the cap back on. “Thanks. I like it.”

  Tinka decided to play civil. “Do you do all the landscaping yourself or do you have a crew that helps you?”

  He smirked at Tinka, like she was the most curious thing he had seen in a while. “We have a crew, but I noticed a few spots on the bushes that needed trimming.”

  She nodded. “If you need to get back to work, don’t let us stop you. We wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with your boss.”

  “My boss?” He was still grinning at Tinka with those dimples as he kneaded the plastic on his water bottle. “You mean my father?”

  “Your father owns the landscaping business?”

  “My father owns the house. I’m Sam. Anderson,” he added for good measure. “I live here.” He gestured toward the back door.

  Jane dropped her face into her hands. “Oh my God, Tinka.”

  Tinka spun toward her, pointing. “Oh my God nothing, Jane. You didn’t know he lived here, either.”

  “I did so.”

  “How?”

  Jane waved her hand to indicate Sam and the flirty smile reappeared on her face. “He has a way about him.”

  “He has no way about anything. No offense.” She nodded to Sam.

  “None taken.” Knitting his brow, Sam lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his curly brown hair. He had hazel eyes with friendly crinkles on the corners that didn’t disappear even when he frowned.

  “And, I mean,” Tinka said, “I assumed this place had people to take care of the landscaping.”

  “We do,” Sam said. “But I like gardening. It’s relaxing.”

  “What else do you do for fun, Sam?” Jane said.

  He beamed at her, and Tinka figured he’d finally noticed her much more attractive running clothes and gorgeous, silky black hair. It was bound to happen. “I work at the video store in town. I’m kind of a film geek. Or…not kind of. I am a film geek.”

  “Do you go to school?” Jane asked.

  “I’ll be starting college in the fall. What about you ladies?”

  Jane spoke for both of them. “We go to boarding school in South Carolina. We’ll be seniors next year.”

  But Sam was back on Tinka. “Boarding school, eh? Fancy business.”

  Jane kept on talking. “My mother went there. Tinka’s parents wanted to get rid of her, so they sent her away last year.” She had a joking smile on her face, but Tinka winced.

  Sam frown
ed, and Tinka, sensing that he was about to ask her some personal question she had no desire to answer, stood, ripping her bare thighs from the tacky wood bench. “We should get going.”

  “Already?” Jane peeled the label off her water bottle.

  “We have to help my parents.”

  “Ugh.” Jane hoisted herself from the bench. “When I agreed to visit Tinka this summer, I thought I’d be in for an entire month of cakes and cookies. Instead, it’s constant construction.”

  “You said you didn’t mind helping.” Jane had been nothing but cooperative since they’d arrived in North Pole, which hadn’t reduced Tinka’s bad friend guilt level, not one bit. Jane was the ideal pal. Tinka was the girl who got drunk and kissed her roommate’s ex-boyfriend.

  “I don’t mind. But a mint chocolate brownie would be nice once in a while. I mean, what’s the point of living with Tinka Foster if she can’t whip you up a batch of peanut butter cookies?”

  Sam, still watching Tinka with those crinkled hazel eyes, asked, “You bake?”

  “Does she bake?” Jane said. “You don’t even know, Sam. She’s a wizard. At school, all we had was this tiny little kitchenette across the hall with an itty-bitty oven. Tinka worked literal miracles in there.”

  Tinka blushed. She’d spent some of the money her dad sent her for golf on baking equipment and ingredients. Jane was right. She had worked wonders in the tiny dorm kitchen.

  Jane ticked off a list. “Cherry streusel bars. Lemon Bundt cakes. Brown sugar cookies. Blueberry boy bait. You name it, she made it. Our friend Violet gained fifteen pounds this year, just because of Tinka.”

  “That’s overstating things.” Tinka handed her empty bottle to Sam. “Thank you for the water.”

  “Why haven’t you baked anything this summer?” he asked.

  Tinka laughed. “Have you been to my parents’ house? It’s a disaster. The kitchen is like the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan.”

  Sam grinned. “Nice.”

  She’d dropped in that movie reference on purpose, because she knew he’d appreciate it. What was she doing? Flirting? That had gotten her nothing but trouble. “My parents have left the kitchen for last. They’re more worried about having enough working bathrooms, I guess.”