“What’s the scone of the day?” I asked, glancing at the coppery streaks of spice decorating his apron.
“I’m experimenting with something new for the holidays.” He turned pink with excitement. “I call them Tiny Tims.”
“Because they have . . . ?” I waited for him to fill in the blank, hoping the answer wasn’t goose, or worse, limping little boys.
Doug lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Plum pudding.”
“Yes,” said Terry, with uncharacteristic decisiveness. “That.”
“Fantastic!” Doug clasped his hands together, looking so ecstatic I thought he might burst out with a God bless us every one! He cleared his throat. “It’ll take a few minutes. I’ll bring you some juice boxes while you wait.”
“Did he say juice boxes?” Lydia asked when he was gone.
“He can’t serve any hot drinks,” I explained. “Or brown ones. That’s Noreen’s domain.” She had been careful to close the chocolate milk loophole.
After Doug dropped off the juice, we busied ourselves unwrapping straws and piercing foil. I was acutely conscious of the tomb-like atmosphere, especially compared to the hue and cry we would have encountered at McDonald’s. “It’s a lot less bustling here,” I said, tacitly apologizing.
“No, this is different,” Arden agreed, surveying the haphazard decor.
“More of a secret hideout,” Lydia suggested.
“In the olden days, ladies used to reserve a separate parlor at an inn, because it wasn’t proper to hang out at the bar.” I sipped my grape juice, afraid to make eye contact lest I surprise one of my companions in a look of extreme disinterest.
“I like that.” Arden patted me on the arm. “We can come here when we need peace and quiet. Lady time.”
I smiled in relief. “Far from the madding crowd.”
She nodded, setting down her juice box. “It’s actually good we have privacy. We can talk about something serious.”
The words were freighted with portent. Judging from their wary expressions, neither Lydia nor Terry had any clue what she was hinting at either.
A rattling sound erupted from the kitchen, followed closely by Doug. “Enjoy,” he said, setting down the scones. A sweet, gingerbready aroma wafted from the plate. Terry’s eyes closed in bliss.
When he’d shuffled back into the kitchen, Lydia looked expectantly at Arden. “Spill.”
“As I’m sure you’ve all noticed,” Arden began, chasing her mouthful of scone with a sip of juice, “the semester is flying by. Halloween is almost here, and then bam! Everything happens. Papers! Exams! Holiday shopping! Special events!” She brushed her hands off before pulling out her phone. “We’ve made a lot of great progress, don’t get me wrong.” Her index finger made a blur of the Scoundrel Survival Guide, scrolling past artsy photographs overlaid with dire warnings about male perfidy.
“The Messed-Up Ex. Drowning Guy. Closet Misogynist. Becky the Back-Stabber,” Lydia recited, counting them off on her fingers. “And Greedy Guts, who only wanted the big payout, except not in money.”
“From Washington Square,” I reminded her. “Where he dumps the heroine when he can’t get her inheritance.” In our real-life version, the currency in question had been a lot more carnal, to put it delicately. It was almost a direct reversal of the old rules of conduct, under which a woman had to remain virginal or risk being cast out of society. Nowadays young women were apparently supposed to count being a sexual dynamo among their accomplishments—a far riskier avocation than embroidery or playing the harp.
From damned if you do to damned if you don’t: the story of women’s lives.
Lydia nodded. “And the OG, Alex Ritter.”
“Vronsky, you mean.” It seemed important to make that distinction.
“There’s the one who drinks arsenic,” Terry added. Before I could point out that it wasn’t that part of the story that applied to our list, Arden jumped in.
“Makenna Brown, also known as the Worst.” She tapped her bottom lip. “What was her book name?”
“Madame Bovary. A person who messes up people’s lives for entertainment.”
“You said she had a condition?” Terry looked questioningly at me.
“Ennui. It’s like boredom, except you think it makes you interesting.”
“And let’s not forget Sissy Whatever,” Lydia said. “The snobby one.”
“Cecil Vyse. From A Room with a View.” That was how we’d categorized Will the Exchange Student: as the full-of-himself fiancé who has no interest in actually knowing a person as long as she makes an attractive accessory.
“It’s a good list.” Arden smiled, but we all heard the note of doubt.
“But what?” Lydia prompted.
Arden took a bite of scone, chewing thoughtfully. “As much as I love what we’ve done so far, I don’t think we can keep going like this.”
I felt a chill of dread. Were they sick of hearing about books?
She flipped her phone over. “What if we’re looking at it from the wrong angle?”
Terry covered her full mouth with one hand. “Like when someone with a fresh pair of eyes comes into the incident room, and they spot connections that break the investigation wide open.”
“Mmm,” said Arden. “Like that, but less murdery. I’m saying maybe we should try thinking positive for a change.”
“Is this where you make us say our affirmations?” Lydia mimed stabbing herself in the eye.
Arden shook her head. “I’m saying it’s time to be proactive. Instead of ruling people out one by one, we could actively search for someone good. Like, who are the best guys you’ve ever read about, Mary?”
Caught off guard, my mind jumped to the book I’d been reading the night before. “Well, there was a guy who only stole the cursed jewel his betrothed had been given for her birthday because he was under hypnosis. Otherwise he was pretty upstanding. Way better than the rival for her affections, because the embezzling cousin really was after her money.”
Lydia held up a hand. “His cousin or hers?”
“Hers.”
She turned to Arden. “So we should be looking for someone who isn’t a blood relative? ‘No incest’ seems like kind of a low bar.”
“I’m sure Mary has lots of other examples.” Arden smiled encouragingly at me. “Maybe someone in real life, like from her classes, who seems like hero material?”
“Um,” I began. Had they forgotten I was the one who’d found Mall Guy intriguing?
“What about Pittaya?” Lydia asked.
I blinked at her. In my mind, he was part of the past, divided by an invisible line from my new life. At the same time, his apology had been heartfelt, and I appreciated the bravery it had taken to speak up. Maybe he would be an okay suitor for one of my friends. The obvious choice was Terry, since they shared a tendency toward ruminative silence.
Arden looked sharply at Lydia. “Who’s that? What did I miss? You know this person?”
“I know a lot of people.” Lydia broke off a piece of scone and popped it into her mouth.
“Why didn’t you say something? I can get his class schedule, and we’ll arrange to accidentally run into him a few times, invite him out for a coffee, level up to dinner and a movie—”
Lydia made a T with her hands. “You need to cease and desist, okay? When did this go from hanging out and showing Mary a good time to a freaky obsession with our love lives? Just because you and Miles are going through something—”
“No, we’re not.” Arden’s face flushed. “I’m fine with his new date partner.” She slurped angrily from her straw, squeezing the juice box until it crumpled.
Lydia grabbed Arden by the wrist. “His what?”
“He has a new debate partner,” Arden answered with a trace of impatience. “You know that. Angelica from Connecticut.” She made air quotes around the last word, as if the existence of such a place was pure conjecture.
“You said date partner,” Terry pointed out.<
br />
“Oh.” Arden pressed her lips together. “I meant debate. Obviously. She’s just a girl who’s probably a genius and likes the exact same things as Miles and has an exotic East Coast vibe.” She gave a brittle laugh. “And wears a private school uniform. Why should I worry?”
Lydia leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Listen, Miles is great, and I say that as someone who has zero interest in boning her best friend’s boyfriend. But he’s not exactly a ladies’ man.”
Arden opened her mouth to protest, but Lydia shook her head. “Let me finish. There’s no way Miles is cheating on you, because that would mean he’s scum, and then I would have to take him out, and no matter how brilliantly I represented myself in court there’s always a chance it wouldn’t go my way. Therefore, it’s not happening. That’s just logic.”
I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to Miles’ hypothetical philandering or the legal ramifications of revenge killing but deemed it best to nod.
“I know.” Arden swiped at the end of her nose. “Everything is perfectly fine.”
“Good.” Lydia sat back. “Then we can all relax and stop trying to force people to couple up whether they want to or not.”
Terry gave an emphatic nod of agreement.
Arden sighed. “That throws a rock in front of my skateboard.”
“Why?” asked Lydia.
“Because I’m building to something, okay?” Arden traced a mint-green fingernail across the uneven surface of the table. “This is all part of a bigger plan.”
Terry looked to me for enlightenment, but I could only shrug.
Lydia’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? Are we doing some weird fix-yourself challenge we don’t even know about? Because I don’t get how we went from showing Mary around and calling out scoundrels to The Bachelor, Millville High Island.”
Arden tipped her head back, eyes squeezing shut. “Winter Formal. Okay? Everything is supposed to lead up to the big dance, a.k.a. the perfect way to cap off Mary’s season. And for that you need certain things, like dates, and fancy dresses, and pretty feet!”
“Feet?” Terry whispered.
“Pedicures. That was next on my list.” Arden blew out a frustrated breath. “So much for the big reveal.”
“Like a ball,” I said, trying to picture it.
Lydia fake-coughed.
“It’s as close as we’re going to get around here,” Arden shot back. “And besides, even if it’s just in the gym, going to a dance is still an iconic high-school experience.”
“Same in the olden days,” I agreed.
“Okay, but you don’t technically need a date to go to the dance,” Lydia said, in a more conciliatory tone.
“I know that.” Arden shifted in her chair. “I just thought Mary might want to do the whole thing. Get dressed up, wear a corsage, take lots of pictures—”
“Awkward slow dancing,” Lydia suggested.
The corner of Arden’s mouth twitched. “Exactly. A night to remember.”
Lydia sat back sharply. “Tell me that’s not the theme.”
“No.” Arden rolled her eyes. “They used that for prom last year. They’re not going to repeat the same thing. That would be sad.”
“Sadder,” Lydia said under her breath.
“What is the theme?” Terry asked.
“The Cold War. Since it’s Winter Formal.”
Lydia stared at her, wide-eyed.
“Ha! Got you.” Arden patted herself on the back.
“That would actually be kind of cool though,” Terry said. “Kind of grim and eighties.”
“They could decorate the gym like the Berlin Wall,” Lydia suggested.
“What’s the real theme?” My question was partly intended to keep Arden from having an aneurysm, but I was also keen to know.
“Winter in Paris. Isn’t that romantic?”
“Do I have to wear a beret?” Lydia asked.
“Of course not.” Arden shook her juice box, frowning at its emptiness. She reached for a scone instead, ripping off the tip. “You don’t have to carry a baguette around either. Though I’m pushing for macarons on the refreshment table.”
Lydia grabbed the remainder of Arden’s scone. “So the only accessory I need is a date?”
“Ideally.” Arden darted a glance at Lydia’s face, as though hardly daring to believe she’d given in so easily. “It doesn’t have to be your soulmate or anything, just someone you can have fun with for a couple of hours.”
“And it doesn’t matter how or where we find them,” Lydia pressed.
The yes was already forming on Arden’s lips when she hesitated. “Are you talking about a Pretty Woman thing?”
It was Lydia’s turn to stare in consternation. “No, I’m not planning to pay someone to be my date. Which, not even speaking of the legal issues, why would you assume I need an escort service?”
“I don’t. I’m trying to figure out where your brain is on this.” She tapped the side of her head.
“I’m just saying it’s getting a little Cinderella up in here. Someday my prince will come.” Lydia stuck out her tongue.
Arden’s eyes widened in understanding. “I don’t care whether you go with a prince or a princess or whatever. I’m operating with the information I have, okay? I saw how Mary was checking out Mall Guy, and then Terry almost went out with you-know-who, and now you’re talking about this other person—”
“Pittaya,” I supplied.
“Who is a boy.” Arden held out a hand to me for confirmation and I nodded, thinking about how she’d been observing us all along, figuring out what we liked and trying to make it happen. Lydia and Terry noticed things too, in their crime-spotting way, and I’d always considered myself a student of human nature. For a moment, the connection among the four of us felt like a tangible thing, an invisible cord tying us together. Maybe we were destined to meet.
“Unless there’s something you want to tell me?” Arden directed the question to the table at large. “Personal preferences, stuff I can work with?”
Terry and I shook our heads in unison. Nothing to see here!
Lydia made a slashing motion with the side of her hand. “A human, with a pulse. Or a really top-shelf AI. You can put that on my profile.”
“And no criminal record,” Terry added.
“Right.” Arden held out a hand to me, eyes shining with confidence. “And Mary will make sure they’re not relationship criminals. It’s basically a foolproof plan.”
My stomach somersaulted, and not from eating too many scones.
Dear Diary,
There are a lot of things I wonder about food in books. What does ratafia taste like? Or blancmange? How about mutton, which I imagine being a little like corned beef? As for “white soup,” is there any way it isn’t gross? Because it sounds like a pot of flour and water to me.
Of course, if you try to discuss any of these things at the dinner table, Jasper just yells “spotted dick!” and cackles hysterically. Granted, that is a pretty unfortunate name for a dessert.
M.P.M.
Chapter 16
The October breeze carried a delicious crispness through the still-open dining room windows. Mom must have sensed the incipient change in weather because she’d spent the afternoon butchering butternut squash. There would be leftovers for days, but tonight it felt like an occasion: the first squash soup of the fall, served with a loaf of seeded bread from the hippie bakery downtown and slices of sharp cheddar and Granny Smith apple.
I waited until everyone had filled their bowls and Dad was finished fulsomely complimenting the soup’s velvety texture before broaching the subject uppermost in my mind. Despite Arden’s assurances that a date for the dance needn’t be a soulmate, I was anxious not to repeat the Mall Guy debacle.
“So how do you know if someone is right for you?” I asked, stirring a dollop of Greek yogurt into my soup. “A good match.”
“Are we talking chess? Tennis? Swapping kidneys?” J
asper asked around a mouthful of bread.
“More like in a personal sense.”
There was a brief silence as my family looked back at me with varying degrees of consternation. “Does someone have an admirer?” Van asked archly. She turned to Addie, as if to share the joke. “I did not see this coming. Did you?”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” her twin replied without looking up.
“But is there any way to tell from the beginning?” I persisted, before everyone could start quoting Hamlet. “Whether it’s going to work out.”
“Some sort of test, you mean?” Dad said.
“They do those quizzes in Cosmo,” Jasper suggested.
Addie dipped a piece of bread in her soup. “Send them on a quest. To test their devotion.”
“No, she should disguise herself as a boy.” Van’s face took on a faraway look, and I knew she was envisioning Shakespearean hijinks: mistaken identity, moonlit revels, a song or two. Apparently she’d forgotten that Millville High was a whimsy-free zone. “See if they like you for you, or just because your physical attributes fit some accepted gender norm.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “For the record, this isn’t about me. I’m asking for a friend.”
Jasper snorted.
“Does this friend have a loom?” my father inquired, brushing crumbs from the stubble on his chin. As a rule, he forwent shaving on days he didn’t teach, as well as the days he was supposed to teach but forgot until the department secretary called.
“Brilliant.” Mom beamed at Dad. “The faithful Penelope, weaving by day, only to unravel the cloth at night.”
“Odysseus’s wife,” Addie explained for Jasper’s benefit. He grunted, meaning either even I know that or who cares?
“When he didn’t come home from the war she told all the guys who wanted to marry her that she had to weave a burial shroud for her father-in-law first,” Van added, not to be outdone. “Only every night she undid all her work, so it was never finished.”
I felt my original question slipping further away, soon to be lost forever in the sands of my family’s rambling. “I’m not sure the burial shroud excuse will carry the same weight in this century.”
By the Book Page 13