How I Found the Perfect Dress (10 page)

C
olin and
t
ammЧ Were in line at a Cash register with my mom by the time I caught up with them, and Colin was on me like green on a shamrock when he smelled the coffee on my breath.

“The coupon was for real, then?” he asked, amazed. “So how in the bloody hell did it get into me trousers?”

“I—I don't know,” I answered, which was technically the truth if you ignored the stuff I left out, like the fact that I'd just seen a ticked-off faery queen literally bite Colin's head off and then been instructed to find a leprechaun by a magical guy in a chicken suit. “You know how stores are. Always doing weird things to get the customers' attention.”

“Hmmm. Some kind of marketing scheme, maybe,” he mused. My mom was arguing with the cashier about whether or not the paper towels were on sale, and Tammy was rocking the shopping cart back and forth to make the wheels squeak. “P'raps they're paying the Laundromats to stuff people's pockets with adverts,” Colin mused. “But how does that explain the other notes I've found? Why the same stunt in Dublin and Connecticut? Seem a bit random, if you ask me.”

“Must be globalization,” I said, distracted. Mom was getting into something with the cashier.

“It says ‘two for a dollar,'” Mom insisted, in her you-don't-know-who-you're-dealing-with voice.

“Only if you buy four,” the bored cashier explained.

“I suppose,” Colin agreed, but now he was watching my mom too. Her attempt to pay for the groceries was turning into a scene. Tammy cowered behind the grocery cart, her hands pressed against her ears.

“What you're describing is four for two dollars,” Mom declared loudly. “Two for a dollar means two for a dollar. Four for two dollars is four for two dollars.”

“Isn't it the same thing?” the cashier asked.

“Not if you have to buy four,” my mom cried, smelling victory. “It's not the same thing at all!”

She seemed not remotely embarrassed by the incident, and held her head high as she wheeled the grocery cart to the exit. “We have to be cost conscious,” she said, to no one in particular. “Until your father finds a job.”

 

 

on our WaЧ out of luckЧ lou's, Colin took the plunge and ordered a frothy green veggie juice smoothie from the juice bar, with added kelp and protein powder. After one sip he almost gagged.

“Bejaysus!” he cried. “If this potion is all that can cure me of me ills, I'd rather take to me bed with a rosary and pray for the bitter end to come.”

Dad showed up at the car just as we finished loading in the groceries. He had two new purchases, one tucked under each arm.

“Two!” my mom cried out. “
Two
garden gnomes?”

“Two was the least amount I could get,” Dad explained. “They were having a two-for-one sale.”

“No, Daddy, zero was the least amount you could get,” Tammy chirped with confidence. “Zero is less than two. It's even less than one!” She turned to me. “Marcus told me there are numbers that are less than zero, but I didn't believe him.”

“Negative numbers,” I said, buckling her seat belt for her.

“That's what Marcus called them too,” Tammy said proudly. “I told him he was crazy.”

“Marcus isn't the one who's crazy,” my mom muttered dangerously, but Dad just smirked and went around the back of the car to stow his new friends. Unfortunately the cargo space of the Subaru was already crammed full of grocery bags.

“Mind holding the gnomes, girls?” Dad said, passing them through the window.

 

 

 

that's how We drove home: tammЧ and i each holding a garden gnome in our laps, and Colin nodding off with his head against the window, his tall frame folded up to fit in the backseat while Mom sat up front.

As I sat there hugging my new plastic friend, I thought about Finnbar's secret message. I knew he was trying to be helpful. But where the fek was I supposed to find a leprechaun in Connecticut?

It was an urgent question, but I couldn't concentrate with my parents slugging it out like a pair of Rock'em Sock'em Robot buggers up front. The argument kept up all the way home, continued while we carried the grocery bags into the kitchen and then escalated alarmingly with the combatants finally retreating upstairs to the master bedroom.

Colin seemed to find the squabbling soothing. He kicked off his ratty sneakers and stretched out on the sofa. “I'm glad we've all put aside our company manners,” he said with a yawn. “Makes me feel right at home.” Then he fell asleep.

I knew he was supposed to be back at school, but I let him nap. A quick afternoon snooze was not going to provoke Queen Titania by messing up the evening's faery ball plans, and after months of nightly dance duty in the faery realm, I knew how desperately he needed the rest.

 

 

dad's gnome Collection had started innocentlЧ enough. He'd bought one at a yard sale a few years back, “as a joke,” he'd said at the time. But, like so many things that begin as harmless fun and end with somebody losing an eye, the gnomes quickly got out of hand. A golf buddy gave one to Dad as a birthday gift. His former officemates started leaving gnome figurines on his desk. It was eBay that sealed his fate by putting temptation within reach twenty-four seven. The man was hooked.

By now there were thirty—make that thirty-two—gnomes in the garage. They spent the winter there, but as soon as the weather got warm, Dad would wake up some weekend morning and declare it The Day of the Gnomes. Armed with dusting cloths, touch-up paint and a bunch of corny props, he'd prepare the gnomes to assume their seasonal positions throughout the yard.

Mom made no secret of hating the gnomes. She said they were a waste of money and, even worse, “the epitome of clutter.” Maybe it was the stress of Dad's ongoing unemployment, but today's two-for-one purchase seemed to be setting off the Great Gnome War my parents had been building up to—the one that left shards of fiberglass and threats of divorce in its wake.

Red-faced, white-lipped, my dad clomped down the stairs.

“They're tacky, Daniel!” Mom cried, in close pursuit. “Can't you see that?”

“Two gnomes are tacky,” he countered, heading to the fridge. He took out a soda. “Thirty-two is a whimsical collection that screams kitschy charm.”

“No, that's
me
screaming,” Mom hurled back. “We do belong to a block association, you know.”

“Yes we do,” said Dad. “And
they
have a sense of humor.”

“Not anymore. All your old-timer buddies got voted off the board, remember? This new group is
very
serious when it comes to property values. We could get fined.”

“What does ‘kitschy' mean?” Tammy asked. “It's not one of those bad words like Colin says, is it?”

“Mmmmph.” Colin groaned sleepily from the couch.

“It means tacky,” Mom and I said at the same time.

“What about free speech?” Dad pulled back the tab on his soda can until it spit out a wet hiss. “I indulge in a little creative self-expression on my own private property, and I have to worry about getting fined?”

“Mark my words,” Mom warned. “If you put that ‘whimsical collection' in front of the house this year, the Lawn Police will be paying us a visit.”

 

 

 

after Colin's nap—“i swear, the onlЧ restful sleep I've had in months has been in this house!” he declared—he was eager to see what the fuss was about, and asked to sneak a look at the gnome collection before heading back to UConn. Mom was burning off stress on her elliptical in the basement, and Dad was burning off stress by driving around town for an hour pretending to look for a newspaper, so I let Colin into the garage and posted myself as lookout in the kitchen. He was still in there when the phone rang. It was Sarah.

“Is he there?” she asked.

“Kind of,” I said. “He's in the garage.”

“It's teen night at Club Toxins and Ass Your Kiss Goodbye is playing the opening set. They gave Dylan three passes. One for me, one for you, one for Colin. Can you come?”

“I can,” I said, “but Colin's about to head back to school.”

“You promised we'd meet him this week!” Sarah wheedled. “I really,
really
want you both to come.”

“I'll ask him, but I doubt it. He's in a competition, you know.”

“Yer man's not just
in
it—he's going to win it!” Colin crowed, walking into the kitchen. Even a short rest had restored some of his old spark. “Those wee friends of yer da's have given me a prize-winning idea. Who're ye jawin' with?”

“Sarah,” I said, covering the phone with my hand. “She wants us to come see her boyfriend's band tonight, but I told her you had to work on your project.”

Colin looked disappointed. “I do indeed, more's the pity. A band, eh?” He drummed his fingers on the countertop. “What sorta band?”

“They're a Kiss tribute band,” I said reluctantly, knowing how much this would tempt him. “Ass Your Kiss Goodbye.”

“Dead on!” he cried, delighted. “With the makeup and the dry ice and the long waggly tongues and everything?” Then he frowned. “That's hard to pass up. Damn. Ah, well.”

“So?” Sarah asked. “Is he coming or not?”

“He can't,” I said into the phone. “Sorry.”

“Well, I'll see
you
later at least. If you get lonely you can hang out with Mike Fitch, I guess.”

“Mike Fitch?” I blurted. “Will he be there?”

“Well, duh. He's in the band; of course he'll be there. Don't worry, I'm not trying to fix you up or anything. Though I
am
starting to wonder if this guy Colin really exists.” Sarah was joking, but she sounded a tiny bit peeved.

Colin checked his watch. “Bollocks, I'd better run for the bus. Who's Mike Fitch?”

“Nobody. Some guy from school. Sarah thinks I made you up,” I babbled, while thinking,
Why does Colin care who Mike is? Is he jealous? Do I want him to be jealous? Is that the level of pathetic I've sunk to?

Colin snatched the phone out of my hands. “Attention, friend Sarah!” he said. “This is the imaginary Colin speaking. If you can hear the sound of me voice, that means you're imaginary too. Cheers!”

He tossed the phone back to me. “Have fun with yer mates,” he said. Then he waggled his tongue like Gene Simmons, and left.

 

 

 

duh. Of course mike fitch will be at the Club
. dad had dropped me off at Club Toxins, but I was having a hard time working up the courage to go inside, and Mike Fitch was the reason why.

But he'll be onstage, at least some of the time,
I thought. And I would be with Sarah. Except I knew Sarah would be completely focused on her adoring drummer boy, the same way Dylan focused on her during her basketball games. And eventually the guys would come offstage and the four of us would be standing there, and there would be witty and possibly flirty banter, and the more I thought about it the more I worried that the evening would really end up feeling like a date.

This was a problem for two totally contradictory reasons, both of which started with the word Colin:

 

Then I thought of a third, far more serious reason that the date-with-Mike concept was a problem. Reason three also started with the word Colin:

 

What was it Queen Titania had said?
You halo'd him with the glimmer of a half-goddess's desire. . . .

The implications of reason number three hit me like a dodgeball to the chest. Would faery mischief happen
every
time I liked someone? If Mike and I hit it off, would he soon come down with a mysterious case of what everyone would assume was the flu, but only I would know was really a symptom of him getting his groove on with some dance-addicted faery princesses all night, every night?

Not gonna happen,
I resolved, as I headed for the entrance to the club. I was not liking anyone, and no one was liking me, until I'd undone the enchantment Colin was under and knew how to magic-proof every boy I came into contact with.

 

 

sarah and i stood in front of the stage, the dance floor vibrating beneath our feet, until the band finally took a break. Even between sets Club Toxins wasn't the quietest place in the world to make small talk, but through a series of funny pantomimes, Mike offered to go get me a soda.

After he walked away Sarah yelled in my ear: “I think Mike Fitch likes you!”

“He shouldn't,” I said sharply.

Sarah pulled back. “What's the matter? Did Colin finally ask you to make it official?”

I wish,
I almost said. But if Sarah was right about Mike, I needed to squash his interest like a bug.
No sparks allowed,
was my new rule. Even the accidental kind.