Miss Match (9 page)

“Sasha Finnegan,” I answer, straightening a flamingo that’s all lopsided. Only now it makes the others look skewampus. After tilting a couple more pink birds this way and that, I realize my efforts are futile and surrender. “Don’t worry. I’m not selling magazine subscriptions or wrapping paper for my school.”

The door swings ajar, and she promptly invites me in. Mrs. Woosely is wearing
a quilted velour warm-up set, her hair in painful-looking pink curlers. “Do you like ’em?” she asks, lifting her right foot with what appears to be tremendous effort. “I think they’re funny-looking, but I hear they’re very popular these days. That’s what my son told me when he gave them to me.”

I take in her bright yellow Crocs and nod. “They’re all the rage.” Like ten years ago, but hey. They
are
comfy. “Well, here’s the last of what I owe you.” I hand her the money Derek paid me, feeling the sweet sensation of closure.

She flips through the bills and gives me a funny look. “This is too much.”

“Well, consider it interest. I really appreciate your letting me do this on the down-low, Mrs. Woosely.” I turn around and start down the steps.

“Well,” she says, peering over my shoulder at my scooter, “how about you keep this, put it toward a car? You’re gonna catch a humdinger of a cold on that thing.” She smacks the money in my hand and practically pushes me out the door.

“But I…” It’s obvious by the way her eyes are narrowed and her bright yellow foot
is tapping that this woman won’t take no for an answer. So I just thank her and wave.

Once I get to Starbucks, there’s an impressive line of patrons waiting to order their übercomplicated coffee concoctions. I decide to wait it out and take a seat at a table at the front of the shop. From here Yas and I can scope guys both inside and out.

The man at the next table looks up and smiles at me. He’s grasping his cup of coffee, a northern Utah real-estate guide spread out in front of him. He’s got the whole professorly look going on: the wool blazer, the slightly wrinkled chinos, and metal-framed glasses. His longish brown hair is mussed and a bit gray around the temples. Even though he’s ancient, he’s cute in a way. Not my type but…oh my gosh! Totally Mom’s type. And as an added bonus he’s not wearing a wedding band.

I scoot my chair closer, slipping into Miss Match mode. “Excuse me.”

He turns the page in his guide before looking up.

“I, uh, noticed you’re looking at houses in the area?”

“Yes, I am.” He takes a tentative sip of his coffee.

“Are you new in town?”

“I’ve been working at the university for a couple of months.”

“Ahhh. Well, if you don’t mind my prying, do you have a real-estate agent? I mean, if you’re working at the U, you’re probably way too busy to navigate the housing market by yourself. I know an agent who is practically famous around here. And not only will you like the houses she’ll show you, I guarantee you’ll love the company.”

His lips curve into the cutest smile. “That’s a pretty big promise, young lady.”

I shrug. “She’s the best. Well, I’ll let you get back to your reading.” Then I scoot my chair back to my table and wait. One, two, three…

“Do you have this real estate agent’s card, by chance?” Now that he’s standing up, I can see he’s about six-foot-one or-two. A few inches taller than Dad. Mom would look so adorable standing beside him.

“I thought you’d never ask.” I reach in my purse and hand him Mom’s card. He studies the picture and flips the card around
in his fingers a couple of times before slipping it into his wallet.

On his way out he tosses the real-estate guide into the recycle bin and gives me a little wave.

“Who was that?” Yas asks, pulling up a chair. “Don’t tell me you were flirting with him. I mean, he’s handsome in a Harrison Ford way, but he’s old enough to be your father.”

“Or my mother’s new boyfriend.”

Yasmin laughs, tossing her freshly brushed hair. “You never stop.”

The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it! It’s for me!” Maddie screams, racing to the front door. Okay, so I get she’s a cheerleader, but she’s acting a bit overzealous, even for her. I turn down
Oprah
and listen.

“Hey, Maddie.”

Derek?

I spring off the couch and follow them down the hall and into her room. Her room is totally clean. Her algebra textbook is on the bed, which is perfectly made. Does she have a maid I’m not aware of?

“So you’ve moved the algebra lessons to the house?” I ask.

“What’s up, Sasha?” Derek nods at me politely. He’s wearing a forest-green shirt that
makes his eyes appear darker than usual.

“Derek’s suspended from school, so we figured it includes the library.” Maddie sits down and pats the bedspread beside her for Derek to join her. I take that as my cue to leave them alone.

“Well, let me know if you need anything…” I find myself saying.

“How about a couple of Cokes?” Maddie says, opening her book.

I go to the fridge and raid the soda dispenser. Before I make the delivery, I check my appearance in the living room mirror. Oh, joy. There’s a zit on my chin as red as the Coke cans. No wonder no one has asked me to homecoming.

“Here ya go, kiddies.” I place the sodas on Maddie’s desk.

They’re so into the FOIL method they don’t even look up.

Now what?

It’s not like I can watch
Oprah
when Derek’s here. He’ll think I’m a total dork. Maybe I’ll go to my room and start on a new Miss Match gig. Might as well put a little more money in the bank, right? It really would be nice to have my own car sometime this millennium.

While I’m booting up my laptop, I hear
Maddie cracking up. I’ve heard that girl laugh a million times a day, every day of my life. Why does it bother me so much right now? What is Derek saying—or doing—to make her laugh so much?

Why do I care?

I shake my head, hoping to oust those thoughts from my mind so I can concentrate on my latest matchmaking gig. Beth Samuels is a shy photographer-slash-poet, a sophomore who’s into Goth. I think she’s probably pretty behind all that makeup, and she’s got one of those awesome raspy voices like Demi Moore. She’s crushing on this junior called Jasper, who as she tells it is a brooding artist type. A painter. They both go to Murray High, just south of Salt Lake. I decide to take advantage of the whole art angle and type the following e-mail:

“Sasha! Maddie!” Mom yells, and about gives me a coronary. What’s she doing home so early? “Where are you two?”

“I’m studying!” Maddie shouts back. Ha. I’m sure Mom’s having a coronary over
that
one.

I hit send, then scurry out to the living room.

“What’s going on, Mom?”

She runs her hand through her hair and gazes out the window into the street. “Well, I never imagined I’d be saying this to my teenage daughter, but…”

“Out with it, Mom. I can handle it.”

Slowly, she turns around to face me. She inhales and then exhales so hard her bangs
puff up. “I’m going on a date tonight.”

Oh my gosh! “Really?”

“Really.”

“Really?” I can’t believe it!

She smiles. “
Really
.”

“So…who is he?”

“A very nice man named Holden Clark. I was showing him some houses today, and—”

“Does he work at the U?”

She tilts her head. “Well, yeeeees…but how did you know that?”

“Er, well, I just recognized his name from…an article about a professor of…”

“He teaches economics.”

“That’s right. Economics. So? You were saying?”

“We got along really well, and we were so busy looking at houses that we skipped lunch, and we were both getting hungry, so he asked if I’d like to have an early dinner with him tonight, and…”

“And?”

“And I said
yes
, that we could discuss some properties on the outskirts of Salt Lake that might be more affordable. But he just shook his head and said that he’d talked about houses enough for one day and wanted to talk about…”

“What?”

“Me.” He wants to discuss
her
over dinner. How sweet!

I jump up and down. “That’s great!”

“Is it?” She tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear, suddenly looking worried.

“Of course it is. Now let’s go and pick out something for you to wear,” I say, steering her down the hall to the master bedroom. “You’re gonna be a regulation hot mama.”

“Why did you lie to me, Sasha?” Yas shoots me a look from hell over her strawberry TCBY smoothie.

“What are you talking about?”

“You said I’m as hot as ever. You know, after Ruffalo’s party. When I tried to help you out by keeping Kevin away from your sis and he wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole…?”

“You
are
as hot as ever, Yas.” How can someone so skinny and beautiful have such a complex? Isn’t it Shakira who goes to a therapist to deal with the trials of being gorgeous? Puh-
lease
. Try being curvy or (heaven forbid) fat. Or butt ugly or deformed, even. Now, those are
real
issues. Not being skinny and beautiful.

“Then why the heck hasn’t anyone asked me to the homecoming dance?” she asks.

I shrug a shoulder. “I don’t know.” Since there’s a Jazz game tonight, the mall is a virtual graveyard. After I helped Mom get ready for her date, I asked Yas to meet me at TCBY. She hates basketball and loves dessert, so I knew I could count on her. Admittedly, I was desperate for some company, but had I known she’d dive right into homecoming
this
and homecoming
that
, I would’ve been better off at home with my World Geography textbook. “No one’s asked me, either.”

“But you don’t care. You’re strong like that, Sasha. You don’t equate your self-worth to how many times you get asked for your phone number or invited to school dances.”

Interesting. My best friend believes I’m eager to join a convent or the local chapter of Spinsters of the World. But I don’t have the energy to argue. Besides, isn’t this precisely the image I’m going for? That guys are great for most girls, but for me they’re just a big waste of time? “Sounds like you’ve been watching too much
Dr. Phil
, chica.” I take a huge bite of frozen yogurt and immediately wish I hadn’t. Mega brain freeze.
Owwwwww.
Blinking back the tears, I try
to keep my face from contorting into something out of a Tim Burton movie.

“Tell me why no one’s asked me.” She points her extra-long plastic spoon at me accusingly.

“Someone
is
going to ask you, Yas. You just have to be patient.” I’m putting my money on Brian, but if that falls through somehow, finding someone else will be a piece of cake.

She sits up straight. “Really? You know this? Is he just being shy or something?”

Oh, man. Talk about an insta–mood upper! I can’t tell her it’s just a bunch of inspirational hoopla. What’s the harm in going along with her fantasy of a mysterious future homecoming date? She’s my best friend, after all, and I can’t bear to see her all depressed like this. “I can’t say. Sworn to secrecy.”

“Just answer one question. You know, on account of us being best friends.” She sticks her spoon into her cup, and her ruby red lips curve into a coy smile. “Is he hot?”

“You’ll see,” I say with a cheesy wink.

She stands up and takes my arm. “Don’t just sit there! We’ve got to find me the perfect outfit for being asked to homecoming.”

Yas flips through the Nordstrom racks with an urgency that’s borderline scary.
After an hour of trying on clothes, she’s tossed several outfits onto the
it works
pile.

“Do you need help narrowing it down now?” I ask, hanging up the heap of
it sucks
stuff.

“I’ll just get all four,” she says, zipping her jeans. “After all, I have no idea which day he’s going to ask me, and I don’t want to be caught in some outfit I’ve had for months.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” God, I hope I can get someone to ask her. I make a mental note to start working on Brian first thing tomorrow.