Perfect Match (15 page)

“Coo-coo,
chérie
,” her hoarse voice came across the phone. “Zere is small favor I need to ask. I must jet back to Paree
ce soir
, but my suitcase iz too full to fit in—how do you say—overhead compartment. Can you pleaze take a ball gown or two off my hands?”

“Let's see. … Um, where do I sign?” I responded, laughing.

I ducked out of school as soon as the bell rang and hailed a cab downtown to Jade's atelier in Chelsea. I was about to press the buzzer to her studio when I spotted a familiar profile peering through the windows of a store across Tenth Avenue.

What was
Xander
doing window-shopping at the 202 Boutique in Chelsea?

Before I knew was I was doing, I'd sprinted across the avenue to spy on him from a lesser distance. Why was he lingering in front of that one mannequin? And why did he have such a forlorn look on his face?

Then it hit me: 202 was Camille's favorite clothing store in the city.

“Xander?” I asked, tapping his shoulder.

He spun around. “What?” he said. His voice sounded strained and a little defensive. “I was just—I wasn't—”

“What are you doing down here?” I wasn't trying to give him the third degree, but I realized I sounded a little bit suspicious.

“I was … uh … looking for a present … for my mom for Valentine's Day. But this place doesn't have
much.” He turned back around and glanced at an amber and garnet necklace in the window that pretty much screamed Camille. “I'll probably just go to Louis Vuitton. She likes key chains and stuff.” He was rambling, clearly nervous.

“Okay,” I said, trying to put him at ease. “So, how've you been?”

“I've been good. I've been fine.” He shot me a look. “Why? Did Camille ask about me? Never mind. Look, I should get going. Great to see you!”

Before I even had time to wave good-bye, Xander had taken off down the street faster than a Kenyan marathon runner. I knew I needed to tell Camille about the run-in, but since I couldn't exactly make sense of it myself, I wasn't sure how to position it to her.

Slightly shaken up, I crossed back over to Jade Moodswing's side of the street. When I got upstairs, she was perched on the windowsill smoking a cigarette and talking into a headset. A team of at least ten assistants ran around the room packing up dresses, tearing mock-up sketches off the walls, and stuffing fabric scraps into a giant platinum trunk.

When Jade saw me in the doorway, she waved me over to her, then gestured dismissively at the scene. “Iz always depressing to disappear from a place like
zis. Two more hours in New York, then poof, we'll be gone.”

“But you'll come back soon, right?” I asked. “Fall Fashion Week's only a few months away. …”

“We'll see,” Jade said cryptically. “In the meantime, you must promise to wear the dresses well,
chérie
. I've arranged for a few of ze girls to model the line for you so you can select ze ones you want. Come, sit by me on ze ledge and take a look. Can someone bring Flan a Pellegrino?”

“Seriously?” I asked, plopping down on the sill next to Jade. This was almost more exciting than being one of Jade's models in the Armory show. It was definitely more relaxing.

“Do you want us to cue the music?” Jade's head assistant asked from the back of the room.

“Yes, yes, we spare no expense for Chérie,” Jade said.

The lights dimmed, two flutes of Pellegrino arrived, and I tried not to laugh in disbelief. When I'd woken up this morning stressing over my Latin test and silly high school boys, a private fashion show of Jade Moodswing's latest formal-wear line had been the furthest thing from my mind. Oh, life …

Soon enough, the models filed out of a back room, pranced down an imaginary catwalk, and stopped right in front of Jade and me to pose.

“Oh my gosh,” I said, breathing in the scent of all the haute couture. “Jade, you've outdone yourself.”

“You like? They are all from ze newest line. I call eet
Jewel
.”

I could see why. All the dresses were jewel-tone shades—deep sapphire, rose quartz, emerald, even an iridescent opal color, which I fell instantly in love with. Each gown also had a different signature touch—from a keyhole neckline, to a darted velvet bodice, to a layered petticoat that grazed the hard-wood floor.

“These are amazing!” I said, a little breathless. “Each one is so unique, but they're still so totally you.”

“I think zey are totally
you, chérie
. Maybe you will wear one on Valentine's Day for your
amour
.”

“Actually,” I said, eyeing the opal-colored gown, “we do have a Valentine's dance at school on Friday night.” But then, I also couldn't stop staring at the emerald dress—or the sapphire dress. “Any of these would be perfect. I'm just not sure how to pick which one.”

“Why do you have to pick?” Jade asked as the models continued to swirl around us. “To tell you ze truth, I don't really have room for any of zese. Take zem all, decide which one to wear later—give zem out to your friends as petite Jade mementos,
non
?”

My friends were all just as obsessed with Jade's couture as I was. The thought of showing up at the dance with an entourage clad in Moodswing couture made me bust out into a giant grin.

“That way,” I said, rationalizing her gift, “even when you leave New York, you'll still be leaving a legacy of fantastic dress.”

“
Parfait
,” Jade said, snapping her fingers for an assistant to wrap up the dresses. “Everybody wins.”

Blowing out a ring of smoke, Jade Moodswing might not have looked much like a fairy godmother, but I definitely felt like Cinderella. Only this time, real life trumped fairy tale, because I don't think Cinderella ever got to take four extra dresses for her friends to wear to the ball.

When the dresses were wrapped up and I had enough taffeta and silk to clothe a lesser borough, I leaned in to give Jade a thank-you kiss on each cheek. I skipped down the stairs to catch a cab. Maybe I could soften the blow of the cryptic Xander story by offering Camille first choice of the dresses for the dance.

Oh, shoot! The dance! With all the private fashion show excitement, I'd completely forgotten that I was supposed to go to a committee meeting today after school. And when I checked my cell phone in the
taxi, I had the threatening text message from Willa to prove it.

IF YOU DON'T START PULLING YOUR WEIGHT, FLOOD, I DO HAVE THE AUTHORITY TO REMOVE YOU FROM THE COMMITTEE. PUBLICLY DETHRONED AT THE VALENTINE'S DANCE—WOULDN'T THAT BE EMBARRASSING?

On Thursday morning, I woke up before my alarm clock to the sound of our repeatedly ringing doorbell.

“Could somebody get that?” I shouted in the general direction of the rest of my family. “Oh, right,” I remembered aloud. “I'm the only one who's ever actually home. No offense, Noodles.”

Yawning, I pulled on a sweatshirt and thumped down the stairs, thinking that whoever was cruel enough to ring someone's doorbell so many times before 8 a.m. had better have a pretty good excuse.

For a second, I thought that it might have been my dad. Even with his insane travel schedule, he tried really hard not to miss a Valentine's Day. But I knew that he had an important business meeting/golf tournament in Maui all week, for which he had already apologized profusely.

When I opened the door, I was greeted by a stranger in a Yankees cap.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I doubt it,” he said flatly. “But they're paying me to help you.” He reached behind him to pick something up off the stoop. Unceremoniously, he handed me the most enormous bouquet of red roses that I had ever seen.

“Omigod,” I gasped.

“Omigod is right,” the deliveryman said. “You must be pretty special. This guy got you the deluxe. Sign here.” He held out a clipboard.

“I can see that,” I said, signing my name and nearly buckling under the weight of the vase. “Happy Valentine's Day!” I said, overflowing with romantic wishes for everyone around me.

“Yeah, yeah,” the guy said, starting down the steps. I guessed if I had his job, I might not have been so cheery, but as it was, I couldn't wait to read Alex's card—or to set the massive vase down before I dropped it.

The card was simple and white, but the message inside was anything but:

I know you think that I'm a guy who always breaks a rule.

But to deny you red roses on Valentine's day, I'd have to be a fool.

Please don't expect a lot more verse from your nonpoet boyfriend,

Just wanted to give you a romantic day from its beginning to its end.

Can't wait to see you tonight.

—A

For the first time in my life, I was almost glad that my family wasn't around. If they'd seen me blush this hard over a love note from a boy, they never would have let me live it down.

By the time I met up with Alex after school, I'd stopped blushing and was just really excited to hang out with him. It had been such a long, fun, busy week of friends and fix-ups and dance coordinating, but now I was ready to dedicate my entire night to my valentine.

He'd left me a message to be dressed and ready to hit the town at seven o'clock, but at a quarter to seven, I was just getting around to wrapping the gift I'd rush-ordered online earlier this week. Five minutes later, I zipped up my brand-new soft pink flapper-style cocktail dress, and at six fifty-nine, I was smacking on
my signature Chanel lip gloss. I had never been so punctual, but Alex always was, so I wasn't surprised when the doorbell rang just as I was blotting my lips with a tissue.

I dashed down the stairs and flung open the door. Alex had never looked better. He was wearing a dark gray Calvin Klein suit, a light pink button-down, and these really unique Euro-style black loafers.

“Whoa,” we both said at the same time, taking in each other's outfits.

“I love your shoes,” I said.

“You look beautiful,” he said, stepping inside and looking around. “Do you still have the house to yourself?”

“Um, yeah,” I said, wondering what he had in mind.

“Good.” Alex turned around and picked up two hefty paper bags from Zabar's. “Point me toward your kitchen. I'm making us a Valentine's feast.”

“Be gentle.” I laughed, thinking about all the take-out food our house had seen in the past few months. “This room doesn't get a whole lot of use.”

But as I led him back into our kitchen, I was secretly thrilled that he'd put more energy into planning our date than just making a reservation at some
fancy restaurant. Things were already off to a really romantic start.

As it turned out, Alex was a real pro in the kitchen, which I added to the list of things that made him incredibly attractive. While he unloaded the groceries, I got to work picking out the music. Luckily, I had Morgan's latest mix on my computer, so I didn't have to play my typical embarrassing lineup of
American Idol
tunes.

“Do you like Al Green?” I called from the stereo in the living room.

“Are you kidding? Al Green invented the love song. He
is
soul.”

“I'll take that as a yes.” I laughed, pumping up the volume on the speakers. “Can I help you make dinner?” I asked, even though I hardly recognized most of the food Alex was unloading on my counter.

“Definitely,” he said. “Do you know how to make aioli?”

“A-what-i?”

Alex kissed me and handed me a head of garlic and an apron. “Here,” he said, laying down a cutting board. “I'll show you.”

He wasn't kidding. For the next forty-five minutes, Alex showed me how to turn olive oil, an egg, and
some garlic into the most amazing dip I had ever tasted. While I sliced the City Bakery baguette and some farmers' market veggies for the dip, Alex pan-fried an entire fish, filling the kitchen up with incredible smells of rosemary and sage.

By eight-fifteen, we were sitting down to a huge spread of amazing-looking food. It was the most romantic and intimate meal of my life—everything was so perfect that it almost made me nervous.

“Is something wrong?” Alex asked. “Did I overcook the fish?”

“Not at all,” I said, taking a bite of trout as proof. “Everything is perfect.”

“Just wait,” he said. “There's more.”

“You always say that.” I laughed.

“And don't I always come through?”

By the time we finished eating, I was ready to give Alex my gift. But right when I stood up to excuse myself and run upstairs, the doorbell rang.

“I'll get it,” Alex said. Before I could protest, he was opening up the front door to let in a small man wearing black yoga pants and a black button-down shirt.

“Flan,” Alex said, registering the very confused look on my face. “This is Paco. He's the best salsa teacher at Broadway Dance.”

“No way,” I gasped, guessing at what he was about to say.

Alex nodded. “I know you're always talking about how fun it'd be learn salsa, so I thought this might be a good time for a private lesson.”

Paco stuck out his hand and looked at me seriously. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Flood. I hope you're ready to sweat.”

Paco wasn't kidding. For the next hour and a half, he made us work up a pretty continual glow. Alex had some natural moves, but I was, embarrassingly, a little bit of a klutz. I kept tripping over my own feet and making Alex stumble with me. Alex thought it was pretty funny—Paco, not so much.

“Eyes up,” he kept yelling at me. “What's with the elephant feet! Are you even listening to the music?”

Some girls might have gotten frustrated, but the tough love was good for me. By ten o'clock, I could make it through one whole dance routine without making either Alex or myself fall down.