Rhymes With Cupid (12 page)

“Why not?” he asked. “Our exit is the one after this. Start moving to the right.”

“Why did you make me move to the left in the first place, then?” I asked, irritated. I checked my blind spot again and, as I did, caught a glimpse of Patrick grinning like an idiot. “Because it’s not romantic to have eleven valentines. It’s like you’re telling every one of those girls how unspecial they are to you.” He seemed to think about that for a few minutes.

“There’s our exit,” he said finally. “Get ready to pull off, then let’s try to find a space to practice parking.” He took his hat off and scratched his head, then wriggled out of his jacket. For once, the car heater actually seemed to be working. As he stuffed his coat into the backseat, it was impossible not to notice the way it smelled, even though it took me a few seconds to figure out what it was. A not altogether unappealing mixture of coffee, sawdust, and engine grease—probably picked up from the shops at his school, Middleford Tech. I signaled and pulled onto the off-ramp. “You wouldn’t just happen to be jealous, would you?” he asked.

“And why would I be jealous?”

“Because you don’t think you’re in my top eleven.”

I snorted. “Right, because that would be such an honor.” The second I’d said it, I knew it sounded mean. After all—even if by now it was “ancient history”—he
had
confessed a crush on me just a few days before.

“Hey,” he shot back. “Some girls would be honored. I’ve had girlfriends before, you know?” he added, sounding almost hurt. “Lots of them. And, anyway, I didn’t say I
wasn’t
getting you a valentine. You can be number twelve if you want.”

Now I didn’t care if I sounded mean. “Awesome. I’ll wait for my card with bated breath.” I turned the wheel sharply to the left. A little too sharply, probably. We came around the corner in a skid. Patrick grabbed the wheel and steered us back on course. “Sorry,” I said. Driving and being irritated with Patrick were two things that obviously didn’t mix well. I knew I should change the subject to something safer. My first thought was the necklace, but I quickly decided against it. It was a precious heirloom, after all. A symbol of lasting love. Any guy who bought eleven valentines and bragged about how many girlfriends he’d had didn’t deserve to touch it. I’d just give it to his grandfather when we got home.

“How’s your songwriting going?” I asked instead, as I calmed myself down and accelerated gently. I hadn’t asked him about it since the first day I’d officially met him, when he bought pen number one.

Now it was his turn to get flustered. He shrugged and looked out the window. “Okay.”

“Just okay? You know, if you’re ever looking for someone to play for, I wouldn’t mind listening to one of your songs.”

“Yeah. I don’t know about that,” he said. “I don’t really sing in front of people, besides my friend Jax.”

“How are you ever going to be a famous singer-songwriter, then? And what about your band? You’ll never make it to the top of the charts if you don’t perform. You know, you just need to work on your confidence,” I said, repeating one of the aggravating things he’d said to me during our first driving lesson. “I’m sure you’re awesome. Plus,” I went on, “most girls are totally into that kind of thing. If you want to impress the top eleven . . .” I trailed off, but, obviously, I was thinking of Dina. If he sang her a song he’d written himself, she’d melt into a puddle of girl-goo.

“Oh my God,” I said, suddenly coming up with a brilliant plan. “You should write a song for Dina’s party.” He looked at me uncertainly. “It could be, like, your big debut. In front of a real audience.” Just the idea made him turn about two shades paler than usual. “Think of it as extreme songwriting. Do this, and you’ll never be afraid to sing in front of people again. Come on.” I grinned, knowing I had him. “I dare you. Unless, of course, you’re too scared.”

That sealed the deal. No guy would admit to being too scared. “All right,” he said, gulping. “You’re on. Just be prepared to be blown away.”

“Oh, I’m prepared,” I said, slowly pulling ahead. I braked gently, threw the car into reverse, then carefully maneuvered into a space between a minivan and a hatchback.

“Because, when I’m done singing,” he went on, obviously trying to gather his courage, “every girl at the party is going to be begging to be let into my top eleven. You might even have to fight to hold on to your spot at number twelve.”

Without thinking, I raised one hand to my chest, laying it over the heart pendant again. Then I put the car back into drive, checked my blind spot, and pulled out of the space. “Well,” I answered. The words came out of my mouth in a flirty tone I hadn’t at all intended. “I guess we’ll see. If your songs are really that good, I just might want to hold on to that spot.”

“Keep parking like that,” Patrick said, motioning toward the empty space I’d just left behind, “and I just might bump you up to number eleven. That was awesome.” I felt a strange, unexpected gush of pride and gratitude at his words. Not because I was aiming to be Patrick’s number eleven—obviously—but because he was right, I had just parallel parked, all by myself, and I’d done it without even hyperventilating or swearing. In truth, I’d barely even had to think about it. Clearly, a miracle had just taken place.

“Thanks,” I said simply, and still smiling, I turned the car toward home.

Chapter 12

T
he only downside to doing my very first independent parallel park that day turned out to be coming back to an empty house and having no one to tell. “Guess what?” I said to the many stuffed pandas my mom had dug out from the basement before leaving for Mexico. She’d even washed them and lined them up on my desk in preparation for Dina’s party. “I parked!” I picked one up and squished its soft black-and-white head. It looked back at me blankly.

I flopped down on the bed, hugging it happily to my chest anyway. Maybe it was just because I was on top of the world from the whole parking thing, but I suddenly wasn’t anticipating Dina’s party—or Valentine’s Day, really—with the same amount of dread. Not only was I going to get to see how happy it made Dina to adopt not one but two endangered bears, but I’d also get to watch Patrick sing in front of an audience for the first time. Somehow, I doubted he’d have all the girls swooning and fainting around his feet like he planned, but, at the very least, Dina would be impressed.

Plus, he’d get a chance to really see her in action—making everyone feel welcome at her party while she saved the world one bear at a time. How could he not be impressed enough to forget about the rest of his top eleven and focus on her instead? Getting to sit back and watch it happen—knowing I’d orchestrated the whole thing—might even be kind of fun.

The next morning was Saturday, and I wasn’t scheduled to start my shift at work until two. I slept until ten, then spent another hour lounging around in bed reading. By the time I finally made it downstairs, I was starving. I reached for the Cheerios and went to pour them into a bowl. A small handful fell out, followed by that bottom-of-the-box Cheerio dust. I sighed, threw the box out, put the milk carton (which was also nearly empty) back in the fridge, and reached for the bread, figuring I’d have toast instead. But the second I touched the bag, I could tell the loaf was stale. Obviously there was a reason my mother always put the twist tie back on right away and stored the loaf in the bread box—both things I hadn’t bothered to do after breakfast the morning before, despite the helpful sticky note on the bread box that instructed me to do so.

I went back upstairs to get dressed, glancing at the opal pendant, which was sitting on my dresser. It wasn’t that I’d
exactly
forgotten to give it back to Patrick’s grandfather the day before. It was just that, by the time Patrick and I had pulled into the driveway after my lesson, this really goofy song was playing on the car stereo, and Patrick was doing a bongo solo on his own head, which was too geeky for words, and really made me doubt his story about having loads of girlfriends back in Toronto (he’d probably just said it to save his pride). And then he’d started playing bongos on my head, too, and all in all, the moment just hadn’t felt quite right for the return of long-lost heirlooms. I was planning to go over to give it back to Mr. Connor soon, though. Probably even that day. Just not right that second. First, I had to concentrate on getting showered and dressed. My leisurely morning was over. I needed to go grocery shopping.

I had to admit I felt pretty mature when I stepped off the number eight bus and walked across the parking lot of ValuePlus Grocery half an hour later. All around me were families loading bags of food and cases of pop into their cars, old ladies dragging bundle buggies full of soup and canned tuna, and even one or two college students who didn’t look much older than me sauntering in with reusable bags thrown over their shoulders. I swung my own canvas bag on my arm, all cool and collected. That is, until I got into the store.

Obviously, I’d been grocery shopping with my mother a trillion times. I knew where the carts were, and how to pull one free from the row. I could probably have found my way to the milk and bread aisles blindfolded. It was just that
I’d never been there by myself before, with money in my pocket, and nobody to tell me what to buy.

I started out with the best of intentions, picking out three bananas and a very responsible head of lettuce. But that got me thinking about Caesar salad with creamy dressing and homemade croutons. I’d seen a crouton recipe in one of my mom’s magazines a while back that looked pretty easy. I’d need a loaf of French bread, garlic, parsley, and Parmesan cheese. But, since this was going to be a seriously fancy salad, I didn’t want the cheap stuff in the can. I headed for the real Parmesan at the deli counter. My jaw dropped when I saw the price: $12.75! For cheese! I threw it in the cart anyway. After all, it was for salad. My mother would approve.

I sailed through the chips and pop aisle unscathed, and barely glanced at the ice cream. It was the baking section that was my downfall. I needed stuff for the pinwheel cookies and cheesecake I’d promised Dina, so I piled in a bag of flour, a pound of sugar, cocoa, vanilla, and a huge bag of semisweet chocolate chunks. Then I noticed these adorable paper liners for muffin cups that had tiny hearts on them, and if I was going to make muffins, too, I’d need more flour—not to mention eggs, butter, and two packages of cream cheese for the cheesecake. While I was in the dairy aisle, I picked up some milk and some mini fruit bottom yogurts, and then, on impulse, a bag of Oreo cookies the next aisle over. I could use them to make panda decorations on the cake. Dina would die.

“That’ll be fifty-two dollars and sixty-five cents,” the cashier said after scanning the last bag of flour. I gulped. I’d only been planning to get Cheerios, milk, and bread—so when I’d pulled one $50-bill off the small roll of cash my mother had left for food and emergencies, it had seemed like more than enough. I dug through my pockets for change, trying to ignore the dirty looks from the woman in line behind me. She was flipping impatiently through a
National Enquirer
while she waited to pay for a single jumbo-sized box of Honey Nut Cheerios. And that was when I realized: Cheerios! I’d completely forgotten the Cheerios. I’d also forgotten the bread, unless you counted the baguette I’d picked up for my croutons. Well, there was no going back for them now.

“Um. Sorry,” I said, laying out my last pennies on the conveyor belt. “That’s fifty-two forty-seven.” I shrugged apologetically. “I guess I’ll have to put something back. What about the lettuce. How much did it cost again?”

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” the grouchy tabloid/Cheerios lady said. She slapped twenty cents down on the counter. “Let’s just keep the line moving.”

“Thanks.” I smiled sweetly, hoping she’d chill out. “Thanks a lot. I’ll pay you back.” It was a stupid thing to say. Obviously, I’d probably never see her again. Even though a huge photo of Angelina Jolie in a bikini was covering most of her face, I could tell she was rolling her eyes at me.

“You want bags?” the cashier asked me, twirling a lock of her hair. “Five cents each.”

“No. No thanks.” I held up my reusable bag. It wasn’t like I had an extra five cents anyway. But, as it turned out, $52.65 worth of groceries didn’t fit very well into one bag. I stuffed the chocolate chunks and muffin liners into my coat pockets, and piled a bunch more into the bag. When I was done, the seams looked like they were about to split, and I was still left holding a bag of sugar in the crook of my arm. To make matters worse, it had started to snow again.

No big deal, I reassured myself, lugging the heavy bag across the parking lot. I just had to make it to the bus stop; then I’d be as good as home. And that was when I realized: I’d counted out all of my change onto the conveyor belt. All of it. Including my bus money.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered to myself as I started down the sidewalk, snow flying in my face. How could I have possibly been so stupid? Home was at least a twenty-minute walk away, and the strap of the shopping bag was already cutting into my shoulder, making my arm feel all tingly and weird. I looked back at the grocery store. I’d barely made it half a block, and I had at least another twelve to go. I couldn’t see any other option.

“Excuse me?” I said, approaching a woman pushing a stroller. “I need to make a phone call. I’m all out of money. Do you have a quarter?” She walked past like she hadn’t even heard. “Excuse me?” I tried again, approaching a man who was opening his car. “Do you have a—”

“Sorry,” he said, getting in and closing the door before I could even finish my sentence. I bit my lip, fighting back tears. Not only did I suddenly feel helpless and alone, but I also felt guilty, thinking about ice-kicking Jack and all the other street people I’d passed with barely a glance. “Excuse me?” I said softly, this time to an old man. He shuffled past, head bowed against the drifting snow.

Dejected, I let my bag fall to the sidewalk with a thud. I shouldn’t have expected anyone to feel sorry for me. I was a healthy, well-dressed teenager carrying an overflowing bag of food. I obviously wasn’t in dire need. I took a deep breath, resigning myself to the fact that I had a long, slow, cold walk ahead of me.

“Need a quarter?” somebody asked. I looked up. A guy with a ponytail was holding out his hand. “I heard you asking.”

I nearly hugged him. “Thank you,” I said, pulling off my mitten to take it. “I bought too much stuff and I ran out of money for the bus. My mom’s away in Mexico on this trip, and I don’t have a cell phone so I—” He held up his hand to stop me, obviously not interested in my life story.

“Peace,” he said instead, holding up two fingers before walking off.

“Peace,” I shouted back, eager to thank him. “Peace to you, too. And thanks. Thanks so much. Really.”

Hoisting my bag up over my shoulder, and readjusting the sugar in my arms, I made my way toward a phone booth near the bus stop. I pushed the quarter into the slot and dialed, hoping to God the only person I could turn to would answer. The phone rang three times before finally—

“Hello?”

“Dina! Oh, thank God. It’s Elyse. I need a favor. I’m outside ValuePlus Grocery. I accidentally spent my bus money. Can you come pick me up? I swear, I wouldn’t ask if I had any other way. . . .”

“Oh no,” Dina said. “You know I would, but I’m at the salon getting highlights for the party. It’s so weird that you called though. I’m on the other line with Patrick. We were just talking about you.”

“Really?” I knew they’d exchanged numbers, and that Patrick had called her that one time to pass along the message about his fake Lyme disease, but I hadn’t realized they talked regularly. Did this mean what I thought it did? I was just about to ask who had called who first, but then I remembered I only had the one quarter. If my time ran out, I’d be in serious trouble. I could ask her about Patrick later. “How long do you think the highlights are going to take?” I asked instead.

“I don’t know. Let me find out.” Dina covered the phone with her hand. “The colorist says half an hour to forty-five minutes. But she needs to check it every twenty minutes to make sure. I’m so sorry, Elyse. I can come right after. Can you wait?” The snow was really starting to blow now. I shivered inside the tiny booth as I tried to balance the sugar on top of the phone.

“Sure,” I answered. What other choice did I have?

“Or, wait. Oh my God. You’re at ValuePlus, right? I’ll ask Patrick if he can come get you. He’s at the music store on Jones, right up the street. Just a sec.”

“Dina, no—” I started, but she’d already clicked over to the other line. I’d rather have frozen. Or dumped the groceries in a snowbank and walked the twelve blocks home. After the whole furnace thing, I
so
didn’t need Patrick teasing me about being a “damsel in distress” again.

Dina’s voice came back on the line. “He says no problem. Are you at the Laird entrance, or the one on Southvale?”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Tell him thanks, but I’m just going to wait until your hair is done. I mean, I don’t want to inconvenience him.”

“But it’s really cold out, Elyse,” she said reasonably. “And he said it was okay. I can’t stand thinking of you outside for the next forty-five minutes. Laird or Southvale?”

“Laird, but—” The phone made its little call-waiting clicky sound again.

A few seconds passed. “Near the corner or the bus stop?” she asked, coming back on the line.

“The bus stop, but, Dina, I
really
don’t mind waiting for you—”

“One sec,” she interrupted. The phone clicked again. “Okay. He’ll be there in two minutes. Clarissa needs to check my highlights. I’d better go. But I’ll see you this afternoon at work, okay?”

“Wait—” I went to protest again, but it was too late. She’d already hung up. I sighed as I replaced the receiver, then I struggled through the swinging doors of the phone booth with my humongous grocery bag.

No more than a minute could have passed before the red car pulled up. Like, what? Had he been sitting in the parking lot with the car idling, just waiting to rush to the rescue? Patrick popped the trunk and hit the four-way flashers, then climbed out and came around to help me. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to glare at him. What did he think this was? Nineteenth-century England? I wasn’t some kind of genteel, tea-sipping lady-in-waiting. I’d carried it this far. I could lift the bag of groceries into the car by myself.

“Hey,” he called brightly, taking the bag from me without asking and hoisting it into the trunk. “You should have knocked on the door. If I’d known you needed groceries I could have driven you. I was going to RecordRunner anyway.”

“I just needed a few things,” I answered. He glanced down at the bulging, overflowing shopping bag he’d just lifted. It easily weighed forty pounds. “And, anyway, the bus goes right by.” I bit my tongue and forced the next words out. After all, it
was
nice of him to drive me home. “Thanks for coming to get me.”