The Cinderella Project (A Comedy of Love, #1) (6 page)

“How many of these girls have boyfriends?” I asked.

Moiré’s forehead creased briefly. “Um… two of them. In fact, one of the guys is over there pretty much all the time. He and Bridgette are practically engaged.”

“He hangs out with his girlfriend’s roommates?” I asked, somewhat incredulously.

Moiré nodded with vigor. “All the time. I mean, they spend plenty of alone time, but there’s this unspoken rule with girls that if you really want to win them, you win their friends first.”

“Seriously?”

She looked at me in disbelief. “You never had any sisters, did you?”

“I have three.”

Moiré grinned wickedly. “See what I mean about it being ‘unspoken’?”

So that annoying “gotta get with my friends” song from the mid-
’90s wasn’t just a catchy tune. I scratched my forehead for a moment. “Right.”

“So is it a deal? I still have ‘research with Nick’ written on my calendar. You need a VCR and I can provide. As long as you don’t mind my friend’s roommate making out with her guy, I think we’ll be okay. Besides, I’m sure the girls won’t mind. I promise—you won’t be imposing on them at all. Heck, I even raid their fridge whenever I’m over there.”

So much for not imposing. “Tight group.”

“Tighter than a size zero on a pregnant woman.”

I’m not sure what kind of face I made, but it earned a healthy laugh from her.

“And you’re sure the guy will be there?”

She confirmed.

“And it’s really no trouble to them? Even unannounced?”

Another confirmation.

I sighed, hoping I wasn’t about to make a mistake. “Alright. I guess you have to do some research tonight after all.”

Moiré smiled and gave a little happy clap. She quickly regained her composure and in a professional tone said, “Well, then, Doctor, I suppose we shouldn’t keep the data waiting.”

I grinned, collected my VHS tapes and my notebook and we were on our way.

From the outside, Moiré’s friend’s flat could have been pretty much any college kid’s hovel. To the credit of the resident, the girls had transformed the inside into something livable, despite the worn, faux-wood paneling over cinderblock walls. Brightly-colored rugs put a pretty face on thin, industrial-style carpeting the hue of ejected body fluids. Peppy art and some of those amusing “de-motivational posters” dotted the walls. Various plants filled in what had been unsightly gaps between the old furniture and helped round things out. It wasn’t exactly the “Garden of Eden,” but it was nicer than what most of the guys I knew had; if nothing else, it didn’t smell of foot fungus. It was nice to actually be able to breathe.

Moiré walked in without knocking and three girls waved or said hi. The fourth girl was in the kitchen, having an… active discussion… with a guy that looked remarkably like Kevin Bacon. Then one of the residents noticed me.

“Oooh, Moiré done got herself a MAN!” The drawl sounded Texan. Or maybe it was from Alabama? I never was much of a linguist. The blond girl looked like a rodeo queen without her sash. She sat up instantly, her eyes wide and her smile wider. “Or is this one still single?” The cowgirl was on me in an instant, running a hand along my arm and ensuring there was no longer any air-space between
us.

“Hey, stranger,” she said warmly. “My friends call me Daisy, but I’m fine with ‘Sugar Cube.’”

I took an immediate and instinctive step back, but Daisy wasn’t having it.

Holy…
. Okay. It was officially time to leave. “Ah, Moiré? Hey, I forgot something at the lab. It was really nice of you to invite me over, but—”

“But you’re going to have a seat and finish your research before going back to the lab because lame excuses can always wait for a woman or four.”

Whoa. What do you even say to that? Moiré held her gaze on me, a bright grin underscoring the no-nonsense look in her eyes and it was just like being back at home, when Mom or one of my sisters had me cornered. Curse those old manners. I gritted my teeth and forced a smile.

Moiré then seized me by the front of my shirt and for a moment I thought she was going to kiss me. Instead, she pulled me away from her friend.

“Daisy,” Moiré said with aggressive playfulness, mimicking the other girl’s accent, “this here is Nick Cairn, soon to be the most famous shrink in this here town. But you’re going to have find yourself some other stud to hogtie. We’re here to do research and I promised him he’d leave with his virgin lips. Strictly business tonight, ladies. Touch him and it’ll be you and me and six guns at high noon.”

Daisy deflated into a pout and stepped away enough for me to see the other tenants.

A petite brunette was curled in on herself in the far corner of the couch. She was looking at me in quick glimpses, her eyes showing an unexpected mix of interest and guilt. I’d seen that before in my studies.

Opposite the brunette, a slender black girl smiled at the flirtations of her backwoods roommate.

Moiré piped up. “Okay, girls, Nick is studying what gets people to fall in love, which means we get to watch some movies from many moons ago, when Michael Jackson reigned supreme.”

The girl who’d been enjoying Daisy’s failure said, “I love ’80’s movies!”

“Moiré?” I asked. “Were you planning on introducing me at all?”

Moiré slapped her forehead. “Yeah. Duh. Okay, so you already know Daisy. She’s ‘single as the Ace of Spades,’ but only because her last man was dumber than a doorknob and joined the ‘World’s Biggest Deadbeats’ club about three years ago. Always be careful of cowgirls on the rebound.”

Daisy smiled wolfishly at me and winked. I returned a short nod and looked away.

Moiré pointed at the girl with an unnatural love for ’80’s flicks. “That’s my friend Tisha.”

“Hi,” Tisha said. I crossed the room to shake hands with her.

“In the kitchen are Bridgette and her boyfriend, Dean.” They pretended to wave. I got the hint.

“And this is Angie.” I moved to greet her. Angie tensed, measuring things for a moment before letting a trembling hand take mine. I shook the limp limb and gave her a reassuring smile. She blushed unexpectedly.

I grabbed a chair and placed it in the corner of the room opposite where Daisy had been sitting. Daisy hopped up to join me, so instead of sitting I pointed to another kitchen chair and asked Moiré, “You too?”

“Naw. I get the
beanbag.
” With that, Moiré went to the side of the couch and hauled out something resembling a half-ton toasted marshmallow. She held it in front of her and literally dove between Daisy and me. It looked fun and I enjoyed seeing her casual side. I smiled and sat. Daisy looked like a kid who’d just lost a favorite toy to her parents.

Tisha inserted the movie and it rewound without incident. Two minutes later, the standard FBI message was on the screen, warning us against the evils of copying Kris Kissy’s fictional tale or using the tape for commercial purposes. I pulled out my notebook and the movie began.

“Wait!” Tisha said, jumping up and hitting the stop button. “We can’t do this.”

We all looked at her.

“Can’t do what, Tee?” Moiré asked.

“Watch a movie. Not without popcorn.”

“You’re right,” Daisy said in all seriousness. “I think this big chunk’a man straight took my mind off the most important part of movie watchin’.”

With that, I was dragged into the kitchen. Bridgette and Dean quietly moved out onto the patio as the kitchen came alive with activity. Moiré, Tisha and Daisy bustled about grabbing popcorn kernels, bowls, an old air popper and some butter.

Something in one of the cupboards caught my eye. “Hey, Moiré?” I asked, the next time she brushed past. “Is that sweetened condensed milk?

Moiré eyed me suspiciously. “Yeah. Why?”

“You said you raid the fridge here, right?”

“Sometimes, yeah?”

“Ever raid the cupboards?” I looked back at the small, white can and grinned.

She followed my gaze and quirked an eyebrow.

“Just trust me,” I told her.

Before the girls knew what was happening, I was strapped into a hot pink apron (too tight!) decked in five yards of lace and more bows than Courier John had brain cells. I did my best Swedish Chef impression as I tossed ingredients into a saucepan. I’d helped Mom make this stuff every year since I was eight and I had it down to a science. The girls caught on quick and were soon enjoying my caramel quest more than they’d enjoyed making popcorn. Moiré’s laughter did weird things to my insides. It took me at least ten minutes to realize I’d been smiling exclusively at her the whole time. She hadn’t taken her eyes off me once. Somehow, I still managed not to burn the caramel. When the gooey goodness was done, we made caramel popcorn balls good enough to bring about world peace.
I surrendered the apron and we retreated to the living room.

The movie resumed. The retro synth vibes were awesome; the hairstyles and clothing had us in stitches. With no nostalgia to help us connect to “Gen X,” the movie was now a comedy.

“A Time for Kris Kissy” played out like so many of the romance films and books I’d digested. Classic Cinderella story set in the mean streets of a nameless town that was probably meant to be New York City, or maybe Detroit. Horribly cliché at any rate. Kristen Kissinger (a.k.a. “Kris Kissy”) grew up under the harsh regime of her dad’s third wife, who frequently insisted that Kris was “a nuthin’ and a nobody.” Kris, of course, had her big dreams, managed to get herself into some art academy and attract the attention of a hotshot dancing star because of her “diamond in the rough” status and dancing skills. The two end up in a “forbidden love” scenario, with all the world conspiring to kill their burgeoning romance. Thankfully, hormones conquered all. Kris and her steroid-sucking dance partner (whose hair was an unkempt poodle) went on to win some big competition and share their victory in teenage bliss.

Nothing new. Nothing inspiring.

The only comfort I found in films like these was statistical: certain patterns were substantiated by the redundancy, increasing confidence in the validity of those trends.

At the beginning of the show, Kris made up a little ditty about “Gotta be strong, gotta move on,” to help her get through the hard times. It came across as a half-hearted attempt by the producer to turn the piece into a musical. Luckily, the effort was aborted before the cast voiced any other unfortunate tunes, except that Kris kept singing it through the whole film. After the fifth time, the girls in the apartment were belting it out along with her around mouthfuls of caramel popcorn.

Highly undignified. Completely hilarious.

Moiré’s wit made the others
’ jokes look like a 6
th
grade talent show. I was shocked to find that most of my notes had centered on her actions, even if I hadn’t named her. Moiré was just so… interesting. So fun and full of life. I felt compelled to pay attention to her and, honestly, I liked it. As the film came to an end, I found myself glancing at her once again. As Kris Kissy uttered the closing line, Moiré must have seen it coming because, right along with our inner-city heroine, Moiré blurted, “Kiss me you fool.” For whatever reason, she turned my way as she did it. Moiré blanched instantly and then looked away. I pretended I hadn’t seen it, but the look on Daisy’s face made it obvious that it had actually happened.

The closing credits rolled and Tisha got up and turned on the lights. The girls all thanked me for the caramel corn and the good time. When Daisy learned that I was still in need of a VCR, she insisted that I drop by day or night and use hers. Moiré agreed and arrangements were made to come back each night for the rest of the week and finish the course. Despite my initial reservations, I agreed. Once I was through these films, I would be done with that segment of my research and none too soon; I was already cutting it close for defending a dissertation that still wasn’t through the secondary editing phase. With some jovial words of parting, Moiré and I were out the door.

The rest of the week was highly productive. Each day saw a healthy number of test couples. I was within twenty tests of my goal of one-thousand tests by the time I left on Friday afternoon. Moiré had devoured over a dozen romance novels by then and her notes compared favorably with mine. She had finished editing my dissertation and
I prepared it for the printer.

I left the lab every night at 6:30 on the dot, spent time with Ella until 9:00 and then drove across town to where Moiré’s crazy friends were. The girls had taken my mom’s caramel corn recipe and turned it into a sacred ritual that was completed each night before I arrived. In fact, they had renamed it “Cairn corn” and swore some kind of feminine oath to defend the secrets of its tastiness to their graves.

We’d watch two movies each night (they were all turned into comedies) and then I’d drive home and flop into bed for four, maybe five hours of broken sleep. Despite the late hours and growing fatigue, I was getting excellent notes. Finally, some good trends were emerging—trends that might correlate with future troubles in relationships. Even better, an e-mail showed up on Friday night informing me that the Department had approved enough funding for three grad students for another semester. My name was on the short list for consideration.