Read Rhymes With Cupid Online

Authors: Anna Humphrey

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Love Stories, #Social Issues, #Family & Relationships, #Juvenile Fiction, #High Schools, #Love & Romance, #School & Education, #United States, #People & Places, #Adolescence, #Dating & Sex, #Friendship, #Maine, #Love, #Valentine's Day, #Holidays & Celebrations

Rhymes With Cupid (7 page)

BOOK: Rhymes With Cupid
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It was so awesome, in fact, that I felt awesome about it all day long. I moped my way through chemistry and barely picked at my Caesar salad at lunch while Dina and her friends Carly and Cara planned decorations and came up with cheesy panda-themed party games. (Panda piñatas, pin the tail on the panda, and pass the panda present were just a few of the things I had to look forward to on Valentine’s Day.)

And I felt about ten times more awesome when, halfway through our shift at the store, Dina’s pocket started buzzing and, for once, it turned out
not
to be Damien. “Patrick!” Dina said, her eyes going wide—a huge smile breaking across her face. “How are you? Are you calling from the Keyhole?” She listened for a few seconds. “Oh no! Oooooh. Poor you,” she cooed into the phone. “What’s wrong? Un-huh.” She twirled a lock of hair around one finger. “Oh my God. Un-huh.” She switched the phone from one ear to the other. “Okay, I’ll tell her. Feel better. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Bye.” She flipped her cell shut.

“That was Patrick,” she said, like it wasn’t blindingly obvious that I’d been hanging on every word of her end of the conversation. “Your driving lesson’s canceled tonight. He’s sick.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yay! No driving! Or, I mean, oh no. That sucks that he’s sick. What’s wrong?”

“He caught Lyme disease.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, that’s what he said. It sounds really serious. Elyse, I’m worried about him.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, me too.” Except that I was actually more confused than worried. I’d never heard of anyone in Middleford getting Lyme disease before, and I’d definitely, definitely never heard of anyone getting it in February. Wasn’t it spread by deer ticks? There weren’t any deer in town, and even if there were, wouldn’t their ticks be busy nesting, watching deer tick TV, playing miniature games of deer tick poker, or doing whatever deer ticks did to pass the time until summer?

“If I pick out a card for him,” Dina said, “and maybe some balloons, would you mind bringing them over to his house for me? I’d owe you big.”

“Of course I wouldn’t mind,” I said. “You know I’m always happy to help you flirt.”

I couldn’t get over it. Dina had now let an entire two days pass without texting Damien back. It was a new record, and despite my weird reaction to the news that she and Patrick had exchanged numbers, I wasn’t about to discourage her.

In retrospect, the only thing I wished is that I’d encouraged her to go with a nice “get well” decorative mug, or maybe a personalized smiley face key chain to cheer him up. Anything but the huge bunch of green helium balloons she put together, which I spent the next half hour trying not to bonk strangers on the head with as I rode the bus home. In fact, by the time I got to our street, I couldn’t wait to get rid of the stupid things. I was planning to go straight over to Patrick’s place to give them to him and to find out how he’d mysteriously contracted Lyme disease in February, but my mom was just pulling into the driveway. She got out of the car and started waving her arms frantically.

“Elyse!” she called. “Come into the house. Bring your balloons. We have to celebrate. You won’t believe what happened to me at work today.”

M
y mom made me take off my coat and come into the kitchen before she’d tell me anything.

“You should sit,” she said, pulling out a chair. My mind was racing, trying to figure out what could have happened at work to make her so excited. Did she get a massive raise? Did spa management already order her the new, ergonomically correct chair she’d asked for? Did Meg Ryan walk in off the street and give my mom her autograph before making a bikini wax appointment?

“No, no wait. You should stand up,” my mom said. “No. Wait. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just tell you.” She practically squealed. “We’re going to Mexico!”

“What?” I asked.

“Cancun, Mexico.” She pulled a brochure out of her purse and slapped it down on the table. I immediately recognized the bikini-clad couple on the front, sipping their neon-pink drinks. They were the same ones who’d taunted me while I shivered in the bus shelter outside the mall. “The resort is called Hotel Del Mar. It’s a five-star facility. Ten days, nine nights, all expenses paid. They call it the ‘Sweetheart Retreat,’ but you don’t need to be a couple to go. Sun, sand, and surf. We leave the day after tomorrow.”

“What?” I said again. The news she was trying to tell me didn’t make sense in so many ways. Mexico? The day after tomorrow? Five star? Us? As in me and my mother, whose last vacation—I don’t know how many years ago—had included driving three hours down the highway to this dodgy-looking theme park called StoryBookLand, and staying at a motel that reeked of cigarettes and had no air-conditioning?

“I won the grand prize trip!” she exclaimed. “In the staff appreciation day raffle!”

“What?” I repeated. It was as if all other words had left me.

“I know!” she said. “I never win anything.” Neither of us did. It was like a family curse. Half the time when I was a kid I didn’t even get the prize the cereal box promised.

“I didn’t even buy a ticket, and I
still
won.”

“What?” I said, then caught myself, adding, “I mean, how is that possible?”

“It was Valter.”

“Valter? Valter Big-ass-kiss?” I asked. My mother shot me a disapproving look, but then gave in and smiled. I mean, she’d just won a ten-day trip to Mexico. Who wouldn’t be in a better-than-usual mood?

“He was in line behind me at the coat check, and he asked if I’d bought my raffle tickets yet. I told him I didn’t think I’d bother. But he said everyone deserved a chance at the grand prize, so he bought a ticket and put my name on it. Can you believe it? People spent hundreds of dollars in tickets, and I just had the one. I told Valter he must be a lucky charm.”

Well, at least he had that much going for him. You’d need all the luck you could get in life with a name like that. I knew enough not to say any of that out loud, though.

“Mom, that’s incredible,” I said instead.

“I know,” my mom went on. “Valter’s just the nicest man. I tried to get him to take the vacation, since he’d paid for the ticket, but he flat-out refused. He said I should take my beautiful daughter.”

“You have a beautiful daughter?” I said, looking over my shoulder, as if she might be standing behind me.

My mom didn’t laugh. Self-deprecating humor was on her list of stuff she didn’t find funny, right after making fun of people’s names, apparently. “I have
the most
beautiful daughter,” she answered seriously, then went straight back into her flustered mode. “The most beautiful daughter who needs a new bathing suit. And do your sandals from last summer still fit? Oh my God, we’ll have to make sure your passport is up-to-date, too. You’ll have to call Mr. Goodman and ask for the time off. And I’ll let your school know. We’ll have to reschedule your driving test, too, I suppose. I hope Patrick won’t mind if you take a break from lessons for a while.” She handed me the cordless phone along with the envelope my last paycheck had come in. She pointed to the store number. “Why don’t you start with Mr. Goodman?”

And that was when our luck—or mine, at least—took a turn for the worse. Honestly, I should have been expecting it all along. Ten-day trips to Mexico didn’t just fall from the sky into my life. “Elyse, you know I’d love to give you the time off,” Mr. Goodman said after I’d explained the situation, “but with Valentine’s Day coming up, I can’t be training new staff right now. As it is, I barely have enough people to cover the shifts.” At the same time, my mother walked back into the kitchen examining my passport—a devastated look on her face. Even from across the room, I could tell from a glimpse at the photo that I was about five years old in it, which meant it was way, way expired. I wasn’t sure how long it took to apply for a new one, but I had a feeling it was more than a day.

“That’s okay, Mr. Goodman,” I said. “I completely understand.” Sure, my heart was sinking a little—but just a little. I liked beaches and sun as much as anyone, and it would be great to get away—especially if it meant avoiding the whole Valentine’s Day thing at home—but maybe it was for the best. I always got sunburns. I had a chemistry test on Friday that I’d already started studying for, and a social studies project due the following Tuesday. And, even though I was dreading it, it was better to get my driving test out of the way than to spend more time obsessing over it. Plus, Dina might never forgive me if she didn’t get her cheesecake. . . .

“Maybe they’ll make an exception about your passport at customs,” my mom tried, “if we explain that I won the trip on short notice? And you could always quit at Goodman’s and find a new job when we get back.”

I sat down across from her. “Mom,” I said reasonably. “I don’t think so. If I quit Goodman’s, it could take ages for me to find something else. Nobody at the mall is hiring right now. And isn’t customs usually pretty strict about things like passports?”

“Well, then.” She took a deep breath and reached for the phone. “I’ll call Valter and tell him that’s that. We can’t go. He’ll have to take the tickets instead.”

“No, Mom. Wait.” I slapped a hand on top of hers to stop her from dialing. “I’m seventeen. I can look after myself.
You
go.” She gave me a doubtful look. “Take Carolynn.” My mom and her best friend had been plotting for ages about how, when their kids were all grown up, they’d take a girls’ trip to some Caribbean island. Now was obviously the time. “Or Aunt Sarah. I’ll be fine here. I swear.”

“I don’t think so, Elyse. Carolynn probably can’t get time off work on such short notice, and Sarah’s got Uncle Tom’s CD release on Wednesday night.”

“So go with someone else. . . .”

“Who else would I go with?”

“I don’t know. Anyone . . . It doesn’t matter. Just go.”

“If I left you here on your own, how would you get groceries?”

“Mom, I know where the store is. . . .”

“What if something breaks in the house?”

“I can use the phone as well as you can to call a repair person. . . .”

“You might be lonely.”

“I’ll live.”

“I’d miss you.”

“I’d miss you, too. But, Mom, when are you ever going to have a chance like this again? And when’s the last time you had a real vacation? Plus, after how hard the last few months have been . . . this would be good for you. Seriously, it’s about time you did something for yourself.”

She shook her head like it was all too much to consider, and pulled her hand away, taking the phone with it. She reached for the white pages on the kitchen bookshelf, flipped through, and dialed a number. “Hello. Is this Valter?” she said into the receiver. I sighed heavily. “It’s Michelle Ulrich. From work. Good, good. And you?” She paused. “Listen, I’m having a bit of a problem with those travel tickets from the raffle. My beautiful daughter can’t get the time off work.” She smiled at me across the table. “It’s unfortunate, I know.”

I stood up, pushing my chair back from the table noisily. Why did my mother have to be so stubborn about this? I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. She should know that by now. When had I ever acted less than responsibly? Why did she have to go and ruin this one good thing that had happened in her life lately, just because of me? I opened the fridge and took out a yogurt cup, pulling the lid off angrily.

“So, anyway, I was wondering,” my mom went on. “This might sound like a strange invitation—but there are two tickets. What if you and I went together?” I paused, spoon midway to my mouth. Had I just heard that right? “It only seems fair that you come along, since you paid for the raffle ticket in the first place. I’d be happy to pay for the extra hotel room, of course. . . . Really?” my mom said, her face breaking into a grin. “Okay. Well, that sounds perfect. Call me right back when you know for sure. Here. Let me give you my number.” By the time my mom had hung up the phone, my mouth was hanging completely open.

“You know what, Elyse?” my mom said. “I think maybe you’re right. Maybe it
is
about time I did something for myself.”

Valter Bigaskis called back within the hour to say all the details were confirmed. He had rescheduled his clients’ Swedish massage appointments. His favorite cat-sitter was available. The stars had aligned. “Great,” I said, copying down the message. My mother had already dashed out to hit the mall before closing time. The elastic on her bathing suit, which she couldn’t remember when she’d last worn, was all stretched out, and she’d need a new beach towel, and sunscreen, and a better suitcase, just to name a few things. “I’ll let her know.”

“Your modder,” Valter said with a heavy accent, “iz like an angel. Did you know this?”

“Umm,” I said. I wasn’t used to strange Swedish men talking about my mother. I wasn’t sure if I liked it. “Yeah, I guess. . . .”

“She’s at the spa not even a veek, and already she looks out for everyone. Takes them under her ving. If dey need a coffee, she iz pouring it. If dey need to talk, she iz listening. A more deserving person could not vin dis vacation. I am honored to go vid her on a sveetheart retreat.”

“Okay,” I said, just wanting to get off the phone with this guy. “I’ll be sure to tell her that. Bye-bye now.”

“Yes,” Valter went on. “Bye-bye now. And I look forward to meeting you soon, Meechelle’s beautiful daughter.”

“All right then,” I said awkwardly. “Bye.”

My initial relief and excitement that my mom was going on vacation to Mexico had suddenly turned into a weird apprehension. Did I really want my “angel” mother going on a “Sveetheart Retreat” with Valter the Swedish masseuse? What if they had a great time and became lifelong friends and he started coming over for Christmas dinner every year? Or, worse, what if they fell in love? And got married? And I had to change my last name to Bigaskis?

I grabbed Dina’s bunch of green balloons and put on my coat, planning to head next door to Patrick’s house. Maybe if I was lucky I could catch Lyme disease before Wednesday and my mom would decide to stay home after all.

Except that, the second I saw Patrick, I knew my plan was destined to fail. Because unless people suffering from Lyme disease looked totally fine and one of the symptoms was a strange desire to dance around the kitchen waving utensils, Patrick was totally faking it. He was a pretty decent dancer, though, I had to admit. I knocked on the small window in the back door, catching him singing into a spatula and scaring him half to death. I could see the blush on his cheeks even though he was halfway across the room, but I didn’t feel that bad. After all, he’d seen me doing the scuba in my living room window when I hadn’t known he was watching, and that was just as embarrassing.

“Happy Lyme disease,” I said, shoving the huge bunch of balloons through the door as soon as he opened it. “You look terrible.” He blushed even more.

“Okay,” he said, hanging his head a little as he turned off the music, which I had recognized instantly. It was “Gloria,” by Van Morrison. It always made me dance around like a moron, too. “So I’m busted.”


Very
busted.”

I took in the disastrous scene in the old-fashioned kitchen. Half of the wood-paneled cupboard doors were wide open; mixing bowls, pots, and pans were spilling out onto the floor; the double sink was piled full of dishes; and there was flour all over everything: the brown-and-white flecked countertop, the cracked linoleum floor, Patrick’s socks. Also, something was burning in a serious way. “You might want to deal with that.” I pointed toward the huge, antique oven. Smoke was starting to come out of the vent underneath the back burner.

“Oh man.” Patrick opened the oven door and reached for the cookie sheet inside.

“Wait,” I called, but it was too late. He’d already touched it. With his bare hands.

“Ouch!” he yelped, hopping around. “Ow ow ow ow ow.”

“Here.” I turned on the cold water in the sink, grabbed his arm, and shoved his hand underneath. Then I reached for the oven mitts and pulled the tray out, shutting the heat off with my free hand at the same time. The tray was coated with a lumpy black mass of something that kind of looked like asphalt.

“They’re cookies,” Patrick said. “Oatmeal raisin. Or, they were.” I walked over and checked his hand. Two of his fingertips were a bit red, but there were no blisters.

“I think you’ll be okay,” I said. “But you might want to put some Polysporin on later if it gets red.” I let go of his hand, then walked over to poke at the edge of the “cookies” with Patrick’s spatula. The batter had all run together into one mega-cookie, which was now cemented onto the baking sheet. “They look delicious,” I quipped.

BOOK: Rhymes With Cupid
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