Finding the Forger (11 page)

“It’s nice that Kerrie and Sarah are getting along again, isn’t it?” I asked, looking over at him.

“Yup,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road.

That was the sum total of our pre-Applebee’s conversation. Every time I thought of something else to say, traffic picked up and I didn’t want to distract him.

By the time Doug and I finally arrived at the restaurant, Neville had Sarah and Kerrie laughing hysterically with his imitations of Fawn Dexter, and they’d long ago placed their order of fried onion strips. Doug and I joined them at the round table, but as Neville stood, he held out a chair for me next to him instead of the one I was heading for next to Kerrie. What’s a girl to do?

As I settled between Doug and Neville, I thought I heard Doug growl.

Well, not really. But he didn’t look too happy, which kind of set the tone for the rest of our meal. Sarah had clearly put her troubles with Hector behind her, which was a good thing since she didn’t know I’d caused more trouble ahead. I’d have some explaining to
do, and I wanted to catch her alone before she left the restaurant so I could do my guilt-dump and get it over with.

But maybe Hector
was
guilty of something, if only a “prank.” I couldn’t tell! I was confused.

Confusion, though, gave way in short order to fun because it turned out that Neville was a hoot. When I sat down, he was just ordering “a brew” from a startled waitress.

“I’m going to have to card you,” the woman said to him, peering over half-glasses.

“What?” Neville looked perplexed and disgusted.

“She means she needs to see identification to know how old you are,” Kerrie explained.

“What’s my age got to do with it?” Neville asked.

“You can’t drink alcohol unless you’re twenty-one,” Doug chimed in, his tone of voice conveying his belief that Neville was pretty dumb for not knowing this.

“Alcohol? Since when does tea have alcohol in it?” Neville said.

So that’s when we learned that tea is “a brew” in England, as in “after the soap on TV, I’ll fix myself a brew.” Now, I suspect Neville knew a brew wasn’t a brew here in the old US of A, but it certainly set us up for another round of fascinating chit-chat on the differences between our slang and our outlook on each other.

According to Neville, most of his countrymen think all Americans carry guns just like John Wayne. And even though he didn’t need to show ID for his “brew” of tea, he found it pretty annoying that he couldn’t drink here, because in Britain, he could drink at age eighteen.

When our food arrived, he treated us to yet more instruction.

“These,” he said, holding up a French fry, “are chips.”

“Well, what are chips then? I mean potato chips?” Sarah asked.

“Crisps,” he answered, popping a fry into his mouth.

“What about chocolate chips?” Doug asked smugly in an “ah-ha, gotcha” kind of voice.

“Hmm . . . those things in cookies? Well the cookies are just chocolate chip cookies. But other cookies, like macaroons and such, are biscuits,” Neville answered, smiling. Doug just frowned.

Poor Doug. No, poor me! I’d put up with days of silent jealousy during his sympathy fest with Kerrie. Now that I was soaking up some attention, he was being Mr. Jealous Boyfriend.

Was that good or bad? I didn’t know! The hottie in me said “go, girl, let him seethe!” But the Good Teen in me said “now, now, Bianc, show some sympathy for the lovesick puppy.” I was going to have to start wearing an aluminum hat to block these inner voices!

As we ate, Kerrie and Sarah produced a veritable onslaught of chatter. They were either making up for lost time or putting on a Public Display of Reconciliation for all of us to admire. Whatever, it was a good thing they were such motormouths because Doug was absolutely mum.

Okay, okay, I don’t usually say “mum,” but with Neville around, my thoughts were coming through with a British accent. How do I turn this thing off?

It didn’t help matters that Neville spoke to me a lot, asking me what I thought about the exhibit, what I liked about my school, what kind of music I listened to. It was clear he liked me, and Doug was picking up the vibes.

All of this made me a little angry because, though I enjoyed the attention, I found myself holding back so as not to upset Doug, which just made me resentful of Doug. Not a good set of feelings to
have toward your boyfriend.

By the time we finished our dinners, I was a simmering stew pot of mixed feelings. Doug’s attitude held me back from having fun. I’d not only missed out on enjoying Neville’s attention. The whole meal at Applebee’s had been spoiled, too, because Doug more than once mentioned he had a big paper to work on and he needed to get going.

You have to understand. I love chain restaurants—fast food or slow food. McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Applebee’s, Olive Garden, Red Lobster—they’re all high on my list of guilty pleasures. But I hadn’t been allowed to savor this Applebee’s moment because my boyfriend was dragging me down.

So, when we got ready to leave and Neville oh so casually said, “I’d love for someone to show me around Baltimore. Since you have to run off, Doug, why don’t I let Bianca be my guide?” I was primed.

Doug just stood there and sputtered. Well, maybe not exactly sputtered. But he did say, “Uh, well, um . . .” and gritted his teeth. Then he said something that pushed me ever closer to Neville’s arms. He said, “Bianca’s, uh, got to study, too.”

He might as well have spray painted “Stupid Girl” on my forehead. But even this wasn’t enough to tip me over the edge completely. No, it was when I protested. When I said, “I don’t need to study, I—”

“Didn’t you tell me you got a bad grade in History?” he interrupted.

My face reddened. I didn’t get a bad grade in History! I just got a B when I wanted an A, and that was only because my paper was a day late, and even
that
wasn’t my fault! Now he was making me look like a cultural Neanderthal around this sophisticated British
guy. And as we know, British guys (and girls) don’t need to be taught history because they are hard-wired to know it.

“I don’t need to study,” I said. Now I was the one with gritted teeth. Quick, call an orthodontist before we both mangle our perfect pearly whites. “So I can go with you, Neville.”

I smiled at Doug. “I wouldn’t want Neville to think we’re not good hosts,” I said, as if I was part of the official United States Welcome Wagon.

I expected Kerrie and Sarah to pipe up at this point and offer to come, too, and I looked at them, but they didn’t pick up the brain signals I was beaming their way. They both started sympathizing with Doug’s need to study, talking about papers due and homework undone.

Neville impressed us all by paying the bill. Doug left with Sarah and Kerrie. I stood at the counter as Neville waited for change. And you know what? I didn’t even want to go with him any more! I wanted to go home. No, let me be more specific—I wanted my boyfriend to drive me home in that slow, crazy way of his, and I wanted him to walk me to my door and say sweet things to me like “Uh, see ya tomorrow, I guess.” I also wanted to dream about the Mistletoe Dance and pepper Connie with questions about the museum shenanigans.

But no, I had to prove just what an independent woman I was—hear me roar—so I had to leave Doug in the dust. Watching my boyfriend and two best friends make their way to the parking lot, I had the certain sense that I’d made a big mistake.

B
OY, WAS IT EVER! A big mistake, that is. As soon as I got in Neville’s car, I regretted it. He was driving his father’s silver Mercedes, a car with a lot of power and speed. And whereas Doug was Mr. Cautious behind the wheel (to the extreme), Neville was devil-may-care. He careened down boulevards, squealed around corners, and screeched to a halt behind stopped trucks with so little room to spare that I saw my life flashing before my eyes on more than one occasion. Add to this his admitted “need to get used to this right side of the road thing,” and you had a recipe for disaster.

So, after a quick turn around the Harbor, where I pointed out things of interest in a thin, high-pitched voice, I pretended to not really know where most things were (Fort McHenry? Must be in Washington!), and asked him to take me home, the location of which I absolutely knew.

As we neared the final dropoff, it was getting dark. Neville double-parked in front of my house, but before I could say “thanks for the near-death experience” and scoot out, he was bounding around to open my door and escort me to the door.

Once there, he told me he’d like to see me again. And he kissed me goodnight.

As soon as I saw what he was up to, I pulled away, but it was
too late. He grabbed my arm and planted a wet one on me in the blink of an eye. Not that I did blink. I had my eyes wide open.

Now, I’m not going to lie to you and say that being kissed by a suave, good-looking Brit is some kind of hardship. And come on— even the most loyal of girlfriends can fantasize about a super hunk or two. If Doug hadn’t been so paranoid about Neville to begin with, I’d probably have laughed off the kiss as a friendly gesture best not repeated.

But instead, I felt guilty. And what do we do when we feel guilty? All together now—we confess!

After I slammed the door shut and said hi to Mom, who was at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea and doing the Sunday crossword puzzle, I headed to the computer.

“Can I get online?” I asked.

“Huh? Sure,” Mom said. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yup. Great,” I said. But I was already clicking through to my email box. Nothing there except a few Viagra ads, but I could see that Kerrie was already on-line, so I IM’ed her right away.

“you’re home early,” she wrote back after my hello.

“didn’t like being out alone,” I responded. “how was doug?”

“fine. he left right when we did. haven’t talked to him.”

Hmm . . . didn’t like that. It implied that she did talk to him on other occasions.

“have fun with Neville?” she asked.

“it was okay.” Then, the confession: “he kissed me goodnight, can you believe it?”

“you’re kidding.”

“i think he likes me.”

“watch out for him.”

“don’t worry. i’m doug’s girl.”

“glad to hear that. doug’s a great guy.”

For some reason, this last message irked me. It implied a familiarity I didn’t care for—“don’t go breaking Doug’s heart because I, Kerrie, am his guardian angel, and he’s been great to you.”

But all I wrote back was “i know. what are you doing?”

Then she started telling me about how she just finished her English paper and Sarah was talking to her dad about colleges. It made me feel good to know they were on an even keel again, even if my life was a busted dinghy in
The Perfect Storm
.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking about now. You’re thinking, why did I blurt out that Neville had kissed me? But I felt unguilted as soon as I did it. It made the whole incident feel normal, run-of-the-mill. “Oh, by the way, Neville kissed me.” That sort of thing. It put it in perspective.

Just as I was about to log off, something odd happened. Sarah chimed in, using Kerrie’s IM screen name.

“sarah here. give me a call,” she typed.

Uh-oh. She must have found out how I’d ruined her budding romance with Hector. That’ll be a fun phone conversation, I figured. Before I was able to type a response, though, she sent another message my way.

“is connie home?” she wrote.

Egads. Why was she asking that? I felt like screaming.

As if on cue, Connie wandered into the kitchen just then with the cordless in hand, and sweetly asked me if I’d free up the phone line.

“Haven’t you been on there long enough?” she said in her usual dulcet tones.

“I just got on.”

Connie turned to Mom for reinforcement. “How long’s she
been on?”

Because she didn’t answer right away, I could tell that Mom hadn’t been paying attention to the time. It didn’t matter, though. She took Connie’s side all the same.

“Let your sister use the phone, Bianca,” she said.

With a loving grimace in Connie’s direction, I typed a quick “g2g, connie’s here—needs to use phone,” said my goodbyes to Sarah and Kerrie, and exited the email program.