M or F? (10 page)

“Try this,” he said, holding out a small dumpling.

I eyed the food dubiously. “What is it?”

“It's delicious.” The corners of his mouth tucked into a smile, so I opened my mouth. His fingertip touched my lower lip for a split second as he popped the pierogi inside.

The dumpling was warm . . . and it yielded gently as I bit down, revealing creamy cheese and potato. “Mmmm.”

Jeffrey smiled. “Better than tempeh,” he said. “Right?”

“I love tempeh,” I lied.

Jeffrey gave me a look, as though my nose had just grown about a foot. “Frannie,
nobody
loves tempeh.” Then he laughed, which made me laugh.

“Okay, okay,” I admitted finally. “The truth is, I'm not really a vegetarian.”

“Really?” Jeffrey pretended to be shocked. “Because the way you've been eyeing the sausage stands all night totally made me think that you wanted to go get some tofu.”

I laughed, but I could feel myself blushing.

“You want to try some?” Jeffrey cocked his head toward a booth, where spicy sausage was hissing on the grill.

I lifted my eyebrows. “Won't it gross you out?”

“No.” Jeffrey shook his head. “You go ahead. I'll stick with these pierogi, though.”

So once I had the green light, I went ahead and got a plate of sausage and fried onions, which was unbelievably delicious. Then we had some cheese-filled nalesniki, which are these crepe-like things, and some jablecznik, which is apple cake, and some sok, which is just fruit juice. The best part was, the food gave us something to talk about. I mean, sure, most of the conversations were just, “Mmmm, this is so good!” and, “Do you taste cinnamon in this?” but it was better than discussing Sherpas. And like I said, everything was great, and I was having a pretty good time . . . until the car ride home. That's when the kielbasa really kicked in.

My stomach let out a groan. “So!” I said brightly to cover the noise. “That was fun.”

“Yeah,” Jeffrey agreed. “It was.” A smile played on his lips. “So . . . what are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night?” I squirmed in my seat and tried to subtly adjust the waistband on my mini. “Oh—just, uh, hanging out with Marcus. Doing our usual thing.” A belch tried to crawl up my throat, but I pushed it back down.

“Mind if I come?” Jeffrey asked.

What? Oh my God, I thought as I shoved a damp hank of hair away from my face, Marcus will kill me if I invite Jeffrey along on our hang. Then again, maybe he would kill me if I didn't. This whole boyfriend thing had thrown me into a new zone with Marcus—so much for brain twins.

Now it was Jeffrey's turn to look uncomfortable. “I mean, if you think it would be weird—”

“No, no,” I said quickly. My stomach started to burble away, and I realized that I was going to need a bathroom in about forty-five seconds or this car was going to lose its pine-fresh scent in a way that wasn't going to be pretty. Get out of car now, my brain said. Worry about consequences later. “I mean—yes! That sounds fun. Just come over around six.”

“Okay, great.” Jeffrey smiled.

That seemed to be it, and I was desperate to leave, but I was having a hard time making myself get out of the car. What if he's building up to a kiss? I wondered. What am I supposed to do? Is there some kind of cue I'm supposed to give? It was hard to even consider flashing him a come-hither look when my stomach felt like it was about to explode.

I waited another moment, but Jeffrey didn't lean toward me or anything. Then my stomach let out a lurch like I'd just fallen off a hundred-foot cliff, and my decision was made. “Okay, see you tomorrow,” I said quickly as the pressure built against my tight miniskirt. “This was great—thanks again. 'Bye!”

“I'll call you!” Jeffrey shouted after me as I slammed shut the car door and hurried up the front walk.

I didn't even have time to give him a wave—I shoved my way into the house and made it to the downstairs bathroom—just in time. Okay, let's just say that I'd made the right decision. Even if I had missed out on a kiss, I never would have gotten another one if I'd stayed in that car three seconds longer.

Mom was standing by the sink, scraping something into the garbage disposal as I walked into the kitchen about fifteen minutes—no, I'm not kidding—later. She was still dressed in a navy blue business suit. “Hey, Mom,” I said. “What's up?”

Mom gave me a smile. “Just finished dinner. I only got home about half an hour ago.”

I checked my watch. It was ten-thirty. “Wow. Late! Were you out on a hot date or something?” I teased, slipping into a chair at the kitchen table.

“A hot date with my computer,” Mom replied with a laugh as she sat down across from me. “We seem to be spending a lot of time together lately.”

I nodded absently. It was true—Mom had been spending a lot of time at work, even working on the weekends. Laura had actually made dinner twice last week. I hadn't really thought about it, but it was kind of unusual.

“Mom . . .” I said, propping my elbows on the table and putting my chin in my palms. “What was it like when you met Dad? Was it . . . was it love at first sight? I mean, did you click right away?”

Mom looked at me carefully. “Why are you asking?”

I shrugged, thinking about how hard it was for me to talk to Jeffrey. “No reason. Just wondering.”

Mom sighed and sat back in her chair. “It was such a long time ago, sweetie. I hardly remember. . . .”

“Was it ever—you know—awkward?” I asked.

Mom smiled at me, but it was a faraway smile. “It's always awkward at first, when you meet someone new. You don't know what to say . . . they don't know what to say. . . . Then you get to know them, and you can hardly believe there was a time when you weren't finishing their sentences for them.” She looked at my face carefully. “Is this about your date tonight?”

I twirled a thick chunk of hair around my index finger. “Kind of,” I admitted. “I guess I just can't wait until I stop feeling nervous all the time.”

Reaching out, Mom took my hand between her own. “I know that this is hard to believe, but you'll reach a point when you miss that nervous heart flutter. You'll miss the romance.”

I nodded, even though I wasn't sure that what my mom was saying was true. I mean, that thing with the pierogi when Jeffrey touched my lip had been kind of romantic . . . but I'd have exchanged that in a heartbeat for being able to get rid of the jerk feeling I had after confusing Nepal and Tibet. “I don't know. . . .”

Mom shrugged. “Well,
I
miss it.”

“You do?” That was news to me. “But you and Dad are so lovey-dovey.”

“Mmmm.” Mom drummed her fingers on the table once, twice, then stopped. “Do you know what Laura and Steve are doing tonight?”

I rolled my eyes. “Picnic under the stars and chocolate fondue.”

Mom nodded. “You know they got that out of a book?”

“What?” I stared at my mom. “Are you kidding?”

Sheepishly, Mom reached into her briefcase and pulled out a red paperback with pink lettering. She shoved it across the Formica table at me.
The Romance Handbook
, the title screamed,
Revitalize Your Relationship in Just Five Weeks! Over One Million Copies in Print!

Oh, that is
so
Laura, I thought. To do everything by the book! I started to giggle, but it got caught in my throat when I saw my mother's expression. Her blue eyes locked on mine—studying my reaction. I cleared my throat. “And . . . the fondue is in the book?”

Mom flipped through the pages. “‘Chapter Three—Plan Your Perfect Date,' ” she read aloud. “It has a whole list of ideas.”

“Wow . . .” I said. And then, because I couldn't think of anything else to say, I said it again. “Wow.”

“So—I was going to try it out on your father.” My mother's eyes, which were usually a serious dark blue, were sparkling.

Hmmm, maybe I could pick up a few tips too, I thought as I plucked the book from her hands and flipped through it. The first thing I saw was “Chapter Six: Spice Things Up in the Bedroom!”

Whoa—that was way too vivid. I slapped the book closed. God—why couldn't I have been born in the forties? I wondered. Back when parents never told their children anything. But I didn't want to hurt Mom's feelings. “Um, sure, Mom,” I said, trying not to sound completely grossed out. “Why not?”

Mom pulled the book back and turned the cover so that she could look at it. “Why not?” she repeated softly, more to the book than to me.

I hauled myself out of my chair. “I think I'm going to bed,” I said.

“Okay, sweetie,” Mom said, tucking the book back into her briefcase. “ 'Night.”

Once I was in my room, I flopped on my bed and stared at my computer. Jeffrey would be home by now, I thought. I should see if he's in the chat room. But I didn't move. I just didn't have the energy to try to think of things to say to him.

I'll write him tomorrow, I decided, reaching for my phone. Once I've had a chance to look through
National Geographic
. I punched in Marcus's number and let it ring. Right now, I just wanted to have a conversation that was easy on the brain.

Why wait for tomorrow night to deliver the full report? I decided. Not that I'd get much of a chance then anyway, with Jeffrey coming over. So I really
have
to call Marcus now. Besides, I needed to tell Marcus that we had to get some polka music ASAP. Those beats were off the hook. And I knew that he was the only person on earth who would appreciate them the way I did.

“How about just plain cheese?” I asked. I was staring at the pizza menu on Frannie's kitchen table, trying to come up with something vegetarian. Jeffrey was coming over, and I knew he wouldn't eat our usual—ham and pineapple, aka pig and pineapple—and none of the veggies sounded good to me.

 

“Cheese . . . sure . . .” Frannie had a pan of blondie batter in one hand and was trying to open the oven door with a giant mitt on the other hand. Her mom would have probably made a whole dessert buffet if Frannie had asked, but she wanted to make these herself, even if they were from a mix.

I got up to help her. “Thanks,” she said, and slid the pan into the oven, then set the timer. “Okay, now what?”

The clock said 5:58. Jeffrey was coming at six-ish. “Now we wait,” I said.

Everything else was already set. We'd been to the video store and only rented one movie—
Sholay
. It's about two small-time crooks and a cop working together to get revenge on a big-time crook . . . in India . . . with subtitles . . . and musical numbers. I realized once that I like those Bollywood classics for the same reason I like the way Frannie dresses. Anytime someone can take a bunch of different elements that no one else would think of putting together and then make them work in some unexpected way, I'm interested. To me, that's art. It's surprising. It's strange. It's inspiring. It's all of the above.

Plus, we wanted to rent something we'd seen a million times just in case Jeffrey turned out to be a movie talker. I'm not a completely high-maintenance person, but I do have a few rules where movies are concerned, and no talking is one of them. It usually wasn't an issue at Frannie's house because it had always been just the two of us.

I couldn't help feeling a little pressure over the fact that Jeffrey was coming. I didn't mind so much since I had a lot of ideas about how I wanted it to go. Frannie and Jeffrey were moving past the neutral-ground phase of things and into the part where you start sniffing out each other's territory to see if you can deal with hanging out there. I wanted Jeffrey to see me as a permanent structure in Frannie's world. I also wanted him to think of me the same way Frannie thought of Glenn: as the cool best friend. And yes, if I'm being honest, I just plain old wanted Jeffrey to like me.

The doorbell rang at 6:10, about two seconds after Frannie's father happened to pass through the kitchen and into the foyer. “I'll get it!” she yelled, but we heard the front door open anyway.

Then Jeffrey's voice. “Hi, is Frannie home?”

Frannie froze. She stood just inside the kitchen door, listening with her eyes closed. It looked like she was praying that her father wouldn't say something like:

“Sure, come on in. You must be the reason Frannie's been buying so many new clothes lately.”

Which was what he said. Frannie whipped out into the hall while I kept listening from the kitchen table.

“Dad, Jeffrey, Jeffrey, Dad.”