Miss Taken (8 page)

Mom totally overdid the gales of laughter. It
was a pretty masterful performance on Kyle’s part, I must admit. I
stroked my sore chin to keep Ned fresh in my mind.

After dinner, we were suddenly left alone for
a minute. Kyle turned to me and put his hand on mine again (which
was in my lap - eek!). “Are you free tomorrow?”

“Hm?” I said, as if the question needed
clarification.

“I’m asking if you want to do something
tomorrow.”

“Um, sorry I can’t.” I slid my hand out from
under his, but he left his hand on my thigh. Double eek!

“You doing something with...him, huh.”

He looked so disappointed.

Cool.

“No, I’m not actually.” Robin Jane is always
truthful. Well, almost always. “I’m not, but Ned is my boyfriend.
So I can’t do anything with you tomorrow.”

Kyle nodded, still with the look of resigned
chagrin on his face. This was awesome. “Okay, well, it doesn’t have
to be a date or anything. Do you want to go to the library and do
homework?”

In order to compose myself before replying, I
had to run through my seventeens times table all the way up to
twenty-six. Then I turned to face Kyle, pushing his hand firmly off
my thigh at the same time. “Why do you keep insisting?”

Kyle gave me a sexier look than I thought
possible on a face full of freckles. “Because I like you.”

Although it was a compliment, it felt like my
innards had just been liquified by spider venom. “Oh.”

“But I understand. You’re taken. He got to
you first, lucky fellow.”

I found it interesting in an anthropological
sense that neither was willing to pronounce the other’s name.

Kyle rose with a sigh. “I guess I’ll see you
Monday then.” He walked toward the kitchen.

I was so close to calling him back, to
telling him of course I could study with him at the library because
there was nothing date-ish about the library.

But that’s not true. That’s exactly how my
relationship with Ned started, so even study sessions weren’t
safe.

I’m taken, I told myself.

Taken. Taken. Taken.

Kyle was saying goodbye to my mother. I could
hear her gushing loudly in the kitchen. Then I heard him yell down
the stairs to Trey as if they’d been hanging out together in that
basement for years.

And then finally he was gone, out the back
door so I didn’t have to look at him again. I breathed for what
felt like the first time in ten minutes.

Using parent-detecting radar, I could sense
Mom coming back for a cozy little chat on a topic I did not want
explore now or ever. If only I had inherited my mother’s power of
instant dematerialization. I was almost at the foot of the stairs
when she caught me.

“Jane,” she called, “come back a sec.”

Depressing scientific fact: A fat cell can
expand up to 1000 times its original size. Once the body produces a
fat cell, it stays forever.

So close but yet so far from escape. “What,
Mom? I have homework to do.” A bit of a stretch on a Saturday
night, I admit.

“Just for a minute, although I’m glad to see
you’re showing such enthusiasm for your school work,” she said in a
highly sarcastic tone.

I went back to face the music. “What is
it.”

“Sit down. Take a load off.” She removed her
shoes and started twirling one of her pumps on the toe of her foot.
God help me.

“So Kyle’s pretty cute, huh?”

Ugh. Ugh. Triple UGH. I almost said that I
wasn’t into freckles, but I didn’t want to make a single
pronouncement that would make it sound like I had noticed anything
cute or not cute about him, so I just said, “He’s okay.”

“I thought he was really cute, although I
don’t know about the earring. But really nice.”

I tried to control the extreme eye roll
(E2R), but it was too overpowering. “It’s known as fashion, Mom.
But it’s nice you think he’s nice. I’ll tell him you said so.” I
started to rise.

“Stay a minute, Jane. I think he likes
you.”

“Really?” I said, eyes open wide in
wonderment at her powers of perception.

“Don’t be snide, young lady. I just think it
would be nice if you give him a chance, that’s all.”

“I have a boyfriend already, Mom.”

“I know, and I’m sure Ned is very nice too,
but all I’m saying is, there’s nothing wrong with playing the
field.”

Again I say, ugh. I am not interested in
dating advice from the 1950’s.

How to end this conversation? Attack her on
her own ground. “What’s so great about Kyle? Is his mom CEO of some
company you’re looking to exploit or something?”

“There is no call to be rude,” Mom replied,
clearly annoyed. I must be right. “But, as a matter of fact, Kyle’s
mother has offered to donate a sizable amount of time to a
fundraiser we’re holding for the foundation and I won’t have you
messing it up. So at the very least, you will remember your manners
and be friendly to the boy. Do you understand?”

“Got it.” At least I was allowed to
leave.

My first impulse was to go down to the
laundry pile since I do my best thinking there. But since Trey was
watching a game that seemed to have no end, I was forced to go to
my room. The problem with my room is that it’s such a mess, it puts
me on edge. According to Sassy Classy magazine, the arrangement of
one’s external space reflect one’s internal space. I could
definitely see a correlation between the wadded up tights sitting
on top of the lamp and my mixed-up thoughts.

In spite of shoving them into a drawer,
thereby cleaning up one bit as well as allowing more light to shine
on the situation, my opinions stayed muddled. I didn’t have the
energy or patience to do more.

I flopped down on my unmade bed. Having my
mother practically order me to date Kyle definitely turned the
attraction meter back down to ‘low.’ But when I didn’t think about
her motives, it was pretty exciting to have someone tell you flat
out that he liked you. I felt shivery all over just replaying that
scene and not just because a mound of mismatched socks was pressing
into my sciatic nerve. I shoved them onto the floor and happened to
brush my thigh in the exact spot where Kyle had rested his hand. It
felt a little warm. I patted my leg. A little squishy. It feels
like the fat cells on my thighs have been multiplying and expanding
to their maximum capacity.

Maybe I’ll do a few leg lifts this evening.
You never know when another person might touch your thigh,
accidentally or on purpose.

I smacked myself in the head with a stray
sock. Leaving it hanging in front of my face, I sat up and asked
the image in the mirror, “What the hell is the matter with
you?”

As I contemplated all the different possible
answers to this question, I noticed a funny smell. Apparently the
dirty and clean socks got mixed up. Tossing it aside, I ordered
myself to do the same with Kyle. There was no good reason to be
getting all worked up about him. I have Ned and he’s great. Why am
I so willing to screw things up?

It’s all Hannah’s fault. I couldn’t get her
advice out of my head: keep ‘em guessing.

Ugh. I absolutely cannot think clearly in my
messy room. No room to do calisthenics either.

I went downstairs again to see if the
interminable game had finally finished, and thanks be to someone,
it had. The basement floor is too hard to exercise on, though, so I
arranged the clothes into a contour shape on the couch and lay
down. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply to allow the soothing scent
of lavender clear out any remaining scent molecules from my dirty
sock and/or Kyle’s cologne. I felt more relaxed immediately, if not
more clear on what to do. Maybe I could talk to Miss Kindley about
my dilemma. She has a boyfriend. She might have some insight into
these important issues.

Sunday was a long and boring day made
extra-long and boring by thoughts of how I could be passing the
time with Ned if he wasn’t eternally grounded and/or running off to
New York all the time. Thinking about my homework just reminded me
of Kyle and how I could have spent a pleasant afternoon at the
library with him. These were not productive ideas for me to be
having.

True to the rule of boredom: the more time
you have on your hands the less you get done. It was late on Sunday
night before I realized I hadn’t even begun my homework. I had to
race through it in order to have time to watch my favorite lineup
of shows. My illegible scrawl will have to do because Sunday night
is some prime TV.

Strange but true scientific fact: A male
frigatebird inflates a flap of red skin into a giant balloon to
attract females. He will also cover the female’s eyes with his
wings so she doesn’t get a chance to change her mind by spotting
another bird with a bigger balloon.

In my case, the part that is inflating is my
waist and the red thing is pimples. Somehow I don’t think this
increases my level of attraction.

Valentine’s Day is fast approaching and I
can’t help but wonder what Ned might be dreaming up. A teensy
thought about receiving bouquets of flowers from secret admirers
who shall remain nameless appeared in my mind unbidden. I told it
to leave immediately. It went for the most part, although
occasionally its freckles pop back into view.

I am secretly hoping to go out on a real
date, like to a restaurant, but I don’t dare say it out loud
because then it definitely won’t happen. Although it’s totally
irrational, I can be superstitious at times. Plus I have no way to
pay for such a grand plan so the suggestion will have to come from
Ned.

I am cautiously hopeful that we will be able
to do something even if it’s not a restaurant date because, after
our mid-year report cards, I am pleased to announce that Ned is a
solid C- student.

Well, I am not ecstatically happy about that,
but it was much better than he had done in the first quarter of the
year.

As Robin Jane and also his girlfriend, I am
self-effacing enough to not even mention my role in getting his
grades up to almost passing or that I have been helping him with
his English homework sometimes in addition to math. I will
magnanimously allow Ned to take all the credit, especially since he
is not officially passing yet.

He did get a C+ on his last math quiz, so I
have high hopes for the whole second half of the year and not just
Valentine’s Day.

While plenty of circumstances are beyond my
control, there are still some that do fall into my domain, i.e., my
gift for Ned. I really need to do a good job with this holiday
since I made such a mess with Christmas, to not even mention more
damage repair related to the most recent hand-holding incident
(HHI) involving Kyle.

Ned likes to eat so I thought about gourmet
chocolates, until I saw the price of them. But the boy really
enjoys his food so I figured I could make him some.

It did occur to me that I should buy some
fancier chocolate than Gershey’s as the basis for gourmet truffles,
but I don’t know where to get it except at the gourmet shop where
it is already molded into expensive shapes. I’ll just have to dress
it up with other fancy ingredients like alcohol, although how I was
going to sneak that out of the liquor cabinet remained to be
seen.

Hmmm. Not ratting out M. Waddell and his
cleaning fluid may come in handy after all.

I was so slick. The next day at the end of
French class, I came up with an excuse to go to the supply closet,
spice jar at the ready.

Okay, maybe not so slick. It leaked in my
pocket and now I reek of cheap whiskey.

I think M. Waddell smelled it too. I heard
him sniff as I walked by him.

Strange but true scientific fact: The
blue-footed booby engages in an elaborate display to snare a mate,
whistling, pointing and striding about, proudly displaying his big
blue feet. This ritual can go on for hours.

Valentine’s Day falls on a Friday this year,
and it also happens to be a ‘C’ day, so it seems to me that the
gods of love are in my quadrant despite the very good chance that
my monthly “little friend” is scheduled to show up around that
time.

It was a good thing I started working early
in the week on Ned’s gift because my first attempt was a total
disaster. I learned you have to use the alcohol sparingly or else
the truffles turn into what amounts to nice-tasting mud.

So the first batch of chocolates was a total
waste, from the point of view of giving them a gift. For better or
worse, I have no problem eating unattractive candy. Anyway, I had
to eat it to get rid of the evidence because that stuff stunk to
high heaven. However, now that a constellation of pimples have
erupted on my chin, I think I would have been better off chucking
it into the backyard for the skunks to have a party with.

My determination to get the recipe right
redoubled after Ned left me the cutest card at my locker, signed “a
secret admirer.” At least, I’m pretty sure it was from Ned. When
the thought that someone else might have left it appeared, I poked
in its variegated eyes and focused on Ned’s big brown ones instead.
I went straight home and made up a card for Ned “from a secret
admirer” to stick in his locker the next day.

Tuesday, I found a cute little heart lollipop
on my desk in French class. I was amazed that Ned had been able to
make it all the way across the school to put it there...I risked a
sideways glance at Kyle in the darkened room. He seemed pretty
intent on the film. Mirabelle was moving about with unnecessary
vigor, showing off her backless sundress but giving us plenty of
front view as well. I shifted a little in my chair, making the
metal foot squeak. Kyle raised his eyebrows and smiled, but not in
a way that told me he put the candy there.