Boyfriend From Hell (Falling Angels Saga) (9 page)

I passed Guy in the hall between Calc and English and he winked at me. I winked back, co-conspirators on the school bus of ill repute. I was a few steps from my room when I realized he had followed me.

“How’s it going?” he said.

“Good. How’s it going with you?” I caught myself staring at his lips.

Stop it!

“I’m cool. Sorry I got you in trouble.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” I was still staring at his lips.

Stop it, I said!

“So, what did your mom have to say?”

What is this obsession with my mother?

“I didn’t tell her.” I allowed a sly smile to play my lips.

All bad girl, all the time.

“They send a letter home, you know.”

They do?

“I know they send a letter home. They always do.” I chuckled, as if this was old news.

“Yeah. Our mail comes around two o’clock. I’ll intercept mine before my folks ever get their hands on it.”

“My plan exactly.” We shared a conspiratorial smile, as I made a mental note to go through the mail as soon as I got home.

“Man, I just started this school, and I got a letter home already.” He sighed.

“Ah, the price we pay,” I said knowingly.

Look at me, the bad girl philosopher.

“Well, since neither of us has math lab this afternoon, maybe we could… hang out?”

Did he just ask me on a date?

“Cool,” I said, nodding my head. “Sounds like a plan.”

When Erin arrived in English class, she had a smile on her face. “Was that Guy I saw walking away from here?”

“Yes.” I still couldn’t believe I was going on a date with Guy Matson, well not actually a
date
date, but hanging out was definitely in the dating domain.

“So, is he a good kisser? We didn’t get a chance to talk Saturday with all the excitement and all. Of course, Matt—”

“Yes,” I answered quickly, before she could turn this into an Erin and Matt moment. “Guy is an excellent kisser.”

“I knew it!” Her smile widened.

“Even better than Matt,” I added.

She began blinking rapidly; her mouth opened and shut several times before she finally said:  “You’ve… kissed Matt?”

“Well… I mean we have known each other since kindergarten. But forget about that. Guy is an excellent kisser. Lucky me, huh?” I donned a sly grin, mostly because I’d shut her up about her and Matt.

“Oh. Well, yes. I’m… happy for you.” She took her seat looking as if she’d just been KO’d by a heavyweight.

Of course I’d never kissed Matt. He was like a brother to me. But I have to admit, for some reason, I was happy to rain on her parade.

“Thanks,” I said, with all the fake cheer I could muster. “We are soo lucky.”   

I raced home after school and found the letter in the mailbox, sandwiched between two bills and a circular for discount dry cleaning. It was made out to Ms. Suzanne Barnett, with the name and address of my school stamped ominously in the upper left hand corner. I plucked it from the box, a delicate surgical procedure, and stuffed it deep into my backpack.

I’ll just give this to her—never.

I was surprised I had no remorse for stealing the letter, deceiving my mother the way I did. Instead, I felt powerful. I felt invincible.

I recalled promising Matt I would tell Suze about getting kicked off the mathletes.  

What good would come from telling her? No good. No good at all. All that can happen is she’ll get upset. And for what? The mathletes? Some geeky, after school activity. Hey, it’s not as if I ditched school, or failed a big final exam, or decided to quit school all together and get a job in a strip club.  I could see worrying her about important stuff like that. But not a kiss. I kissed a boy. Big deal.

The rationalizations were coming fast and furious, like termites at the start of swarming season.  

My phone rang.

“Hey, where are you?” It was Guy.

“Had to make a stop.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Silence. And in that silence I sensed a oneness with Guy, the kind of psychic connection that twins must feel. Even though neither of us was saying anything, I knew this shared letter-stealing activity was growing us closer together. And when we’re married, our kids will ask, When did you know you were perfect for each other?” And we’ll look in each other’s eyes and smile, both thinking of this very moment… Okay, I’m a romantic. So sue me.

“Meet me at the food court in the mall,” he said, dragging my thoughts back to the present.

I hung up without responding. I didn’t need to. We had the psychic connection. He knew I’d be there.

#

The mall was about a half mile away. A good walk, and since I was still too young to drive , walking is what it would be.  It was a warm winter afternoon, and my thoughts were once again on the kiss. Throughout the day I’d caught myself running my tongue over the tiny bruise on my lip, conjuring up the feeling of Guy’s lips on mine, and then the sweet sting of the bite. As I walked, the conjuring started all over again. It was perfect for passing the time.

I was crossing Bell Road, about two blocks from the mall, when a woman on the opposite side of the street caught my attention. A worn cloth shopping bag swung from her arm.  She was returning home from market.  Her graying hair was buried beneath a large kerchief, and yet I recognized her instantly—the old woman from the art gallery who had been staring at my mother.

Without thinking I scampered across the street. Dodging honking cars amid cries of
“crazy kid,”
I arrived at the curb, a few feet from her. She didn’t look up. Lost in thought, she continued down the block, away from the mall, away from me.

Guy and the kiss were totally forgotten as visions of the old woman’s eyes transfixed on my mother entered my thoughts. There was a mysterious connection between this woman and the reason Armando was dating my mother. I know—crazy. This was the kind of lunatic thinking that could get a person committed. And yet something, call it intuition, told me I was right.

She was halfway down the block, shrinking into oblivion when I did something even crazier. I followed her.

I couldn’t believe what I was doing. It was like something out of a James Bond flick. Yet there I was, trailing the old woman down the block. I couldn’t stop myself. Every time I said:
Megan, this is ridiculous. It probably isn’t her, and even if it is her, so what?
Something else inside me said
keep going
.

I followed at a safe distance, staying at least a half block behind. She never once looked back, so I began following closer.

My heart was racing, hopped up on adrenaline, about to explode in my chest, and yet something kept pushing me forward.

After several blocks, we moved into a residential neighborhood of modest single family homes. Mothers sat on lawn chairs in front of open garage doors watching children play, while chatting about soap opera characters as if they were real.

The old woman stopped at an odd two-story home with a small stoop, the largest house on the street. She set her groceries down at the base of the stoop and took a breather, leaning heavily against the cement post. Quickly I stooped, and began tying my shoe, which was near impossible since I was wearing my pink Puma slides, but she didn’t glance in my direction. Rested, she picked up her bag, climbed the steps, and let herself in.

Okay, Megan, now what?

 I didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Again without thinking, I moved to the house, up the steps, and rang the doorbell; it was as if I was on autopilot. I waited a few seconds. Nothing.

Megan, enough of this craziness. You can go now.

But instead I rang again, and this time I could hear her slowly making her way to the door.

“I’m coming,” she called in a heavy Spanish accent.

Spanish like Armando. His mother? That would explain why she was staring so hard at
my
mother.  Mothers are so protective of their sons. She disapproved of the way Armando and my mom were chumming it up.

Hey, I’m with you, lady.

The door opened. The kerchief was off, revealing her shiny black and gray hair. She gazed at me with dark eyes.

Uh-oh. She recognizes me.

“Yes? What you want?” Annoyance, but not a hint of recognition was in her voice, raspy from too many years of smoking.

“Are you the lady of the house?” I responded cheerily.  I smiled.

“We don’t want any.” Suddenly, the door was swinging shut.

“Wait!” I stuck my foot out, stopping it.

I can’t believe I just did that.

She yanked it back open. “What’s the matter with you? You got no manners? I said we don’t want any.”

“But you don’t even know what it is.”

She looked me up and down with distaste. “You couldn’t possibly have anything I want. Now move your foot.” The door again began swinging shut.

“Wait!” And again I stuck my foot out.

This time she didn’t stop. She thrust the door against my foot, shoving it up against the frame.

“Move it or lose it,” she rasped, pressing harder. I had a feeling if I didn’t do something quickly, my foot and only my foot was going to be on the other side of that door.

“But Armando told me to come,” I called.

The pushing stopped. The door crept open, and now she was staring at me with mild interest. “How you know Armando?”

“Yes, well… Ya see…” I was fumfering around, waiting for some brilliant response to come to me. “The Girl Scouts,” I blurted. Okay, so much for brilliance. But at least the door was still open.

“Armando is not in the Girl Scouts.” Suspicion crept into her voice.

“I know that, silly,” I laughed, trying to buy more time. “But he visited my Girl Scout troop. He gave us a talk about art.” I stared at her, hoping this would keep the heavy door from slamming on my foot.

“Okay. So, why you here?”

“Yes,” I said and smiled.  Well, it was supposed to be a smile, but it was that silly Joker thing again. I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I was totally blocked. Just when I thought I was becoming a bad girl, I was struggling to come up with a decent lie.

The old woman gaped back, and I’m sure she thought I was one card shy of a full deck. “You
do
know Armando?” she asked warily.

“Yes,” I said again, and again with the stupid smile.

“Come in,” she wheezed with an annoyed sigh.

The door opened wide and we entered the foyer. As soon as we were inside, a large dog began barking somewhere in the back. I froze. The barking was frenzied, urgent.

“It’s okay. More bark than bite. Quiet, Robin!” she called. The large dog immediately went to whimpering.

That’s when I smelled something. Incense. The same incense from the art gallery. The same incense from my dreams. My breath caught as I recognized the fragrance. The scent was stronger here, heavy and cloying.

I thought the old woman would stop in the foyer, but she continued toward the rear of the house. “Armando always does this to me. And I do not have time for this today,” she grumbled.

“I’m sure he has his reasons,” I said, regaining my composure. “After all, he is your son.”

As I followed, I looked for the source of the incense. The house was filled with the fragrance, yet I couldn’t determine where it was coming from.

“Ha!” she snipped. “Like I could be his mother? Like I’d
want
to be his mother?”

Okay, so she’s not his mother. Housekeeper—a very protective housekeeper.

The home was well kept, much more distinguished on the inside than out. Dark, antiquey furniture dominated the foyer, giving the place a sense of aged gloom. Outsized paintings of landscapes hung on the walls. No people in any of them. Plains, deserts, fields, but not a single person.
Places,
I thought,
but no one to go there.

Just then, the dog started barking again. “Robin!” she called.  The barking stopped, but I could still hear the sound of anxious doggy feet scraping against the hard wood floor.

A key in the door drew our attention. The old woman stopped, her entire demeanor changing as she turned.

“Ah, he is excited because The Master is home.” Her eyes moved past me to the door.

“Umm… Master?”

“Yes. Señor Armando.” There was a reverence in her voice.

The door began swinging open.

“Oh, good,” I said. My heart was in my mouth. No, my heart had leapt out of my mouth and was racing around looking for someplace to hide. Unlike me, who was standing there like an idiot!

How am I ever going to explain this?

The door opened wide. Armando—our Armando—was standing in the doorway.

I’m toast!

“Um, uhh…”

“Please, can I get a hand here?” His back was to us. He was balancing a large painting that teetered between him and the top step.

“You’re a Girl Scout. You help. I must see to dinner.” And before I could respond, the old woman quickly ambled off to the kitchen.

“But…”

“Hello?” Armando’s voice rang out. He was standing, his back still to me, balancing the painting on the top step.

What to do? What to do?

I weighed my options:

A) I could run out the door right past him.

B) I could hide somewhere in the house until later.

C) I could cry (which I was probably going to do anyway).

Or D) I could help him with the picture.

I tackled the problem like a fine mathematician. If I ran right past him, since I’m not yet invisible, there’s a good chance he’d see me. If I hid in the house, eventually I’d have to leave, and since I’m not yet invisible, there’s a good chance he’d see me. If I cried, he’d look up to see what was going on, and since I’m not yet invisible, he’d
definitely
see me.

So, I decided to help. I know, there’s an even better chance he’d see me since I’d be standing right next to him. Yet despite the obvious reasons against it, I chose ‘D’.  What can I say? In math I’m a whiz, but at espionage, I’m an idiot.