How to Take the Ex Out of Ex-Boyfriend (4 page)

Which they did.

So anyway, that's why I clean the bathrooms of the Parks and Rec building every Saturday morning.

It didn't matter that I finally told the principal everything I knew about the incident. Tim denied it, the missing equipment was never found, and when two people give the police different stories, they tend to believe the one who didn't accidentally chuck evidence onto the principal's desk during her interview.

To make a long and totally unfair story short, I was charged with possession of stolen property. Besides all of the community service I have to do, I'm on probation until I'm eighteen, and I had to pay a four hundred dollar fine.

Thank you very much, Tim.

You'd think that somewhere along the line, one of my fortune cookies would have warned me about all this. You know, given me a little slip of paper that said, “No good will come from convicts bearing gifts of dead frogs.” But no. The fortune cookie industry has totally overlooked that message. Ditto for horoscopes.

I was so upset about the whole thing I didn't want to go back to school, not even after my school-imposed sentence of a month at an alternative learning center ended. But my dad kept telling me that if I didn't go back, people would think I was guilty. So I returned to school and a life that would never really be the same again.

Not many guys would ask out a girl who has henceforth been known at school as “The Frog Avenger,” but Jesse did. He accepted my innocence casually, as though it didn't take any effort to believe in me. Which meant it would be that much harder for me to ask him to be Dante's campaign manager.

I'd never wanted to make him choose between his friends and me, and here I was about to do just that. And what if he didn't pick me?

Chapter
3

W
hen I finished scrubbing out toilets, I pushed the cleaning cart back into the supply closet, and Earl checked off my work. Earl is the compulsively grouchy head janitor. Any other person would have shown a little cheer at the fact that I came in to do his job every Saturday, but no, he watches me like I might be secretly shoving rolls of toilet paper in my purse.

I drove to Country Burger, and Jesse and I ate lunch in a booth with the scenic view of the parking lot. Which is one more reason why it's nice to date a totally hot guy. Scenery becomes unimportant. We talked about school, friends, and that sort of thing. I didn't work my courage up to discuss the campaign until we were almost done with our meal. Finally I said, “Dante is serious about running for school president. He talked with me about it this morning.”

Across the table from me, Jesse tilted his head in surprise. “Really?”

“Wilson has lots of friends, you know, people who'll help him with his campaign. Dante doesn't have as many—but you're his friend, aren't you?”

Jesse tapped his knife against his plate. He knew where I was going with this, and I could already see the hesitancy in his eyes. “Yes, I am, but I'm also Wilson's friend.”

I leaned forward and tried to look beguiling. “Dante needs your help more, though, and you know he'd be the first one to help you if you ever needed anything. So will you help with his campaign?”

Jesse gazed back at me, his blue eyes softening. He didn't answer.

I reached out and put my hand over his. “Please?”

Jesse let out a sigh. “Dante put you up to this, didn't he? He knew I couldn't tell you no.”

I smiled. “
No
is such an ugly word. You really shouldn't say it.”

Jesse laughed, and intertwined his fingers with mine. “All right. I'll help Dante campaign. It will make things awkward between Wilson and me for a while, but sure, I'll help Dante.”

With that one sentence, my hope surged. “Can you be Dante's campaign manager?”

All the laughter left Jesse's countenance. I could sense him tense up. He took his hand away from me and ran it through his shaggy brown hair. “I don't want to make things that awkward. I'll help, I'll wear a button, whatever, but I can't be campaign manager.”

“But Jesse—”

He didn't let me finish. “You should do it, Giovanna. You're his sister.”

“He wants you.”

Jesse shook his head again, this time with one of those knowing looks he gives me when he thinks I'm selling myself short. “You can do it. You can get out there and rustle up votes for him.”

“Campaign managers should be movers and shakers. I don't really move or shake. And the whole frog thing—”

“Has blown over,” he said. “No one cares about it anymore. It's not like people sit around and talk about you.”

Which just goes to show you he hasn't been in the girls' locker room recently.

I tried one last time to make him understand. “Later today Dante is going to ask you to be his campaign manager.”

Jesse shrugged. “I'll explain to him why I can't. I mean, I see Wilson all the time. He'll probably be at the library fund-raiser tonight.” Jesse leaned forward again, his attention back on his food instead of me. “Don't forget, I'm picking you up at seven.”

The fund-raiser would consist of mingling with a bunch of old people, hearing a speech from the mayor about the importance of reading, and then some songs by Bickham High's choir. Jesse and I were only going because his mom was the choir director. She'd given him tickets and some not so subtle hints that he'd better come to support her.

I hadn't considered the fact that Wilson would be there too, but seeing as how his dad was giving a speech, it made sense.

Jesse's cell phone rang. He took it out of his jacket and looked at the caller ID. “Speak of the devil. Wilson is calling me now.” But then he slipped the phone back into his pocket and went back to eating.

“You're not going to answer it?”

Jesse shook his head as he swallowed. “Not when I'm out on a date with you.”

Which was such a sweet thing to say that I forgave him for refusing to be Dante's campaign manager.

“I'll call him later,” he went on. “Wilson probably just wants to talk to me about tonight.”

Maybe. But suddenly I was very glad Jesse had already agreed to help Dante before Wilson had a chance to speak to him.

 

When I got back home, I told Dante what Jesse had said about being his campaign manager. He grunted but said, “I'll talk to him about it.”

An hour later Jesse called, and then Dante left with his motorcycle and a bunch of tools. He didn't return until I was cleaning up the dinner dishes. The dishes are always my job—Gabby's orders—even though Dante is perfectly capable of placing things in the dishwasher. My parents never make him do it because, “Dante does the yard work.” I would point out that the lawn needs to be mowed once a week and we eat dinner every night, but to tell you the truth I don't mind that much. My strongest memories of my mother are seeing her in the kitchen, gliding between the cupboards, the stove, and the table.

She would talk to me while she cooked, her eyes on my face more than on the food in her hands. Even now, nine years after the cancer has taken her, I still feel closest to her in the kitchen.

While I rinsed plates off in the sink, Dante strode into the room smelling of motor oil. He grabbed the milk from the fridge and drank straight from the carton.

Skipper looked up from her place at the table, where she was currently exiled until she finished her meal. “You're 'posed to use a cup,” she called to him.

“And you're supposed to eat all your food,” he said back.

“How did things go with Jesse?” I asked.

Dante finished the last of the milk, crushed the carton, and threw it into the trash can. “Your boyfriend is an Aztec.”

“He is not.” I dropped silverware into the dishwasher with a noisy clang. “You can't blame him for being friends with Wilson.”

“Yes I can. Wilson is a jerk, and Jesse is helping Wilson, not me.”

Well, that was a bit of an overstatement, since Jesse had only turned down the position of campaign manager. I didn't have time to say this, however, since Dante went on. “You know what the most important thing to Wilson is? Wilson. He would steamroll over anyone to get what he wants—even Jesse. I just don't know why no one else sees that.”

“Look, I can be your campaign manager.” Even as I said these words, I couldn't believe they'd come out of my mouth. I didn't even want Dante to run for president, let alone want to be his campaign manager, but I didn't want Dante mad at Jesse either. “I can get my friends to help. Besides, you wouldn't want Jesse to be in charge of your posters anyway. I mean, we've both seen his handwriting, and half the time it could pass for hieroglyphics.”

Dante leaned up against the counter and surveyed me silently for a moment. When he spoke, the anger had left his voice. “I don't want this whole thing to cause problems between Jesse and you. You don't have to get mad at him on my account.”

I slid a couple of plates into the dishwasher. “Why would I get mad over this?”

“Because you're way too emotional, and you overreact about everything.”

“No I don't.”

“The last time you got mad, you put a bag full of stolen dead frogs in Gabby's briefcase.”

I shrugged. “Only once.”

Skipper turned away from her plate and toward us. “What did you put in Mommy's briefcase?”

“Nothing,” I said. We've never told Skipper about the whole biology break-in incident. This is because Gabby doesn't think she's old enough to understand—which translates into We-must-hide-Giovanna's-bad-example-so-Skipper-doesn't-follow-her-criminal-ways. “Shouldn't you be off somewhere playing?” I asked.

“I'm 'posed to sit here until my dinner is gone.” She rested her head in her hands and didn't lift her fork. Apparently she was waiting for Rumplestiltskin to come and do the job for her.

Dante walked to the table and picked up Skipper's plate. “You're done with dinner. Now go play.”

“Dante—” I said.

“Oh, come on. She didn't eat it when it was warm. You think she's going to eat it now that it's congealing on the plate?”

Skipper looked at me hopefully. I took the plate from Dante's hand. “All right. Go play.”

By the time I'd disposed of the casserole down the sink, both Skipper and Dante were gone. I decided to call Jesse and get more details of their meeting, but as I picked up the phone, Gabby walked in to survey my work.

“The sink needs to be wiped out, and don't forget to sweep.”

“I won't.”

“Where's Skipper?”

I glanced at the table. “Um. She left.”

Gabby put one hand on the counter. Her long, red acrylic nails tapped out an accusing rhythm. “Did she finish all of her casserole?”

How is it that Dante always knows when to disappear, and why is it that whenever I break the rules, I always get caught? Any other night Gabby would have forgotten she sentenced Skipper to a permanent place at the table. But no, not tonight.

Now if I said
yes,
Gabby would probably go lean on Skipper until the kid squealed out the truth. If I said
no,
Gabby would yell at me for not making Skipper eat her casserole—which, I might point out, was this bean and rice dish with cooked tomatoes floating around that no kindergartner on the planet would willingly fork into her mouth.

“She was eating it,” I said, “but when I cleared off the table, I accidentally bumped her plate and knocked it on the floor. She couldn't finish it after that, so I told her to go play.”

Gabby drew in a quick breath as though stung. For a moment I thought she knew I'd lied and was about to yell at me. Which would be my luck. But instead she swore and rushed to the garbage can. “Did you break my plate? Don't you know how expensive those are?”

“It didn't break,” I said.

She shoved the garbage can back in its spot underneath the kitchen sink and turned with her hands on her hips. “Well, next time be more careful.”

Gabby then went on to tell me, but I will spare you the boring details, the entire history of her dish collection, which she bought in England and which she can't get replacements for unless she pays, like, twenty dollars a plate, and that's without the shipping.

After that she walked across the kitchen, looked under the table, and told me I hadn't cleaned up all the mess. “I can tell where the casserole landed, and there's still a spot on the tile. You can't just sweep over that. You have to get the mop and wipe it up all the way.”

So yeah, this completely put thoughts of Jesse and the campaign out of my mind, because I was too busy wondering what sort of psychological disorder causes people to see messes that aren't there. I also wondered why in the world we ate off of her precious dishes if she was so worried about them, and then I wondered how much trouble I'd get in if I, say, slipped the next time I unloaded the dishwasher and dropped three or four of them. Really hard. Across the room. Exactly what would a person have to do to make that look convincingly accidental?

At seven o'clock Jesse came by to pick me up for our date. He'd changed his jeans and cowboy boots for Dockers and loafers, and it amazed me that he could look equally stunning in both. Perhaps it was the effect of his aqua blue eyes contrasting against his dark hair. His eyes always seemed deep and mysterious.

Jesse smiled as I opened the front door. His gaze flickered over me, then he nodded in approval. “Well, don't you look fine.” He always said that no matter what I looked like, but I still loved hearing it. Maybe it was the Southern drawl. He could make anything sound sultry.