One of the Guys (14 page)

I sit on my hands, hiding the evidence. “I know nothing of magical girl rituals. This is a business meeting.”

Loch shifts his weight, pressing his shoulder against mine. I don't move. I don't want to move. The air warms like cider on a stove. Loch wiggles his toes. He's wearing one black sock and one white sock. “How did Ollie's fake date go?” he asks.

“Still going.” The chair wobbles behind me as I move my feet. My heels tingle with the promise of sleep. Loch catches the chair before it topples over.

As I'm about to thank him, Emma reappears as quickly as she vanished, dressed in a pair of jeans and a black blouse. Hair perfect. Lips glossed. “Opening night is a smashing success, Micah,” she says, strutting into the room. “
Toni Valentine's Rent-a-Gent Service
is off to a good start.”

“Catchy name.” He stares at her
for way too long
. “No need to get dressed for me.”

Is he checking her out?

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

“Vanity is futile here, Emma. It's just
Loch,”
I say, attempting to sound casual and normal despite my disgusting palm sweat.

Loch slugs me on the shoulder. I steal the bag of potato chips, but he snatches it back. I punch him in the shoulder this time, nearly breaking my hand. I might as well have punched a brick wall. Loch grins victoriously. I pout, too nervous to continue. He gives me a what's-with-you look.

Emma flops back down on the bed. Tom Brady opens his eyes, annoyed again. One more disturbance and he will leave.

“I had to at least put on a bra,” Emma says.

Loch almost chokes on a potato chip. His neck reddens. I seize the opportunity and chant, “Bra. Bra. Bra. Bra. Bra.”

“Stop it!” He presses his hands to his ears.

“What'd I do?” Emma asks, mortified.

I laugh and explain. “Certain words make Loch uncomfortable. Bra. Tampon. Pianist.”

“Pianist?” Emma lounges on her side, laughing. She twirls a strand of honey hair around her index finger.

“I can't explain it.” Loch shakes his head and wipes his greasy hands on his jeans. “I have no control over the physical reactions that take place when I hear certain terms. It's a mystery. Anyway, I thought this was a business meeting. Ollie. Date. Money? Remember?
Money?
”

Emma shrugs. “No news is good news.”

“We don't know that.” I turn to Loch. “No word from Ollie. Or Lemon. Nada.”

“Do you think they got kidnapped?” Loch asks.

“Do people get kidnapped around here or something?” Emma sits up. “Is this, like, a real concern?”

Something vibrates. I check my phone, but it's not producing the sound. Loch munches on some chips, unconcerned because he rarely uses his cell. He prefers to remain eternally disconnected, as nature intended. He once told me he only uses it to text me. I wipe my sweaty palm on the carpet.

Emma scrambles to snatch her phone from the floor and flips it open. Her expression changes from bubbly to stricken. She looks at me. “It's him.”

“Ollie?” I straighten up, tense. This could be it. The beginning or the end of the business.

She shakes her head. “Kevin. I'll, um, be right back.”

Emma hurries to the hallway and closes the bedroom door behind her. Loch slumps against my desk, rubbing his neck. “Kevin,” he says. “The boyfriend.”

“The ex-boyfriend,” I correct, licking chip grease from my fingers.

He nods. “As it should be.”

Why do you care about Emma's ex-boyfriend?
I cringe. “Why's that good?”

“The guy's an ass,” Loch says with a shrug. “She can do better.”

Again, the image of Emma and Loch kissing at Ollie's party flashes in my head. Each time, I swear it gets more vivid. Her lips. His lips. Together. I push the image away and fidget with the string on my sweatpants.

I need to chill out. Change like this can be good. Change doesn't mean losing my best friend to a pretty new friend with perfect hair.

Emma's muffled voice floats through the doorway. She sounds calm and controlled, like she's scolding a five-year-old.

I decide to ask, instead of torturing myself with possibilities. The imagination is far worse than anything in reality. The words drop out slow, like dripping honey, but taste bitter, not sweet.

“So do you want to date Emma or something?” I stretch out my legs and wiggle my feet.

Loch searches the bag for the tasty whole chips, skipping the crumbles, which are my favorite. He chomps down on a chip. I can't stop wiggling my feet. He's the slowest eater on the planet.

“Well, I should move on from She-Who-ShallNot-Be-Named,” he says. “And Emma's cute.”

The word
cute
settles into my head like a bird's nest. It won't leave and seems to keep multiplying, growing louder and louder in my head. Of course I want Loch to move on from She-Who-Shall-NotBe-Named, but is Emma the best rebound? Emma is sweet but also a bit intense. He needs someone dependable, comfortable, and predictable. Someone who won't play games.

“You shouldn't rush anything.” I say, praying he doesn't start asking me details about Emma. What's her favorite color? What's her favorite flower? Does she have plans this weekend? I can play the role of matchmaker for fake dates. Not real ones. Fake is safer. I can control fake.

“Listen.” Loch places the bag of chips on my cluttered desk. “I want to thank you. So: thank you.”

I fidget with my phone, grateful for the change in subject. “For what?”

“For being so cool about my situation.” He frowns. “The guys have been giving me a hard time for working so much. I think they're both pissed about it.”

I don't know what to say. Maybe I'm not the only one alienated from the group because of circumstances out of my control.

Emma returns, brushing a strand of honey hair from her eye. “I have news,” she says, breathless.

“Are you back with Kevin?” I ask.
Please say yes. If you're back with Kevin, Loch can't date you. If Loch can't date you, life remains simple and familiar
.

“Forget about Kevin.” She waves her hand. “Lemon texted me.”

My heart jumps up my throat. I accidentally bump Loch's elbow. He slumps farther to the floor, inches away from resting his head on my shoulder.

Did Ollie screw up? Did he freak out Lemon's parents? Did he ruin her chances of leaving her house again? Did he forever taint me as the new girl with poisonous public school friends? Will I be tortured at school for this? Will this ruin my chances at college? Will this ruin my whole life?

A splendid little smile spreads across Emma's glossed lips. “She wants to book him for the rest of the year,” she says. “We're officially in business, Toni Valentine.”

For a moment, I thinks she's joking. But when she starts jumping around the room, squealing, I join her, surprised at my own brand of hyper. Ollie didn't screw this up! Woohoo! Loch chills on the floor, applauding like a rich gentleman. I spin around the room and fall onto my bed, composing myself as I remember who I am.

I don't squeal. I don't giggle. I don't spin around the room with unharnessed joy.

Tom Brady the cat jumps up from the pillow, turns his nose to the air, and scurries out of the room as I settle down and clap like a gentleman, too.

fourteen

“D
O YOU HAVE PLANS FOR
Christmas, Tonya?” Mrs. Kemper asks.

This is the last group session before winter break, and all I can think about is which boy I should choose for my latest client, Carrie Sanders, a girl at my lunch table who needs to prove to her older sister that the imaginary boyfriend she invented does, in fact, exist. Loch is booked through the New Year. It's a toss-up between Cowboy and Ollie.

“Family. Dinner. The usual,” I reply, remembering to cross my ankles as I sink lower into the arm chair. Flames crackle in the fireplace. We each hold a mug of warm cider, a special treat from Mrs. Kemper today. I don't mention that I hate Christmas because Dad's not here anymore. The holiday gives me hives, but I don't say that because I don't want to deal with the sympathy.

Thanks to Lemon's glowing recommendation, business has picked up over the last few weeks. Word of mouth is a powerful thing. By Thanksgiving,
Toni Valentine's Rent-a-Gent Service
was officially in business. To start, we're employing Loch, Ollie, and Cowboy, but we may need more guys down the road.

One critique for Ollie: Don't fall asleep while waiting in the car again. We need updates so we know that no one's been kidnapped. Other than that, the guy did good on his date. He told Lemon's parents everything they wanted to hear. He harbored Yale ambitions. He respected Lemon. He would have her home at a decent hour. After five minutes with him, Lemon's parents trusted Ollie enough to keep their daughter out past curfew, as long as she checked in with them on the hour. Brian would never trust a teenage boy he had just met like that. He barely trusts Loch.

“Ryan hates the holidays,” Shauna says.

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Kemper says, rubbing her temples as Shauna continues talking about the love of her life.

Something tells me the administration would not approve of
Rent-a-Gent
. They wouldn't care that our business helps needy souls hide behind the safety of false doors, giving them permission to pursue their passions. I'm thinking about making that our slogan.

Emma set her marketing plan into motion. She created a gorgeous and simple website, which shows a picture of a boy, but only his torso is visible. He wears a black tuxedo, his large hands straightening his bow tie in a very James Bond-like gesture. All that's shown of his face is a wide scruffy chin.

Okay. I have to admit, Loch looked damn good in that tuxedo during the photo shoot.

Beneath the photo, written in
girlie
scripted letters:
Pick a gentleman. Any gentleman
.

That's it. No email. No address. No contact name. There's power in simplicity. There's power in the illusion of exclusivity. There's power in Emma Elizabeth Swanson. She e-mails the web address to our classmates. If they're curious about the website, and what it could mean, they talk to Emma.

Now that he's raking in some cash, Ollie seems slightly less pissed at me, although our conversations are strictly business now. Still, I'm holding out hope he'll forgive me soon. Cowboy hasn't fake-dated yet. Which is why I'd like to choose him for Carrie. I've offered him a few job opportunities, all of which he turned down because of some lame excuse. He had to study. He had to catch up on some sleep. He had to entertain his dad on a lonely Saturday night.

The other day, I marched over to his house and flat-out asked him if he wanted in or not. No pressure, but I needed to know. “Yeah,” he said, leaning in his doorway, biting his bottom lip. “I want in. Really.”

He wouldn't look me in the eye though. It occurred to me that maybe he was as intimidated by Winston girls as I was, but I didn't push the issue.

“For those of you who haven't heard back from colleges yet, don't worry. It's still early,” Mrs. Kemper says as Shauna finally breaks from her story.

Mrs. Kemper likes to steer the conversation toward
the future
. Winston girls, I've come to learn over the last few months, are bred to look forward, never back, unless reading the past will somehow assist in brightening
the future
.

I'm the only one in group without a clear vision of the path ahead. After her undergraduate degree, Emma will attend law school, likely Harvard, where she will specialize in cases involving stem-cell research. Her plans are
that
specific. Shauna plans to attend Stanford, after which she will enroll in the Teach for America program, devoting her life to improving the educational system in this country. Lemon is poised to discover the next great acne cream or wrinkle cream or something equally profitable.

I have no idea what I want to be. Maybe I'll attend UVM and spend weekends (and probably most week nights) watching monster movies with Loch. Or maybe I'll end up at Purdue, navigating a new world on my own. I don't know. It never occurred to me that I should be devastated by this piece of the unknown before.

The future just means moving further away from the past and all that lives there.

Just as my muscles tense up, bracing for the College Question, Mrs. Kemper announces the end of session by saying, “Have a safe and happy Christmas break!”

As I head to the parking lot with Emma, I long to forget about exams and the future and the unknown path stretching before me. Emma's presence has become an odd comfort, like an over-sized sock that continually scrunches up around the toes. I realize that, yeah, she's more than a business partner. She's my friend.

Emma scrolls through her phone, keeping up with my hurried strides. “Hey, I need to ask you something. Something unrelated to the business,” she says.