Project Produce (15 page)

“You didn’t do it alone.” I gave him a shaky smile. “Figuring out what I want to do with my life is too important to me. I’m too old to keep screwing up, and honestly, I just can’t deal with this right now. Friends?”

“Sure,” he agreed. “Friends.” He stuck out his hand.

“Good.” I slipped mine in his, feeling the magnetic pull clear to my soul.

He shook once and then pulled his free. “I’ll let myself out. Don’t forget the gym tomorrow. And remember to lock the door behind me.”

“Always,” I responded, glad we’d come to an understanding. It was what I wanted, what I needed. But I hated to see him go. I locked the door behind him and just stood there, not having a clue what to do next. My head might say this was for the best, but my body sang the blues.

Big time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next morning, Professor Butthead smiled wide at our class. I tried to listen as his star pupil, Ms. I’ll-Brownnose-For-A-Good-Grade, gave her progress report on how AIDS affects today’s teenagers and their decision to have sex.

“Good job, Mindy. Keep going in that direction and you’ll have an excellent project. Well done.”

Well, no fooling, well done
. How hard was it for a teenager to go around and ask other teenagers about sex, condoms, and AIDS? Try being a woman my age, getting a man to tell you the truth about how the size of his winkie affects his sex life. So far, the men I’d been able to talk to thought I was a nympho, and the teenagers thought I was desperate. Either way, I looked and felt like an idiot. I stared out the window and tried not to fall asleep.

“Ms. MacDonald,” a familiar voice echoed in my ears.

“Huh?” I turned. Professor Butthead stood inches from me, his breath reeking of leftover egg salad.

“Ms. MacDonald.” He glowered. “I realize you must think Mindy’s project doesn’t affect you since you’re hardly a teenager, but it’s rude not to pay attention, nonetheless.” He arched a brow as though daring me to say something.

Well, I wasn’t stupid. If I ticked this guy off any more, I’d fail for sure, and then I’d never get my answers. Besides, I was through failing at everything. I forced a smile and said, “I think she’s off to a good start; however, if I were her--”

“Well, you’re not. I suggest you worry about your own project. You’re the only one in class who hasn’t given a progress report on how you’re coming along.” He crossed his arms. “So, let’s hear it. Or aren’t you prepared?”

I was prepared to shout,
You’re a jerk with a pickle, I’ll bet
, but I only shook my head. Heat flooded my face, and the room full of bubbling girls and way-too-young-for-me boys tried not to laugh. God, I felt like I was back in high school.

“I thought not.” He gave me a smug smile. “You might want to step it up a notch. This projects counts for fifty percent of your grade.”

“Sorry,” I ground out, then kept my mouth shut before I said something I’d regret.

“Okay, I’d like you all to get into groups of four and discuss interview strategies to help those of you who are falling behind.” He looked right at me.

Three giggling teenyboppers formed a group with me. I tried to talk about interview questions, but they rambled on and on about shoes, clothes, and makeup. Like that would help me.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I turned to look out the window and blinked. A strange woman paced around outside with something hanging out of her mouth, then she pulled the object out. I squinted, dying to know what it was. The woman glanced at it, shook it, then stuck it back in her mouth.

A thermometer?
No way
. I tried forcing myself to focus on the group activity but couldn’t get my mind off the woman taking her temperature in the middle of a snowstorm.
Another wacko
. I shook my head.

Big, fat snowflakes fluttered to the ground. Maybe the woman was mentally ill, or delirious. People hustled right by her, giving her funny glances and a wide berth, but no one stopped to question her. I guess I shouldn’t have thought her strange, with all the unique people in New York, but this was the third one this week. Well, if Thermometer Woman was there when class ended, I intended to avoid her as well.

Trust me, I’d learned my lesson.

After our meaningless activity ended, Professor Butthead went over a short recap on the format for our presentations and then dismissed the class with a final smirk in my direction. “Ms. MacDonald, unless you want points taken off for your progress report being late, I’d like to set up a private meeting.”

Great, he was gonna fail me for sure. “I’ll come in during your office hours as soon as I have it prepared.” As soon as I checked in with my Angels, that was.

“Make it soon, Callie. I have a busy schedule.”

I nodded, pressing my lips together, not daring to speak. His gaze ran over me in distain, then he left the classroom.

Note to self: Pickles and buttheads are one and the same
.

He didn’t come out and say it, but he was setting me up to fail. He knew this topic was difficult for me because I’d told him so, yet he kept pushing me. He probably thought I’d quit, but he didn’t have a clue how stubborn I could be. And now that I was coming out of my shell, well, look out. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do to succeed this time.

I shoved my notebook into my backpack and headed outside, running late again. With a shrill whistle, I hailed the cab flying by me. It screeched to a sudden halt, making me a bit leery about riding with a driver like that, but I needed a lift. I opened the door, and then a gagging noise caught my attention.

Glancing over my shoulder, I gasped. Thermometer Woman stood four feet behind me, choking on her ridiculous thermometer.

“Great.”
So much for steering clear of wackos
. I tossed my backpack into the cab. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back,” I told the cabbie.

“It’s your dime, lady.”

I ignored the cab driver and wrapped my arms around the woman, clenching my hands tight, then yanking them in. “Come on, work with me. In and up, in and up, in and...”

Whoosh!

The thermometer sailed from the woman’s mouth and landed in a snow-bank. She gasped for breath and then dove after it as though it were made of gold. Scrambling to her feet, she marched back and glared at me. “What’s your problem?” she demanded, lifting her nose and dusting the snow off her expensive-looking suit.

“M-Me?” The woman had to be joking. “I was just trying to help.”

“Really? I should sue you for attacking me like that.”

“Attacking you?” I gaped at her. Forget mentally ill and delirious, she was downright insane. “I was saving you. Without me, you wouldn’t--”

“I wouldn’t be late for my meeting. Why, I ought to...” She glanced at the thermometer and frowned. “Great, now my thermometer is broken. How am I supposed to know when my temperature is perfect?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” I stared until the woman jumped into the cab and tossed my backpack into the snow. “Hey, wait, that’s my cab.”

Thermometer Woman didn’t say anything, just punched a number into her pager. Her purse buzzed and then said, “Brat three.”

“What did your purse just say?” I couldn’t believe my ears. I reached for her purse.

“Hey, watch it, lady.” She tucked it under her arm. “My purse didn’t say anything.” She stuck her hand in the large bag and muffled a beep as she slammed the door. “You really should be careful who you try to help. I could have been some sicko.” She rolled up the window and the cab sped away from the curb.

I stared after them, wondering what had just happened. The woman had said careful, and there was that word
brat
again. “There’s a bizarre conspiracy going on,” I grumbled to myself. “A conspiracy of loony nutcases, completely paranoid about being careful. And apparently, there are brats everywhere.”

Seeing another cab pull around the corner, I whistled again, but the music blaring from his radio drowned me out. The cabbie’s head bee-bopped to the beat like an out-of-control bobblehead, not paying a bit of attention to his surroundings. He couldn’t possibly make much money driving a cab like that, but I couldn’t afford to waste any more time. I lunged into the road and waved my arms. The cabbie slammed on his brakes, screeching to a stop right in front of me, his eyes bugging out of their sockets.

I grabbed the door handle and did a double-take as Dylan’s car cruised by. “What the hell?” He didn’t even look my way. I was supposed to meet him at the gym for a boxing lesson during my lunch break. The only reason I had agreed was to find out what made him tick, what drove him. And it wouldn’t hurt to learn to protect myself a little better. Besides, we were supposed to be friends. I shrugged and shook my head. Maybe it hadn’t been him. “Face it, Cal, you’re losing your mind.”

“You say your shoes need shine?” the cabbie asked as I climbed in.

“No, I need--”

“You need shine. No worries, lady, Nikko know perfect place.” He pulled away from the curb.

“But I don’t--”

“You don’t know the way. I take you.” He merged into traffic, heading... the wrong flipping way!

“But I have to--”

“You have to hurry. Nikko no mind. We get there fast.” The cab roared down the street, narrowly missing a bus, and the bus driver blared the horn. Nikko leaned out the window and spewed a stream of angry-sounding Greek, as if the near-accident wasn’t his fault. I gripped the back of his seat for dear life and gave up on trying to talk to him.

But I sure as heck wasn’t paying him for taking me to the wrong place.

***

I stumbled through the gym doors, breathing loud and heavy. Forget the Twilight Zone. Getting to the gym had turned out to be Mission Impossible. Good grief, I was on the verge of collapse and our workout hadn’t even begun. Pausing to catch my breath, I spotted Dylan by the boxing ring.

He looked at the clock on the wall, probably wondering where I was.
No problem, Zuc, just having a near-death experience with the country’s biggest NASCAR wannabe
.

Dylan lifted his shoulders, tipped his head from side to side, and bounced from foot to foot, jabbing his fists at the air. Whatever he was doing, he looked really good doing it.

Glancing around the old gym, I liked what I saw. Nothing new or fancy about it, just a whole lot of heart and soul. And sweat. The people who came here obviously did so because they loved the sport, not putting on a show just to hit on the opposite sex.

Dylan caught my eye and smiled.
Well, shoot
. That meant I had to move. I wove my way through the mostly-male population until I reached the ring.

“What happened?” he asked.

I stuck out my gleaming Snow Flurry. “Let’s just say these boots are no longer made for walking, since Nikko’s cousin, Marco, got done plastering a pint of grease on them. Or maybe it was pomade, judging by his slicked-back hair. In either case, I fell three times just trying to walk through the gym door.”

Dylan’s brows knitted, then he shook his head. “You’re too nice, Mac, that’s why you need my help.”

“Some help you are. You didn’t even offer me a ride back there. And don’t deny you drove right past me. I saw Big Betty. There’s only one of those beasts in this town.”

“Honey, I offered you a ride yesterday. If my memory hasn’t failed, you tossed my ass curbside.”

I glared. “You know what? Even if you had offered me a ride--in Big Betty--I wouldn’t have taken it.”

“What makes you think I’d want to offer again?” He arched a brow.

“Let’s get this straight. Friends don’t ride each other.”

“Really. From where I was laying last night, you wanted that ride, friend or no friend.”

“I knocked you off the couch, remember?” I shook my head. “Looks like Harry, from
When Harry Met Sally
, was right when he said men and women can never be friends because the sex thing always gets in the way.”

“Does that mean you fake your orgasms, too?” He smirked.

I gasped, then smacked him.

Rubbing his arm, he chuckled. “You’re gonna have to do better than that if you want to defend yourself against someone like the Midnight Molester.”

“I’m here, aren’t I? Bring it on, Dukeypoo.” I tried to mimic his bob and weave move.

“Well, all right, then.” He grinned. “Get on in there and change out of your Eskimo gear. We’re not dog sledding.” He pointed to the locker room. “And we only have the ring for another thirty minutes.”

“Not funny.” I stormed off to the locker room, my huge insecurity wiggling all the way, and I didn’t even care. I had a few moves of my own that I didn’t plan to change one bit, and if he didn’t like it, he could lump it.

Five minutes later, I marched back through the doors with my head high, and his grin died. “Still haven’t done laundry,” I said, standing before him in my purple Spandex biker shorts, feeling completely vulnerable. “And I haven’t owned gym clothes in years.”

“Th-Those’ll do.” He cleared his throat.

Maybe I didn’t look too bad after all. “So what now?” I asked and stepped into the ring.

“Now, you put these on.” He handed me a pair of boxing gloves. After I slipped them on, he tied the laces. “We don’t need mouth guards or helmets, because we’re not going to spar for real. I’m just going to show you some moves to protect yourself.”

“Well, that’s good, because I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” I grinned. The verbal sparring was even more fun than the prospect of clobbering him in the ring.

“Yeah?” He smiled back. “Let’s see what you got, Mac.” He kept the weight on the balls of his feet and circled me with his fists up.

“I can hold my own if I have to.” I raised my fists. “You don’t stock shelves all your life and not gain a certain amount of strength and agility.” I swung my right arm, but he blocked it.

“Drop your left arm like that, and you’ll leave yourself wide open.” He tapped my cheek with his glove and winked.