Thwonk (16 page)

Her eyebrows shot up. “What were you expecting?”

“More personality,” I mumbled.

She looked at me like a shrink watches a psycho. “Candy’s not returnable, miss.”

“Or cooperative,” I said, snarling, and ate the cupid’s white chocolate head in grief.

I went to the library and pored through second-rate
cupid literature looking for clues. There was nothing on how to contact one. They just showed up, like wasps.

I drove home, dejected. If you can’t find an answer at the mall or the library, what does that say about the world? I pulled into the garage; the automatic door locked behind me with grim finality.

I chewed my thumbnail as dawn sneaked across the sky, and braced myself for another fun day in the Magic Kingdom.

It was Valentine’s Day.

My cupid was at large.

I spent the morning toiling at the Emotional Gourmet, selling dinky heart-shaped cheesecakes that my mother was afraid wouldn’t sell because they were too cute. They flew off the shelves—as Sonia says, “There’s no such thing as too cute on Valentine’s Day.”

The shop was thick with Valentine madness. Lobster salad twinkled in crystal bowls, candied apple slices peeked from every corner. Chocolate truffle cakes beckoned from heart-shaped trays. Shiny hearts and thick lace hung from doors and display cases. Happy, loving couples lined the counters, oohing and ahhhing at the breadth of gastronomic glory before them. The whole world was in love.

Except me.

I ladled bouillabaisse into containers and tried to remember the exact moment of death.

Was it when Peter asked why we’d never gone out before?

Was it when the parking tickets fell on the car floor?

Was it when he shouted the
L
word in the Student Center instead of the backseat of a Chevy, where it would have been appropriate and expected?

I reached for the good memories to crowd out the bad—the looks, the feelings, the smiles, the embraces that had fed my soul for those whirlwind days. I could still see them, but they were out of focus. I wondered if it was possible for Peter and me to be a happy, cooing couple again. He appeared at that moment, swooshed through the doors of the Emotional Gourmet, like a knight returning from the Crusades to seek his fair maiden. It was all I could do to keep my breakfast down.

“
A.J.!!
” he cried dreamily.

“Yo,” I said back.

He gave me a bouquet of white roses and said he loved me, he lugged a Valentine the size of a Ford Taurus up to the counter and said I was his entire world. He followed me as I ran screaming into the kitchen, handed me a box of Valentine candy, and was about to start singing when I went for aggressive action, shoved two
biscotti
in his mouth, and pushed him against the deep freeze.

“Don’t,” I threatened, “
sing
! Don’t say
anything
personal!”

Peter made a slight gagging sound and nodded.

“I don’t like it when you shout your feelings about me in front of other people! I don’t want you to do it anymore! Do we understand one another?”

Peter mumbled something through the
biscotti.
I sat him down like Henry Higgins did with Eliza Doo-little and tried to point out the subtleties of a caring, responsible teen relationship. I did this because
nothing
was going to make me miss this dance. I had clawed my way to get here and I wasn’t backing out.

“Let’s take it from the top,” I instructed, “no shrieking your love…”

Peter nodded.

“No panting…”

“Is groaning all right, A.J.?”

“Don’t push my buttons, Peter.”

Orlando, the assistant chef, glared at me, disgusted. I deserved it.

“It’s not what you think, Orlando, and don’t tell my mother.”

“Don’t tell your mother what?” Mom appeared from the basement holding a salami.

“Nothing,” I said as Orlando punched a mound of brioche dough for men’s rights. “Ha ha,” I added, and slinked back on the floor as Trish Beckman, Psychologist-in-Training, entered the store in a bold sweep, wearing an expression that can best be described as inflamed.

“I would like,” Trish said hotly, “six lemon custard muffins and to know the
real
reason why you are destroying your life and our friendship.”

Now at this point I was a person who was going on maybe five hours of sleep over the last three days. This is not enough rest in which to search your heart for the law of kindness.

I rankled. “
Just cap it, Trish! I don’t need the heat. I don’t need the condemnation!
”

She leaned toward me, her eyes on fire. “And what do you need, A.J.?”

“
To be alone!
”

“Take a break, hon, will you?” begged Sonia.

I pushed through the kitchen with Trish at my heels, past Peter, who had swallowed the
biscotti
and now cried out, “There you are!” I opened the first door I
saw and stormed right in. It was the walk-in refrigerator. I was alone—and freezing.

I stood there feeling inane, surrounded by dairy products and cholesterol-laden meats. The door opened and Trish crashed inside.

“So,” she said looking around strangely, “it’s come to this.”

I said it sure had.

“I’ve left messages, A.J. You haven’t bothered to return one!”

“I’m having a really rough time!”

“You didn’t meet me during fourth period!”

“I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“You look awful!”

I felt worse. I said I needed to keep what bleak emotional reserves I had for the dance. I said things with Peter were more complicated than I’d figured. I said I was really glad about her and Tucker—I wanted to know
everything
—I just needed to get through today without crumbling, at which point I would go back to being a supremely committed friend, but the sheer act of survival was going to take every ounce of strength I had. I handed her a piece of prosciutto as a peace offering.

She refused it. “I don’t know what’s going on with Peter Terris, why he’s acting the way he is, but I can tell you that it’s not healthy. Every feeling he has has been distorted.”

I hung my head in shame; I felt so lonely. Icicles were forming on my nostrils. Trish didn’t care. “There are plenty of girls at school who would kill to be in your position, A.J. They think you’ve struck a blow for females everywhere. But I wouldn’t, because the whole thing has changed you. You’re so caught up in the in-crowd number that you’ve forgotten about your friends and who you are. You don’t carry your camera anymore, you don’t even smile. Peter Terris is all gaga over you and you are positively miserable!”

Tears stung my eyes.

“If this is what you call love, A.J., I don’t want any part of it!”

And with that Trish Beckman, best friend through thick and thin, stormed out of the walk-in refrigerator in the ultimate theatrical exit and left me alone to lean against a box of Canadian bacon and contemplate my thrill-packed future with Peter Terris, the human equivalent of Super Glue.

I was sitting in my Volvo outside the driveway of the Ben Franklin Student Center watching the student workers carry in the big Bose speakers for the extravaganza rock and roll group Heather and the Heartbeats, who would be performing live for us tonight. Gary Quark’s brother was dating one of the Heartbeats who sang the doo-wop parts and the group gave Ben Franklin
High a significant discount on the price. Gary said it also helped that they hadn’t had a booking since October.

Joel Winger carried in a big red carpet. Chloe Bittleman lugged in trays of food. The sun set, leaving harsh, spindly shadows, giving the school a state-penitentiary flair.

I shuddered and flashed my brights. Maybe Jonathan would see my SOS and respond. I rolled down my window. “Jonathan,” I whispered, “please come back.”

But there was nothing.

I curled into a half ball. I wanted to be in love again. I wanted to be dying to see Peter instead of recoiling at the thought. I drew a broken heart on the frost of my windshield and sniffed. No one wants to be between engagements.

But the show must go on.

I sat up and slammed the Volvo into first. I had to make the best of a snaky situation.

I would embrace the King of Hearts Dance like my father had embraced advertising. I would stick it in everybody’s face who had ever broken up with me and look positively smashing, although the smashing part would only happen if I got a nap. I would be remembered by my classmates as the girl who brought Peter Terris to his knees.

I said, “Jonathan, if you’re listening…,” and then I stopped. I knew he wasn’t.

I steered the Volvo out of the parking lot and headed home to become dazzling.

I was sitting at the kitchen table in my bathrobe, waiting for my nails to dry, waiting for the hot curlers in my hair to work a miracle on my dark, mysterious tresses that had given up around five this afternoon along with my skin and the rest of my body. Stieglitz had diarrhea. He whined pathetically, which meant he had to go outside
again.
I opened the back door for him and said that life was tough, but to be grateful he was a dog. Being human was brutal.

I sighed deeply. I needed one thing to go right today.

Dad padded into the kitchen, holding the
Oracle
Valentine edition.

“Your mother,” he began uncertainly, “left this on my…”

He cleared his throat and looked down, pained.

“What I’m trying to say, A.J., is that this shot is very good. It’s got humor, symmetry, light balance…”

I brightened.

“It’s the best work you’ve done,” he added. “I mean it.”

I was positively beaming. “That means so much, Dad.”

I should have just basked in the glow, but I so needed to hear more.

I touched his arm. “Do you think I could make it with my art, Dad? Do you think I have enough talent?”

He was quiet for a long time. His eyes narrowed. His shoulders sagged.

“I’m not disputing you have real talent, A.J, but talent and making it in the art world do not go hand in hand. Do you know how many photographers there are in this world with real talent who can’t even scratch out a living?”

At that moment I wanted another father. I stood up, shaking. “What if I’m one of the thousands who can make it, Dad? What if I’m good enough and I
don’t even try?
”

I grabbed the
Oracle
Valentine edition, raced past him, and pounded up the stairs.

I took out my curlers and brushed my hair upside down in epic frustration with Mom’s megabrush to add extra fullness; I got limpness instead. I picked up a droopy strand of brown hair and watched it freefall across my sunken face. Peter was due in fifteen minutes. I looked dead.

Mom appeared at my door and studied me like I was a pie in the oven with a faulty crust. “Into the bathroom!” she ordered.

I went glumly.

“Put your head down,” she directed.

Mom grabbed the megabrush and said I needed to listen to her. She started brushing my hair in flowing movements like she was whipping cream.

“I’ve known your father for twenty-two years, A.J., and I can tell you that he would do just about anything to spare you the pain he experienced as a filmmaker.”