We Are Made of Stardust - Peaches Monroe #1 (19 page)

After the lady paid and left with her smutty novels, Amy turned to me and asked, “Who were you talking to?”

I’d already hung up the phone, and struggled to come up with a cover story. I couldn’t just tell people I was dating Dalton Deangelo, because then they’d demand updates and ask questions I didn’t have the answers to, such as
why
? Why was a famous actor whose nude torso appeared on television weekly dating Peaches Monroe? And
how
? And then, once more because it begged to be asked again,
why
?

“None of your beeswax,” I said. “Grownup stuff.”

Amy snorted. She was sixteen, and even though I was barely six years older than her, she liked to act like there was a giant generation gap between us, implying I was closer in age to her parents than to her. She had blue hair. When I was in high school, only the skanky girls (like Kirsten) colored their hair, but it seems these days they’re all experimenting, with streaks at minimum, but frequently the whole head. So, maybe Amy and I were from a different generation after all.

“Boring,” she said of my vague non-answer. Her face brightened as she spotted the boxes on the back table. “NEWNESS!” she cried out, racing toward the boxes.

Together, we made short work of receiving the order and rearranging the displays to set everything out. Dalton’s name sat on the tip of my tongue. My tongue. His name sat there, and I’d had a dozen other parts of Mr. Deangelo on, under, and all over that same tongue. Oh, I wanted to share the news with Amy and revisit those pleasant memories. I wanted to impress her, because so few things I said to her about my life ever did.

But I didn’t say a word, because telling Amy would amount to telling her two hundred closest internet friends, and I did not need that kind of heat. Too much heat. Thinking about the things he might do to me on Saturday was already causing my temperature to rise.

“Have you seen Drake since Saturday?” she asked as we were breaking down the cardboard boxes for recycling.

“Who?” Oh, I was a terrible actress. “Right, you mean that actor who plays Drake. I’ve seen him around. I guess he’s in town for some movie.”

“I heard he’s dating someone right here in Beaverdale.”

We were near the counter, and I leaned down to take a deep sniff of the beautiful bouquet, fondling one heavy peony with my hand. I could feel the dumb smile on my face, too—a smile that meant, deep down, I wanted to be found out.

Amy continued, “Probably a publicity stunt. They totally do that to get free press for whatever project they’re doing.” She blew a wisp of blue hair off her face. “Question everything, man.”

“Question everything?” I gave her side-eye.

“Yeah, like authority and stuff. Don’t believe a word they tell you. Mortgage is just another word for ownership of your soul. And don’t eat genetically-modified corn syrup, because your guts will turn to cement.” She looked around, making sure we were alone in the bookstore, which we were. “I think the new bakery next door might be putting something addictive in their stuff, because I can’t stop thinking about those fucking cupcakes. I swear I can smell them right now.”

I pointed to the vent on the ceiling—the one I’d attempted to seal up with packing tape on Saturday. “The smell keeps coming through. It’s not just you, Amy.”

“Are you sure? Maybe we have that thing where two people share the same crazy. Like how our periods went on the same cycle when I started working here.”

“Amy, do you ever think about the things you’re going to say before they pop out of your mouth?”

“No.” She pulled her head back, giving herself multiple double chins, even though she was a skinny girl. “Do you think before you talk?”

“Of course not.” I glanced up at the tape on the ceiling. The corner had pulled away, and the scent of vanilla buttercream frosting was wafting into the bookstore like the devil himself.

Amy and I both turned to look at the calendar. It had been twelve days since the last Cupcake Cave-in. Now I had all these emotions roiling and boiling inside me, and I wasn’t going to see Dalton for three days, and what were we doing anyway? Dating? Hooking up?

He’d awoken something inside me. Now, correct me if I am wrong, but I believe the scientific term is
vagina
. Let’s call her Miss Kitty. Ever since the phone call, and all the talk about armpit nuzzling and pony riding, Miss Kitty had been meowing and drooling for dinner—a dinner that wouldn’t be coming for another three days.

In the meantime, Miss Kitty was going to howl and scratch at the doors, driving me crazy.

I reached for my purse as Amy watched.

“It’s time,” I said.

She nodded.

I shook my fist at the evil ceiling vent. “Damn you, evil cupcakes!”

“You give ‘em hell,” she said. “I say we start with the coconut ones. They are the most evil, and must be taught a lesson.”

“We’ll line the others up and make them watch,” I said, laughing maliciously.

“A lesson will be taught today.”

“They’ll be sorry.”

Together, we howled, “They’ll all be soooorrrry!”

Then I handed her some money, and she went next door to do the deed.

~

The rest of Wednesday, and Thursday too, was normal enough, though at times I got a weird out-of-body sensation, like I was observing my own life as a stranger might.

On Friday morning, Mr. Galloway was out puttering in his flowers as I walked by on my way to work.

He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his thin, sun-burnt nose and said, “I’m sorry to trouble you, Petra, but a rat has moved into my house. Mr. Whiskers brought him in through the cat door, I suspect.”

“Sucky. Should I pick up a mousetrap for you on my way home?”

“That’s kind of you to offer, but I think he’s a big fella, and he’d just wear one of those little mousetraps as a hat.”

“Won’t Mr. Whiskers catch him?”

Mr. Galloway leaned his long, beanpole body against the pergola, making himself comfortable for a long chat. “I believe they are new friends. I came out last night to find Mr. Whiskers watching as the rat dined on his kitty food.”

“Cute!”

“His little droppings aren’t so cute. And I haven’t been able to sleep through the night, because I hear him skittering around. Cats and rats should not be friends.”

I put my hand over my mouth and laughed. “You know, I think we have a children’s book by that very title.
Cats and Rats Should Not Be Friends
.”

“Some things just aren’t natural,” Mr. Galloway said. “The universe has an order. Now, you know I’m not the religious type, but there is a design, and it’s beautiful and true. Sometimes the sign comes to you as a number, or sometimes it’s a color.”

Mr. Galloway wasn’t usually so new-age-y, and I wondered if the lack of sleep was making him a touch loopy.

He continued, “The stars are not just in the sky, but in everything, and they do align.”

“What does the universe think about two people with very different backgrounds dating?”

“You mean a cat and a rat?” He narrowed his eyes, like he suspected me of making fun of him.

“Never mind.”

“Watch for a sign,” he said. “And don’t let
anyone
eat from your food dish.”

“Good advice,” I said, nodding.

“Did I ever tell you how I met the late Mrs. Galloway?”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and glanced at the time to drop a hint. “I’d love to hear about it some time.”

“It’s an amazing story.” He had that misty, far-away look on his face.

I knew, however, from working a few years in a bookstore, that the personal anecdotes people billed as amazing rarely were. Something about being around all those stories, though, made them want to share their own, amazing or not.

“I should let you get back to your weeding,” I said, backing away while waving. “Off to work!”

He held his gloved hand, complete with garden spade, up in a salute, and then returned to crouching over his perennials.

The rest of the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. I located the children’s book I’d mentioned, and found the title was actually
Cat and Rat, Best Friends Forever
. Goes to show you how your memory shifts the pieces around to suit the situation.

I looked at the illustrated images of the cat and the rat. The cat was built for comfort, not for speed, and the rat was devilishly handsome. Plus he was a real smooth talker. The rat got the cat to close her eyes for a kiss, and while she had her eyes closed and her little kitty-cat lips puckered, he snuck all his rat friends into the house. He even gave the cat very strong perfume to wear so she wouldn’t be able to sniff the rats, and then a beautiful collar, covered in bells.

The stupid cat was so lonely and desperate for love, she didn’t suspect a thing.

Suffice it to say, I couldn’t read to the end of the book. I put it back on the shelf, near tears. Children’s picture books frequently have this effect on me. There’s something about raw emotions stated plainly that breaks through all my defenses. Maybe it’s knowing the truth when I see it.

~

Friday night, I went for dinner at my family’s house.

My mother had been decorating again, and this time she’d gone too far. My father’s reclining arm chair had been relegated to the attic, so he had retaliated by relegating the television, a mini fridge, and himself to the attic as well.

My mother grabbed me by the arm as we walked into her gleaming white kitchen. “There’s no bathroom up there,” she whispered.

“And…?”

“I think your father is urinating in a bucket and throwing it out the window, like we’re in medieval Europe.”

“Mom! No, he isn’t.”

She took me to the window and pointed to the hedge along the house, to a spot that seemed absolutely no different from the rest of the hedge.

“Look. It’s wilting,” she said. “I’m worried Kyle is going to pick up on it and start doing the same.”

I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh. When he was younger, Kyle certainly did enjoy running around the front and back yard with no pants on, widdling on everything with unfettered joy.
Boys.

That evening, the house was quiet, with just the three of us adult Monroes there, and Dad upstairs. Mom had some jazz playing on the stereo in the living room. She didn’t like jazz, but said it put her in the right frame of mind for entertaining.

Kyle was sleeping over at his best friend’s house, two blocks away, so we were having an all-grown-ups dinner.

“You could just move the recliner back downstairs,” I said.

My mother shook her head, her plump cheeks flushed with frustration at both of us. “I should have known you’d take his side.”

I leaned back on the kitchen island, enjoying the cool white marble on the small of my back. “I’m actually on the side of the poor bushes,” I said.

“Well, ha ha, aren’t you funny tonight. I’m glad you’re in fine form, because the Storms are joining us for dinner.”

My palms started to sweat. Adrian’s parents. What if they knew about Adrian finding me traipsing through the bushes at Dragonfly Lake, and brought it up over dinner? I’d been telling too many fibs, and the idea of lying to my mother’s face gave me a stomach ache.

“Mom, I have to tell you something. That cute guy who came to the wedding with me last weekend is actually a famous actor.”

“Dalton Deangelo. Yes, I figured that out, no thanks to you. I had to google it on my phone, just to set to rest those family rumors he was your hired escort.”

I smacked my hand to my face. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” I said. “Is it so unbelievable that a guy like Dalton would actually date me?”

She gave me a pitying look that only made me feel worse, and the too-long pause before she said, “Of course not!” didn’t help either.

I went to the fridge and started rooting around for booze. Jackpot. I poured a vodka and soda, mostly vodka, and chugged it while Mom’s back was turned so I could refill with another.

She said, “Don’t tell people, but when I was your age, I had an affair with someone quite famous.”

“Shut up!” I pulled up a bar stool to the counter and got comfortable, my elbows on the marble. Now we were talking!

She came over to my side and whispered his name in my ear like it was a state secret. I can’t repeat who it was, but let’s just say if I’d been conceived a few years earlier, I would’ve won the genetic lottery. Not that I’m not absolutely, positively, mostly happy with myself exactly how I am, but… you know.

My mother told me the story of how she’d been working in New York, back when she did art restoration, straight out of college. I knew that part, but not the next. She dealt directly with many wealthy clients, and one night a distraught man came in, devastated that his wife had taken a razor blade to several of his paintings.

My mother wondered what the man, an up-and-coming actor, had done to deserve such wraith, and then she found out for herself. He seduced her in about twenty minutes flat,
taking her
right there on the workshop table, amidst the restoration supplies.

As she was telling me the story, I didn’t know whether to cover my ears or beg to hear more. I mean, she’s my mother!

The affair continued for three weeks, the duration of time it took for my mother to complete the restoration and repair the paintings.

When the job was complete, he paid the invoice in full, and also wrote her a second cheque, for ten times the amount.

I was on the edge of my bar stool. “What? Holy shitballs, Mom. Did you cash the check?”

“Where do you think your father and I got the down payment for this nice house you grew up in?”

“I thought you got an inheritance from some great-aunt who lived in Texas?”

“That’s what we told the neighbors,” she said, a sly grin on her face.

I looked down at my now-empty glass, the kitchen around me already taking on a pleasantly fuzzy feeling. “I’m going to need another drink to clear my mind of this picture of you getting rogered on a workshop table.”

She got the vodka and soda from the fridge, her cheeks rosy with the memory. “Oh, Petra, he didn’t
roger
me. People didn’t do that back in those days.”