Kali Esposito, matchmaker extraordinaire, couldn’t be happier that Love, Inc., the relationship management service she created with best friends, Syd and Zahra, is back in business. After a brief setback, the girls are once again using their skills to help the lovelorn break-up, make-up or take-up with someone new.
Fun, flirtatious Kali is a little gun shy about commitment—no big surprise when your mom’s racked up four divorces and your dad’s permanently AWOL—but she’s a diehard romantic when it comes to bringing others together, and her end-to-end makeovers can transform the most socially-challenged client into a confident charmer. The “Kali Method” she develops is helping Love, Inc. grow by leaps and bounds.
But when a competitor steals the Kali Method and corrupts it to turn regular guys into wicked players, Kali is forced to rethink her views on love, and come up with a plan to reclaim Love, Inc.’s trade secrets before every girl in Austin gets her heart broken.
To learn more about Yvonne and Sandy and their books, please visit their websites:
www.collinsrideout.com ♥ www.loveincbook.com
Copyright © 2011 Yvonne Collins and Sandy Rideout
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Smashwords Edition
Chapter 1 ♥ Chapter 2 ♥ Chapter 3 ♥ Chapter 4 ♥ Chapter 5 ♥ Chapter 6 ♥ Chapter 7 ♥ Chapter 8 ♥ Chapter 9 ♥ Chapter 10 ♥ Chapter 11 ♥ Chapter 12 ♥ Chapter 13 ♥ Chapter 14 ♥ Chapter 15 ♥ Chapter 16 ♥ Chapter 17 ♥ Chapter 18 ♥ Chapter 19 ♥ Chapter 20 ♥ Chapter 21
About the Authors ♥ Also by the Authors
Bonus
Material
Excerpt:
Girl v. Boy ♥
Excerpt:
The Black Sheep ♥
Excerpt:
Introducing Vivien Leigh Reid: Daughter of the Diva ♥
Excerpt:
Now Starring Vivien Leigh Reid: Diva in Training ♥
Excerpt:
The New and Improved Vivien Leigh Reid: Diva in Control
Caleb reaches across the table, takes both my hands in his, and says, “Kali, I—”
A parrot’s squawk cuts him off. It’s the ringtone I share with my best friends, Sydney Stark and Zahra Ahmed-MacDuff. Since Zahra is in the kitchen preparing the next course of the amazing dinner she’s cooking for Caleb and me, obviously Syd’s the one calling. I try to reach for my phone, but Caleb won’t release my hands.
In a minute, the squawking stops. But then it starts again. This time the phone rings twice, stops, and then rings once. It’s a Love, Inc. 911.
“That’s Syd,” I say. “I need to call her back.”
Caleb squeezes my hands. “Can’t it wait? It’s Valentine’s Day.”
He’s right. It’s rude to take calls during dinner anytime, but on Valentine’s Day, when you’re sitting across from one of the cutest guys in the world, it’s more like a sin.
Syd tries once more but I resist, smiling to let Caleb know he’s more important to me than a phone call. I haven’t always been this serious about building a relationship, but it’s a priority for me now and I’m making good progress.
The squawking starts in the kitchen as Syd tries Zahra. Two rings. Stop. One ring. Zahra doesn’t pick up either, so Syd cycles back to my phone. Her next move could be my home number. Then Mom or my brother, Brody, might ask questions.
Caleb connects the squawks. “Is this about that business you were running?”Questions like those.
“Business?” I ask, playing for time.
“The business that got you so grounded we’re spending Valentine’s Day in your Mom’s dining room?” he says.
“That ended ages ago,” I say. “Besides, Zahra’s dinner is better than anything we could get in a restaurant anyway, right?”
He spears the piece of steak I left on my plate and chews. “So what did you guys do to get in this much trouble? Weren’t you just matchmaking for money?”
“Mostly,” I say. “Plus we did a bit of couples’ counseling, helped a few people through some nasty breakups. Nothing major.”
Since Caleb goes to a different school and moves in different circles, he hasn’t heard every last detail about Love, Inc., the business Zahra, Sydney and I started six months ago. The stories circulating about our exploits are wildly exaggerated, although we did pull off a couple of impressive revenge slams on people who’d committed crimes against love. It was one of those slams that attracted parental attention and led to the demise of our business five months later.
I should come clean with Caleb, but I’m worried it will set us back. A new relationship is like an iridescent soap bubble: beautiful and fragile. One wrong move can leave you splattered with sticky soap scum.
“Mom will set me loose soon,” I say. “I got my e-privileges back, so it’s just a matter of time.”
He leans across the table to gaze at me. “Well, then. Where were we?”
Zahra’s phone squawks again and Brody’s voice rises in the kitchen. He knows all about Love, Inc. and he’s obviously not thrilled that Zahra, his girlfriend, is getting 911s.
The phone falls silent and by sheer force of will, I focus on Caleb’s gorgeous blue eyes, which look violet against his fitted, purple shirt. His dark hair looks artfully unruly, although it’s natural, and his skin is brown from working at his parents’ garden center. We just passed the ten-week mark in our relationship, which means he’s outlasted all my previous boyfriends. There have been quite a few. I consider myself a “thrill of the chase” sort of girl. I keep relationships short and sweet so that they never have a chance to get stale—or worse, bitter. That attitude must come from Mom, who’s been divorced four times. But unlike her, I want to evolve. Love, Inc. will rise again, and when you’re in the business of advising people about romance, it helps to look competent yourself. That’s why I told Syd and Zahra I’d use our downtime to master the basics of a mature relationship.
People in mature relationships don’t get hung up on the small stuff, like the chunk of steak now blackening Caleb’s front tooth. People in mature relationships remember they’re not perfect themselves—although I look pretty perfect tonight. I’m wearing a dress in my signature green that defies the old rule about showing off either your legs or your cleavage. Hiding your best assets seems stupid to me. Why hold back in life?
Caleb tries again. “Kali, I’ve been trying to tell you that I—”
“—want to go out on a real date?” I interrupt.
I sense he’s trying to drop the L-bomb and I don’t want to hear it. It’s too early, and besides, my cheating ex-boyfriend, Eric Skinner, has crept into my mind. The parrot ringtone probably triggered my Post Traumatic Douche Disorder, or PTDD. Eric used to take me on “safaris” to find the elusive green-and-blue Quaker parrots that nest around Austin. It felt special, until I found out that chasing parrots was his shtick with other girls, too.
The saddest thing about getting played is that you can end up sitting across from an amazing guy on the most romantic night of the year with rejection clinging to you like a bad smell. No matter how hard you try to boost your confidence the situation reeks.
Caleb’s nasal passages must be blocked, because he persists. “I want to—”
The cell squawks its 911. This time I pull my hands out of his and lunge for the phone. “Sorry,” I say, ignoring the disappointment on his face. “I’ll just be a sec.” Excusing myself, I head into the kitchen. “Oh my God, Syd.”
“What’s going on?” Syd asks on the other end of the phone.
“Zahra’s making out with my brother, that’s what’s going on,” I say.
In fact, Zahra is standing at the stove stirring a simmering pot of cherry sauce while my brother nuzzles her neck. She’s wearing a stained blue apron and her hair is in a single long, red braid but she looks beautiful and serene.
“Anyone in flames?” Syd asks. Zahra set a tablecloth alight during a romantic dinner with Eric Skinner, who also happens to be her ex-boyfriend—and Syd’s.
We discovered that Eric was three-timing us when we met in a Group Therapy program for teens whose families were crumbling. It was a harsh blow at a tough time in our lives, but we developed our own form of therapy. First, we joined forces to take Eric Skinner down. Then, when people started asking us for help dealing with their damaged relationships, we created Love, Inc. Initially, we specialized in surveillance and revenge, but soon expanded into a full relationship management service. Love, Inc. was thriving until our parents found out and decreed that we shouldn’t be messing around in other people’s love lives, let alone getting paid for it.
It’s pretty hypocritical. Our work not only helped strangers, it brought Zahra’s parents back together and hooked my mom up with René, her current boyfriend. Given time, I’d have worked some magic for Syd’s mom, too.
What’s most infuriating is that the need for our services is greater than ever, judging by the e-mails in our Love, Inc. account. I keep busy with Caleb, school, environmental work, and especially my music, but losing the business left a hole in my life. I miss the excitement, and I miss working with my friends.
I also miss the cash, and being grounded limits my options for making more. Mom’s gone overboard with the house arrest. It’s not like we were moonlighting as assassins. At worst, we broke a few minor laws, and I think most people would agree that trashing a three-timing cheater’s car should be legal.
Mrs. Stark coped better, because Syd, as a street artist, has been vandalizing other people’s property for years. But Zahra’s parents are still reeling. Apparently she was a model citizen until Eric Skinner came along.
Judging by the smile on Zahra’s face as Brody hugs her, she doesn’t regret a thing. I suppose I can’t begrudge them a few steamy moments over the stove, when I matched them up in the first place. Still, it’s weird seeing my brother all over my friend.
Zahra must think so too, because she tries to detach herself. Brody won’t let go. “Kal’s gotta get used to it, Red,” he says, using his pet name for Zahra—a name she now likes, although she still hates her hair.
I roll my eyes but I know I will get used to it. If I weren’t highly adaptable, I couldn’t have survived teaming up with Zahra and Syd, because we’re all so different. We’ve figured out how to make those differences work for us, even as friends.
“What’s going on with Syd?” Zahra asks.
I press a button and Syd’s raspy voice comes over the speaker. “Evan Garrett’s at my place and he’s a total mess.”
“So what else is new?” I say. Evan was part of our therapy group. He was always disheveled and his manners were atrocious.
“I mean emotionally,” Syd says. “His girlfriend dumped him.” She lowers her voice. “And I think he’s hammered.”
Zahra’s brow furrows. “Evan never mentioned a girlfriend.”
I shrug. “Even a socially stunted stoner gets lucky sometimes. What happened between them?”
“Get over here and interrogate him yourself,” Syd says.
Zahra protests. “But it’s—”
“Valentine’s Day. No kidding,” Syd says. “I’m not dealing with Evan alone.”
When Syd hangs up, Zahra turns back to the stove and stirs her fragrant brew. I tug on her apron strings and say, “Come on, Z. If we let Syd deal with Evan, he’ll end up jumping off the Congress Avenue Bridge.” There’s a reason Syd handled our revenge cases instead of more delicate situations.
Brody keeps his hands on Zahra’s waist. “Your business got disbanded, in case you didn’t notice,” he says.
Zahra stirs faster, torn between Brody and me. “How about I chat to Evan on the phone? You know I can handle him.”
She can, too. Zahra’s the only one of us with patience and tact, which made her a natural as Love, Inc.’s mediation expert.
“He’s drunk. It’ll take more than a phone intervention,” I say.
Zahra’s stirring slows, and finally, she sends Brody into the dining room to deliver a soda to Caleb. Then she turns the heat off under the cherries and turns it on under me. “Why are you so desperate to get out of here? Did Caleb say something?”
Sometimes Zahra’s almost telepathic. “I think he wants to drop the L-bomb.”
“That’s good, no?” she asks, smiling. “You said you’re tired of playing the field.”
Why is it that Zahra can never remember my recommendations on bands, but never forgets a rash statement? I said I was tired of playing the field, but I meant I was tired of looking like I can’t sustain a relationship. So far, I’ve only mastered start-up, whereas our clients generally think long-term. That’s why I vowed to experience true love this year. Not the ohmygodhesmiledatmeI’minlove kind of love, but a deeper emotion that burns long after infatuation wears off.
Zahra takes her homemade chocolate ice cream out of the freezer and continues, “Your own survey said you and Caleb are ninety percent compatible.”
On paper Caleb and I are great together. As a matchmaker, and Love, Inc.’s compatibility expert, I know what makes people click. In fact, I’ve developed a system that predicts the potential success of any couple based on interests and personality traits. But I suppose no matter how much you have in common, it all boils down to whether or not someone gets you, and if Caleb got me, he wouldn’t be making big declarations. Instead, he’d show more interest in my music, or my environmental causes. If he got me, he’d sense I feel trapped.
Zahra scoops ice cream into four bowls, drizzles cherry sauce on top and hands me two of them. “Just take it one day at a time, will you?”
Nodding, I back through the kitchen door with the dessert. Then I set the bowls on a table in the hallway, pick up my purse and sneak out the front door.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
I’m already at the bus stop when Brody catches up to me in Mom’s car. The bus lights are gleaming in the distance. Four more minutes and I’d have been on it, which is a shame, because I sprinted the quarter mile in heels. Zahra and Syd couldn’t have done that. They’ve never made proficiency in heels a priority. I keep telling them, stilettos give you an edge in the world, why not take it?
Brody leans over to push open the passenger door, and says, “Get in the car.”
“I’m going to Syd’s.” I kick the door closed. All I have to do is stall until the bus pulls up behind Brody and lays on the horn. He already has a couple of tickets and he won’t risk a suspension when he has new girlfriend to drive around. When he rolls down the window, I say, “You can’t tell me what to do.”
He waves his cell phone. “I know someone who can. And she already thinks you have an impulse control problem.”
Mom’s out for dinner with René, and if Brody calls her, I’ll get extra jail time for ruining Valentine’s Day. Brody isn’t always a rat, but Mom’s ticked at him for not spilling about Love, Inc. He’s still her favorite, though, and with his dark curls, he looks more like her than I do. I assume we inherited our biological father’s eyes, since Mom’s are brown and Brody’s and mine are green. I can’t say for certain, because the subject of our dad, who apparently ditched us for his band, is strictly off limits.
I switch tactics. “Just drive me to Syd’s and we’ll bring her back to our place with Evan. You can’t leave her alone with a drunk.”
Brody thinks for a second. “I’ll take you home and Zahra will come with me.”
“What, you can’t be away from her for twenty minutes?”
He grabs a tube of Mom’s lipstick out of the ashtray and pelts me. “It’s Valentine’s Day for God’s sake.”
I pick up the lipstick and apply it nonchalantly. “Last year you said Valentine’s Day is a commercial scam that preys on sentimental fools.”
“I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things recently,” he says, pushing the car door open again. “That’s why I’m taking you home instead of saving your skinny butt.”
As the bus pulls up, I give up the fight and get into the car. “By taking me home, you’re continuing to save my skinny butt. You’ve simply expanded your heroic outreach to cover my best friends’ butts.” I pause before adding, “Ew.”
The glint of teeth behind the wheel tells me he doesn’t mind his new role at all.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Zahra, Caleb and I are drinking coffee at the kitchen table when Syd comes through the back door with Banksy, her Rottweiler. She’s wearing silver leggings, black boots, and a long black turtleneck sweater. Her dark bob gleams and her lips shine with red gloss. A beauty mark above her lip looks like a speck of brown paint. “Where’s Max?” I ask.
Syd rolls her eerie amber eyes. “I’ve called in a 911 and your first question is about Max?”
Max has been into Syd since we matched up his sister, roller derby star Madison Manson, with a Love, Inc. client. Syd resisted at first but clever scheming on my part eventually brought her and Max together. Syd keeps insisting they’re just friends because she’s got a worse case of PTDD than I do. Her specialty’s revenge, though, so there’s no pressure to model a mature relationship for clients. I’d love to know what she’s thinking, but Syd is extremely private. If you try to dig too deep, she’ll snap off your shovel and beat you over the head with the handle. Still, it’s a risk I take often. You can’t get anywhere in life without pushing limits—even someone else’s.
Tonight, however, Zahra intervenes. “What happened, Syd?”
Brody staggers in from the garage practically carrying Evan Garrett. Evan was the most difficult person in our therapy sessions. He was usually stoned, and always stupid, although it was unclear how deep the stupid went. He seemed to have given up on himself, and his appearance proves that. His hair is a huge, dense afro, his beard is wispy and shapeless, and he’s swallowed up in baggy, worn clothes.
Lurching toward me, arms outstretched, he says, “Kali, I’ve missed you.” I step aside and he pitches into Zahra instead. Brody disentangles him and props him against the counter. “Sorry,” Evan says. “Didn’t mean to grope your girl.”
“You are hammered,” Brody says.
Evan slides down the cupboards to the floor. “Lianne said she never wanted to see my face again. And this time she meant it.”
“Oh man,” Brody says, looking at Caleb. “Tell me he’s not crying.”
“He’s not crying,” I say, to protect what’s left of Evan’s pride. “You guys go and watch the game while we take care of business here.”
Zahra gives my brother a calm smile. “Kali just means we’re going to talk Evan through his crisis. That’s what we do at Group.”
“Did,” Syd corrects. “We graduated.”
Technically, that’s true, but we’re still on the hook for helping Dieter, our Group Therapy leader, during his next session. Our parents thought we could use some more head shrinking, but probably didn’t want to pay for it.
Evan sends up a hiccupping sob from the floor.
“Dude, don’t,” Caleb says, edging away. “You’ll get over this girl.”
“I won’t,” Evan says. “She was The One.”
“Saying that a million times won’t make it true,” Syd says.
Zahra puts together a plate of leftovers for Evan. As always, her first line of treatment is food. Syd and I hook a hand under his arms, pull him into a sitting position and prop him against the cupboards. “Eat,” Syd says, handing him the plate and a fork.
Evan shovels food into his mouth, and mumbles, “This is great.”
Satisfied, Zahra turns to Syd. “So…?”
“So, my mom was on a date and I’d planned to sneak out with Max and go to a roller derby match,” Syd says. “The doorbell rang and I found this—” she gestures to Evan—“holding a huge bouquet of white peonies.”
Zahra and I tag-team to pull the story out of him. Lianne was Evan’s first girlfriend, and she dumped him a month after his parents broke up. He’s been trying to win her back, and she gave him enough encouragement to keep him dangling, until tonight.
Syd stands on Evan’s feet, clasps both of his hands and hoists him upright. I quickly slide a chair under his butt before he can collapse again. Together, we push the chair to the table, where Zahra is already waiting with a bowl of ice cream.
“So let me guess,” I say. “You staged the big Valentine’s Day reunion ploy.”
Evan nods and dips a spoon into the ice cream. “That’s when she told me she’s been seeing other people for months. A guy came to pick her up when I was there.”
Brody and Caleb sit down opposite him. I expected them to flee, but I guess it’s like rubbernecking at the scene of an accident.
“And she told me I’m the biggest loser she’s ever met,” Evan says.
Caleb says, “Then she hasn’t been around much. I’ve met way bigger losers.”
I can’t help smiling. Caleb’s heart’s in the right place.
Evan continues the play-by-play. “She says my hair is worse than tumbleweed and my breath stinks. My legs are too skinny, my gut is too fat, my arms are too hairy, and my face isn’t hairy enough. Plus, I’m boring, uncultured and predictable.”
“And you give a crap about this girl, why?” Brody asks.
“Because she’s beautiful,” Evan says. “And I’m stupid and ugly, just like she said.”
Syd stops pacing to ask, “Did she say that in front of this other guy?”
Evan’s eyes water up as he nods. “And that I’m a style disaster.”
“Style we can work on, Evan,” I say. His torn sweatpants and battered sneakers qualify as toxic waste, but I enjoy a challenge.
“I like my style,” Evan whines. “It’s comfortable.”
Syd loses patience. “Oh, shut it, Evan. It’s like you’ve given up.”
“Of course he has,” Zahra says, patting his shoulder. “He’s been emotionally abused. Evan, this is what you should have been talking about at Group.”
“He’s been blocking it out with beer and weed,” I say.
Watching Evan’s head droop, Zahra gives in. “We’ll help you,” she says.
“This had better not be a paying project.” Brody directs his comment at me because he’s too smart to tell Zahra what she can and cannot do.
“We’re just supporting a friend in need,” I say. “I can polish you up, Evan, and find you someone new.”
“Who’d want me?” Evan asks, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “You guys said yourselves that I’m a pig.”
“We never said that,” Zahra says.
“I did,” Syd says.
Zahra ignores her. “A new look will help you feel better about yourself.”
“And we need to show you how cruel Lianne’s been, or you’ll never be ready to move on,” I say.
“Someone ought to show her, too,” Syd says, heading for the back door. “People like Lianne make me sick.”
“Is she okay?” Zahra says, staring after Syd, worried.
“She’s just calling Max,” I say. “They haven’t communicated in half an hour.”
“They’re still at that stage where it’s all soap bubbles,” Caleb tells me. “Like in the song you wrote last week.”
So Caleb gets me better than I thought. Circling the table, I put my arms around his shoulders and hug him from behind until Brody complains about my elbow in his ear.
“Go hug your girl,” I tell my brother. “It’s Valentine’s Day for God’s sake.”
Twenty minutes later, Brody offers to drive Evan and Caleb home, when he drops off Zahra. Evan walks out with the guys on his own steam, looking almost cheerful.
Syd comes in to say good-bye. “Are you guys thinking what I’m thinking?” she asks.
I nod, grinning. “Love, Inc. is officially back in business!”
Zahra finishes the last bite of her peanut butter sandwich and slides the empty container into her nylon lunch bag. When we first started eating together, she and Syd produced enough lunchtime garbage to fill their own landfill site. Thanks to my gentle encouragement (“harassment,” according to Syd), my friends have replaced disposable with reusable. Activism is so satisfying, even on a small scale.
“I don’t know about this,” Zahra says, after Syd and I present our plan to help Evan get back at Lianne. “Maybe we shouldn’t be working so soon, even for free.”
“Who said anything about free?” Syd asks, scowling from under the brim of a black wool fedora that tops off a white shirt, black pants and vest, and an indigo tie.
“We should at least give Evan a discount,” I say. “He’s the most deeply messed up client we’ve ever taken on.”
“I say we charge extra,” Syd says. “Since he ruined Valentine’s Day for all of us.”
“It was my best Valentine’s ever,” Zahra says, smiling at the memory of cooking, counseling, and cozying up to Brody. “You claim not to have a boyfriend, so I don’t know why you’re complaining, Syd. And Kali literally took off on hers.”
“Is that how things are done in a mature relationship?” Syd asks me, smirking.
I rifle through my bag for lip gloss and apply it without a mirror. “For a bogus holiday, Valentine’s Day really cranks up the pressure. I kind of lost it.”
Zahra eyes me over the brim of her thermal cup. “What happened?”
I layer on a different shade of lip gloss while deciding how to respond. “Eric Skinner happened,” I finally say. “He popped into my mind and I couldn’t shove him out. PTDD strikes again.” Mom might call leaving a negative situation “poor impulse control,” but I call it sensible. Sometimes you really can run away from trouble, and I usually give it a try. At worst, you end up with a new set of problems—and a fresh perspective. I think it keeps me agile in mind and body.
Syd pulls out her sketchbook and a pencil, something she often does when she’s uncomfortable. Syd’s relationship with Eric lasted over a year, and he was her first. Sometimes I have to remind myself to take how I feel about getting played and multiply it by a hundred for Syd.
“You’re always saying you’re over Eric,” Syd says.
“Now and then I get ambushed.” I pack up my own lunch containers. “You know what I mean. That’s why you keep insisting that you and Max are just friends.”
“We are just friends.” Syd lifts her pencil from the page to glare at me.
I recognize the warning and ignore it. It wouldn’t kill Syd to open up to her best friends, especially when I just confessed that Eric kind of wrecked me. “You want to overcharge Evan for ruining Valentine’s Day. Just admit you like Max.”
“I was pissed off to miss a roller derby match because of Evan,” Syd says. “Violet said I couldn’t go, so I’d planned my escape to the last detail.”
Syd’s mom’s first name is Jennifer, but “Violet” stands out more on Internet dating sites. Since Syd’s parents split, and Mr. Stark hooked up with a twenty-two-year-old named Charlotte, Violet’s obsessed with personal trainers, cosmetic procedures, and anything that might attract single men. Meanwhile, Mr. Stark squandered Syd’s college fund on Charlotte’s boob job and a rundown hotel he wants to renovate. When Banksy needed heart surgery two months ago, Mr. Stark refused to contribute. Syd hasn’t forgiven him for that. Banksy isn’t just a dog, he’s her best friend.
“So what’s your take on the Max story, Z?” I ask.
Zahra deftly changes the subject. “The story I’m worried about is the one where I end up locked in a tower in Karachi with my grandparents holding the key. That’s what’ll happen if my parents find out we’re reviving Love, Inc.”
“It’s sad that our parents can’t see the good we did,” I say. “A lot of people are happier because of us.”
“And the people who took a hit deserved it,” Syd adds.
I point my lip gloss at Zahra. “You were in your element with Evan the other night. Do you really want to give that up?”
“Not permanently,” she admits. “But for now I think we should at least stick to the safer stuff: matchmaking, mediation. You two have mapped out a fierce slam here.”
“It is fierce, isn’t it?” Syd says, smiling proudly. “Evan needs closure and we can give it to him. It’ll take hours of investigation and planning, so we deserve to get paid.”
“He can afford it,” I say. “Thanks to Lauren.”
Lauren Archer was also part of our Group Therapy session. She comes across as a snob, with her vast collection of designer purses, but she’s surprisingly down-to-earth, and when I told her about Evan’s meltdown, she hired him as her assistant. He’s already installed a home theatre system and repaired her car.
Zahra takes Syd’s notebook and we examine the drawing. It shows the three of us leaning against the trailer in my backyard, which used to be the Love, Inc. headquarters until Mom confiscated the key. I’m in the middle of the picture, wearing a flirtatious expression under a halo of curls. My legs are ridiculously long, but otherwise it’s a good likeness. Zahra is on my right, with her usual braid and a Mona Lisa smile. And Syd’s to my left, with sharp angles and a sneer. In real life, Syd’s face is softer and prettier.
Reaching over, Syd scrawls the Love, Inc. logo onto the side of the trailer over our heads. It’s a heart with sun rays shooting out of one side and lightning bolts shooting out of the other.
Zahra takes the pencil, flips it and erases the lightning bolts from the logo. “After Evan, it’s all sunshine, okay?”
“Agreed,” I say.
Syd holds out a little longer before saying, “Fine.”
Zahra used to enjoy revenge cases. Her parents may have her rattled, but the way she’s fiddling with the glass bangles my brother gave her suggests Brody’s opinion holds more sway. I have no trouble ignoring my brother, but I’m not dating him. As for my mom, she’s so crazy in love that my so-called misdemeanors are being erased from memory nearly as fast as the lightning from our logo.
A long shadow falls over Syd’s drawing and we all look up. It’s Paisley Partridge, a girl who moves in the highest sophomore social circles, orbiting a self-proclaimed sun, Hollis Messina. Paisley overcompensates for her quaint name by being cold and tough. There’s a ruby stud in her nose that looks like a drop of blood.
“What’s up, Paisley Partridge?” I ask, in a singsong voice designed to prove that she doesn’t intimidate us anymore. Hollis and her followers have gone out of their way to make our lives miserable, despite our efforts to help Hollis leave her abusive boyfriend, Fletcher Longland. Hollis couldn’t make a breakup stick until Zahra, Syd and I publicly exposed Fletcher as a saboteur of his own football team. His parents sent him away to a military school, likely for his own safety.
“Hollis wants to talk to you,” Paisley says, keeping her eyes on the ceiling.
“Something wrong with Hollis’s legs?” Syd asks.
“There’s nothing wrong with that girl’s legs,” a male voice says. Syd’s pal, Stains, who’s sitting behind us, tips his chair back to join the conversation. At six-foot-two and two hundred pounds, Stains is an imposing presence, even without the thick stubble he manages to grow every day between first bell and lunch.
His short, wiry sidekick, Rambo, is even more menacing. Rambo sports a tiny skull tattoo on each knuckle, a scar on his cheek and a nose flattened by a series of breaks. He’s mellowed a lot since we matched him up with Max’s sister, roller derby queen Madison Manson, so he settles for waggling his eyebrows at Hollis suggestively.
“Tell Hollis we’re busy,” Syd says, dismissing Paisley with a wave.
Paisley trails back to her table and whispers in Hollis’s ear.
I turn and whack Stains with my lunch bag. “You hate Hollis, remember?”
“Sure,” he says. “But a fact’s a fact. The girl has killer sticks.”
“And a nice set of pipes,” Rambo adds.
In this case, he means her voice, not her biceps, and the comment makes my blood boil. I’ve put a lot of hard work into my music over the years and it hasn’t taken me far, whereas Hollis joined the school jazz club on a whim last semester and ended up singing solo in front of hundreds of people at the all-night dance party where Love, Inc. met its untimely end. Even I have to admit she sang well, considering that Fletcher was yowling and doing a striptease in the background. Now she commands more attention at school than ever.
“Aren’t you guys curious about what Hollis wants?” Zahra asks.
“Maybe she’s finally going to thank us for dealing with her psycho ex-boyfriend,” Syd says.
Fletcher not only browbeat and humiliated Hollis, he threatened to kill Syd’s sick dog with poisoned wieners. We should be getting a hero’s parade for chasing him out of Austin High, not a summons.
Maybe Hollis agrees, because she actually makes her way over to our table and hovers uneasily, her sickly sweet perfume doing battle with the smell of greasy cafeteria food. “You three need to learn some manners,” she says, resting manicured hands on her hips. Her fingers are so long and her waist so small that they practically touch.
Hollis is average looking but she comes off as pretty because she works at it, from the toned body, to the perfect highlights to the expertly applied makeup. Her eyebrows, however, are over-plucked arches that swoop like swallow wings across her forehead.
Stains and Rambo haven’t looked that high: their eyes are glued to the fuchsia push-up bra peeking out from under Hollis’s skimpy tank top. The school dress code apparently doesn’t apply to her.
Hollis targets the guys. “Could you give us a moment?” she asks, in a sweet tone we’ve never heard before.
Stains’s chair hits the floor with a clunk, and the guys rise and leave with their lunch trays. Why would Hollis waste that talent on Fletcher, a guy no one could control?
Syd’s annoyed. She’s been friends with Rambo and Stains for years and they never jump at her command. “What do you want?” she asks Hollis.
Hollis takes Zahra’s sweater off the back of a chair, wipes down the seat Rambo vacated and perches on it. “I need you to do something for me,” she says.
“We’ve done enough for you already,” Syd says.
Hollis’s swallow wings rise as she eyes Syd’s tie. Then she angles her chair to look at me. Uh oh. This must be about music. Well, she can forget it. Until Hollis has put in her time on lessons, theory classes and practice, like I have, she’s on her own.
Meeting my eyes for possibly the first time ever, Hollis says, “I want you to find me a new boyfriend.”
Well. That’s different. I might provide a bit of help in that area. For a price.
“I doubt you’d have any trouble finding a willing victim,” Zahra says.
“I’m not talking to you, Haggis-MacFluff,” Hollis says, mocking the Scottish half of Zahra’s mixed heritage. “Obviously I could do this”—she snaps her fingers—“and have any guy in this room. But I don’t want to.”
Syd sums up Hollis’s dilemma. “You’re afraid you’re going to pick another loser.”
Hollis ignores Syd. “I have a busy life. I care about my grades, and as you’ve probably heard, my music career is taking off. I can’t afford to screen fifty guys to find someone worthy. Fletch told me about your little company and I figure a high profile client like me would be great PR for you.”
“Take your business somewhere else,” Syd says.
Hollis snorts. “No one else is stupid enough to run a business like yours.”
“That business pays for my guitar lessons,” I say.
“And my cooking class,” Zahra adds.
Hollis frames her face with manicured hands and says, “Here’s me, looking impressed.”
Syd pushes her chair back and stands. “You’ve wasted enough of our time.”
Leaning forward, Hollis speaks quickly. “You guys owe me. I invited you to my Valentine’s party and took the risk you’d actually show up.” She glances back at her crew. “I lost credibility because of it. But now that I’ve lowered myself, I might as well get something out of it.”
“Wow, it takes guts to be that rude while asking for a favor,” Syd says, tipping her hat in fake admiration.
“Hollis,” I say, “do you remember the Hill Country dance party? Where Fletcher humiliated you in front of a crowd? We punished him for that. For free.”
“I’ve got it on video if you need a refresher,” Syd says.
Hollis’s lips tighten and her nostrils flare. I can see that blocking out that moment, where she was paralyzed and weeping in the spotlight, takes effort. Finally, she whispers, “I didn’t say I wouldn’t pay.”
I lean across the table and whisper back, “For two hundred bucks we’ll scour the city for three good matches and let you make the final choice.”
“Two hundred?” Hollis says, incredulously.
Syd stares her down. “I’ve got college to pay for.”
“Or you could just find your own guy,” I say. “But if you choose wrong, your credibility will take another hit.”
Hollis caves. “Deal.”
“Up front,” I say, as she stands to leave. “Cash only.”
Once Hollis has rejoined Paisley, Syd says, “So we’re doubling our rates?”
“Only for Hollis,” I say, reaching for my bag as the lunch bell rings. “It’s going to be brutal, especially with her delusions of musical genius. But she’s right about one thing: it’s good PR.”
“For the business we’re supposed to keep on the down low,” Zahra grumbles.
Syd claps her on the back. “Cheer up, Z. Your skills are going to be in high demand. Anyone we set up with Hollis will end up in worse shape than Evan.”
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
The girl behind the orange melamine desk glances up from her gossip magazine as we step inside the TanTastik! salon. From the photos Evan showed us, it isn’t Lianne.
“You can go right through,” she says. “There are lots of beds open in the back.”
Syd takes charge. “Could we speak to your senior technician?”
The girl laughs. “Our what?”
That’s the title Evan used. “The person in charge,” I say.
Raking fake nails through tiger-striped hair extensions, the girl smirks. “I guess that would be me. Do you need skin evaluations?” She reaches under the counter and pulls a survey. Pointing an orange pen in Zahra’s direction, she adds, “You’re in the ‘high risk of burning’ category.” Though Zahra’s brown eyes came from her Pakistani mother, her dad’s Scottish roots show in her hair and pale, freckly skin.
“We’re not here to use the beds,” I say. “Indoor tanning is worse for your skin than sunlight. You’re basically selling melanoma.”
Syd gives me a look, and says, “Well, I wouldn’t mind a little glow.” As we head for the beds in the rear of the salon, she adds, “Look, Kal, I know you’re driven to preach, but can you stick a hemp sock in it when we’re working?”
She’s right, but I make it a policy not to apologize for my beliefs. “Either Lianne doesn’t work here anymore or she was lying about her job.”
“I’d choose option two,” Zahra says, peering into an open room, where we see Lianne swabbing down a sun bed.
She’s is hardly the goddess Evan described. Her dark hair is pulled back in a limp ponytail, exposing a thin, over-tanned face and unusually small brown eyes. But her lips are full, and if she’s capable of smiling, she’s probably pretty enough.
“Rooms one to five are ready to go,” she says, pulling out one ear bud and unleashing Lady Gaga on us. “I’ll grab some towels from the dryer.”
Her flip flops make a smacking noise as she heads down the hall.
“She’s a janitor,” Syd whispers. “Evan’s gonna love that.” Raising her voice, she calls, “Hey, Lianne!”
The girl stops and turns back. “How do you know my name?”
“We’re friends of Evan’s,” I say.
“Evan doesn’t have any friends,” she replies, turning to walk away.
“He has us,” Zahra says, following her. “And we’re worried about him. He’s having trouble getting over your breakup.”
“Breakup?” she says. “We were only together in his imagination.”
“Well, he thinks you were the one,” Zahra says. “We hoped you’d give us some insight into what went wrong between you.”
Lianne turns into the laundry room. “Evan Garrett is a loser. That’s what went wrong.”
We block the doorway so that she can’t escape.
“Did he cheat on you?” I ask.
“Of course not,” Lianne says, scowling as she turns to face us.
“Run over your cat?” Syd offers.
Lianne rolls her eyes, clearly unfazed, although it’s three against one.
Zahra tries a milder approach. “Lianne, did Evan hurt you somehow?”
“No, and I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, using the stack of towels like a shield to plow right through us. “Either get into a tanning bed or leave.”
I change tactics. “We know Evan keeps pestering you. We can make it stop.”
“How many ways do you need to hear ‘no’?” Lianne asks, as we follow her to the front desk.
Lianne doesn’t want Evan’s pestering to stop. She’s getting something out of it.
Syd cuts to the chase. “A buck a question.”
“Two bucks,” Lianne says. Telling her colleague that she’s taking a break, she leads us to a cramped, cluttered staff room where she pushes aside a pile of TanTastik! calendars to sit crossed-legged on the vinyl sofa.
The three of us line up in front of her again for the inquisition. My heart is racing, less out of nerves than excitement. It feels good to be out on a job again.
“When did you meet Evan and how long did you go out?” I begin.
“Six months ago and nine weeks,” she answers. “That’s two questions, four bucks.” She grabs an orange pen and starts a running tally on the back of a calendar.
“So, right after his family’s breakup,” Zahra says. “How did you help him cope?”
Lianne snorts. “I let him take me out and that distracted him from his wallowing.”
I feel Syd twitch beside me, and squeeze her arm to restrain her. Our goal is to keep Lianne talking. “You’re a bit out of Evan’s league,” I suggest.
“You got that right,” she says. “And yes, that counts as a question.”
“So what was in it for you?” I ask.
“This,” she says, pointing to a gold necklace around her neck. “And these.” She points to a bracelet and a ring.
“Evan’s generous,” Zahra says, hiding her disgust. “What else did he buy you?”
Lianne counts off a long list of gifts on her fingers, from an iPod to spa gift certificates. “This job is hell on my nails,” she says.
Syd can’t hold back any more. “So, you used him.”
Lianne adds another stroke to her tally. “Look, I was always upfront with Evan. I told him a guy like him was lucky to be with me and that he had to show it.”
This job can be a depressing eye-opener about human nature. “Did you have to decimate his confidence?” I ask.
“He didn’t have much to start with,” Lianne says. “And most of the flaws I pointed out he could fix if he wanted to. Except for the stupidity.”
“Evan is not stupid,” I say, choosing to believe that. “Anyway, why break up with him now? A grateful guy is a generous guy.”
“Managing him turned into a full-time job,” Lianne says. “He got so depressed he kept calling in sick to his job and got fired. So I’m auditioning replacements.” She gets off the couch and holds out her hand. “Break’s over. That’ll be twenty bucks.”
Syd’s breathing heavily, as if the little room has run out of oxygen. I push her into the hall and count out the money for Lianne.
After we leave, Syd explodes. “She’s the worst type of user ever. Evan was going through hell at home and she still sucked him dry and dumped him.”
“It’s a good thing he’s working for Lauren, now,” Zahra says. “That’ll help. But I feel guilty about charging him.”
“Don’t,” I say. “If he didn’t have to pay us, he’d pile gifts on Lianne in hopes of buying his way back in. We’re helping Evan get his life back. That’s a solid investment.”
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
I can hear music as I walk up the driveway to our house. A woman is singing a French song in a nasal voice, accompanied by a harmonica and a fiddle. It has a catchy melody, but the sound quality is terrible. It’s distant and scratchy, like an old record.
Brody and René are in the kitchen, both wearing aprons with the logo of The Recipe Box, the cookbook store René owns, and where Zahra works part-time.
“I’m helping René make a traditional French Canadian meal,” Brody says. Wiping his hands on his apron, my brother swaps a chopping knife for a camera, and snaps a few shots of René in action. Photography has become a serious hobby for Brody, just as it is for Mom and René. “We’re using his grandmother’s recipes.”
“Where’s Sherman?” I say, looking around the kitchen for René’s puppy.
“Your mom’s walking him,” René says, from the stove, where he’s stirring a pot. He looks as comfortable in our kitchen as if he’s lived here his whole life.
Mom had her first date with René the very same day I met Caleb, and didn’t think twice about diving into the deep end with him. Normally, that’s her fatal flaw. She married my biological father, then my three step-fathers, after knowing each of them only a few months. If she stays true to form, I’ll have another bridesmaid dress hanging in the closet soon and René will be history before I leave for college.
I wish she could break her record this time, because René is a fantastic guy and Mom seriously could not do better. He’s easygoing and grounded, the perfect foil for a nitpicky, impulsive woman.
Brody and I swore we’d never get attached to another one of Mom’s victims, but I can tell by the way my brother is trailing after René that he has a bit of a guy crush. He hovers, beaming, as René offers me a spoonful of a thick, delicious green soup.
“Soup aux pois,” René says. “Followed by tourtière avec ketsup maison et fèves au lard au sirop d’érable.”
“Pea soup,” Brody translates. “Followed by a pork pie with a homemade tomato relish and maple baked brown beans.”
The back door opens and Sherman runs in with Mom at the end of his bright blue leash. A brown mass of fur squirms at my feet, his whole body wagging. Our house hasn’t seen such domestic bliss since the first year of Mom’s last marriage. As her relationship with Greg went south and the tension increased, Brody and I scheduled more activities so that we wouldn’t have to be around.
Mom seems to forget that Brody and I get invested in her relationships too, only we have no say when she ends them. It’s frustrated me enough to run away a few times. The last time, I met a band at an Open Mic night and offered to roadie for them. My new career lasted exactly one gig: the manager at the bar in San Antonio realized I was underage and called my mom.
Getting dragged away by Mom during that concert was embarrassing, yet the experience was a turning point for my music. Seeing how hard it was for a decent group of musicians made me realize I’d have to become exceptional to avoid growing old in dingy bars. That’s when I really committed to my craft and started practicing.
Tonight however, I’m willing to forfeit time with my guitar to hang out as a family again. Taking a stool at the island, I set up my laptop.
Mom pours herself some wine and takes the stool beside mine, so relaxed that she doesn’t notice there’s no placemat under my laptop to protect the marble.
“Who are we listening to?” I ask René.
“Madame Bolduc,” René says. “A popular Canadian folk singer in the thirties. This was one of her biggest hits: Si Vous Avez une Fille qui Veut se Marier. En anglais: If You Have a Daughter who Wants to get Married.”
Brody looks at Mom and laughs. “No worries there, huh?”
“I want to get married,” I say, glaring at him. “Some day.”
“Like when whales climb trees,” Brody says.
Okay, so I hope I’ll want to get married some day. In theory, I love the idea of sharing my life with one special person. In practice, I know how hard that can be. I’m a romantic cursed with a clear head. I believe it’s possible to find the right match, but if I’m going to spend decades tethered to a guy, I want to know without a shadow of a doubt that we’re fully compatible.
Ignoring Brody, I ask René, “This is a reel, isn’t it?”
“How did you know?” he says, pleased.
“The time signature, the tempo, the structure,” I say. “I’ve learned a few things in music class.”
“You’d never know it from her songwriting,” Brody says.
My brother never misses a chance to diss my music ambitions, but I don’t let haters get me down. “I’m getting better, and I’ll have a chance to prove it, soon, because Notts County is running a contest to raise money for arts programs.”
“Yeah? What kind of contest?” Brody asks.
He’s playing right into my hands. I’m nervous about Mom’s reaction, but figure she won’t freak out in front of René. Calling up the band’s website, I say, “They’re inviting Austin high school students to write a song to be included on a CD for charity. And the winner gets to perform their song with the band.”
“Let me guess,” Brody says. “Owen Gaines is one of the judges.”
“Actually, yes,” I say, grinning. Owen Gaines, the lead singer of Notts County, is super hot, super talented and super nice. I’ve met him twice. Clicking on the announcement, I read aloud, “‘Shortlisted contestants will perform their songs live on July 4th, at an Independence Day festival in Zilker Park.’ That’s only four months away so I need to get to work.”
Mom sets her wine on the island, missing the coaster, and says, “You’re not entering a music contest.”
“Why not?” I ask. “It’s open to anyone enrolled in high school.”
“You know I don’t approve of the music business. If you’re going to pursue it, you’ll have to do it when you’re eighteen.”
Brody bugs his eyes at me, pissed that I’d ruin this special dinner by picking at a scab that never heals. Mom’s permanently bent out of shape about Carmen Esposito, although it’s been nearly fourteen years since he left.
“But, Mom,” I plead, “this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Kalista,” she says. “Your father threw away everything for music and failed miserably. You won’t be following in his footsteps if I can help it.”
“Well, you can’t,” I say. “I’m going to be a musician whether you like it or not.”
René leaves his simmering pot and comes over to rub Mom’s arm. “Glennis, it’s just a local contest for charity. She’s not trying out for American Idol.”
“You have no idea what Kali is capable of,” Mom says, shaking off René’s hand and standing. “My daughter, my rules.” She walks out of the room, calling back over her shoulder, “Kalista, put a placemat under that laptop before you scratch my marble.”
Looking worried and hurt, René follows Mom out of the kitchen.
“Way to clear a room, Kal,” Brody says, turning down the heat under the soup.
“I can’t believe her,” I say, closing my laptop. “I get to choose what I do with my life.” She supports Brody’s interest in photography because it’s one she shares. I work way harder at my craft, yet I’m discouraged at every turn because of Carmen.
Brody slides onto the stool beside me and rests a hand on my shoulder. It’s an uncharacteristic gesture of support. “Look on the bright side,” he says. “You’ve never performed live. You’ll probably freeze up and blow it anyway. Mom’s just saving you the humiliation.”
Zahra and I are stacking muddy planks into the back of a panel van belonging to St. Joseph’s Church during a steady drizzle. We’re both tired and pissed off that Syd hasn’t shown up yet, when the session’s nearly over.
Enlisting us to help out on his team-building ropes courses was an ingenious move by Dieter, our former therapist and current “advisor,” a term he invented to cover people he no longer gets paid to counsel, but chooses to torment with his unwanted advice. We skipped the one-day ropes course he led for our Group, so we still don’t fully grasp how climbing trees and jumping off platforms helps anyone learn about trust and teamwork. We’ll have plenty of time to observe, though, since our parents agreed we would help set up and take down the course for Dieter’s family counseling sessions twice a month.
He may be looking for slave labor, but I think Dieter also feels bad that he wasn’t able to turn us into well-adjusted citizens during our real therapy sessions. Maybe he could have helped more if family problems were all we had to worry about. But learning the truth about Eric shook us the core. Love, Inc. did a lot to remedy our problems, even if our parents and Dieter can’t see that.
I choose to consider working for Dieter as paying our dues to belong to our exclusive, underground club. If our parents think Dieter’s monitoring us, and we’re extra careful about covering our tracks, Love, Inc. can once again thrive.
Pushing back my hood, I tell Zahra, “Your boyfriend’s a jerk.”
Zahra sighs. “What’s Brody done now?”
I tell her about how my mom freaked out over the Notts County contest and my brother failed to support me.
“I can’t believe Glennis wouldn’t let you enter the contest,” Zahra says.
“You’re sidestepping the point,” I say.
“The point was that your mom is squashing your music ambitions.”
“Actually, the point was that Brody didn’t back me up,” I say. “And if he wasn’t your boyfriend, you’d agree he’s a jerk.”
“Yeah, but if I start trashing my boyfriend, you’ll defend your brother,” Zahra says, pushing her hood back to expose a mass of red ringlets. “Give me a break, Kal. You’re the one who suggested we get together in the first place.”
I guess we’re still figuring out the ground rules where Brody is concerned. I’m glad they’re together, but sometimes I miss my friend, who was automatically on my side, not straddling the fence. Well, if anyone can find that balance, Zahra can.
As we reach the edge of the clearing, I pick up one of the white plastic course markers and wave it like a flag. “Okay, you’re right. Brody was just being Brody and my mom is the villain. She even snapped at René, after the poor guy prepared this amazing dinner. It was so tense I pretended I had a headache and went to my room.”
When I got there, I played my guitar and sang at full volume throughout dinner with the goal of causing more tension. According to Brody, I succeeded admirably.
Dieter is sitting cross-legged on the ground in what he calls the “affirmation circle.” He’s surrounded by three families who look a little dazed by what they’ve just gone through. Until today, I couldn’t imagine Dieter in the great outdoors. He’s the most meticulous guy I’ve ever met, with precisely cut blond hair, and all-black outfits. But now he’s wearing jeans, hiking boots, a red-and-black lumber jacket and a red wool toque. On him, it looks like a Halloween costume.
Zahra and I listen as he guides someone through an exercise. “What was the first clue that the situation wasn’t going well?” he asks.
“When my mom started yelling,” I whisper, making Zahra giggle.
“And what was your solution?” Dieter continues.
“To sign up for the songwriting competition anyway,” I say. “She can’t hold me back because of her own hang-ups.”
“How does it stand now?” he asks.
“She’s not speaking to me,” I say. “And she’ll regret it when I’m the only huge rock star in history who didn’t buy her mom a mansion.”
Zahra tries to shush me, worried that my voice will carry.
“And what did you learn?” Dieter asks.
“To keep quiet about what’s really important to me,” I say. “Which I already knew, but it was a good refresher, especially now that Love, Inc. is back in biz.”