Dear Diary,
The purpose of the Scoundrel List isn’t to point out the obvious villains: guys who steal your inheritance or lock you in a tower or invite their mistress to move into the guest room. It’s about finding the ones who conceal their treachery behind a smiling façade. That’s the kind of nefariousness you have to watch out for.
M.P.M.
with the coming of cooler weather, forgotten and unmourned, so too did the memory of Mall Guy dwindle in the following weeks. There were plenty of distractions: homework, helping the twins with play prep, trying to keep track of Arden’s many and varied afterschool commitments. The only lingering sting was my unspoken worry that the incident reflected poorly on my judgment. Fortunately my friends were too generous for recriminations, placing the blame squarely on Will (whom we did not mention by name).
One afternoon when even Arden had no extracurricular obligations, the four of us met in the parking lot after the final bell for another excursion. All I knew about the agenda was that it involved food, followed by what Arden termed housekeeping. Which was almost certainly code for something far more enticing.
“I’m feeling salty,” Arden announced as she fastened her seat belt.
“Also the title of my memoir.” Lydia tapped out a rimshot on the dashboard.
We drove to the less picturesque part of town, where our destination proved to be McDonald’s. I could practically hear my mother’s squawk of horror.
Arden slowed the car to a crawl as she negotiated the narrow lane between parked cars. “It’s packed.” Her shoulders had hiked until they nearly bracketed her ears.
“The good McDonald’s is always crowded.” Lydia pointed through the windshield. “What about over there?”
“Are you kidding? I’d have to parallel park.”
“I don’t see anything else,” Terry murmured as we rounded the building.
A second later, Arden stepped on the brake. “Oh no.”
“What?” Lydia asked.
“That’s Aaron Masterson’s car.”
Lydia leaned forward in her seat to inspect the offending vehicle. “Crap.”
He was on the Scoundrel List as a card-carrying Willoughby, the faithless paramour from Sense and Sensibility who forsakes Marianne for being poor, then gets maudlin about how she was the perfect woman once she finds someone better to marry. Aaron’s version was showing up whenever his ex-boyfriend (whom he had dumped) went out with a new guy. Apparently he thought it was romantic to stare longingly at the person whose heart he had broken, when in fact he was being a fickle jerk.
“I told Thomas I would be extremely disappointed if he got back together with him,” Lydia said, trying to peer through the windows of the restaurant.
“She did,” Arden confirmed. “It was intense. I was shaking in my boots.”
Lydia gave a modest shrug. “I do what I can.”
“Okay, but we can’t go in there now. He’s even worse if there’s an audience.” Arden gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
Terry nodded. “A lot of sociopaths have an exhibitionist streak.”
“What’s option B?” Lydia half turned in her seat, directing the question to all three of us.
Arden lowered the volume on the stereo. “It can’t be pancakes. That’s late-night food.” Not for the first time, I was amazed by the arcane knowledge my friends possessed.
Seconds ticked past. When it appeared no one else was going to speak up, I cleared my throat.
“I know a place.” But was it the right kind of place? I tried to think of a way to describe it that wouldn’t raise their hopes too high. “They have angled parking.”
“Works for me,” said Arden, flicking on her blinker.
“Freaky place for a café,” Lydia observed as we descended the stairs to Tome Raider—or, as it was known in my family, Shaggy Doug’s.
“When Doug and Noreen split up this was all he could afford,” I explained. “He bases all his baked goods on famous children’s books.”
Terry tried to peer through the dingy glass of the front door. “Like what?”
“It’s different every day. I’m not big on the Turkish delight, like the White Witch gives Edmund in the Chronicles of Narnia, but everything else I’ve tasted is great.” Pulling the door open, I ushered them inside.
We settled at a small wrought-iron table in the corner, a relic from someone’s garden. The only other furniture was a sagging couch the color of Dijon mustard, currently occupied by Cadbury, Doug’s tabby cat.
“Would you like to see a menu?” asked Doug, who had crept from behind the nearest bookshelf so stealthily we all jumped at the sound of his voice. His thinning hair was pulled into a straggly ponytail. Unlike the top of his head, the rest of Doug’s body was thickly furred; hence the nickname.
When I nodded yes to the menu question he blinked owlishly at me. “Hello—not one of the twins.”
“Mary,” Lydia prompted.
Doug snapped his fingers. “Right. I knew you weren’t Cam.”
That was me: the other Porter-Malcolm daughter. Old what’s-her-name. I forced a smile as he set down a single sheet of lined paper, edge still ruffled where it had been torn from a spiral notebook. His cursive was surprisingly neat, like that of an elementary school teacher.
“The Wonderland Sampler,” Arden read aloud. “What’s that?”
“A selection of eat me cakes and drink me elixirs in cute little vials.” He held his fingers and thumb a few inches apart, indicating the size. “All the colorings are natural. Fruit concentrates.”
Natural or not, it was clear from Terry’s expression that she had no intention of drinking anything served in a vial, especially not in the subterranean lair of a scruffy middle-aged man.
“What’s the scone of the day?” I asked, glancing at the coppery streaks of spice decorating his apron.
“I’m experimenting with something new for the holidays.” He turned pink with excitement. “I call them Tiny Tims.”
“Because they have . . . ?” I waited for him to fill in the blank, hoping the answer wasn’t goose, or worse, limping little boys.
Doug lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Plum pudding.”
“Yes,” said Terry, with uncharacteristic decisiveness. “That.”
“Fantastic!” Doug clasped his hands together, looking so ecstatic I thought he might burst out with a God bless us every one! He cleared his throat. “It’ll take a few minutes. I’ll bring you some juice boxes while you wait.”
“Did he say juice boxes?” Lydia asked when he was gone.
“He can’t serve any hot drinks,” I explained. “Or brown ones. That’s Noreen’s domain.” She had been careful to close the chocolate milk loophole.
After Doug dropped off the juice, we busied ourselves unwrapping straws and piercing foil. I was acutely conscious of the tomb-like atmosphere, especially compared to the hue and cry we would have encountered at McDonald’s. “It’s a lot less bustling here,” I said, tacitly apologizing.
“No, this is different,” Arden agreed, surveying the haphazard decor.
“More of a secret hideout,” Lydia suggested.
“In the olden days, ladies used to reserve a separate parlor at an inn, because it wasn’t proper to hang out at the bar.” I sipped my grape juice, afraid to make eye contact lest I surprise one of my companions in a look of extreme disinterest.
“I like that.” Arden patted me on the arm. “We can come here when we need peace and quiet. Lady time.”
I smiled in relief. “Far from the madding crowd.”
She nodded, setting down her juice box. “It’s actually good we have privacy. We can talk about something serious.”
The words were freighted with portent. Judging from their wary expressions, neither Lydia nor Terry had any clue what she was hinting at either.
A rattling sound erupted from the kitchen, followed closely by Doug. “Enjoy,” he said, setting down the scones. A sweet, gingerbready aroma wafted from the plate. Terry’s eyes closed in bliss.
When he’d shuffled back into the kitchen, Lydia looked expectantly at Arden. “Spill.”
“As I’m sure you’ve all noticed,” Arden began, chasing her mouthful of scone with a sip of juice, “the semester is flying by. Halloween is almost here, and then bam! Everything happens. Papers! Exams! Holiday shopping! Special events!” She brushed her hands off before pulling out her phone. “We’ve made a lot of great progress, don’t get me wrong.” Her index finger made a blur of the Scoundrel Survival Guide, scrolling past artsy photographs overlaid with dire warnings about male perfidy.
“The Messed-Up Ex. Drowning Guy. Closet Misogynist. Becky the Back-Stabber,” Lydia recited, counting them off on her fingers. “And Greedy Guts, who only wanted the big payout, except not in money.”
“From Washington Square,” I reminded her. “Where he dumps the heroine when he can’t get her inheritance.” In our real-life version, the currency in question had been a lot more carnal, to put it delicately. It was almost a direct reversal of the old rules of conduct, under which a woman had to remain virginal or risk being cast out of society. Nowadays young women were apparently supposed to count being a sexual dynamo among their accomplishments—a far riskier avocation than embroidery or playing the harp.
From damned if you do to damned if you don’t: the story of women’s lives.
Lydia nodded. “And the OG, Alex Ritter.”
“Vronsky, you mean.” It seemed important to make that distinction.
“There’s the one who drinks arsenic,” Terry added. Before I could point out that it wasn’t that part of the story that applied to our list, Arden jumped in.
“Makenna Brown, also known as the Worst.” She tapped her bottom lip. “What was her book name?”
“Madame Bovary. A person who messes up people’s lives for entertainment.”
“You said she had a condition?” Terry looked questioningly at me.
“Ennui. It’s like boredom, except you think it makes you interesting.”
“And let’s not forget Sissy Whatever,” Lydia said. “The snobby one.”
“Cecil Vyse. From A Room with a View.” That was how we’d categorized Will the Exchange Student: as the full-of-himself fiancé who has no interest in actually knowing a person as long as she makes an attractive accessory.
“It’s a good list.” Arden smiled, but we all heard the note of doubt.
“But what?” Lydia prompted.
Arden took a bite of scone, chewing thoughtfully. “As much as I love what we’ve done so far, I don’t think we can keep going like this.”
I felt a chill of dread. Were they sick of hearing about books?
She flipped her phone over. “What if we’re looking at it from the wrong angle?”
Terry covered her full mouth with one hand. “Like when someone with a fresh pair of eyes comes into the incident room, and they spot connections that break the investigation wide open.”
“Mmm,” said Arden. “Like that, but less murdery. I’m saying maybe we should try thinking positive for a change.”
“Is this where you make us say our affirmations?” Lydia mimed stabbing herself in the eye.
Arden shook her head. “I’m saying it’s time to be proactive. Instead of ruling people out one by one, we could actively search for someone good. Like, who are the best guys you’ve ever read about, Mary?”
Caught off guard, my mind jumped to the book I’d been reading the night before. “Well, there was a guy who only stole the cursed jewel his betrothed had been given for her birthday because he was under hypnosis. Otherwise he was pretty upstanding. Way better than the rival for her affections, because the embezzling cousin really was after her money.”
Lydia held up a hand. “His cousin or hers?”
“Hers.”
She turned to Arden. “So we should be looking for someone who isn’t a blood relative? ‘No incest’ seems like kind of a low bar.”
“I’m sure Mary has lots of other examples.” Arden smiled encouragingly at me. “Maybe someone in real life, like from her classes, who seems like hero material?”
“Um,” I began. Had they forgotten I was the one who’d found Mall Guy intriguing?
“What about Pittaya?” Lydia asked.
I blinked at her. In my mind, he was part of the past, divided by an invisible line from my new life. At the same time, his apology had been heartfelt, and I appreciated the bravery it had taken to speak up. Maybe he would be an okay suitor for one of my friends. The obvious choice was Terry, since they shared a tendency toward ruminative silence.
Arden looked sharply at Lydia. “Who’s that? What did I miss? You know this person?”
“I know a lot of people.” Lydia broke off a piece of scone and popped it into her mouth.
“Why didn’t you say something? I can get his class schedule, and we’ll arrange to accidentally run into him a few times, invite him out for a coffee, level up to dinner and a movie—”
Lydia made a T with her hands. “You need to cease and desist, okay? When did this go from hanging out and showing Mary a good time to a freaky obsession with our love lives? Just because you and Miles are going through something—”
“No, we’re not.” Arden’s face flushed. “I’m fine with his new date partner.” She slurped angrily from her straw, squeezing the juice box until it crumpled.
Lydia grabbed Arden by the wrist. “His what?”
“He has a new debate partner,” Arden answered with a trace of impatience. “You know that. Angelica from Connecticut.” She made air quotes around the last word, as if the existence of such a place was pure conjecture.
“You said date partner,” Terry pointed out.
“Oh.” Arden pressed her lips together. “I meant debate. Obviously. She’s just a girl who’s probably a genius and likes the exact same things as Miles and has an exotic East Coast vibe.” She gave a brittle laugh. “And wears a private school uniform. Why should I worry?”
Lydia leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Listen, Miles is great, and I say that as someone who has zero interest in boning her best friend’s boyfriend. But he’s not exactly a ladies’ man.”
Arden opened her mouth to protest, but Lydia shook her head. “Let me finish. There’s no way Miles is cheating on you, because that would mean he’s scum, and then I would have to take him out, and no matter how brilliantly I represented myself in court there’s always a chance it wouldn’t go my way. Therefore, it’s not happening. That’s just logic.”
I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to Miles’ hypothetical philandering or the legal ramifications of revenge killing but deemed it best to nod.
“I know.” Arden swiped at the end of her nose. “Everything is perfectly fine.”
“Good.” Lydia sat back. “Then we can all relax and stop trying to force people to couple up whether they want to or not.”
Terry gave an emphatic nod of agreement.
Arden sighed. “That throws a rock in front of my skateboard.”
“Why?” asked Lydia.
“Because I’m building to something, okay?” Arden traced a mint-green fingernail across the uneven surface of the table. “This is all part of a bigger plan.”
Terry looked to me for enlightenment, but I could only shrug.
Lydia’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? Are we doing some weird fix-yourself challenge we don’t even know about? Because I don’t get how we went from showing Mary around and calling out scoundrels to The Bachelor, Millville High Island.”
Arden tipped her head back, eyes squeezing shut. “Winter Formal. Okay? Everything is supposed to lead up to the big dance, a.k.a. the perfect way to cap off Mary’s season. And for that you need certain things, like dates, and fancy dresses, and pretty feet!”
“Feet?” Terry whispered.
“Pedicures. That was next on my list.” Arden blew out a frustrated breath. “So much for the big reveal.”
“Like a ball,” I said, trying to picture it.
Lydia fake-coughed.
“It’s as close as we’re going to get around here,” Arden shot back. “And besides, even if it’s just in the gym, going to a dance is still an iconic high-school experience.”
“Same in the olden days,” I agreed.
“Okay, but you don’t technically need a date to go to the dance,” Lydia said, in a more conciliatory tone.
“I know that.” Arden shifted in her chair. “I just thought Mary might want to do the whole thing. Get dressed up, wear a corsage, take lots of pictures—”
“Awkward slow dancing,” Lydia suggested.
The corner of Arden’s mouth twitched. “Exactly. A night to remember.”
Lydia sat back sharply. “Tell me that’s not the theme.”
“No.” Arden rolled her eyes. “They used that for prom last year. They’re not going to repeat the same thing. That would be sad.”
“Sadder,” Lydia said under her breath.
“What is the theme?” Terry asked.
“The Cold War. Since it’s Winter Formal.”
Lydia stared at her, wide-eyed.
“Ha! Got you.” Arden patted herself on the back.
“That would actually be kind of cool though,” Terry said. “Kind of grim and eighties.”
“They could decorate the gym like the Berlin Wall,” Lydia suggested.
“What’s the real theme?” My question was partly intended to keep Arden from having an aneurysm, but I was also keen to know.
“Winter in Paris. Isn’t that romantic?”
“Do I have to wear a beret?” Lydia asked.
“Of course not.” Arden shook her juice box, frowning at its emptiness. She reached for a scone instead, ripping off the tip. “You don’t have to carry a baguette around either. Though I’m pushing for macarons on the refreshment table.”
Lydia grabbed the remainder of Arden’s scone. “So the only accessory I need is a date?”
“Ideally.” Arden darted a glance at Lydia’s face, as though hardly daring to believe she’d given in so easily. “It doesn’t have to be your soulmate or anything, just someone you can have fun with for a couple of hours.”
“And it doesn’t matter how or where we find them,” Lydia pressed.
The yes was already forming on Arden’s lips when she hesitated. “Are you talking about a Pretty Woman thing?”
It was Lydia’s turn to stare in consternation. “No, I’m not planning to pay someone to be my date. Which, not even speaking of the legal issues, why would you assume I need an escort service?”
“I don’t. I’m trying to figure out where your brain is on this.” She tapped the side of her head.
“I’m just saying it’s getting a little Cinderella up in here. Someday my prince will come.” Lydia stuck out her tongue.
Arden’s eyes widened in understanding. “I don’t care whether you go with a prince or a princess or whatever. I’m operating with the information I have, okay? I saw how Mary was checking out Mall Guy, and then Terry almost went out with you-know-who, and now you’re talking about this other person—”
“Pittaya,” I supplied.
“Who is a boy.” Arden held out a hand to me for confirmation and I nodded, thinking about how she’d been observing us all along, figuring out what we liked and trying to make it happen. Lydia and Terry noticed things too, in their crime-spotting way, and I’d always considered myself a student of human nature. For a moment, the connection among the four of us felt like a tangible thing, an invisible cord tying us together. Maybe we were destined to meet.
“Unless there’s something you want to tell me?” Arden directed the question to the table at large. “Personal preferences, stuff I can work with?”
Terry and I shook our heads in unison. Nothing to see here!
Lydia made a slashing motion with the side of her hand. “A human, with a pulse. Or a really top-shelf AI. You can put that on my profile.”
“And no criminal record,” Terry added.
“Right.” Arden held out a hand to me, eyes shining with confidence. “And Mary will make sure they’re not relationship criminals. It’s basically a foolproof plan.”
My stomach somersaulted, and not from eating too many scones.