“OH NO! HE’S BACK!” I point with my chin and stare, my heart pounding. The car drives slowly into the gas station. Psycho Dude’s at the wheel, looking around.
Before I know what’s happening, Nick leaps through the bushes and takes off running. He shouts, “I’ll call you later!”
“Hey!” I yell back, ready to barrel through the dense bushes after him. Only I don’t, because, one, I’d scrape the shit out of my arms, and, two, he’s already halfway down the block and I have flip-flops on. Oh, and while I’m at it, three, he didn’t exactly invite me to come with him. What the hell? What happened to Mr. Protective? I look for something to hide behind, but I’m on a cement slab a mile wide. I make a beeline for the gas station building, hoping to hide inside until Psycho Dude leaves. He cruises along one of the gas pump islands. Holding my breath, I pray that this is all a coincidence and that he came back to buy gas because the prices were so low.
He drives past the pumps and makes a U-turn, which will face him directly at me if I keep on walking. What to do? I make an about-face and head toward home, dying to sprint for my life, but I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. If I’m lucky, maybe he won’t recognize me. After all, I wasn’t the one who flipped him off.
I cut across the empty gas station lot, as inconspicuous as a gazelle out in the open grassland. Seconds later, an engine rumbles closer, followed by a loud car horn blast. The sound acts like a defibrillator, shocking my heart into a super-fast rhythm. There’s no way I’m turning around and letting him verify that I was with the Guy Who Dared Give Him the Finger.
He beeps again, this time louder and longer. I can’t take it anymore. I bolt for the corner, full-out running as if the gas station is about to blow up behind me. When I get to the street, I hit the cross button twice. Using the pole as cover, I discreetly look behind me. Oh no! He’s right there, waiting for the same light to change as I am. He revs his engine like he’s anxious to run me over. What the hell does he want, anyway? Is he planning to beat me up, or shake me until I tell him where Nick lives—which I can’t even do, since I don’t know.
The light changes, and I sprint toward the median, praying that Psycho Dude doesn’t turn right and make me into instant roadkill. I approach a line of cars waiting for the light to change. At least there’d be plenty of witnesses. I expect Psycho Dude to zoom past me any moment, yelling some obscenities at me as he crosses the street, but, instead, he pulls alongside me, driving slowly. I nearly wet my pants.
“Hey, flamingo!” he shouts.
For a moment, I think he has me confused with someone else, until I numbly realize I’m wearing a bright pink tank top. I keep walking, not looking at him, hoping someone will come to my rescue. An angry driver behind him lays on the horn.
Psycho Dude points at me. “Tell your dickhead boyfriend to watch his back. I’m going to be on the lookout for him.”
I swallow hard, my rubbery legs now walking on auto-pilot. To my relief, he drives off, barreling down Belmont Avenue. I keep my eyes glued to his taillights as I make it across the final three lanes of traffic. I step onto the sidewalk and sprint toward home, my stomach so jumbled I might throw up. Nick better have a great fricking excuse for leaving me there alone.
I don’t stop running until I’m in front of the bakery. I almost fall twice because I keep checking over my shoulder to make sure Psycho Dude hasn’t followed me. My hands tremble as I fumble with the deadbolt. Glancing over my shoulder one last time before whipping open the door, I leap inside and slam it behind me, weepy with relief.
I made it home safely—no thanks to Nick the Dick.
Taking a deep breath, I run upstairs, debating whether or not to tell Mom that Nick isn’t such a prize after all. I sniff my now-runny nose and pull myself together as I walk into the kitchen. The light is fading, but it’s still daylight. It’s weird that it’s sunny since my mood is as dark as a spring thunderstorm.
“Sophie? Is that you?” Mom yells from somewhere in the house.
“Yeah, coming.” I hurry down the hall to tell her a revised version of what just happened because I’m too freaked out to keep this to myself. But as I pass my room, I consider calling Teegan first. I want to hear what she thinks about what Nick did. Will she agree with me or say I’m overreacting because running away is what every guy would do when a dude with anger management issues wants to beat his face in? Cosmo needs to create a quiz “What to Do with Your Guy––Keep or Sweep?” because I’m sure confused.
Thinking things over, I realize I do know one thing for sure: If Giovanni and I were in the same situation, he would never have ditched me.
I decide not to call Teegan. I don’t think I could take it if she followed up my story with one about how perfect Mike is. Sighing, I head directly to the living room. On the way, a soft meow makes me smile. Snickers will cheer me up! Two steps later, it hits me. If I do decide to break things off with Nick, will he ask for Snickers back? I hadn’t thought of that. Should I go out with him once more to guarantee that Snickers is mine and then dump his cowardly ass? I roll my eyes at the thought. That would that make me as superficial as my mother. I need to decide on my own, regardless of Snickers.
When I walk into the front room, Busia’s on her favorite blue chair, and Snickers is on the floor with Mom, batting at a feathered cat toy. “Hi, Sophie! Come sit with us!” The way Mom coos so joyfully, you’d think she’d just landed a date with a diamond mine owner. “Snickers is such a cute cat!”
“Isn’t he?” I kneel down next to him and stroke his fluffy white tail as he leaps for the feather.
“Me like cat too.” Busia agrees, grinning widely, waving the stick around. Snickers follows it with his perfect baby blue eyes. “Him very smart.” She points to her own forehead.
I scoop him up and kiss his face. “Hello, little guy.” His soft fur tickles my cheek, and he squirms to get away to pounce on a mouse toy. Several Pet World bags lie on the couch stuffed full of items. I look at Mom. “You went to Pet World? You didn’t bring Snickers with, did you?” I swallow hard, trying to act cool, but from the sound of my heavy breathing, I’m failing miserably.
“No, I go,” Busia says, tapping her chest. She raises her eyebrows, looking at me curiously. “Matka stay home with Sneeker.”
I let out my breath and relax. “Cool.”
“But Busia said that lots of people brought pets inside. We forgot to buy some things, so tomorrow we’re going to bring Snickers and show her off.” Mom smiles and wiggles the mouse slowly, catching his eye. Snickers lies low, in stalking mode.
“No, you can’t!” I shout, a little more forcefully than I intended.
My brain races ahead. Should I tell them the truth about how Nick got the kitten? If I do, will Mom make me bring it back? Should I bring Snickers back anyway because it’s the right thing to do? What if I decide to see Nick again but Mom knows he’s a thief, will she let me go out with him? I tug at my hair, trying to think. If I did return Snickers to Pet World, Nick would get fired. Maybe even arrested. Oh God. I need more time to think.
“Why did you say it like that?” Mom asks, her forehead creased with confusion.
Softening my tone, I reply, “I meant…I don’t think you can bring cats. Only dogs.”
“Really?” Mom rattles off something in Polish, looking at Busia for confirmation. Busia shrugs. Mom says, “No matter. You owe me sixty-two bucks.”
My jaw drops. “Sixty-two bucks! What did you buy—gold food bowls?” I sit cross-legged and lean back on the couch, running my hand through my hair. How can I afford to take care of Snickers when I don’t have a job? Which, by the way, is another stupid issue I’m hiding.
“Maybe we could have gotten discount if you still worked there…” Mom says, her voice trailing off.
Staring at Snickers to avoid eye contact with Mom, I casually say, “What are you talking about?” This could be one of those times where Mom is just fishing for info but doesn’t really know anything.
Mom tilts her head, shrugging. “Oh, I think you know.”
“Know what?” I’m not revealing anything until she does. Plucking Snickers off the floor, I use him as a shield to cover up my bad liar face.
Mom picks up the felt mouse and tosses it, as if trying to lure Snickers from my grasp. I hold him tighter as Mom continues, “I called over there before I sent Busia to ask if she can get your employee discount. The girl on the phone told me that you’re not an employee there anymore.”
Man, they don’t waste any time airing a person’s dirty work history in public! I don’t respond, willing Mom’s words to simply dissipate into the air so I don’t have to admit that I lost yet another job. I hold Snickers up in the air. “Hello, little baby.”
“Well?” Mom presses. “Is it true? Did you get fired from another job?”
I roll my eyes. “As a matter of fact, no, I didn’t get fired. I quit.”
Mom throws her hands in the air. “You quit two perfectly good jobs! And yet you think I’m giving you money for university? Eliza said that she worked many, many hours when she was your age and she paid for half of her tuition.” She narrows her eyes, glaring at me.
Eliza and her big mouth! I mentally give that girl a karate chop to the head, slicing her vertically down the middle. “I had to quit!” I growl. “You should have seen my boss! She hated my guts and acted like a total witch, hoping I’d quit.”
Busia clucks her tongue and picks up her cross-stitch project from the basket on the floor.
Does that cluck mean she doesn’t believe me, or is she mad at Darcy too? “It’s true! She made me vacuum up massive amounts of rodent poo, and there were tons of huge rats running all around this giant cage. It was disgusting!” I make a face, waiting for Mom and Busia to agree that the job sounds horrid, but they both only stare at me. Like they’re waiting for something worse. I add, “One even peed on my hand!”
Busia pulls the needle through the pillowcase. “Rat are dirty.”
Mom glares at Busia. “Cyt! Hush! Sophie is not smart, she’s lazy! If she doesn’t start working harder, no one will hire her for anything!” She looks at me and sputters, “And if you think I’m just going to hand you the bakery someday, you are wrong. You must earn it!”
My face heats up at the stupidity of her statement. “I don’t want to own your stupid bakery! How many times do you want me to tell you that? I want to be in advertising, creating magazine ads or TV commercials!” I wickedly flip through a magazine, turning pages without even looking at them. “Oh, wait. I have an idea. Maybe you should give the bakery to Eliza, since you love her so much.” With that, I fling the magazine across the table in anger. It sails to the floor, making Snickers dash for cover. I know I’m acting like a total spoiled brat, but I’m sick of my mom thinking I’m a loser.
Mom waves hand at me dismissively. “Stop talking crazy! I don’t love Eliza. I only worry that you’re not trying as hard as you should, that’s all. And if you don’t want the bakery, fine. Maybe I will sell it one day.” Mom scrambles to her knees and stands up, gathering her gossip magazines and arranging them into a neat pile. She clears her throat. “So…when are you seeing Nicolai again?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe never.”
Mom gasps. “Why not? Did you do something to make him not like you?”
“Wow, Mom. It figures you’d assume I did something wrong.” I shake my head in disbelief. “Ever think that maybe he isn’t good enough for me?”
She shrugs. “Yes, for some boys that is true, but not Nicolai. I didn’t see anything wrong with him.”
And still she persists. “You’re right. He’s perfect. It is me.” I roll my eyes as I hop up off the floor and plop down on the couch.
“Maybe you are too picky. If you don’t change, you will always be alone.” She heads toward the doorway, calling out, “I’m going to watch TV and then go to bed. Eliza says she’s coming in at four thirty tomorrow morning. She’s going to help me put up new signs.”
Putting up new signs at four thirty in the morning? Maybe Eliza really is trying to snag “Most Beloved Daughter” title away from me. The moment Mom leaves, Busia tsks loudly.
“What new signs?” I ask her, curling my feet under my butt.
Busia’s lips flatline as she pulls a purple thread through the pillowcase, completing the cross-stitch of a bouquet of violets. “Matka give Eleeta tree hundred dollar to make new ones.”
My mouth drops open. “Three hundred dollars!” I’m shocked that Mom would part with big bucks to buy something we can make ourselves. Not to mention that I could totally have used that money. In fact, that’s probably how much it costs for one class at community college. “Why would Mom do that?”
She shrugs. “Eleeta say new sign bring new customer. She want us to sell new kind of food, too.” She leans forward conspiratorially and waves me closer. “Matka say not to tell you that she paying Eleeta fifteen dollar for one hour.”
“She’s whaaat?” I quietly screech. My face heats at the thought of Mom dishing out big-time cash to Eliza when the only thing Mom dishes out to me is lousy dating advice.
“Shh, Zosia!” Busia holds a finger to her lips. “Eleeta say that how much college girl make. She say her plan worth it, and Matka believe her.”
I see the doubt in Busia’s eyes. “What do you think?”
“No one care what I think.” Busia grabs her scissors from the basket and snips the purple thread just above a knot.
“I care, Busia. Is Eliza’s plan any good?” I ask, reaching out to touch Busia’s warm, wrinkly hand with mine, keeping it there until she looks at me.
Busia shakes her head no. “She want to take out Polska food and make it…” She looks at the ceiling, trying to think of a word. “Amerkan?”
“American food?” I open my eyes so wide at the thought that my contacts shift a little on my eyeballs. “That’s ridiculous and stupid! We’re a Polish bakery!” Snickers dashes across the room, batting a yarn ball that he must have stolen from Busia’s sewing basket.
“Tak. I know.” Busia shifts through her basket, lifting out a bright yellow spool of thread.
“If we don’t sell Polish pastries, we might as well be a Dunkin’ Donuts! Why is everything going wrong all of a sudden?” Gripping the sides of my head with my hands, I squeeze my temples with my palms.
“You know why.” Busia unrolls a two-foot length of yellow thread and cuts it with scissors. “First you fight with Matka, and then we never finish ritual to get rid of Likho.”
I lower my hands and stare numbly at Busia, mulling over her words. Can it be true? Are her rituals and deals the source of all of my troubles? Ever since I made that deal—and let’s face it, broke my end of it—I’ve lost two jobs, lost two sorta-kinda boyfriends, found out there’s no college fund for me, and meanwhile, a sinister chick is doing her best to wipe out my mother’s bank account. And that’s when it hits me: maybe this Polish spirit stuff isn’t phony after all.
I want my old life back. It might have sucked, but I wasn’t downright miserable.
I move closer so that I’m kneeling right next to Busia. “Is there any way you can fix this, Boosh? Can we have a Dola Do-Over—you know, like, make a new ceremony?”
She shakes her head, her blue eyes filled with concern. “No, too late. Very sorry.”
My ears on fire, I grasp at Busia’s hands, poking myself with her sewing needle in the process. “Very sorry? What’s that supposed to mean? That I’ll have bad luck forever?” I shove my bleeding fingertip into my mouth. If I don’t fix this—and soon—I have a feeling I might be on track for marrying Stanley Kowalski, the bologna-skinned butcher’s son. “Please, Busia! Can’t we please try again—maybe after Mom goes to sleep or something?”
She bites her lip, looking nervous. “Maybe there is one thing you can do to fix this, but…” She stares at me briefly before shaking her head. “Never mind. You not like it. It might not work anyway.”
Keeping clear of the needle, I again squeeze her hands. “I’ll make it work. I’ll do anything. Just tell me what I have to do!”
She tilts her head and gives me such a look of pity that I worry that she’s going to tell me that the only way out of this is to donate three body parts. My choice, though, so it’ll all be good. I don’t need my appendix anyway.
“You must go back and fix problem when bad luck start.” She untangles her hands from mine and continues to sew.
“Fix it how?” I search my brain for a logical solution. “I can’t un-argue with Mom.”
Busia ties a knot on the end of the yellow thread. “If Matka gets rid of Eleeta and hires you instead. All on her own.”
My hopes and dreams fall to the floor, detonating upon impact. The likelihood of my mother dumping her Polish princess stepdaughter for me is about the same as Busia denouncing her heritage and becoming Jewish.
Bring on Butcher Boy, because here comes the bride.