21

“Good morning!” a cheerful voice sings from behind me.

I back out of the refrigerator, a strawberry yogurt and an apple in my hands, and shut the door with my hip. “You talking to me?” I say.

“Of course!” Milan smiles. “It’s a nice morning, isn’t it?” she asks. She pulls the refrigerator door back open and roots around inside for her soy milk. I’m still standing in the middle of the kitchen, shocked that Milan is being, well, pleasant.

“Um, yeah. Seems like a good morning.” I slip the food into my backpack and zip it closed. “You’re in a better mood,” I add.

Milan spins around. “You know, I really am. I like it here. You have a nice town.”

Wow! What a change. A lot different from what she said when she first got here. I smile. “Yeah, it is. It’s a great town.”

“Back home,” she continues, “people never would have believed the truth about me and that whole stupid rumor. But here? Everyone believes me. It’s refreshing.”

I smile. She thinks everyone believes her because she said so. And I’m sure some do. But I think mostly it’s because I told absolutely everyone I could and it spread. But I’m not going to say anything. It’s not like I need to brag about what I did.

“That’s great,” I say. “Well, see you later, I’m off to school.” I head for the door.

“Jamie, wait,” Milan says.

I turn back around and raise my eyebrows.

“Can you help me after school in the concession stand? My latte crowd has returned. I could use the assistance.”

I scrunch up my face. “You know how bad I am at making lattes though…”

“I’ll teach you again,” she urges. “It’ll be fine. You’ll get it.”

I think about it. Maybe this is a step in the right direction for Milan and me. “Well, all right. See you after school,” I say. As I head out to my car I feel myself smiling. That was the nicest exchange I’ve had with Milan since she arrived.

*   *   *

After school, I change and join Milan behind the espresso maker. I’ve only sprayed her with foam twice so far and I think I’m getting better. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we’re friends or anything now. I’m not delusional. Milan is just less mean to me.

I’m rinsing out the espresso shot glasses when Danny steps up to our stand. His brown curls are mussed and I can see a short piece of hay sticking in his hair, right by his left ear. He looks amazing.

“Hey, ladies.” He nods at both of us and I feel my insides get mushy. “Can I get a soda?”

“Sure,” I say. I pull a can of Mountain Dew out of the cooler and hand it to him, hoping he doesn’t think it’s weird that I know his favorite soda.

“Are you doing anything with that Baby Boo?” he asks me, nodding toward the back of the booth.

“Oh my God,” Milan whispers loudly in my ear. “Is he really going to flirt with you in front of me like that?”

I feel my cheeks flush and I look over at Danny’s face. He’s grinning.

“Milan!” I hiss, wanting her to shut up now.

“What?” she says. “It’s totally rude!”

I pick up the tiny white pumpkin off the table at the back of the booth and carry it over to Danny. “Here, you can have it,” I say.

“Thanks,” he replies. “My kid sister loves these.”

“Sure,” I say. After he’s left I turn to Milan. “For future reference, a Baby Boo is a type of pumpkin, not a pet name. Well, I’m sure it’s someone, somewhere’s pet name but it isn’t mine. And Danny wasn’t flirting with me. He doesn’t even like me.”

“Oh. Bummer about the name. It was sorta cute,” Milan says thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t say that he doesn’t like you.”

“Oh, I’m positive,” I say. But now I’m wondering what Milan’s deal is. Why would she think he likes me? Not that it wouldn’t be freaking fabulous if he did like me, but we both know that he doesn’t. He likes her. What about those lunches and the short-shorts and the tractor rides?

Well, he did give me a tractor ride once too. Back when I was fifteen and first learning how to drive a car. Dad let me ride around out in the field with an old truck and I got it stuck in a big mud patch. Danny saw me and gave me a ride back to the house to get Dad. But that was it. He was only being nice then. It’s not like we have moonlit rides around the Patch or anything. It’s not the same as how it is with him and Milan. He doesn’t look at me like he looks at her. No one looks at me like that. Boys want to kiss Milan. They want to stack pumpkins with me.

I can’t say any of this to her though. I don’t think Milan and I are at that place yet. “Can you show me how to grind the espresso beans again?” I ask, changing the subject to something that doesn’t make me blush the shade of a tomato.

*   *   *

That evening Mom, Milan, and I are lingering at the dinner table, chatting over Pumpkin Surprise, which, go figure, I’ve come to sorta like. Mom must be slipping me something in my 2 percent milk (I may like the Pumpkin Surprise, but they’ll never get me to touch that soy stuff ). I can tell she is absolutely tickled that Milan and I are actually kinda getting along.

“I can’t believe the Pumpkin Princess contest is tomorrow,” Milan says excitedly.

“You’re going to do it?” Mom and I ask at the same time. Geez, with all the drama I almost forgot about the contest.

Milan nods. “I never officially dropped out, so what the heck.”

“Awesome! May the best girl win, then,” I say, echoing what Milan said to me when she first found out I was in the contest too. But I mean it. I want to compete against Milan, fair and square.