Four
THE NEXT MORNING my mom makes pancakes, which is not normal. Most of the time it’s toast or cereal. I sit at the kitchen counter, watching her slide pancakes onto a platter like Martha Stewart.
“What’s his name again?” I ask.
“Jonathan.”
“Jonathan,” I repeat. “Not Jon?”
“I don’t think so,” my mom says, shaking her head. “No.” She opens her mouth, closes it.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing.”
I can tell she wants to say more, but she doesn’t want to jinx it. She’s probably saying to herself: Come on, Kate. He’s just a guy who came into the store looking for a book. (Except that the book just happened to be The World Is Flat, which my mom just happened to have finished reading last week, and which just happened to jump-start a two-hour conversation.)
“He’ll be back,” I say.
“You think?” She pours juice into my cup, which already has juice.
“Yes.”
She sits down next to me but doesn’t say anything for a minute. “It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“It’s been a long time since I . . .”
“What?” I say, even though I know. Two words, rhymes with “Saul Crucci.” It’s been a long time since she felt anything even remotely close to the way she felt in high school.
“I don’t know!” she says. “Just . . . I know it sounds crazy. We just met! But there was something there last night.”
“What kind of something?”
“Something . . . I don’t know. . . . I’m being ridiculous.”
“No, you’re not,” I say.
She shakes her head.
“You’re not, Mom.”
She shrugs, smiles.
“I get it,” I say. Because I do. I get that she’s giddy and insecure and scared and hopeful and utterly confused. All because of a guy.
“I guess I’ll go for a run,” she says.
“Do it,” I say.
“You’ll take the bus?”
“Unless you want to give me the car. I’m an excellent driver. . . .”
“I will give you the car when you get your license.”
“Fine,” I mock-grumble. “Be that way.”
But then I hug her and say thanks for the pancakes. “I could get used to this,” I tell her. “What do I get when he asks you out? Eggs Benedict?”
My mom snorts. I snort back. She snorts again, louder. This is how the Gardner Girls do the levity thing: We impersonate livestock.
“Close your eyes,” Liv says on the bus.
“What?”
“Just do it. I have something for you.”
“Fine.” I close my eyes. “I don’t know why you have to be such a—”
“Open!”
She’s holding up a piece of paper. It’s a photo of a house—a humongo white colonial with a three-car garage and a circular driveway.
“So?”
Liv smiles. “So . . . Nico and Christina Tucci. Forty-four Lehigh Street. North Haven, Massachusetts.”
“What?”
“I know, right? They closed two weeks ago.”
“But how did you—?”
“One of Dodd’s clients at Trillium runs a real-estate agency. . . . Anyway, it’s a matter of public record.”
All I can do is stare at her.
“I thought you should have the information,” she says. “You know . . . just in case.”
“In case what?”
Liv shrugs. “In case you decide to get in touch.”
“I won’t.”
“Well . . .”
“Like, ever.”
“Completely your call.” She folds the paper in half, then in quarters. “We’ll just put this away for now.” She unzips the side pocket of my backpack, slides the paper in. “For safe-keeping.”
“You’re unbelievable. Do you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
All day in school I’ve been thinking about the Tuccis. But I’m not going to think about them anymore. I am done. Finito. The only thing I’m going to think about right now is the fact that it rained last night and the fields are soaked for our coed scrimmage.
The coaches spend ten minutes bitching about the lack of drainage and another ten debating the merits of playing in a swamp versus preserving the grass. Finally they decide we should just use the baseball field because their season doesn’t start until spring, and their grass will grow back by then.
They split us into teams by position until we’re evenly matched. I’m on the blue team. So is Liv. Matt Rigby is on the gold team, and try as I might not to notice these things, I do: The gold pinny matches his hair.
How pathetic am I?
So pathetic.
I am not, however, pathetic enough to be wearing either “Juicy”-across-the-butt shorts (Schuyler) or blue eye shadow (Jamie) in honor of the occasion. No. I am my usual slobby soccer-playing self, because I didn’t come to this scrimmage to impress anyone. I came here to play soccer.
It’s a mudfest. There’s no other way to describe it. Here’s what happened: About fifteen minutes into the scrimmage it started to rain, and now, even though we’re all wearing cleats, everyone is slipping all over the place. You would think that the coaches would call the game, for safety reasons, but here’s the thing: The score is 1-1 and we’re playing like this is the World Cup. No joke. I don’t know if it’s the trying-to-impress-each-other thing or the weather drama or what, but this is a serious game. Everyone’s spreading out, passing, following their shots. And it’s not as if the guys are going easy on us either. At one point, Kara was flying up the field toward the goal, and this guy Phil slide-tackled her. From then on it was like the gender seal had been broken. Now, it’s no holds barred.
I want to score so bad I can taste it.
The problem is, the gold team is playing amazing defense. Lindsey is sweeper, and in practice she barely moves her feet, but today she’s like an aerobics instructor, lunging and kicking all over the place. Too bad for Lindsey, I know her weakness: She’s a sucker for head fakes. So when Mike Woodmansee sees that I’m open and passes me the ball, there’s only one thing on my mind: Fake left, go right. Fake left, go right.
I am not thinking about the gold pinny coming up behind me—the one that’s getting closer and closer. I am not thinking about it because I just I faked out Lindsey, and the goal is right there, and I am about to take my—
Crap.
I’m flat on my back in the mud, and I don’t even know how I got here. All I know is there’s someone on top of me.
Who’s on top of me? And why the hell isn’t he getting—
Oh. A nanosecond.
My. Is all it takes.
God. To realize exactly whose limbs are tangled up with mine.
“Hey,” Matt Rigby says. His breath is soft and warm. There’s mud on his chin. And in his hair. He’s so close I can literally see his pulse, beating through the vein in his neck.
There are so many things I could say right now.
Hey.
’Sup?
Fancy meeting you here.
Get. Off.
Great game.
Illegal tackle much?
Kiss me.
But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Have we been lying here for three seconds or three hours? I don’t know. All I know is I don’t want to get up. Because this is exactly what it felt like that night on my porch, like the whole world had stopped just for us.
“Nice shot, Jose.” Liv is standing over us, grinning.
That’s when it hits me. “It went in?”
She nods. “Lower left corner.”
“No way.” To Matt Rigby I say, “You’re cutting off my circulation.”
You’re cutting off my circulation. I swear to God.
Then, as if that wasn’t mortifying enough, he laughs.
“There’s something on your face,” Bob says. He’s squinting up at me, suspicious. “Looks like dirt.”
“It’s mud,” I tell him.
“Mud?”
“From soccer practice. Don’t worry.” I hold out my hands for inspection. “I won’t be scooping ice cream with my face.”
Bob shudders at the thought.
It’s a moot point anyway because summer is over and we’ve barely had any customers. Mostly what I’ve been doing when I come to work isn’t scooping, it’s scrubbing. And hauling FedEx boxes down to the basement. And helping Bob play out his European decorating fantasy—lots of ferns and throw rugs.
“What’s this thing?” I run my fingers over the shiny silver contraption sitting on the counter.
Bob swats my hand away. “Don’t touch!”
“OK!” I jump back. “Sheesh.”
“This,” he says in a low voice, “is our new cappuccino maker. . . . Observe.” He presses a button and a little door pops open. “This is the grinder compartment. Where the espresso beans go.” He presses another button and machinery whirs. “See how fast it is? Once the beans are ground”—he whips out a metal cup attached to a black rubber handle—“they go in here. Now . . .” He slides the handled thingy into a slot, clicks it into place, and presses yet a third button, which causes brown liquid to squirt out the bottom. “Voilà!”
“Looks complicated,” I say.
“Now we steam the milk.”
“There’s more?”
“Cappuccino-making is an art, my dear. Art takes time.”
“Ah,” I say.
I watch as Van Gogh continues his tutorial. When he’s finished, he hands me a cheery yellow mug overflowing with froth. “Taste.”
“Since when do we have mugs? . . . Wait—is this from one of the mystery boxes in the basement?”
“Taste.”
“I’m not really much of a coffee drinker.”
Bob huffs a sigh. “Just try it.”
“Fine.” I take a sip, get a nose full of foam.
“Well?”
“Not bad.”
“See?” Bob is smiling, triumphant. Whenever he shows his teeth, I marvel at how tiny they are. Tiny and perfectly square, like a two-year-old’s. “Customers are going to love this!”
I am not so sure. “Who drinks cappuccinos with their ice cream?”
Bob shakes his head, exasperated. “There won’t be any ice cream. We’re phasing it out.”
“What?”
“Hello? How many European-style cafés do you know that serve ice cream?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never been to Europe.”
Bob purses his lips. “Well. Europe is about to come to you.” He tells me to close my eyes.
“Why?”
“Just close them.”
What is it with the eye closing around here? First Liv, now Bob. I don’t know why people insist on—
“Ta-daaaa!”
He’s holding up a wooden sign—yellow with brown lettering and a couple of biscotti painted on—simple, yet elegant. Fiorello’s Café.
I have to ask, since Bob’s last name, I happen to know for a fact, is Schottenstein.
“Please.” Bob grimaces. “Schottenstein Café? ” He tells me about the year he spent in Italy when he was in his twenties, about the café downstairs from his apartment. “Every morning I would wake to the smell of espresso and pastries. . . . Fiorello’s. . . . It was heaven.” His eyes get misty for a moment. “Best year of my life.”
This makes me wonder if there was a girl involved, some Italian beauty he shared his biscotti with. But I don’t ask. Because then Bob might feel compelled to tell me the story about how he got his twentysomething heart broken, and I don’t want to feel any worse for him than I already do. So instead, I nod.
“Anyway,” he says, “I’ve always wanted to open my own café. . . . Nobody ever thinks I’ll do things, but this time I’m actually doing it.” He reaches under the counter, whips out a flyer: FIORELLO’S CAFÉ! GRAND OPENING! “See?”
“Wow,” I say. Because he looks so proud of himself right now. And because, even though Bob is a nutcase, he’s a nutcase with passion. And that kind of makes me want to root for the guy.
I wake in the middle of the night, sweating.
I had this dream that Matt Rigby came into Fiorello’s for a cappuccino, and when he took a sip, his whole head got covered in foam. I kept trying to wipe the foam off him with a towel, but it kept growing back. His mouth would open, trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying because the only thing that came out of his mouth was more foam.
“Spit it out, babe,” I kept saying. (God knows why I was calling him “babe.” I’ve never called anyone “babe” in my life.) And anyway, Dream Matt didn’t listen to my sage advice. He just kept frothing at the mouth like a rabid squirrel.
Ha! What a stupid dream.
I can’t believe I’m still sweating.