Flirting with Disaster (4 page)

Chapter 7

On Saturday I put on my best jeans—formerly my second-best jeans—and a baseball-style shirt that I thought looked sporty. I pulled my hair back into a long ponytail and restraightened it. After a quick retouch of my makeup, I was ready for my first date.

“This isn’t supposed to be a date,” Dad said as I came down the stairs.

I looked up, shocked. What, was he into mind reading now? “It’s a group event,” I told him. “Loads of people are going to be there.” As I said it, I realized that
loads
was a British term. I was using those more and more now without even thinking about it. “And I’m paying for my own lunch.”

Dad grunted and turned back to the telly, which featured a
Top Gear
rerun. Mom winked at me, and I went down the street toward the school.

When I got there, Penny was already sitting on the bleachers with some of the other Aristocats, including Ashley—who, I had to admit, still scared me a little. She was like a live electric wire. She could bring a lot of power, but she could also zap you bad if she felt like it. Her ladies-in-waiting were all cooing and billing around her, and she didn’t notice me at all. Not that I was surprised.

“Hey, Sav.” Penny patted the seat beside her. “Cute shirt.”

“Thanks,” I said, slightly paranoid that she hadn’t mentioned the jeans. “I love your jeans,” I told her. All right, it was weak—I was trying to prompt a response.

“Thanks.” She didn’t fall into the trap of returning the compliment. Drat.

All through the game she explained the rules to me, and actually, for a non-sporty person, I found it pretty interesting. I was surprised to discover that the players in British football loosely play offense or defense but don’t have firm positions like in American football. Of course, my interest was mainly focused toward the home side of the field—where Tommy played—but I couldn’t help it. For her part, Penny got a bit more animated when Oliver made a goal.

Afterward, it seemed the Aristocats were heading off to a party with Ashley and her boyfriend. Penny and Oliver were planning to go to a hamburger place in the village square with Tommy and me, as were a small handful of other footballers and their friends.

We girls moseyed over there first and scored a few long tables. I hadn’t wanted to come to this resto before—it seemed clichéd to have the American girl hanging out at the hamburger joint and all that—but I loved it. The guys met up with us shortly after we arrived. Somehow, inexplicably, the seat next to me stayed open until Tommy arrived.

God works in mysterious ways! I rejoiced.

“Good game,” I said as Tommy pulled out the chair beside me. It was obvious that he’d cleaned up—no mud clinging to him anymore. And I think he’d put on cologne. I was flattered. But it was also clear he hadn’t done that too often. It was a bit strong.

“Hey, mate, heavy hand on the perfume,” his friend on the other side of him said. Tommy blushed.

After we’d made conversation with the rest of the table, Tommy turned to me and asked about my guitar playing and what I was doing for my Tudor history project.

He looked interested in everything I had to say. It was very sweet.

The hamburgers were great, and after Tommy left with one of his friends, Penny’s mom came and said she’d take us home. On the way out, I noticed Rodney, the sportswriter, sitting in a booth with a bunch of other people from school. A few of them were from the paper.

Natalie was with them.

I had no idea Natalie and Rodney were friends.

“So, good game,” I said. “Busy weekend for a sportswriter, eh?”

“Right,” Rodney said. “A win is always fun to write up.”

“Having a little editorial competition too?” I teased, knowing that both Rodney and Natalie were running for the position.

Rodney shook his head. “I’m not running any longer.”

I was surprised. “Oh . . . well, that’s news.”

He shrugged slightly.

“Bye, then,” I said, and several at the table answered with good-byes of their own.

On the way out the door, I could almost have sworn I heard Natalie purr.

Chapter 8

After school on Monday, Penny invited me to come to her house to hang out.

“Normally I’d be right on it, but I’ve got plans today,” I said. “Later this week?”

She nodded, and I headed home to quickly change my clothes and to pick up the writing notebook that Melissa, my mentor on the paper, had given me. I was preparing to research my first full-length article. I hoped that Hazelle—or Natalie, depending on who the new editor was—would let me write my piece about Be@titude, the local shop/ministry I supported. I wanted to be prepared just in case.

After a brisk walk to the square, I arrived at Be@titude. I looked at the window display before going in. The clothes were great—maybe a bit old for me, but really stylish. They’d be perfect if I had a job. And some Pradas. I pushed the door open, and the chimes jingled. The store was pretty quiet, as I’d expected for a Monday. That’s why I’d chosen this day to come and ask Becky for an interview.

“Savvy!” Becky came over and hugged me like an old friend. “How are you? How was the ball?”

I grinned. “Long story.” Becky had no idea that while I hadn’t worn my beautiful tea green Faerie dress for the ball, I had worn it the next day, and everyone important had seen me in it. “I finally get to write a full-length article, and hopefully I can write it about your store and ministry. Do you have time for an interview?”

Becky checked her watch. “I do have just a few minutes, and then someone is coming in.” A bright look came across her face, and she snapped her well-manicured fingertips. “Even better! One of the single mums we’re planning to help with the new fund-raiser will be coming in to talk about her career aspirations and to be measured for clothes. That might make a good angle!”

Angle!
Journalist speak. Melissa, my mentor at the paper, was going to be so proud when I showed up with a whole slew of good material to start with. “Sounds fantastic,” I agreed. As Becky leaned against her glass counter, I flipped open my notebook to begin asking a few questions. “How did you get started in this business?”

“I’ve always loved fashion,” she said. “But honestly, as a Christian, I sometimes felt like people viewed me as a bit shallow for caring about clothing and all that. I rather felt like it was putting my best foot forward and feeling good about myself. Later I thought how useful I could be helping other women feel good about themselves, especially at a time when they might be a bit low.”

“Why single mothers?” I asked, hoping to not be overly personal but wanting to get to the heart of the ministry—and the article.

“My mum was a single mother,” Becky answered matter-of-factly. “I know how hard it is.”

As if on cue, the door chimed, and in walked a woman, her lovely face shadowed by fatigue. A little girl in a slightly too-small dress clung to one hand. The girl’s other arm was curled snakelike around a little doll, ensuring that it wouldn’t drop.

“Hullo,” Becky said, warmly gathering them into the chic shop as if they’d always belonged. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She meant it—I could tell, and I saw they could too by the way their faces relaxed. “My friend Savvy is writing an article for her school paper on the shop and the ministry. Would you mind if she stayed for our interview?”

“You write for a paper?” the little girl squealed with delight. “And I’m going to be in it?”

“Hush, Emma.” Her mother put her finger to her lips. But Emma looked up at me with such hero worship that I decided at that moment:

1. All little kids weren’t the monsters I’d previously supposed. There were a few select exceptions to prove the rule. Emma was one of them.

2. I was going to get Emma into the newspaper. And laminate a copy of the article for her. And personally deliver it.

3. I needed to help this ministry. It was my calling, and I was going to make it happen.

Becky introduced me to the mother, Isobel, then took her to the back room to measure her. “I’ll leave you in charge of the front of the shop, then,” she said to me. “Just be helpful if someone comes in, and holler if you need me.”

Me? In charge of the shop?

“Can you keep an eye on Emma?” Isobel asked.

“Sure,” I answered nervously, remembering the babysitting disasters of Christmases past. And Easters past. And summer breaks past. I looked around nervously, but thankfully, no one came in. It wasn’t long before I discovered a problem, though. Emma was missing.

“Emma!” I called out as cheerfully as I could.

No answer. I walked around the shop—it wasn’t that big, after all—searching for her. Nothing. I turned the radio down to listen. Nothing.

Oh, Lord, I really don’t want to go to the try-on rooms and tell them that I lost a child. But . . .
I hadn’t heard the door chimes. So she had to be in here somewhere. I went to a clothes rounder with blouses on it and parted a wedge to look inside. Nothing.

Dresses rounder, parted. Nothing.

Trousers rounder, parted. “You found me!” Emma said.

“Come on out,” I pleaded.

“I can’t,” she said, seriousness creeping into her voice. “I’m playing house.”

“Underneath the trousers?” I asked incredulously.

“I like to play house,” she said. Then she crawled out, dragging her doll behind her. “But I’ll come out if you want me to.”

I closed the gap in the trousers, and the two of us sat by the register and played tic-tac-toe, also known as naughts and crosses, till Becky and Isobel returned, measurements in hand. After they left the store, Becky told me about some of Isobel’s career goals and answered a few more questions for me.

“Next month I’m holding a huge Internet fund-raiser,” Becky said. “People bid on some donated items, and then at the end of the auction, I use the extra money to provide suitable work clothes for people like Isobel.”

“Maybe I can help,” I said.

Becky pursed her lips and sat quietly for a minute. “Sometimes the kind of help I’ll need will be what you were just doing—child-minding, cleaning up, data input. Dull, I know, but critically important. But one other thing you could really help with is PR for people your age. Normally I get a lot of women in the shop, but unless there’s a big event like the May Day Ball, teens tend to prefer Kensington or Oxford Street or Knightsbridge. Most teens have a pretty significant disposable income for clothes. If you could figure out a way to get them in here more than once or twice a year . . .”