My Boyfriends' Dogs (21 page)

“You know you'll get a date to the prom. Not that the world would end if you didn't,” she added under her breath.

“But that's just it!” I knew this would be hard to explain to Amber, who probably wouldn't care that much whether she went to prom or not. “I don't want just any date. Like, I don't want an imaginary prom date.”

Amber grinned. “An imaginary prom date? Now that could be fun. If we double, could we ride in your imaginary Jag? ”

“Not that kind of imaginary. I mean, where I drag in a friend of a friend, or some guy I knew from sixth-grade summer camp, or a son of Mom's old school buddy and pretend we're madly in love, the ideal prom couple.”

“I get it.”

“And I don't want a used or recycled boyfriend either.”

“So Mediocre Mark's out? ”

“Totally.”

“And Mitch and Went,” Amber added.

I nodded, but I didn't look at her. There was still an ember in my heart for Went Smith, and it sparked a little whenever I thought about him. Mitch too. I remembered being kissed by Mitch under a cold sky and bright moon, talking about art and music. . . .

“. . . perfect prom date? ” Amber was on a roll. “And all this time I thought you were finally getting into your classes.”

“There's that, too,” I said, pulling myself out of my memories. “I don't know how it happened, but my classes turned interesting. Teachers are better this year, too.”

“Yeah. That's it, Bailey. Couldn't have anything to do with you, or the fact that you know what they're talking about in class because you're actually reading the assignments.”

There was no question that not dating had given me more time to study. Several nights a week, Mom and I curled up on opposite ends of the couch and read for hours. I'd polished off novels that weren't even homework. Weird.

Lunch ended, and Amber and I worked our way through the crowded lunchroom.

“Ah, the drama,” Amber said, glancing over the sea of noisy juniors and seniors. “Who will be the last date standing? ”

I knew who I'd choose as my “last date standing.” Eric Strang, the gorgeous, smart, kind—did I say gorgeous?—guy in creative writing. Every day I had to look at his strong back and sandy blond hair. How hot would he be in a tux?

I was still envisioning the handsome Eric in a tux as I plopped into my last-row seat in French class.

“Bonjour, la classe!”
bellowed Madame Jones.

“Bonjour,”
we muttered back.

As always, I turned to my gothic French partner, “Mademoiselle Roni,” to translate. She was wearing a red satin sheath dress, with leather half-gloves.

“She wants us to decide what to talk about today,” Roni whispered.

“Not again.” We'd done this before, and the kids who understood her were the ones who chose subjects like Napoleon or majoring in French in college. It was up to me. I raised my hand.

“Ah,” said the surprised Madame Jones. “Mademoiselle Bailey? ”

“L'amour!”
I shouted.

My request was greeted with applause from half the class. Our teacher instructed us to come up with a list of French words relating to
amour
. She quickly, and wisely, excluded swearwords, slang, and coarse language. Even good ol' Mediocre Mark knew how to ask me to go to bed with him in English, French, and Italian.

Roni and I breezed through the easy words:
boyfriend, girlfriend, kiss, hug
. I allowed my goth buddy her unusual train of thought surrounding love: death, loss, sacrifice, torture. So I took a few liberties myself: tuxedo, prom, broad shoulders, sandy blond hair, Yale bound.

Roni stopped writing and narrowed her eyes at me. “Yale bound? ”

I shrugged.

She smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Don't tell me.”

“What? ”

“Should I add the name Eric Strang? ”

“How did you know? ”

“How many people in this school do you think are headed for Yale? ”

“Two.” I pictured Jeannette, her pale pink cashmere sweater (which cost more than my state-school tuition) tied around her shoulders as she strolled arm in arm with Eric across the Ivy League quad.

“Not you too,” Roni said.

“Wait. What do you mean ‘not me too'? Do
you
like Eric Strang? ”

“Eeew! Gross!”

“Are we talking about the same Eric Strang? Because there is nothing gross about the Eric I'm talking about. In fact, he's the perfect
amour
.”

She shook her head. “Not for me he isn't.”

“Why not? ”

“Bailey, Eric Strang is my brother.”

“Your what?” I must have shouted because Madame Jones shot me a dirty look.

Roni fingered her necklace, which resembled a human molar on a leather strap. “Haven't you noticed the family resemblance? ”

I took in her thin, almost emaciated build, the straight black hair, the . . . well, the goth. “Not exactly.”

She dug into a black leather bag and came out with a driver's license that she stuck in my face. It was her picture, with the name Ronisetta Strang.

“Ronisetta? ” I repeated.

She whisked the license away. “Don't ever call me that, or I'll rip your heart out.”

“Fair enough.”

I'd never thought about Eric having siblings. Or Roni. Maybe only children assume everyone is sibling-free unless proven otherwise.

Once her license was safely returned to her bag, Roni sighed. “I can't believe you have a thing for Eric. Got to say I'm disappointed in you.”

“Why? What's wrong with your brother? ”

“Nothing. Eric's perfect.” There was zero sarcasm in her voice.

“Yeah? I mean, he looks perfect. He seems perfect.”

“And what you see is what you get. My brother looks perfect because he is perfect.” Roni said this with the emotion of a bored weatherperson.

“So why are you disappointed in me for liking Eric? From afar, of course.”

She shrugged.

“Oh, I get it. Now I'm like every hopeless girl in this school. We all have crushes on Eric, but he's already got a girlfriend who's as perfect as he is.”

Roni frowned. “Eric has a girlfriend? ”

“Man, you guys really aren't close, huh? I figured he and Jeannette have been together since the beginning of time.”

Roni laughed.

“What? ”

“Eric and Jeannette
have
been together since the beginning of time, all right, since before they were born. Our mothers are best friends. We were country club kids.”

“Ah.” I'd always thought it would be romantic to have a childhood romance last through all eternity. “No wonder they're so close.”

“Close, yes.
Amour, non
.”

I wheeled on Roni. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me—? ”

“They're just friends, Bailey.”

Just friends?
Never had those clichéd words sound so fresh, so wonderful, so filled with possibility.

“Trois minutes!”
Madame Jones announced, warning us that our time was just about up.

Roni turned back to our list and wrote a dozen terms, doubling our
amour
vocab list.

The good students discussed
amour
. The bell rang. The room emptied. And still I sat amazed, flabbergasted, astounded . . .

I was waiting for Roni the second school let out. “There she is!”

“She's traveling in a coven,” Amber observed. “I'll wait for you in Harper.”

“Roni!” I shouted, racing up to her. The black-clad pack of goths tightened around her. “Roni, I have to talk to you.”

The pack turned to Roni. “Go on,” she told them. “I'll catch up.”

Reluctantly, they shuffled off, shooting surly glances back at us. Me.

“Make it fast,
mademoiselle,
” Roni warned.

“I just need to ask you something.”

“I'm betting it's not about French verbs. Okay. Five minutes.”

“You promise that your brother and Jeannette aren't . . . aren't . . . ? ”

“They're not. Eric doesn't think of her like that. Four minutes.”

She was making it hard to think. People stormed past us as we held our ground on the step, pebbles in a rushing river. “So does he have another girlfriend? ” I held my breath.

“No.”

Yes!
“Does he date? ”

“Sometimes.” She checked her watch. “Three minutes.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” My mind was spinning. Jeannette may not have been Eric's girlfriend, but she was still a problem. How could I get to know him—okay, flirt with him—with her around? “Are they always together? ”

“Eric and Jeannette? ”

No. Dracula and his bride.
“Yeah. Doesn't Eric go anywhere without his friend who is a girl but not his girlfriend? ”

She raised her eyebrows. I didn't think she was going to answer, and then she did. “Golfing. Jeannette hates golf.”

“That's great! When does he golf? Where? ”

She shouted to the goth pack, “There in a minute!” Then she turned back to me. “Every Sunday afternoon. Riverbend Country Club. With Eric Senior.”

“Your dad?” My balloon burst. My bubble popped. “That doesn't help. Does he always golf with your dad? ”

“Sometimes they pick up two more old guys and do eighteen holes.” She tapped her wrist, and only then did I realize she wasn't wearing a watch. “Time's up.”

Defeated, I watched Roni descend the steps into a pool of black. They moved off as one, but she turned back to me. “Saturday mornings. The driving range. Just him.” She left, swallowed into the sea of black before I could offer her half my kingdom, my firstborn child, and my undying gratitude.

 

Saturday morning I was at the driving range forty minutes before it opened. Amber had refused to come with me on the flimsy grounds that she opposed the lifestyle of the rich and famous and upwardly mobile. Plus, she had to work for her dad on Saturdays.

I bought my bucket of balls and got first pick of the tee-box thingies. By the time I'd finished my first bucket, about half of the spots had filled up. I was the only girl and the only person under thirty. I had to lie to three people and tell them the tee next to me was already taken. With any luck, it would be—by Eric Strang.

I hit another basket of balls. And another. The sun grew hotter, and I was afraid I'd be sweaty by the time Eric got there, but I kept hitting little white balls. In fact, I was getting pretty decent at it. Stroke for stroke, I was crushing the middle-aged guy two tees over.

“Bailey? ”

I looked up to see Eric Strang in all his gorgeousness. He put down his bucket of balls and set one up on his tee. “I've never seen you here before.”

“Me either.” I let that one hang in the air between us.

He lined up to take a shot, so I forced myself to look away and set up my own ball. I hit a few, without trying my best. Then I watched him. When his bucket of balls was empty, I said the line I'd rehearsed: “You have a great swing.”

He smiled at me, a nice, friendly smile. I wanted to be so much more than friends.

“I'm really off my swing today,” I said. “You want my golf balls? I'm wasting them.”

“That bad?” He leaned on his club and watched me. “Hit a couple. I'll see if I can help.”

“Okay.” But the thought of being watched by Eric Strang made breathing nearly impossible. “Don't say I didn't warn you.” I hit three balls without trying to make them good. What if he couldn't hit as far as I could? Femme fatale and all that. When I finished the fourth crummy hit, I turned to him. “I'm not usually this bad.”

“I know,” he admitted. “I saw you hit earlier.”

“You did? ”

He nodded. “Before I came out.”

“Ah,” said I on the outside.
You were watching me!
said I on the inside.

Eric took his club and lined it over his tee. “It's all a matter of leverage when you're driving. You get that by the lag, or the angle created by the club and your hand. See? The longer you keep the angle, the more energy you can release in the impact zone, so you get the maximum club head speed.”

“Sorry. I don't speak golf.”

He laughed—a nice, controlled laugh. “All right. Think of the golf club as a whip. You whip the ball and follow through.” He did exactly that, then put down his club and walked over to me. “I'll show you.”

I picked up my driver, and he put a ball on my tee. I took my stance in front of the ball and tried not to sweat as he walked up behind me, reached around, and placed his hands over mine. Instantly, I felt a deep attraction to him. We definitely had chemistry—at least, I did.

“Remember, just think of the club as part of your hand. Relax.” He said this while squeezing his arms around me, resting his chin on my head, and gripping my hands. Not the ideal conditions for relaxation.

We hit three balls like that. Finally, my palms were so sweaty I couldn't grip. I let go of the club. When I turned, my face was inches from his. Greenish blue eyes, strong jaw, perfect nose. This was a face I could stare into for the rest of my life.

For two angst-ridden weeks, Eric and I saw each other every day in writing class, where I had perfect attendance. He even started saving me a seat next to him. Amber didn't mind. He was always friendly to both of us. So was Jeannette. I'd almost given up on getting out of the “friend” category when he finally called and asked me out.