Perfect Match (10 page)

“Lame,” Kennedy dismissed her. “Shakespeare's not sexy.”

I glanced at SBB, whose face had that “ooh, I know about Shakespeare from a movie I once made” look
on it. Before I could stop her, she'd climbed on top of her chair.

“O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo,” She spouted off the lines so theatrically that her beret fell down over her eyes. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet—”

“
What
are you doing?” Willa asked. She and Kennedy were the only ones in the room nasty enough to ask, but I could tell from the other girls' faces that they were all thinking the same thing.

“We learned Shakespeare,” SBB said, “at my old school … in
Chicago.
Yeah, I took a test over it and everything.”

I covered my face with my hands. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

“What's your point?” Kennedy said, then turned to glare at me. “Flan, your shadow is being disruptive.”

“Uh,” I stalled, “I think her point is that Shakespeare is romantic, right, Simone?” I raised my eyebrows at SBB to try to get her to sit down and just observe.

“No,” Willa said flatly. “I'm class president and I veto that idea. Dara, what else do we have?”

As Dara flipped through her notes, SBB got back up on the chair. “That's dictatorial!” she said, throwing out a word she'd loved since playing Napoleon's
mistress in a smutty period piece. “At my old school, in
Chicago
, we always voted to democratically settle such important matters.”

“This isn't your old school, in
Chicago
,” Kennedy hissed. “At this school, in
New York City
, we socially annihilate people who annoy us.”

I had to stop SBB before she made any more of a spectacle of herself. I knew from experience that SBB had to feel needed in order to stay out of trouble. I racked my brain for a task to keep her occupied.

All I had in my not-so-good-for-the-spine Muxo schoolbag was the portfolio of prints from my photography class. Without much of a plan, I pulled them out and slid them across the table to SBB.

“Uh, Simone,” I said quietly, “I was wondering if you could help me figure out which one of these to blow up and turn in for my final project.”

SBB/Simone looked flattered and immediately set to work. For three blissful minutes, she was focused on flipping through my prints, and the conversation about the Valentine's Dance got shakily back on track.

“Kisses on My Pillow, Love Me Do, Red Hot Valentine …” Dara listed off the uninspiring ideas for themes.

“Who came up with these?” Kennedy demanded. “They're all completely forgettable.”

I glanced at Dara's notes. Kennedy's name was listed next to each of the bad ideas we'd come up with at the last meeting, but I could tell Dara would rather take credit for them herself than point this out to Kennedy.

“The ideas themselves aren't terrible,” I chimed in. “It's just they're sort of vague. We need something concrete. We need a concept. After that, coming up with the ideas for decorations, music, and activities should be easy.”

“What about …” SBB/Simone said. The room waited impatiently for her to articulate. I just hoped she wasn't going to get back up on the chair.

“What about this one?” she finally said, laying one of my photographs on the table. Of all my prints, this one was particularly well shot and well developed. It was an image of the perfect Balthazar linzertorte.

“You're right.” I smiled at SBB. “This is exactly the print I should use for my class.”

“Not only that,” SBB/Simone said, laying on the hard
a
in
that
like a true Midwesterner, “it's also the perfect theme for the dance:
Picture Yourself in Love
.” She turned to the other girls on the committee, but stayed—mercifully—in her seat. “What do you guys think? We could blow up giant classy prints of romantic city shots and hang them on all the walls for decoration.
We could have one of those photo button-making machines and give the buttons out for favors.”

As I looked around the table, everyone seemed pretty intrigued by the idea. Even Willa and Kennedy hadn't thought of anything nasty to say—and that was huge.

“Ooh.” SBB grinned. “And you know that song they keep playing on the radio, ‘Picture You with Me'? Who's that by again—that really hot guy?”

“Jake Riverdale!” Dara chimed in. “Love him.”

“Me too.” SBB/Simone grinned. “That could be the theme song!”

I held back a laugh. The undercover pimping of her boyfriend's new hit single was definitely SBB's best acting of the day.

The whole table spoke up so enthusiastically that it was clear everyone was on board. I couldn't believe that by the time the meeting adjourned, the details for the Valentine's Dance had totally come together.

“Okay,” Kennedy huffed, clearly pissed that allowing SBB/Simone into the meeting hadn't been a mistake. “We'll meet again on Wednesday to finalize the details.
Everyone
better be here.”

As SBB/Simone and I walked out of the conference room arm in arm, I leaned in to whisper, “That was
amazing
. Are you sure you didn't go to high school?”

“Didn't you figure me out?” SBB asked. “I was just channeling you, Flannie. You're my high school role model. You know the way you get when you're planning something and your nose gets all scrunched up and serious.” She laughed. “Do you think they bought it?”

Looking back at Kennedy and Willa huddled in the doorway, I was sure that they must have. SBB/Simone had been so convincing—even though it was a little embarrassing to learn that I did that scrunching thing with my nose.

But just before we turned the corner, I overheard Willa's voice and froze.

“I've got cousins all over Illinois,” she hissed to Kennedy. “I'm going to put out some feelers about this
Simone from Chicago
.”

I realized I'd better warn Simone that it might be time for a costume change.

A few minutes later, SBB and I were waiting outside Thoney for her driver.

“Am I getting the hang of high school, or what?” she asked.

I was just about to tell SBB that tomorrow, she might even consider dressing like a normal New Yorker—instead of a professional student—when she pointed at the black town car slowing to a stop in front of us and clapped her hand to her forehead. “Shoot, is it a dead giveaway of my stardom that I'm being chauffeured home?”

I shook my head and laughed. “Are you kidding? At Thoney? Take a look around,” I said, pointing to the line of town cars picking up the greater number of the girls who'd been at the dance committee meeting.

“Wow,” she said. “High school and Hollywood
seem more and more similar every day. In that case—want a ride home?”

I looked down the street at the busy Park Avenue rush. It was nearly dusk, my favorite time of day in New York, and for a change, it wasn't bitterly cold outside. I shook my head and helped SBB into her car.

“Thanks, but I think I'm going to walk a bit. I've still got to find a Valentine's gift for Alex—” I caught myself. “I mean, to supplement the mocket.”

SBB looked at me curiously. “Going above and beyond the mocket, huh? You must really like this one.”

As she drove away, I started walking south on Park, trying to convince myself not to get too bogged down by the pressure of this Valentine's gift exchange. My family always said I had the magic touch when it came to gift giving. For as long as I could remember, every birthday and Christmas present I'd picked out had always received the most genuine oohs and ahhs out of anyone in my family. Part of that had to do with the fact that the rest of my relatives usually had their assistants do their shopping for them, but part of it also had to do with the fact that I put a lot of thought into my gifts. From the remote-control tracker device that I'd bought for my mom on eBay, to the chocolate
fountain I'd given Feb for her twenty-first birthday, I always managed to come up with gifts that were personal and functional and unique.

Now, as the sun set in between the gray Midtown high rises, I moseyed in and out of the shops along Madison Avenue. I had made it all the way down to Midtown without finding anything, when I found myself in front of my favorite bookstore in the city, Rizzoli.

I stepped inside the impressive high-ceilinged shop, breathing in the crisp smell of new books and thinking that even if I didn't find something for Alex, I still wanted to check out their section on photography. I was sidling around a giant display of Valentine's Day books for children, when I hit a roadblock—a very tall roadblock.

“Excuse me,” I said to the tall, dirty-blond-headed guy in a Weezer shirt. He was fully obstructing the only open path past the displays. I mean, who even wore Weezer shirts anymore? But I knew that Weezer shirt!

“Bennett?” I said as my ex-boyfriend spun around to face me.

“Flan?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

At first I felt guilty about admitting that I was here shopping for my current boyfriend—after all, Bennett
and I had broken up because I was on the brink of a new romance with my
other
ex-boyfriend, Adam. Or did we break up before I met Adam? It was sort of hard to keep the timeline straight. The point was, I'd always felt a little bit of residual guilt/fear that I had broken Bennett's heart.

But looking at him now, he looked like his happy old Bennett self. Everything about him, from his chipped front tooth down to his worn T-shirt and frayed jeans, looked exactly the same as it had when I'd first fallen for him.

“Oh, you know, I'm just browsing.” I shrugged. “What about you?”

From the way Bennett's face lit up, I thought he might tell me that he was shopping for his new girlfriend—not that that would bother me—but he just smiled and said, “I've been doing research on old film reels to try to learn more about the history of moviemaking. This place has a great section on old movie books. It's so cool, like a whole secret world.”

“That's great,” I said, wondering how genuine my excitement sounded.

Seeing Bennett all jazzed up about movies reminded me of all the ones he'd dragged me to watch last fall. He was the film editor of the
Stuyvesant Spectator
, and I'd always tried to support his passion
for review writing, but let's just say after seven films about evil Russian clones, my enthusiasm had started to wane. For a second, the matchmaker in me came alive, and I thought that what Bennett needed was to be with someone who was just as into movies as he was—someone like Camille.

But then I remembered Morgan's harsh words in the lunchroom during the Rob Zumberg rift, and I pictured her standing over me saying, “A lot of people like movies, Flan. Are you going to pawn Camille off on just anyone who likes movies?”

No. I shook my head at the imaginary Morgan. I wasn't going to make that same mistake again.

So I looked at Bennett again and reconsidered my intentions. There was more to it than Bennett just being into movies. There was something specific about the
way
he approached his hobbies. He wasn't just interested in writing a good story or movie review; Bennett wanted to know the secret history behind everything he got involved in.

Which actually made him a way better candidate for someone like … Morgan! She was all about finding the secret anecdotes about her favorite bands. She spent more time poring over obscure music Web sites than she ever did on her homework. And she was forever telling us about which Beatle had written which
song for which of his bandmates' wives. Totally something Bennett would do in his movie research. I also remembered the way Bennett had lightheartedly kidnapped and set free the frogs in my biology class last fall, when I'd been so stressed about animal cruelty. He was so laid-back that even when Morgan stressed about ridiculous stuff like extra-loud cappuccino makers at cafes, he'd be able to talk her down.

Bennett was grinning as he showed me one of the black-and-white books he'd found, and I caught a glimpse of his famous chipped tooth. Morgan
had
always had an unexplainable fondness for imperfect teeth. She claimed it was the Anglophile in her. It was undeniable: Bennett was the perfect match I'd been seeking for Morgan all this time.

He closed the book and looked up at me to see if I approved. “What do you think?” he asked.

“I think …” I said, grinning at him. “I think I'm wondering if you're seeing anyone.”

Whoops, did that sound like a come-on?

“I mean, I've got this really great friend at Thoney, and I think you guys might be good together. That is, if you're single.”

Bennett blushed and looked down at the ground. “Well, I mean, yeah, I am single. But … would that be weird?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Would it?”

I couldn't tell from the tone of Bennett's voice whether he thought it would be weirder for me or for him. I didn't think it would be weird on my end, but I wasn't sure about Bennett. It wasn't really like me to think like this, but looking at his face, it crossed my mind that Bennett might not be over me.

Finally he shrugged. “It wouldn't be weird for me … if it wouldn't be weird for you.”

“No,” I said quickly. “It wouldn't be weird for me. It was my idea.”

“Good,” he said, thumbing through the books on the display case. “Okay, cool.”

“Cool,” I said, looking for something to keep my hands busy too. “So I'll text you Morgan's number and you can give her a call?”

“Sounds good.” Bennett nodded. “Well, it was good to see you, Flan.”

He gave me an incredibly awkward hug and hurried out of the store. I couldn't figure out which of us was responsible for that hug feeling so uncomfortable.