Rhymes With Cupid (14 page)

Chapter 14

B
y the time we finished our milk shakes and drove home, I was too much of a mess to make myself dinner. So even though I discovered that Patrick had carefully arranged the groceries I’d bought on the countertop, with the perishable stuff neatly lined up in the fridge, I ignored them all and had another bland and mushy microwave dinner. Even then, I barely choked it down before talking on the phone with my mom (neglecting, of course, to mention that I’d nearly gotten myself and our neighbor and a guy named Stu killed in a car accident) and falling into bed.

In fact, it wasn’t until dinnertime the next day that I really felt much like eating at all, which was a good thing, maybe, since I still didn’t have any cereal or bread for breakfast. I had all of Sunday off, so after a day spent reading in bed and getting ahead on chemistry homework, I wandered down to the living room. I was just flipping through the magazines on our coffee table, looking for the crouton recipe that had sparked the whole groceries disaster of the day before, when the phone rang. Obviously, it was my mother. Except for the occasional call from Dina, it always was.

“Elyse!”

“Hi, Mom.” I tried to make my voice sound light and bright. “How’s it going?”

“Wonderful. You know, Elyse, I like it more here every day.” The day before when she’d called, she’d told me about spending the whole afternoon at the hotel spa. “Now I know firsthand what a mustard wrap is!” she’d said proudly. And the day before that, she and Valter had taken some kind of mini cruise. “With a four-course meal!” she’d exclaimed. “They almost had to roll me off the boat.”

Today, it seemed, had been just as magical. “As soon as I get home, we’re getting your passport renewed,” my mother said. “I want to bring you back here for March break next year if we can save up. This morning we went horseback riding down the beach on white stallions, then snorkeling through a barrier reef after lunch. It’s four thirty, and I still haven’t taken my bathing suit off! I’m just having a drink in my room before an early dinner, then there’s a traditional Mexican dance lesson on the beach. How was your day, honey?”

Compared to horseback riding and exploring barrier reefs, boring really. “All right. I stayed home and studied. I’m just about to make dinner.”

“Oh. Did you go grocery shopping, then? Did you have to wait long for the bus? I hate to think of you waiting with heavy bags.”

“I went yesterday. I was fine,” I said, not mentioning that Patrick had actually driven me home. I felt miserable/guilty enough that I wasn’t 100 percent happy about his crush on Dina. I didn’t need my mother cooing over his wonderfulness again. In the background I heard a door opening, the sound of water running, then an odd whirring noise. “Is housekeeping there?” I asked.

“Oh, no.” Was I imagining things, or had my mom just giggled? “That’s Valter. They’ve got full kitchenettes in the rooms with blenders and mini fridges. When they said the resort was five star, they weren’t exaggerating. He’s just mixing us some frozen cocktails.”

Valter was there? In my mother’s hotel room? Drinking alcohol? While she had nothing on but that crazy flowered bathing suit with the plunging neckline?

“
Olé
, Elyse!” I heard him call in the background. Well, at least they weren’t trying to hide their Mexican love affair from me. Not that that was much of a consolation.

“Listen, sweetie, you know long distance is expensive, so I won’t chat for long. I just wanted to remind you about the garbage.”

“The garbage?”

“Pickup is first thing tomorrow morning, but you should bring the bins out to the yard tonight so things don’t start to smell.” I sighed. Right, the garbage. While my mother was off sipping margaritas in a hotel room with a Swedish masseuse, I was on garbage duty. I was about to sigh loudly, but caught myself just in time. After all, this was the first real vacation she’d had since I was born. And, if there
was
something up between her and Valter, it was for sure the first romance she’d had since my dad left. She deserved to have some fun. I just hoped that whatever happened in Mexico would stay in Mexico.

“Sure, Mom. I’ll put the garbage out,” I promised.

“And how about the house? Any problems?”

“Nope. Everything’s fine,” I lied. I still hadn’t told her about my stupidity with the furnace earlier in the week and, the way I saw it, there was no reason she ever needed to know. “I’m totally on top of things.”

“I knew you would be.” I heard the unmistakable clinking of glasses.

“I’ll let you go, Mom,” I said.

“Okay, honey. Love you,” she said. “Miss you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I love you, too,” I answered. “Bye.”

I set the phone back in the charger and began to shiver, hugging my sweater around me. As interesting as being on my own had been so far, I’d be glad to have my mom back home in a few days. Especially at night, when the wind whipped around the small house, rattling its windowpanes, I felt vulnerable, and more than a little lonely.

To fill up the silence, I turned on some cornball made-for-TV movie. It was called
Pop Star Love
and was about two best friends who were competing for a spot in a rock band, as well as for the love of Zane Steele, the hunky lead singer.

“You betrayed me,” one of the girls was shouting. “You don’t deserve to win the battle of the bands.” Seriously lame stuff, but it provided some background noise. When I finally found the crouton recipe, I went back to the kitchen and started cooking. Between the toasty smell of the warm Parmesan in the kitchen, and the roaring of the crowd at the Battle of the Bands Rock-out Showdown in the living room, it wasn’t long before I felt better. I carried my Caesar salad into the living room and ate it with some cold cuts while I watched Cassidy, the underdog-turned-rock-star, win Zane’s heart and bring down the house by singing from the heart and expressing her true emotions. I rolled my eyes, then stuffed a giant lettuce leaf into my mouth followed by a homemade crouton. It was warm, crunchy, and just the right amount cheesy. The fancy Parmesan I’d bought had been worth every penny of the $12.75 I’d paid.

When the credits started to roll, I gathered my dishes, brought them to the kitchen, then collected the trash. As instructed by the million-page note my mom had left on the table, I carefully sorted it into different bins—garbage, recyclables, and organic waste—and carried it out to the backyard. When I was done I made some popcorn and wandered back to the TV where Cassidy’s tale of romance and rock and roll had been replaced by some creepy crime-scene investigation thing. Great.

A police officer was inching through a darkened house, gun drawn, a look of intense concentration on his face. The camera cut to a shot of the killer, hiding in a corner of the basement, presumably in the same house. The music faded to an eerie heartbeat, so you just knew that, whatever was coming, it wasn’t good. I reached for the remote to change the channel.

Crash
. A loud clattering noise came from the back of the house. I jumped, dumping popcorn everywhere, then scrambled onto the couch, tucking my feet up. Instinctively, I hugged a decorative cushion, like its satin trim could somehow protect me. “Oh my God,” I said aloud. “Oh my God. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,” I whispered to the TV. I grabbed for the remote a second time and switched the creepy show off. I listened. Silence.

Boom.
Another bang from the backyard. I forced myself to take a deep breath. I was just freaked out because of the stupid TV show. It was probably the wind, knocking one of the garbage cans over. Or maybe Patrick or the neighbor on the other side had slammed
their
door and it just sounded like someone was trying to bang their way through mine. There was no reason to panic. Still, just in case, I dropped the useless pillow and reached for the much more practical portable phone. Clutching it tightly, I tiptoed through the spilled popcorn and down the hall toward the kitchen. I had just edged my way carefully around the corner when I heard another loud noise.
Ka-splunk.

I looked up, then froze. They were unmistakable. Staring at me through the kitchen window over the sink was a set of beady eyes. There was another bang. The door shook. Whoever was outside started to grunt and breathe heavily. They were obviously determined to get in.
Bang
. The door shook again.

Okay,
now
was the time to panic. Practically panting, I ran back to the front of the house. I knew I should have been calling 911, but my hands were shaking so hard, I didn’t think I’d be able to dial. Without even stopping to put on boots, I ran out our front door into the snow, over Patrick’s conveniently flattened “blossoming Japanese cherry bush” and onto the front porch of his house.

“Help!” I yelled, hammering against the door. “Patrick. It’s Elyse. Let me in. Please.” I banged at the door again. “Please be home! I need you.” A light came on. The door opened slowly.

“Oh, hello,” Mr. Connor said, looking up over his reading glasses. Even though it was barely nine
P.M.
, he was dressed in pajama bottoms, a bathrobe, and slippers. “I thought I heard someone knocking. How’s the furnace working now, Elyse?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about those pickles, have you? I had Patrick bring them up just in case. I’d eat them myself, but they give me indigestion.” Just then, Patrick came down the stairs, taking in my panicked expression and sock feet.

I didn’t have time to be polite to Mr. Connor, or to explain that I wasn’t there to get the stupid pickles. The beady-eyed burglar/murderer could be coming right behind me for all I knew. I pushed my way into the house and turned the deadbolt behind me.

“You have to call the police,” I squeaked. “There’s somebody in the backyard. They’re trying to get into my house. They’re banging something against the door, trying to knock it down.” Before I knew what was happening, Patrick had come forward and put his arms around me protectively, and I had let him. “I was so scared,” I said into his shoulder. “God. And I just took out the garbage, like, two minutes before. Whoever it was was probably watching me. We’re wasting time. We have to call the police,” I said again. I pulled away from Patrick and tried to dial the portable phone I was still holding. My fingers were shaking badly though, and I’d just managed to press 9 when Patrick took it from me gently.

“You just took out the garbage?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I think I know who it is,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Who?” He didn’t seem at all worried. Like, what? Was it normal in this neighborhood for people to go around trying to break down other people’s doors? He made rings with his hands and held them up over his eyes like binoculars. Was he suggesting some rogue bird-watchers were on the loose? I seriously didn’t have time to play charades.

“Raccoons,” he explained finally. His grandfather nodded behind him.

“Coons are bad this time of year,” the old man concurred. “They’ve been holed up most of the winter, but now it’s mating season. They get hungry. If you put your garbage out without a coon-proof strap, they’ll get it. No question.”

“But I don’t think you understand,” I said, reaching for the phone again. “Whoever it was, they were
right
at the door—banging on it. I saw their eyes.”

“They’ve got coon-proof straps down at Winner’s Hardware for five ninety-nine,” Patrick’s grandfather went on, like he hadn’t heard me. “Up near the cash register. But if you can’t find them, the guy you want to ask is Johnny.”

“But the person was breathing. Heavy breathing,” I said loudly, enunciating my words. “And grunting, too. The whole door was shaking.” I made a shaking motion with my hands. “On its hinges.”

“Oh, yes. Coons’ll do that.” The old man nodded again. “You get ’em hungry enough, the coons around here will definitely do that.” He took his glasses off, tucking them into the pocket of his robe. “Well, that’s it for me. Good night, young lady. Patrick, see you in the morning.” He started to shuffle up the stairs, like there was nothing else to say. Halfway up, he turned. “So you’re sure you won’t be needing those pickles, then?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. “No pickles. Thanks.”

“Righty-oh, then. Patrick, see that Elyse here gets home safely, will you?” Patrick nodded.

“Patrick,” I said urgently, as soon as his grandfather had turned again. “You’ve
got
to believe me. This was no raccoon.” I grabbed hold of his arms, squeezing so hard I probably cut off his circulation. I couldn’t seem to make myself let go though.

“Okay. I believe you.” He squeezed my other arm gently in return. “I’ll go check it out. Don’t worry.” He put his boots on. “You stay here.”

“No way,” I said. “I’m coming with you. What if the guy’s still there? What if he’s armed? Or crazy? Or armed
and
crazy? You should have seen his eyes. They were wild.”

“All the more reason you should stay here,” he said, shrugging on his coat.

If I was being honest, I
really
didn’t want to go anywhere near whoever—or whatever—had been trying to break through my back door, but I couldn’t let Patrick face it alone, either. I’d never be able to live with myself if something happened to him.

“I’ve got the phone,” I said, holding it up. “I can call 911 if you need me to.”