“You and me?”
Step to the ledge. Don’t look down. Take a breath. And . . . jump. “I was thinking we could have dinner together. You and me. At the café. I’ll cook.” I opened one eye to see how far Rose had run away, but she still stood in front of me.
“Sounds great,” she said, hiding a smile.
Relief filled me like a helium balloon. “Great!”
“Tonight?” Rose asked.
“Tonight what?”
“Dinner?”
“Oh, right. Yes. Tonight.”
“What time?”
I tried to remember what time people ate dinner. “Six o’clock.”
“Perfect! See you soon!”
And with that, Rose walked off to help Candy with craft time.
I reached for my phone to check the time.
No phone.
Dammit.
I checked the clock on the wall.
Five after four.
“Grub!” I yelled, scanning the room. He was off somewhere with Blackjack, no doubt. “Private Grub!”
Ever so faintly, the echo of footsteps could be heard running down a hallway. Without missing a beat, I ran toward the sound. I timed it perfectly: Grub reached the end of the hallway the same time I rounded the corner. I swooped him up in my arms, tossed him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and ran for the exit. He may have said something, but I wasn’t listening. No time to explain.
As I threw my leg over the Schwinn, I felt his fingers dig into my shoulders. I pedaled as if fleeing an erupting volcano.
I burst through the door of World Peas Café. “Mom . . . café . . . tonight . . . Rose.”
Mom placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side, making it look spring-loaded. “Son. Need. Use. Manners.”
“Please . . . dinner . . . can’t cook . . . need café.”
“Mom not robot. Son not ask right.”
I took a few deep breaths to regain my ability to speak.
“Rose is coming here. Tonight. At six. I told her I’d cook dinner.”
“That’s much better.” She furrowed her brow while nodding and looking at the floor, finally grasping the gravity of the situation. “So, what is your plan?”
Criminy. Did there have to be a plan for everything?
“I’m working on it,” I lied.
Grub stood off to the side, looking slightly worried and windblown.
Mom nodded again, staring off into the middle distance. I could practically see the gears turning behind her eyes as she pondered my predicament. She pursed her lips and nodded, having reached a verdict. “Manny, come with me, we’re going to the store. Zeus, go home, take a shower, and change your clothes. Be back here at five thirty and I’ll have something started for you.”
I looked at my mom—her messy ponytail, her plastic flip-flops, her green-smoothie-splattered clothes. “You know you’re the best, right?”
She patted my face and smiled. “I know. Now go get handsome.”
FOURTEEN
ROSE KNOCKED ON THE CAFé DOOR AT EXACTLY SIX O’CLOCK. MOM HAD closed the shades to keep the setting sun from blinding us through the western-facing windows, or maybe it was to give us some privacy. Either way, I was glad the glass was covered. The café seemed almost romantic in the dim light.
I faced the door and took one final moment to compose myself. I brushed a lock of still-damp hair off my brow and inhaled slow and deep. This was the real deal, a date date.
Quick smell check: pass.
Quick breath check: passable.
Quick skills check: adequate.
Good enough.
I swung the door open. It broke free from its slightly off-kilter frame with an obnoxious metallic grunt. Not exactly the cinematic moment I’d hoped for. Rose stood before me, looking radiant, backlit by the early evening sun.
“Good evening,” I said, suddenly wishing I hadn’t, for the only appropriate follow-up to that is “I vant to suck your blood!”
“Hey there.” She grinned at me, making me forget about my less-than-stellar greeting. “You look nice,” she said, clearly noticing I wasn’t in a faded, sweaty T-shirt for once. Instead, I sported my one and only button-down shirt, a gift from Aunt Willow that had spent most of its existence in the back of my closet. A light green plaid pattern, it featured white pearl snap buttons, short sleeves, and probably could have used a good ironing. But too late for that now.
Say something nice, return the compliment! my brain instructed me.
I looked at Rose, trying to make sure my gaze came across as observant rather than creepy. It was a fine line, one generally defined by the length of time your eyes remain fixed on certain body parts.
She wore a light blue summery dress drawn tight across the middle, accentuating her hips and waist.
Nope, can’t comment on that, I thought. Definitely creepy.
Her wavy black hair fell upon bare shoulders, her lips a shimmery, soft pink, like the best part of a peach.
Still creepy.
A thin, gold necklace rested above a modest view of cleavage, which, while my favorite feature, I made sure to avoid noticing altogether.
Tap out now, while you’re ahead.
“I like that color,” I said, nodding in approval at her dress, as if I knew a single thing about fashion or shades of blue. It was a low-risk, low-reward comment, much like saying, “Why, yes, I do enjoy a good nap,” or “Cheeseburgers are swell, they are!”
“It’s periwinkle.”
“It matches your toenails,” I noted, looking down at her feet. Several crisscrossing straps held together a pair of thin-soled sandals, from which blue-topped toes poked out.
“How observant,” Rose replied. “I brought more nail polish, in case you want to paint your own. You know, to bring out the blue of your eyes.”
I flushed then, flattered she’d noticed the color of my eyes. She was obviously much better at this compliment game than I was.
“Great idea. Come on in.” I motioned with my arm and she walked past me into the café, the pleasant smell of lotion-perfume-girl-whatever-it-was trailing behind her. I shut the door and flipped on a light, suddenly worried the dimly lit room might qualify for the creepy category.
“You shaved,” she observed.
“I did,” I said, cupping my face as if just realizing it myself.
“I like it. Let me feel,” Rose said, reaching a hand up. She lightly brushed a few fingers along my cheek. “So smooth!”
“Thanks,” I said, wondering if that was a compliment or a jab.
I led Rose back to the kitchen, where my maiden culinary voyage was about to begin. Once inside, Rose stopped in her tracks. She whipped her head at me. “You did all this?” she asked.
I had to admit—it did look impressive. A package of angel hair pasta sat open next to a full pot of water. A large cutting board displayed a loaf of crusty Italian bread, a wedge of Parmesan, and a crock of herbed butter. Fresh basil lay heaped in a pile next to a bottle of olive oil, a head of garlic, and a bowl of pine nuts. In the corner of the kitchen, a small round table had been covered in a red, checkered cloth, with a single candle in the center, waiting to be lit.