“Boring,” she said of my vague non-answer. Her face brightened as she spotted the boxes on the back table. “NEWNESS!” she cried out, racing toward the boxes.
Together, we made short work of receiving the order and rearranging the displays to set everything out. Dalton’s name sat on the tip of my tongue. My tongue. His name sat there, and I’d had a dozen other parts of Mr. Deangelo on, under, and all over that same tongue. Oh, I wanted to share the news with Amy and revisit those pleasant memories. I wanted to impress her, because so few things I said to her about my life ever did.
But I didn’t say a word, because telling Amy would amount to telling her two hundred closest internet friends, and I did not need that kind of heat. Too much heat. Thinking about the things he might do to me on Saturday was already causing my temperature to rise.
“Have you seen Drake since Saturday?” she asked as we were breaking down the cardboard boxes for recycling.
“Who?” Oh, I was a terrible actress. “Right, you mean that actor who plays Drake. I’ve seen him around. I guess he’s in town for some movie.”
“I heard he’s dating someone right here in Beaverdale.”
We were near the counter, and I leaned down to take a deep sniff of the beautiful bouquet, fondling one heavy peony with my hand. I could feel the dumb smile on my face, too—a smile that meant, deep down, I wanted to be found out.
Amy continued, “Probably a publicity stunt. They totally do that to get free press for whatever project they’re doing.” She blew a wisp of blue hair off her face. “Question everything, man.”
“Question everything?” I gave her side-eye.
“Yeah, like authority and stuff. Don’t believe a word they tell you. Mortgage is just another word for ownership of your soul. And don’t eat genetically-modified corn syrup, because your guts will turn to cement.” She looked around, making sure we were alone in the bookstore, which we were. “I think the new bakery next door might be putting something addictive in their stuff, because I can’t stop thinking about those f**king cupcakes. I swear I can smell them right now.”
I pointed to the vent on the ceiling—the one I’d attempted to seal up with packing tape on Saturday. “The smell keeps coming through. It’s not just you, Amy.”
“Are you sure? Maybe we have that thing where two people share the same crazy. Like how our periods went on the same cycle when I started working here.”
“Amy, do you ever think about the things you’re going to say before they pop out of your mouth?”
“No.” She pulled her head back, giving herself multiple double chins, even though she was a skinny girl. “Do you think before you talk?”
“Of course not.” I glanced up at the tape on the ceiling. The corner had pulled away, and the scent of vanilla buttercream frosting was wafting into the bookstore like the devil himself.
Amy and I both turned to look at the calendar. It had been twelve days since the last Cupcake Cave-in. Now I had all these emotions roiling and boiling inside me, and I wasn’t going to see Dalton for three days, and what were we doing anyway? Dating? Hooking up?
He’d awoken something inside me. Now, correct me if I am wrong, but I believe the scientific term is vagina. Let’s call her Miss Kitty. Ever since the phone call, and all the talk about armpit nuzzling and pony riding, Miss Kitty had been meowing and drooling for dinner—a dinner that wouldn’t be coming for another three days.
In the meantime, Miss Kitty was going to howl and scratch at the doors, driving me crazy.
I reached for my purse as Amy watched.
“It’s time,” I said.
She nodded.
I shook my fist at the evil ceiling vent. “Damn you, evil cupcakes!”
“You give ‘em hell,” she said. “I say we start with the coconut ones. They are the most evil, and must be taught a lesson.”
“We’ll line the others up and make them watch,” I said, laughing maliciously.
“A lesson will be taught today.”
“They’ll be sorry.”
Together, we howled, “They’ll all be soooorrrry!”
Then I handed her some money, and she went next door to do the deed.
~
The rest of Wednesday, and Thursday too, was normal enough, though at times I got a weird out-of-body sensation, like I was observing my own life as a stranger might.
On Friday morning, Mr. Galloway was out puttering in his flowers as I walked by on my way to work.
He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his thin, sun-burnt nose and said, “I’m sorry to trouble you, Petra, but a rat has moved into my house. Mr. Whiskers brought him in through the cat door, I suspect.”
“Sucky. Should I pick up a mousetrap for you on my way home?”
“That’s kind of you to offer, but I think he’s a big fella, and he’d just wear one of those little mousetraps as a hat.”
“Won’t Mr. Whiskers catch him?”
Mr. Galloway leaned his long, beanpole body against the pergola, making himself comfortable for a long chat. “I believe they are new friends. I came out last night to find Mr. Whiskers watching as the rat dined on his kitty food.”
“Cute!”
“His little droppings aren’t so cute. And I haven’t been able to sleep through the night, because I hear him skittering around. Cats and rats should not be friends.”
I put my hand over my mouth and laughed. “You know, I think we have a children’s book by that very title. Cats and Rats Should Not Be Friends.”
“Some things just aren’t natural,” Mr. Galloway said. “The universe has an order. Now, you know I’m not the religious type, but there is a design, and it’s beautiful and true. Sometimes the sign comes to you as a number, or sometimes it’s a color.”
Mr. Galloway wasn’t usually so new-age-y, and I wondered if the lack of sleep was making him a touch loopy.
He continued, “The stars are not just in the sky, but in everything, and they do align.”
“What does the universe think about two people with very different backgrounds dating?”
“You mean a cat and a rat?” He narrowed his eyes, like he suspected me of making fun of him.
“Never mind.”
“Watch for a sign,” he said. “And don’t let anyone eat from your food dish.”
“Good advice,” I said, nodding.
“Did I ever tell you how I met the late Mrs. Galloway?”