Boyfriend From Hell (Falling Angels Saga) (6 page)

“Sounds great,” I replied. My heart was in my mouth.

“Righteeo,” said Guy.

Tran turned to me. “
I’m
team captain,” he said, his eyes burning into me.

“I know. It’s just that I know how important the three of us studying together is. Sorry.”

“Okay. But just remember,
I’m
captain.”

I nodded.

Satisfied with my apology, Tran began gathering his things. I looked over at Erin who was smiling at me. I was going to be alone with Guy Matson—almost. This was big.

#

Later that same evening, as Suze and I were seated in the living room watching a reality show on TV, she broke some startling news. She was going to see Armando again. Seems while I was trying to snare a boyfriend, she was doing the same thing.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a date. It’s just a gathering at his art gallery.”

Armando was showcasing an up-and-coming artist at the gallery and had invited Suze to the opening. I couldn’t hide the concern on my face when she told me about the event. All I could envision was Armando riding roughshod over my mother’s heart.

“I’m not looking at you any special way,” I replied.

“Yes, you are. You’re looking at me like you’re worried about me.”

“No, I was just thinking about my homework,” I lied.

“Why don’t you come along?” she suddenly asked.

“Me? I don’t think so.”

“Please.” Her voice was a soft and pleading sing-song. “You’d be doing me a big favor.”

“By being your chaperone?”

“It’s not a
date!
You know I’m not into the sports-car types. I just need to get out. I’m sure Armando will be so busy with his muckity-muck guests, he won’t have a moment for me.”

“And that’s okay with you?”

“Of course it is. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, sweetheart.”

I was glad to hear it. Perhaps the boyfriend thing was really behind us after all.

“I won’t know a soul there. I’ll feel so out of place.” She looked pleadingly into my eyes.
“Please?”
It was a soft, playful whine.

As much as I didn’t want to go, I knew she needed to get out and put the Miller failure far into the past. “Okay,” I finally said. “I’ll go.”

A small smile appeared on her lips. “So… you’ll be my date?” she asked playfully.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be your date.” And then I added. “But when the evening is over, don’t you dare try to kiss me.”

The Artemus Gallery was on a quiet street in what had once been the industrial part of town. Over the past several years the empty storefronts had been transformed into a trendy haven for Glendale’s budding artist community. Once the artists arrived, the area had gone from a low-rent slum to becoming the most sought after real estate in all of Glendale.

Armando’s gallery was on Seaborn Street, the most affluent street in the art district. The gallery my mother worked for was a few streets over, so we knew the kind of rent he must have been paying.

The gallery itself had stark white walls, shiny hardwood floors, soft, oval-shaped lighting, and chocolaty suede benches that gave it a sense of elegance. Armando was a man of taste.

When we arrived, the gallery was already humming with fashionably dressed men and women, sipping champagne and chatting in the kind of hushed tones that made them all seem important.

“Oh, my. I feel a bit underdressed,” Suze whispered as we squeezed in.

“Are you kidding? You look great.” She was wearing a simple black spaghetti-strap dress and open-toed sandals with a tiny spiked heel. Her hair was down around her shoulders setting off her blue eyes. She really did look amazing. I, on the other hand, was wearing the patchwork blazer I’d gotten for my birthday, my favorite jeans, and brown boots, perfect for an art opening—if it were at my school. But here, among the fashionistas, I was the one who was underdressed.

“Suze, Megan. There you are.” Armando’s velvet voice rang out from somewhere in the crowd. Suddenly he was by our side, wearing a dark suit and crisp white shirt, his black hair gleaming, eyes sparkling. He was gorgeous as usual.

“I was hoping you’d come,” he said sweetly to my mother.

“Stop it.” She was blushing.

“I’m serious. I’ve been thinking of nothing but you.”

What a load of bunk
, I thought.
He’s got this big art opening, surrounded by all these rich, beautiful people, and he’s thinking about my mother. Yeah, right!
I wondered if she was laughing as hard on the inside as I was.

I looked at her. She was still blushing.

“Oh, Mando!” she cried, giving him a playful shove.

Mando? Since when had it become Mando?

“I have to introduce you around,” he said, taking her hand. “You must meet everyone.” He turned to me. “You
will
be all right without her for a few minutes, won’t you?” He was making it clear I wasn’t invited to meet
everyone
.

“Yeah, umm sure,” I replied. I was caught off guard, but truth be told, the last thing I wanted was to be dragged around meeting boring, stuffy, over-thirty, artsy-fartsy types. “Enjoy,” I added.

“Seriously, hon. You gonna be okay?” Suze asked, her eyes betraying the fact she obviously wanted to go.

“Yes, of course. I—” And before I could utter another word, Armando had whisked her away. They were instantly swallowed up by the crowd.

I grabbed a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter. Hey, no one said I couldn’t drink. Besides, I’m not the designated driver. That’s probably because I’m fifteen and don’t have my license yet, but that’s beside the point. I didn’t take the champagne to drink it. I took the champagne because I needed something help me look cool and suave. Obviously, my patchwork jacket wasn’t doing the trick.

I began strolling about, observing the art, but I couldn’t take my mind off the way my mother had said
Mando
. It sounded as if they had somehow become friends. But how? When?

She hadn’t gone on a date with him.  I was certain of that. She hadn’t snuck out in the middle of the night for a late night rendezvous. Still, I had the sneaking suspicion my mother was seeing Armando behind my back.

I wandered around aimlessly, my eyes roaming over the paintings and sculptures. I saw none of them.  I was too busy constructing imaginary scenarios of my mother sneaking off to be with Armando. And I know I said that parents should sneak out behind their kid’s backs. But not with gorgeous playboys who might steal their hearts, leaving them high and dry for their poor daughters to peel off the floor.

“Oh, Mando, you are so bad.” My mother’s voice jolted me back to the present.

I looked up and saw them across the room in a cluster of beautiful art lovers. Her hand rested comfortably on Armando’s shoulder, and one of his brushed against her hip.

She was smiling. I don’t ever remember seeing my mother smile like that before. It was a warm, content smile that frightened me. I think I was frightened because she seemed so… happy. Now don’t get me wrong, I want my mother to be happy. I do. You know, the kind of happiness like when I was in the third grade and made a Mother’s Day card out of construction paper and Fruit Loops. The smile on her face back then was precious. That was the kind of happiness I could handle.

But this… this was a happiness I couldn’t be a part of. What was going on here? The whole thing was not making sense. Armando was acting as if he was interested in her.

Does he think she’s a rich widow sitting on her dead husband’s fortune? Bingo!
That had to be it. Armando was a gigolo who had targeted my mother as some rich, lonely widow.

It was a crazy thought, I know. I was in the process of telling myself just that when the faint fragrance of incense drifted in.

 A chill washed over me. It was the same incense from my bedroom that night. I had the creepy feeling I was being watched.

That’s silly. Who would be watching me?

Casually, I began looking around, pretending to admire art, while secretly scanning the crowd. I was about to give up when I saw her, an elderly woman. Her pale skin was road mapped with deep creases, her once-jet-black hair streaked with gray. She wore an oversized black gown that reminded me of someone in a horror flick. She looked as out of place as I did. And her gaze was so intense.

My skin began to crawl as I realized the elderly woman was not staring at me. Her eyes were transfixed on my mother.  

I found myself rushing across the floor, arriving at my mother’s side.

“Hey, Mom, umm—”

“This must be the daughter you’ve been bragging about all evening,” a man in the group said. “She looks just like you.”

“Yes,” my mother said proudly. “Megan, meet Sir Bradford Romanoff.”

“Oh, hi,” I said, quickly shaking the man’s hand. Then I turned to meet the gaze of the old woman who had been staring so hard. I was going to let her know I was on to her.

But she was gone.

Quickly, I scanned the crowd in search of her.

“Megan, dear, is everything all right?” Armando asked, his voice leaking concern.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just fine.”

I continued scouring the party goers, searching for the old woman, but she was nowhere to be found.

The rest of the evening was a blur. I knew I hadn’t imagined it. There was a strange old lady staring at my mother. I didn’t know why, but I felt it had something to do with the dream.

Tran Phung lived in a large, beautiful home with a yard featuring a southwestern landscape. Many colorful cacti were professionally placed amid the sand and scrub brush. I recognized the Mexican lime cactus with its blood red needles, and the large saguaro, which was the centerpiece of the garden.

The Phung family room was equally impressive with a large plasma screen TV on the wall.

I arrived early and helped Tran setup the card table where we’d be working. He printed out a hundred problems, which we placed in a stack on the table. We also set out legal pads and pencils for each of us.

I looked at my watch. 12:10. We were scheduled to start at noon.

“Have you heard from Guy?” I asked

“He’ll be here,” Tran said confidently. “He knows how important this is.”

“I’m sure he does,” I replied, summoning up the image of Guy winking at me. I stifled a smile.

A few minutes later Guy strolled in wearing a black t-shirt with a photo of Albert Einstein blown up on the front.

“Cool, man,” Tran said, pointing to the shirt.

“Thanks,” Guy replied. He looked at me, his eyes twinkling.

“Albert Einstein was a high school drop out,” I suddenly said. The words just popped out of me.

Shut up!
I told myself. Cute boys hate when girls sound too smart.

“Get out,” said Guy in disbelief.

I nodded. “He eventually went back and finished, but only because he failed the entrance exam at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology. True story. Look it up.”

Why was I spewing all this trivia? Megan Barnett, if you ever want to have a boyfriend, you will stop talking now!

Guy was eyeing me with interest. “Really? I didn’t know that,” he said, smiling. In that moment, I knew this boy was different. This boy appreciated my intelligence. I returned the smile.

“Megan, stop with the trivia,” Tran called. He turned to Guy. “She can do that all day. Her head is full of stuff nobody needs to know.”

“I think it’s interesting.” Guy was still smiling at me.

“It won’t be so interesting if we don’t place high in the county-wide meet. Now let’s study.”

“Righteeo,” said Guy.

We took our seats at the table, and Tran grabbed the first problem from atop the stack.

Visions of a long, boring afternoon flashed through my mind.
I did not come over here to study
, I thought. I came here to further my connection with Guy. And I’m sure that’s the only reason he’s here, too. I cleared my throat.

“I’m a little parched,” I said. “I need a drink.”

“Later,” barked Tran.

I coughed. “I’m sorry, but I need something now,” I whispered, shooting him an apologetic smile. “I can hardly talk.”

“Oh, all right.” He slammed the problem down, got up and started from the room.

I looked at Guy. He looked at me. In a few moments we would be alone—together.

“Hey, Mom! Could you bring some soft drinks?” yelled Tran.

“Okay. Coming right up,” came his mother’s distant voice.

Tran returned to the table. “They’ll be here in a minute,” he said, plopping back down.

Okay, that didn’t work.

“Are these problems from last year’s competition?” I asked.

“Yes,” Tran said in an annoyed tone.

“They’ll never use last year’s problems this year. We’re studying the wrong problems.”

Tran looked at me, even more annoyed. “No, we’re not!” he growled. “It’s the theories that are important, not the problems. Now can we please get to work?”

“Didn’t you say you had the questions from the last
three
years?” I asked.

“Yeah, so?”

“We should throw out last year’s and study a different year,” I said.

Tran was glaring at me. “That’s ridiculous. I’ll do no such thing.”

“I think she’s onto something.” From out of nowhere Guy joined the fray.

We both looked at him.

“I mean, it makes sense they wouldn’t use last year’s problems this year. Right?”

“But it’s the theories, the equations that matter,” Tran said in a small, pleading voice.

“Still, if I have to study, I’d rather study stuff they might use.”

Tran looked at Guy, his shoulders slumping in defeat. I’m sure if it had been any of the other math geeks, he would have continued to argue. But Guy Matson was clearly not a geek. Tran nodded somberly. “Okay,” he said with an exasperated sigh then, he shot me the stink eye and scurried from the room.

We were alone. I was alone with Guy Matson.

I looked at him and shrugged.

“You’re right,” he said. “I mean, who wants to study stuff they know isn’t going to be on a test?”