The Best of Fools (Jane Austen Book 2) (6 page)

"That's if you get the place." She pointed to a fancy couple walking into the building and greeting Jerry. "Those people might beat you to it."

Donovan is almost always late, but so am I. So when we decided to meet somewhere I normally planned to get there ten minutes later than he said, then I ended up twenty minutes later, and by the time he would get there it would be thirty minutes passed our planned time. Never failed. Well, I guess sometimes it failed, but not most times. I like to try to be accurate if I catch myself. Never is a strong word.

I sat on the hood of my car and he pulled up ten minutes later. The sun was still pretty high up there, not quite ready to wake up the other side of the world. Donovan sat beside me, pulled his knees up to his chest, and sighed. Bad sign. I waited for him to speak first, but he sighed again and that meant he wanted me to ask.

"Don't make me ask." I poked his knee. "I know there's something you need to say."

His lip quivered as he squeezed his eyebrows together.

"What's wrong?"

He gasped for air, then let out a soft cry. Last time I saw him cry he was ten and had accidentally ran over a baby bird with his bike.

"Donovan?"

Awkward. I wasn't experienced in handling boys that cried. Sappy Mom's and Dad's, check. Boys? Not even a half of a check.

I poked his knee.

He buried his face into his elbow and wailed.

I, um, I poked his knee again, feeling more mature by the minute.

He reached into his pocket and whipped out a box. A ring box.

And laughed hysterically. "Got ya again!"

I swatted him. "You're such a jerk."

He opened the box and the ring sparkled in the sun. "What do you think?"

"You already tried this one on me."

"No. This one is real. I got it for Zoe."

I raised my eyebrows. "Zoe? You've been together, what, a week?"

"Two."

"Two weeks." I shoved the ring box closed. "No way. You're not proposing."

"I am." He put the box back into his pocket. "But I need your help to pull it off."

My nose stung a little, almost as though chlorine had snuck its way through my tear ducts, into my nose, and wanted to come back out. My eyes burned. They burned. What? I was not about to cry. I wouldn't. But why was I?

I played it off. "I'm so happy for you."

"Thanks." He stared dreamily into space. "Getting all emotional on me, huh? Alistair really did a number on you."

Thank God the burning water dried up and my eyes went back to normal. Nose too. "It's not Alistair." Or was it?

"You don't want to look him up? Not even the slightest bit?"

"Haven't thought about it much. How could I find him anyway? No last name."

He pulled his phone out and set it on his thigh, clicked a few things, then showed me the screen. "This him?"

"Nope. Nice try."

He did it again. "This?"

I was all geared up to prove that I was right when Alistair's eyes looked at me. Well, his eyes on the tiny phone screen.

"Guess so. Just looked up his name, put the word band in, plus added where he's from. Cake work."

Those eyes were still there.

"You done drooling yet?"

"What's his bands name?"

"Kitten Corner."

I laughed. "What is it, dork?"

"Jingle Jam."

"And his last name?"

He clicked around on his phone. "Alistair Anonymous."

"Can't you be serious for one minute of your life?"

"No." He showed me the phone. "That's what it says on his band's page."

"Must be a stage name." I shook my head. "All this time I had his name."

"See, you wanted to look him up."

"Noooooo. Just saying. Weird, that's all."

"Uh, huh. As soon as we leave your lips are going to be pressed against your phone."

"Anyway, about the proposal."

"About that. Let's brainstorm."

"You realize you're brainstorming with the most unromantic person in the universe, right?"

"Exactly. That's what'll make this proposal unique."

"Or terrible."

"Brainstorm?"

"Kay."

He leaned back on the car window and didn't pull me into him this time. Cuddles were off limits when he was taken. Which would be forever now. I'd never press my ear against his heartbeat again.

Burning nose.

I crinkled my face and shoved the sensation away, then reclined next to him and stared at the sky. I was supposed to brainstorm proposal ideas, but all I could think about was Donovan's heart beating over there without my cheek against it.

Something was dreadfully, dreadfully wrong with me.

Brainstorming sesh was as uneventful as it gets. And, hate to say it, but Donovan was totally right. As soon as he pulled away, laughing at me, I grabbed my phone and looked Mr. Alistair Anonymous right up. Who makes their stage name Alistair Anonymous anyway? Talk about weird.

I found his band page. Alistair Anonymous, drummer and backup vocals for Hatchenfield. So moody in his pictures. I searched his name again and scrolled through the results, hoping maybe to find a Facebook account or something. Not that I'd contact him. If I wanted to I could just send a message through Hatchenfield's website like a regular old stalker. But I didn't want to. If I ever saw him again, which I probably wouldn't, it would be when he said and how he said. No sooner. No messages. No stalking. No desperation from my side of the ocean.

Because I wasn't desperate.

But I was curious....

And so maybe I was a stalker. I kept looking for a Facebook account to no avail. Kinda gave me hope that maybe his last name was fake. Not that it mattered. Why did I keep thinking things that freaked my own mind out?

I tossed my phone into the other seat, cranked my car into drive, and drove away with Alistair's moody pictures and Donovan's sparkly ring competing for attention from my tired mind.

I ignored them both and thought of the apartment. What would I do? Could I swing it? Did I want to try?

And most of all ... when would I tell Mom?

So, not only did I have to tell Mom that I would be moving into my own apartment in one week, but I also had to tell her about Boston. I guess I could've tried to hide it, especially if I no longer lived there, but Mom had this sweetness and deep, amazing love for people and pretty much any living thing from a plant to an unhatched egg, that it was kinda hard to lie to her. I did once in tenth grade and I expected a major punishment like my friends. Grounded or something for weeks. But nothing like that happened. Instead Mom came to me all teary and said it hurt her feelings that I didn't feel like I could be honest with her, then she hugged me and apologized. For some reason that kinda bothered me, so I shrugged it off and told her she has nothing to apologize for and she looked me right in the eyes and said, "But I do, sweetie. If you don't feel comfortable enough to tell me the truth, then I must not be the mother I want to be."

Truth is, it was me. All me. Mom had a tendency to be so hard on herself, especially with parenting. I remember one time when I was about six and she had to work part-time from home to help with bills. She came into my room thinking I was asleep and knelt beside my bed, wet my sheet with tears, and told me she was sorry for being a bad mommy and for not paying attention to me enough that day, but I didn't think a thing of it. In my mind she was perfect. The best. And always would be.

I still felt that way, even if I wanted to meet my real Mom.

So, yeah, about that.

I couldn't lie to the woman, so I needed one of those beat around the bush easy methods to break the news. Why was it so hard? Honesty is one of those things. It's so necessary, so healthy, so needed for any kind of functional relationship, but it's very, very hard. My tongue always seemed to hide in my throat when these situations would come up.

But I had to do it. So I stayed up late and waited for Dad to take his nightly shower when Mom finished cleaning up the kitchen. She pulled out a freshly baked loaf of banana bread just as I walked in the room.

"That smells so good." I reached for the warm, delicious, lovely bread to snatch a corner from the top, but she gently put my hand back down.

"Wait until it cools," she said in an English accent. "Then we can make a cuppa and have some treats together."

"That sounds nice," I said. "A cuppa. Is it English accent week?"

She nodded and turned the stovetop on to boil the kettle of water. My parents spoke only with English accents once a month. There was a time when Eddie and I were too young to realize how weird it was and we tried to play along. Then we realized how weird it was. And we did not play along.

It reminded me of Alistair. Mr. Anonymous. Who I looked up again only ten minutes before coming into the kitchen. American tour coming up. This summer. Cities and dates to be posted soon.

Yes, I considered it.

No, I wouldn't be a stalker.

But with Donovan head over heels—for now—and Autumn going away to college in September my life was beginning to err on the side of loneliness and while I'm totally fine with being alone, I'm not fine with
loneliness
. Any perceived negative emotion with a
ness
on the end didn't settle well with me and I have no idea why. Sadness seemed worse than sad. Sad is like ... definitive. Hey, here I am, I'm sad. But sad
ness
... doesn't that sound so tragic?

"What are you thinking about?" Mom laughed. "You looked pretty entranced."

"Oh, nothing." I took the warm mug from her hands and held it to my chest. Ahhhhh. I did actually enjoy my cuppa. "Just realizing I have something against nouns, but not adjectives."

She smiled. "You've always had an interesting mind. You were never the kid to ask why the sky is blue, instead you told me your own theory with quite a bit of persistence."

"Do you remember what I said?"

"Of course." She tilted her head back as she remembered. "You told me that God ran out of silver paint, because if he had silver he definitely wouldn't have chosen blue."

I laughed. "Of course not. I mean, who would want a blue sky when you could have silver?"

"How does it feel to be done high school?"

"Normal."

I was hoping she'd ask me what I wanted to do so that I didn't have to bring it up.

She sipped her tea, then stood and served us both an amazingly thick chunk of that amazing bread she perfected in a way no one else ever had. I devoured it a little too fast and desperately wanted to eat the entire loaf, but I controlled myself and finished my tea instead.

"Has Donovan decided what he's doing yet?"

"Getting married, I guess." I swirled my finger in the bottom of my cup and licked the milky sugar off of it.

"Really? I didn't know he had a girlfriend."

"Donovan? Girls practically wait in line for him, Mom. He's oh so swoon worthy."

"But you don't swoon over him?"

"No." I laughed. "And somehow no one ever believes me when I say that. He's not perfect. Those girls just don't see the other sides of him. Like how he farts when he laughs and always clanks the spoon on his teeth when he eats cereal."

She smiled. "You sure you won't marry him?"

If only she knew about Alistair Anonymous, these Donovan conversations would end. "You just say that because he's the only male species I've ever allowed into my heart."

"Precisely." That accent. Man. So weird.

I wonder what Alistair would think of my parents doing their English accent week.

Why?
I reprimanded myself.
Why do you do it to yourself? Just stop with the Alistair thing.

"You can have a totally platonic friendship with someone of the opposite sex, you know," I said. "Doesn't need to turn into wedding bells."

She squeezed my hand, then stood.

"Mom." Pretty sure that barely escaped my mouth.

She washed the cuppas that held the cuppa.

Deep breaths. Big deep breaths. Fill the lungs, Jane. Fill 'em up. Okay. Last deep breath. Aaaaand ... GO!

"Mom," I said louder.

She turned, but kept her soapy hands over the sink. "Yes?"