Macarons at Midnight Page 3

  “Hey, I don’t blame you for ditching the party.” Kyan grinned. “I spent the night bonding with my emperor scorpion, Napoleon. I’m way too much in the nerd camp for my sister’s parties.” He motioned to Herb the Tarantula. “I’m sort of a freak for bugs. So … how’s your first day going?”

  “Okay,” I started, then sighed. “Actually, lousy. I feel like everybody looks at Destry and looks through me.” When Dad had dropped us off that morning, a literal swarm of kids flocked to Destry, surrounding her within seconds and leaving me standing on the outskirts, alone. “Every kid in this school has some story they’re dying to tell me about her. Teachers, too!” I shook my head. “I was late to first period English because the school secretary was telling me how in last year’s Swan Lake, Destry was the most graceful dancer she’d ever seen.”

  Kyan nodded sympathetically. “It’s tough being the socially challenged sibling of an A-lister. Believe me, I know. It’s why most of my friends have six legs.” He looked only mildly bothered by this, and I wondered if he was the sort of person who wasn’t totally affected by status. My friends in Boston were like that. “The Independents,” we called ourselves. It would be so nice to have that in a friend here, too. “You just have to find your niche, that’s all.”

  “I guess,” I said. I wasn’t ready to admit to the other reason why I was having such a bad day: the fact that I’d been hoping to see the boy I’d met Saturday night. But hadn’t …

  “Let’s see your schedule,” Kyan said now. “Lunch break is after this, and I can show you where your other classrooms are.” A sheepish look crossed his face. “I usually eat in the Science Club room, you know, to study the specimens and stuff. But I can eat in the caf with you today, give you the rundown of ‘who’s who,’ that sort of thing. I mean … if you want.”

  I smiled. All you need is one friend there, Simone had told me right before I left Boston. Just one, and you’ll be fine.

  “That would be great,” I told Kyan. “Thanks.”

  “You’ll love Mr. Vern,” Kyan whispered as class started. “And if you like Herb, wait until you see Stan. He’s the foot-long millipede behind Mr. Vern’s desk.”

  “Cool,” I said, wondering what the odds were of the foot-long millipede escaping, too. Then again, it looked as though I might have found my “one” friend in Whitman, and if bugs were his thing, well, then … bring on the antennae.

  “Well, here’s something that Whitman and Boston have in common.” I pushed the meat loaf around on my tray. “Disgusting hot lunch.”

  “See?” Kyan said jovially, elbowing me. “It’s already starting to feel like home, right?” He unpacked a delicious-looking turkey sandwich from his lunch sack. “First rule for surviving WMS. Never ever buy lunch on Mystery Meat Mondays.” He lifted his sandwich, but it froze halfway between the table and his mouth.

  “Kyan?” I said, peering at his goggling eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  I followed the path of his stare to see Viv walking toward us with the same group of girls I’d seen her with this morning. I felt a fresh wave of irritation and sat up straighter, thinking that if I couldn’t avoid her, this time I’d be brave enough to give her a real piece of my mind.

  I opened my mouth, but before I could utter a sound, Viv was sliding onto the bench beside me.

  “Thank goodness I found you, Lise.” She said it with such earnestness that I could only stare, speechless. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

  Wait … what?

  In confusion, I looked from her to her group of friends, who were standing there, chattering among themselves about what to get for lunch. It didn’t seem as if this was some sort of trap to mock me … so was she being sincere?

  “I feel horrible about the way I treated you at the party,” she went on worriedly, running a nervous hand through her caramel-colored hair. “I know I was totally rude, and that’s not like me. But I was having the worst night ever.”

  “Really?” I blurted, my curiosity finally giving me back my voice. This I had to hear.

  She nodded, her glossed lips forming a perfect pout. “I got into this big fight with my boyfriend, Trent.” She frowned, shaking her head. “Ex-boyfriend, I mean. He made me feel like such an idiot when I stepped on your dress, and I was so flustered … I just said everything wrong. Right after you left, we broke up.”

  “Yeah, and he didn’t deserve you!” Kyan piped up, and Viv glanced at him. “I mean,” he blustered, mumbling. “I thought he, um, should’ve treated you better. That’s all.”

  Viv smiled, raising a surprised eyebrow in Kyan’s direction. “Thanks.”

  He stared at her with unmistakable puppy-dog adoration, and suddenly I understood what was going on. A headline popped into my head: UNREQUITED LOVE LEAVES SPIDER-MAN HANGING.

  Poor Spidey.

  Kyan was opening and closing his mouth, trying to respond to Viv’s thanks but failing. He finally gave me a panicked “Help me” look, and I came to the rescue, jumping in with, “That’s … too bad. About your breakup. How long were you together?”

  “Two weeks,” Viv said with the same weightiness she might’ve used to say “two years.”

  “A record,” a redheaded girl in the group snorted. “Viv goes through boys like ice cream. Trent was the Flavor of the Month.”

  “Come on, Mona. I’m not that bad,” Viv said with a frown. But then as a blonde-haired boy breezed by the table, she laughed, giving a little shrug. “Okay, maybe I am. Check out Griffin. He’s getting so tall …”

  Mona rolled her eyes. “Here we go. Another insta-crush.”

  “What! Guys are like shoes, okay?” Viv said. “I have to keep trying them on until I find the perfect fit.”

  I laughed, but Mona yawned, as if the whole thing was boring her. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

  The other girls chimed in their agreement and headed for the lunch line. Viv called after them, “Be there in a sec!” Then she grinned at me. “Anyway, I’m really sorry about the other night. My mom is great at sewing. She used to make my pageant costumes when I was younger.” She leaned toward me conspiratorially. “I hated my pageant dresses. They were so gaudy! But they never fell apart, even though I prayed that they would.” She sighed. “I’m sure she could fix that tear in your dress.”

  “That would be amazing,” I said. “Because it wasn’t my dress. It was Destry’s.”

  Viv gripped my arm, her eyes flying open. I expected her to give me another “Hail, Queen Destry” moment, but instead she surprised me with, “Omigod, I’m even sorrier now! Was she completely peeved?”

  “Pretty much,” I said, delighted that she wasn’t jumping to Destry’s defense. “But I got in even more trouble with my dad because I left the party …”

  “I know,” Viv said with a worried frown. “Where did you go?”

  Before I knew it, I was filling in Viv and Kyan (who was still silent and staring at Viv in a love-sick haze) on my encounter with the mystery boy and the macarons. I figured, what did I have to lose? One of them might know who he was.

  “That is so romantic.” Viv smiled dreamily when I’d finished. “See? Why can’t I find a guy like that? Someone nice, who looks at me and doesn’t just see the cover of Tween Glam magazine.”

  “You were on the cover?” I asked.

  “Twice,” Kyan piped up. “June and November.”

  After he spoke, he turned red and commenced an Incredible Shrinking Snail act.

  “So, your guy’s an artist,” Viv said, tapping her chin. “There’s Liam, this guy in my English class. I heard he paints with his toes.”

  “No,” I said. “My guy’s name starts with R.” The painting of Boston Harbor had been signed with a big R, followed by a series of squiggles that may as well have been Sanskrit.

  “Why don’t you check out the art room?” Kyan suggested. “You could take the painting he gave you to Mr. Diaz, the art teacher. He might recognize the signature.”

  I bri
ghtened. “That’s a great idea! I’ll bring in the painting tomorrow.”

  Viv’s cell phone buzzed and she checked it, then squealed. “Mona texted me!” She nodded to where she was sitting a few tables over. “Griffin just sat down at our table. Gotta go.” She stood up. “I’m glad we talked,” she said. “Bring the dress into school, and I’ll give it to my mom.” She waved to us, then called over her shoulder. “I want a full report on Operation Mystery Boy tomorrow!”

  “I think she really means it,” I said after she walked away. “Hmm. She’s nice. Not anything like I imagined.”

  “Yeah.” Kyan stared after her longingly. “I’ve known her since preschool. We used to dig for worms together on the playground.” He laughed a little. “That was way before her mom got her into pageants and modeling. Viv probably doesn’t even remember.”

  “So …” I nudged Kyan with my elbow. “How long have you had a crush on her?”

  “What? I don’t! I mean, are you kidding?” He blew out a breath, his shoulders shaking with nervous laughter. “She’s a Morpho helena, and I’m a grub.” When I looked at him blankly, he added, “Morpho helena, the most beautiful butterfly on the planet?” He shook his head in disappointment, then added teasingly, “Man, if you’re going to be my partner for Bio lab, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  I saluted him. “Hey, my grades are the only A-list I belong to. I’ll make you proud.”

  The bell rang, and we tossed our trash and headed for our lockers. Kyan gave me his email and cell number so that I could call him if I needed help with my Bio homework, then pointed me in the direction of my Algebra classroom. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Sure.” I nodded. “Hey … Kyan?” He turned again. “Thanks for your help. You made my first day a lot easier.”

  “You’re welcome.” He grinned, then waved. “Morpho helena,” he called as he walked away. “Look it up! It’ll blow your mind.”

  I laughed, but as I turned down the long hallway, I felt some of my first-day jitters returning. Kyan had seen me through lunch, the most daunting task for any new student, but I’d be on my own for the last three periods of the day.

  I found my Algebra classroom (whew!) and was just about to walk in when I caught sight of a flyer on the hall bulletin board.

  THE MINUTEMAN SEEKS NEW STAFF REPORTER. POSITION AVAILABLE ASAP. EMAIL WRITING SAMPLE AND A COMPLETED APPLICATION TO MINUTEMAN@WHITMANMS.ORG.

  My heart leapt excitedly. A position on the school paper! I’d certainly had plenty of experience in Boston. Kyan was right. I needed to find my niche, and this seemed like the perfect fit.

  I quickly jotted down the website before heading into class, feeling a fresh wave of courage. If I did something familiar, maybe my new life here wouldn’t feel so foreign. And maybe I wouldn’t feel so out of place.

  Two hours later, I didn’t just feel out of place. I was in the wrong place. Or on the wrong bus anyway. When Hugh the bus driver dropped me back at school after finishing his circuit, the campus was deserted. The only car in the parking lot was Gail’s, and as I walked toward it, I could see Destry’s scowling face shooting death rays at me through the window.

  “Oh, Lise, I’m so sorry,” Gail said, casting a worried glance over her shoulder as I slid into the backseat. “I knew I should’ve picked you up today. I was afraid something like this would happen …”

  “It’s fine,” I said quietly as the car moved out of the parking lot. “I got the bus number wrong or something.” My face burned as I remembered the mortification I felt when the bus made its last stop, and the bus driver realized I wasn’t getting off.

  I’d only had to walk two blocks to my school in Boston. This bus thing was new, unchartered territory. Where was Kyan, my walking-talking school directory, when I needed him? Answer: on the right bus.

  Destry harrumphed from the front seat. “Lise, there are only three middle school buses. Three! How could you have gotten on the wrong one?”

  “Destry—” Gail started.

  “No! Seriously!” She folded her arms and slumped down in the front seat. “I’m missing ballet because of her!”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, wanting nothing more than this drive to be over so that I could get out of the car and out from under her glare. Why did it feel as if all I’d done since I’d arrived in Whitman was apologize to Destry?

  In the rearview mirror, I could see the crease on Gail’s forehead deepen, her mouth turn down slightly. Then, just as quickly, her smile returned. “You know, I’m glad this happened.” Her voice was too high and a little too bright. “I’ve been trying to pick out paint colors for the nursery. Maybe you girls can help me decide.”

  Silence stretched out into the car as I waited for Destry to take Gail’s cue. When she didn’t, I said, “Sure.” It didn’t sound as convincing as I’d hoped, so I threw in a “We’d love to” for good measure. There was a barely audible scoff from Destry.

  “That’s a relief,” Gail said. “We don’t want your future sister or brother getting colicky over clashing colors.”

  As soon as the car pulled into the driveway, Destry was stomping up the front walk, her dance skirt fluttering behind her in the breeze. When I walked in behind Gail, the sweet vanilla scent of fresh-baked cake swept over me. I thought back to Swoonful of Sugar.

  “Mmmm … what smells so good?” I asked.

  Gail beamed, motioning me into the kitchen. “Boston Cream Pie. I baked one this afternoon, in honor of your first day of school.”

  “You did?” I said, not meaning to sound as disbelieving as I did. “It’s my favorite.”

  Gail nodded. “Your dad told me. He used to take you for a slice at the Omni Parker House in Boston.” She eyed the floor bashfully. “I doubt mine comes close, but I wanted to do something to say … welcome.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a smile, touched that she’d gone to so much trouble for me. I searched the kitchen and found the pie sitting, mouth-watering and … half eaten, on the counter.

  Gail blushed. “I already had a helping … or maybe three.”

  She glanced at me sheepishly, and then we both burst out laughing just as Destry blew into the kitchen, wearing sweats and a messy ponytail, as if to prove her misery at missing dance.

  “So, are we looking at paints or what?” she asked impatiently.

  “Oh! Yes!” Gail handed me a plate of pie as we sat down at the table in front of a thick color wheel of paint swatches.

  “You could do purple,” Destry suggested, and I tried not to roll my eyes. Of course she’d want purple.

  “I actually want something gender neutral,” Gail said. “I was thinking maybe … yellow? Or pastel green?”

  “Those are nice,” I offered, as Gail pointed out the swatches she’d had in mind, but Destry wrinkled her nose.

  “Ick,” she said. “Definitely not that awful puce.”

  Gail looked uncertain. “It’s not that bad, Des,” she said a little defensively.

  “What about a soft teal?” I said. “Sort of oceany?” I held up a swatch, and Gail smiled.

  “I don’t like it,” Destry said flatly, then looked at me. “And you’re not the one who’s going to be living with it anyway.”

  “Destry!” Gail’s voice was sharper than I’d ever heard it before.

  “Well, she is going back to her mom’s at some point, isn’t she?”

  Silence settled over us. It was true enough, so why did it sting so badly when she said it?

  Gail gave me a tremulous smile. “I hadn’t even thought of that color, Lise,” she said softly. “It’s lovely.”

  Destry stood, grabbing her cell. “Look, if no one’s going to listen to me, forget it. I’m going over to Becca’s.”

  Gail sighed as the front door slammed, then turned back to me. “I’m sure she didn’t mean that to come out so rudely.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I said quickly, standing up as the warm hopefulness I’d felt earlier dissolved. “I don’t kno
w much about decorating anyway. You should pick whichever color you like best. I have, um, some stuff to do.”

  “Oh, okay.” Gail’s face sagged.

  Guilt nagged my stomach as I left the room. I didn’t want to disappoint her, but Destry had a point. This wasn’t my house, and once I went back to Mom’s, I probably wouldn’t see the new baby much, either. Maybe I shouldn’t have a say in how the nursery was painted.

  I went into the den and turned on the computer to check my email, desperately hoping there’d be something from my friends back in Boston. Sure enough, there were two emails from Simone, including a selfie video she’d taken singing “You … You will survive!” at the top of her lungs. I grinned. There were also emails from Nicole, Jenn, and my other friends, full of sweet “Miss Us” and “XOs.” Reading through them made me smile. Whitman might not like me, but Boston loved me. It was still home.

  I spent a few minutes on emails, and then pulled up the MinuteMan’s website and began filling out the job application. The sooner I found something here to keep me busy, the better.

  I focused intently on my application, carefully recounting my experience as editor-in-chief and providing some of my favorite articles as writing samples. It was only after I emailed the application to the press that my heart sank. I realized I’d left Gail’s Boston Cream Pie sitting, uneaten, on the table.

  I hurried into the kitchen, but Gail was nowhere to be seen, and the pie was stashed in the fridge, covered in tinfoil. When I checked upstairs, Gail’s bedroom door was closed. I started to knock, but my hand froze. Was that muffled crying I heard behind the door?

  Oh, this was bad. I knew what headline I’d see scrawled across Dad’s forehead at dinner tonight: DAD DISOWNS DAUGHTER FOR TRAUMATIZING EXPECTANT STEPMOM. Sometimes, it was painfully easy to read the writing on the wall.

  “Is that him?” Kyan pointed to a photo of a smiling black-haired boy. “Robert Staten?”

  “No,” I said dejectedly as I stirred my yogurt.

  “Ack.” Viv gritted her teeth.

  “I’m telling you, his photo’s not in here.” I sighed. “Seriously, we’ve gone through it at least five times, start to finish.”