Can you keep a secret?
Angel Schofield and Crystal Parker will be best friends forever. Atleast that's what nine-year-old Angel believes when Crystal moves into the house across the street. But in the wake of betrayal during their teenage years, Cry...
I led Crystal into the kitchen, listening to the drumbeat of her heels on the hardwood floor behind me. She wriggled out.of her coat and used her fingertips to hang it over the back of a chair, then looked me up and down. "You weren't at the reunion," she said. "I had a date," I answered.
She raised her eyebrows. I turned away, grabbing us both smoothies from the refrigerator, unwilling to say more. My night had not started out well. On the dating site advice, I'd met a guy, my sixth blind date in as many weeks, at the restaurant ("Do NOT invite a stranger to your house!" The website had scolded. "Always meet in public, always carry a cell phone, car keys, and/or enough money for transport, and always let a friend know where you are!") I'd gotten the first parts of it right, driving my own car, with my cell phone charged and enough money to cover the bill in my clutch bag, but.i hadn't been able to fulfil the last part, on account of being, at the moment, friendless (friends free?), so.instead, I'd printed out a note in eighteen-point bold type and taped it to my refrigerator: I WENT TO MEET KROY BATEMAN ON FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23. IF ANYTHING HAPPENED TO ME, IT'S PROBABLY HIS FAULT. I'd added my date's cell number, the name and address of the restaurant, and a photocopy of my insurance card. I'd thought for a minute and studied what i wrote.
"Angel?" The guy by the hostess stand said. "I'm Kroy Bateman." He was on time, and tall as promised. This was a refreshing change: the five guys I'd previously met were.not, in general, as promised. Kroy Bateman was neatly dressed in a light-blue button-up shirt, khakis and white converse. Okay I thought. I can work with this. "Nice to meet you," I said, and slipped my black biker jacket off my shoulders. "Thanks for coming." He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering briefly on my body before flicking back to my face. He didn't look appalled, nor did he appear to be edging toward the door. That was good.
I'd dressed in what had become my date outfit: a white blouse tucked into a blue skirt and a pair of floral tights finished with a pair of my favourite black Round-toe-pumps.
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"Our table's ready. Would you like a drink at the bar first?" "No thanks." The site recommended only a single glass of wine. I'd keep my wits about me and not give him any reason to think I had a drinking problem. The hostess took my jacket and handed Kroy a ticket. "After you," He said as I shook out my hair. I'd gone to my hairdresser that morning, planning on nothing more than a trim, but, buoyed by Jez's repeated use of the word "amazing!" And the way he'd actually gotten teary when he'd seen me, I'd allowed myself to be talked into six hours' and five hundred dollars' worth of cut, color and chemicals, and.left with shoulder length layered hair that Jez swore made me look stunning, Honey-blonde and conditioner with a French-speaking name, guaranteed to leave my hair frizzy free and shiny for the next four months. I asked for a glass of Chardonnay, Caesar salad and broiled sole, sauce on the side. Kroy ordered a Cabernet, calamari to start with, then a steak.
"He was your holiday?" He asked. "It was nice," I told him. "Very quiet. I spent the day with family." This was true. I'd taken the full thanksgiving dinner----butternut squash soup, roast turkey, chestnut stuffing, sweet potatoes under a blanket of caramelized marshmallow, the obligatory pumpkin pie----to my brother, Lewis at his assisted living facility on the South Side. We'd eaten sitting on the floor of his small, overheated room, our backs against his single bed, watching Starship Trooper, which was his favourite. I'd left by three and been back home by four. There, I'd poured myself a large glass of wine and left a dish of chopped up turkey and gravy out for the little black cat that's frequently at my back door. I'd spent the evening sitting in the living room, staring out at the shifting grays and lavenders of the sky, untill the moon came up, lost in my thoughts. "How about you?" Kroy told me he'd had dinner with his parents, his sister and her boyfriend. He'd cooked the turkey, rubbing butter and sage under the skin and slow-roasting it over a bed of onions. He said he loved to cook, and I said I did, too. I told him about my adventures in guacamole. He told me about the shows he watched on the Food Network and the hot new restaurant in Chicago he was dying to try.
