Relying On Ben and Jerry (Waltham #1)

Chapter Thirteen: What The Cool Kids Do

The rest of the week passed slowly and in a whole lot of conflicting emotions and too much glitter on a person’s face to be legal, but eventually the time passed—thankfully. The weekend was finally here; it was a Friday night and my brother was all sorts of grounded—although that wasn’t going to stop him from climbing down that tree like a ninja spider monkey—and it was to the point that I needed this vacation like children need their weekly dose of macaroni and cheese.

I planted my booty dutifully in front of the television in the living room Friday night in jammies with a bowl of macaroni and cheese balanced on my knees as I browsed through the selection of cartoon channels, nearly bouncing in excitement when I landed on an episode of Danny Phantom, humming happily to myself. I glanced nervously at the window where snow was falling down on the other side, looking at it like it was ET and he totally was refusing to phone home.

As a Floridian, snow was one of the many things I had never seen. A Sasquatch was another, but that was a story for another time.

I sent one more look at the snow outside before turning back to my companion.

“I just don’t understand what is going on right now,” I whined desperately, sighing heavily as I watched Danny kick the Box Ghost’s arse for about the millionth time. “One minute he’s out in the rain and looking for me like a sweetheart and the next he’s acting all blasé and cute and other synonyms. Does he not like my hair? Am I being too clingy? Is it even time enough in our knowing-each-other-ness to be clingy? What if I’m not his type?”

Watson stared at me, not amused.

“Maybe I’m not even seeing the signs right. Maybe he think I’m, like, total swamp-monster ugly. Oh no! Watson, what if he thinks I’m hideous?”

Watson sneezed and curled up a little tighter.

“Okay. Okay, I won’t freak out. I’ll just take your advice and act natural. No more freaking out for me, nope, no craziness at all allowed. Only me talking to a cat on a Friday evening with cartoons and macaroni and cheese. Nothing more than that.”

I buried my spoon in a pint of Peanut Butter Cup before stuffing the entire thing in my mouth, my cheeks puffing out and the spoon still sticking out. I sighed. “Hmh,” I told my cat. “Mm muh mhu mhm mm.”

The doorbell rang.

“Lena!” my mother called from the family room where she was catching up with her DVR and Desperate Housewives reruns. “Stop talking to your train-wreck of a cat and answer the door.”

“Whatever!” I called back once I had properly swallowed, slumping up off of the floor and to the door, my ice cream and spoon in one hand my macaroni and cheese in the other. I stomped all the way to the door, muttering to myself as I went, before I tugged it open without looking at who was standing on the other side.

Fatal mistake.

“Hey, gurl,” Kline greeted cheerfully. “Thought I would stop by a little early on the chance that you totally forgot that I was supposed to be coming over, which I figured would happen, since—whoa, are those footsie pajamas?”

They were, but my brain hurt too much to be embarrassed.

“Kline?” I asked slowly. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?” she demanded, slipping past me and shrugging off her signature leather jacket. “I told you yesterday I was coming over so that we can stalk your hunky neighbor.”

“I don’t recall this conversation,” I replied as she hung her coat up with the others, slipping off her shoes and letting them sit on the mat. She rubbed her arms, making a point of shivering, acting as though she hadn’t heard a word.