Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble

Chaz announces he’s going to see if he can’t rescue Luke from the clutches of his mother and Mrs. Thibodaux and cajole him into having a nightcap. He and Shari invite me along, but I tell them I’m tired and am going to bed.

Which is a lie, but I’m embarrassed to admit that I have other plans…and that they involve needing to find a basin big enough to soak the Givenchy dress in-with the cream of tartar-overnight.

I’m on my hands and knees with my head in the cabinet under the kitchen sink examining something I think might work-a plastic bucket that must have been placed there during some ancient leak-when I hear a door open behind me. Worried it might be Luke, and that if so he’ll be seeing me from my least flattering angle, I start to get up, misjudge the distance between the sink and my scalp, and bang my head on the inside of the cabinet.

“Ouch,” says a male voice from behind me. “That had to hurt.”

Clutching my head with one hand, I look over my shoulder and see Blaine, in his baggy black jeans, dyed-black hair, and Marilyn Manson T-shirt, which I believe he is wearing to be ironic.

“You okay?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” I say. Letting go of my head, I reach for the bucket and climb to my feet.

“Whatcha doing down there, anyway?” Blaine wants to know.

“Just getting something,” I say, trying to hide the bucket behind my voluminous skirt. Don’t even ask me why. I just don’t feel like getting into an explanation of why I have it.

“Oh,” Blaine says. That’s when I notice the unlit, apparently hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips. “Okay. Well, listen. You got a light, by any chance?”

“Sorry,” I say. “No.”

He sags in the doorway. Really. He looks genuinely crushed. “Shit.”

I don’t approve of smoking, of course, but considering what this guy has had to sit through all night, I don’t blame him for needing a little stimulant.

“You could use one of the burners,” I suggest, pointing at the massive-and ancient-stove in the corner.

“Oh,” Blaine says. “Sweet.”

He slouches toward the stove, switches on the flame, bends down, and inhales.

“Ahhhh,” he says after he’s straightened again and exhaled. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

And I recognize a sweet, pungent scent that immediately reminds me of McCracken Hall. That’s when I realize what’s rolled into his cigarette is not tobacco.

“How,” I ask, truly stunned, “did you get that onto a transatlantic flight?”

“They’re called tighty-whities, baby,” Blaine says, dropping down into the kitchen chair Madame Laurent only recently vacated and swinging his combat-booted feet up onto the butcher-block table.

“You smuggled marijuana into France in your underwear?” I am stunned.

He looks at me and chuckles. “Marijuana,” he echoes. “You’re cute, you know that?”

“They have those sniffy dogs at airports now,” I remind him.

“Sure they do,” he says. “They’re trained to sniff for bombs, though, not ganja. Here.” He takes a deep toke on the joint, then holds it out to me. “Have some.”

“Oh,” I say, wrapping both arms around my bucket, then realizing, belatedly, that I must look very prim. “No thank you.”

He eyes me incredulously. “What? You don’t smoke weed?”

“Oh no,” I say, “I can’t afford to lose any more brain cells. I didn’t have that many to start with.”

He chuckles some more. “Good one,” he says. “So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?”

I assume he’s joking, since Chateau Mirac is hardly a dump.

“Oh,” I say, “I’m just visiting with my friends.”

“That tall dude,” Blaine says, “and the dyke?”

I take umbrage at this. “Shari isn’t a lesbian! Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian. But Shari isn’t one.”

He looks surprised. “She isn’t? Whoa. Coulda fooled me. Sorry.”

“She and Chaz have been dating for two years!” I’m still shocked.

“Okay, okay. Jeez, no need to jump all over me. I said I was sorry. She just seems kinda dykey to me.”

“She hardly said two words to you!”

“Right.”

“What, any woman who doesn’t fall all over you is a lesbian?”

“Relax,” Blaine says, “would you? God, you’re worse than my sister, for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, I can see why your sister might be upset with you,” I say, “if you go around accusing her friends of being lesbians when they’re not. Again, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Jesus,” Blaine says, “chill out. What, are you a lesbian or something?”

“No,” I say, feeling my cheeks start to heat up, “I’m not a lesbian. Not that-”

“-there’s anything wrong with it. I know, I know. Sorry. It’s just, you know, you’re here by yourself, and you got so upset when I asked about your friend…”

“For your information,” I say, “I’m here by myself because I just got out of a very bad relationship with a British guy. Yesterday. That’s why I’m here, as a matter of fact.”

“Yeah? What’d he do? Cheat on you?”

“Worse. He cheated on the British government. Welfare fraud.”

“Oh.” Blaine looks impressed. “Hey, that’s bad. My last girlfriend turned out to be a disappointment as well. Only she dumped me.”

“Really? What for? Did you accuse her of being a lesbian, too?”

He smiles. “Funny. No. She accused me of being a sellout when my band signed with Atlantic Records. Dating a musician with a trust fund is one thing. Dating a musician with an actual recording contract turns out to be something else completely.”

“Oh,” I say. And he looks so sad that for a moment I really do feel sorry for him. “Well, I’m sure you’ll meet someone else. There must be lots of girls out there who’d enjoy dating someone with a recording contract and a trust fund.”

“I don’t know,” Blaine says, looking depressed. “If so, I haven’t met any.”

“Well,” I say, “give it time. You don’t want to rush into anything right away. You need to give yourself a chance to heal emotionally.” This sounds like such good advice. I should give serious consideration to taking it myself.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, sucking on his joint, “I hear ya. That’s what I told my sister about Craig. But did she listen? No.”

“Oh? Craig is your sister’s fiance? Is he a rebound?”

“Oh, hell, yeah. I mean, he’s better than the last guy she almost married-least this one’s not part of Houston ‘society’”-he makes quotes around the word with the fingers that aren’t holding the joint-“but talk about boring. I mean, the guy practically makes Bill Gates look like freaking Jam Master Jay, if you get my drift.”

“Right,” I say.

“Still,” Blaine says with a shrug. “He makes her happy. Or as happy as any guy can. Still, Mom’d much rather have her marrying some guy like ol’ Jean-Luc.”

I am disgusted with myself for the way my heart turns over even at the mention of Luke’s name.

“Oh really?” I say in an attempt to appear only casually interested in the topic.

“Shit,” Blaine says, “are you serious? If Mom could get Vicks to hook up with some guy who went to one of those fruity boarding schools, like Luke did, and has a castle in France, she’d frigging cream herself. Instead,” he says with a sigh, “she got stuck with Craig.” He holds out a hand and examines the fingers that say F-U-C-K. “And me.”

“Oh yes,” I say, “I noticed your tattoos at dinner. That must have…hurt.”

“Truthfully,” Blaine says, “I don’t remember if it did or not, I was so wasted. Soon as I get back home, I’m having ’em lasered off. I mean, it was funny for a while, but I’m makin’ serious business deals now and shit. It’s embarrassing to walk into those corporate meetings with ‘Fuck You!’ tattooed on your hands, you know? We just sold one of our songs to Lexus, for a commercial. Six figures, dawg. It’s unbelievable.”

“Wow,” I say. “I’ll be sure to look out for it. What’s the name of your band, anyway?”

He blows a blue plume of marijuana smoke toward the ceiling.

“Satan’s Shadow,” he says reverently.

I cough. And not because of the smoke.

“Well,” I say, “that’s an…unusual name.”

“Vicky thinks it’s dumb,” Blaine says. “But I notice she still wants us to play her gig.”

“Well,” I say, “weddings are a big deal to girls. You should probably go apologize to your sister, don’t you think? I mean, she’s really stressed. I’m sure she didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, lumbering, with an effort, from his chair, “you’re probably right. Hey, you wouldn’t be interested, would you?”

I blink, confused. “Interested? In what?”

“You know,” Blaine says. “Me. I’d never cheat the government. I’ve got a CPA for that.”

“Oh.” I smile at him, startled but flattered. “Thank you very much for the offer. Ordinarily, of course, I’d jump at the chance. But like I said, I’m just coming out of a relationship and I probably shouldn’t rush into anything new too soon.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says with a sigh, “it’s all about the timing. Well, g’night.”

“Night,” I say. “And, um, good luck. With Satan’s Shadow and all.”

He waves and shuffles from the kitchen. And I hurry out as well, clutching my bucket.

Igot the rust stains out.

I know. I can barely believe it myself. I’m standing in the kitchen of Chateau Mirac early the next morning, having soaked the gown overnight in my room, then hurried downstairs-seemingly at the crack of dawn, but a glance at my cell phone tells me it’s only eight-to rinse it in the kitchen sink, which is much wider than the one in the bathroom across the hall from my room.

I swear that’s the only reason. It has nothing to do with my fearing Dominique might find me there and demand I hand the dress over to her now that it’s saved.

Really. Nothing to do with that.

Saved, but still not perfect. I have to mend the torn strap and the jaggedy parts along the hem, plus give the thing a supergood ironing when it finally dries.

But I did it. I got the rust stains out.

It’s a French miracle.

I’m gazing at the dress with rapturous self-satisfaction when I hear someone behind me say, “You did it!”

And I nearly have a heart attack, I’m so startled.

“GOD!” I cry, spinning around to find a smiling Luke in the doorway, looking excited. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

“Sorry,” Luke says, “I didn’t mean to scare you. But…you did it! The stains are gone!”

My heart is hammering a mile a minute-but I have to admit it’s not just because he startled me. It’s also because he looks so gorgeous in the morning light. His freshly shaved face is still glowing a little pinkly from whatever he uses as aftershave (I suspect plain alcohol, since he doesn’t smell like anything in particular, except clean), and the ends of his dark hair are curling damply against the collar of his blue polo shirt. He’s got on those jeans again-the ones he was wearing the first time I met him, the Levi’s that fit his butt so perfectly, not too snug, but not too loose, either. He looks like something dropped from a helicopter-you know, the perfect guy, for a needy girl trapped on a desert island.

That girl being me, and the desert island being my life.

Except, of course, he isn’t mine.

A fact about which he is undoubtedly vastly relieved, I realize, when I see his gaze going from the gown I’m holding to the clothes I’m wearing-which happen to be my Sears jeans and Run Katie Run T-shirt.