Love Inc. E-Book

Yvonne Collins

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 543

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Zahra, Kali, and Syd would never have met if their parents' marriages hadn't fallen apart. But when the three girls collide in group counselling, they discover they have something else in common: they've each been triple-timed by the same nefarious charmer, Eric, aka Rico, aka Rick. Talk about eye-opening therapy. Cheerful, diplomatic Zahra is devastated. How could she have missed the signs? Folksy, flirtatious Kali feels almost as bad. She and Rick had only been on a few dates, but they'd felt so promising. Hardened vintage-vixen Syd is beyond tears. She and Eric had real history... Or so she'd thought. Now all three girls have one mission: to show that cheater the folly of his ways. Project Payback is such a success, the girls soon have clients lining up for their consulting services. Is your boyfriend acting shady? Dying to know if your crush is into you? Need match-making expertise? Look no further than Love, Inc.

Leseprobe

To Dave, for his unflagging enthusiasm and support for ‘Mercury Ink’.

Contents

Title PageDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixAcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorCopyright

Chapter One

Señora Mendoza keeps a hand on the doorknob and her eyes on the clock. At precisely three minutes past nine she closes the door with a firm click. ‘Summer’s over, people. Time to get to work.’ She crosses the room on her toes, like a ballroom dancer, and repeats her point in Spanish. ‘Hora de trabajar.’

I can tell by the way she rolls her R’s that she learnt Spanish at home as a kid. I’d respect her more if she’d learnt the hard way, like us, or taught German. But I’m looking for flaws. I expect to hate everything here, from the teachers to the cafeteria fries. It smells worse than my old school, too – like perfume mixed with sweat and chalk dust.

The door opens again and a guy with unruly brown hair blocks the entrance. Even without the football jersey, you’d know he’s a jock from the build and the confident smile. I suppose he’s good-looking, if you’re into big guys with small heads. Some girls must be, because I can hear giggles behind me.

‘Sorry, Ms. Mendoza,’ the guy says.

‘Fletcher,’ she says, ‘aquí, se habla español.’

‘Disculpe el retraso, Señora.’ The words slip easily off Fletcher’s tongue. He’s used to apologising for being late.

A girl steps out from behind Fletcher and repeats, ‘Disculpe el retraso.’ She’s all sharp edges, but somehow still pretty. Great hair makes up for anything.

Señora Mendoza rolls her eyes at the girl’s pronunciation. ‘Siéntese, Hollis. Mañana, llegue a tiempo.’

‘Excuse me?’ Hollis asks. Her highlights shimmer as she tilts her head.

‘I said, be on time tomorrow.’ The teacher points to the empty seat to my right.

Hollis lifts her right hand, which is clasped in Fletcher’s left. ‘We always sit together.’

Señora Mendoza points to the empty desk on my left.

‘Let me introduce you to Zahra MacDuff. She’ll be sitting between the two of you this year.’

‘But, Señora—’ Hollis tries again.

The teacher cuts her off with a stamp of a high heel. ‘Siéntese. Por favor.’

Fletcher releases Hollis’s hand and they walk down the rows on either side of me. Dumping his backpack on the floor with a thud, Fletcher slides into his seat and turns to stare at me with eyes the color of a stagnant pond. Meanwhile, Hollis stands over me for a moment, hoping I’ll volunteer my seat.

I knew starting tenth grade at Austin High would be tough. Hollis and Fletcher seem to rank pretty high in the sophomore chain of command, and the way I react now could make or break my year.

Still, I got to class fifteen minutes early to stake my claim on exactly the right desk – second row in from the window, five rows from the front. I assumed (wrongly, as it turns out) that this was the perfect place to be overlooked. If I give it up now, will it say I’m a loser who’s desperate to please? Or will it say I’m a team player?

I stare down at Hollis’s flip-flops as I ponder. Her toenails are polished a deep metallic blue embellished with tiny daisies. She has rings on four toes.

Finally I look up. ‘Take—’

‘—the empty seat, Hollis,’ Señora interrupts. ‘Now.’

Hollis’s flip-flops turn and she drops her purse, her backpack, and another bag to the floor, each landing a little closer to my feet. Finally she settles into her seat and crosses her legs. Five little daisies bob into my sight line to remind me I’m in trouble. Fletcher’s swampy eyes are still boring into me from the other side.

Obviously, indecision was the wrong decision. I should have gotten my butt out of this seat and laid a red carpet for Hollis. I’m always a beat late. It’s the story of my life.

I let my hair fall forward, grateful for the cover of the mass of red curls that polite people call auburn. I wish I could go back to my old school. Mom would be glad to have me at home, but I’ve vowed not to return while my grandparents are there.

When they flew in from Pakistan last spring, I had no idea their visit would push my family over the edge. Mom had barely spoken to them since they’d disowned her for marrying a Scottish-American instead of what my sister and I secretly call an MOT – a Member of the Tribe. My parents’ marriage may not have been solid, but it was holding together until my grandparents put down roots in my bedroom. Mom talked less and less and Dad worked more and more, until July, when Dad finally realised he wasn’t wanted and moved out. I went with him, partly to make a grand statement, and partly to divide and conquer. My sister, Saliyah, is working the reunion angle at Mom’s end.

At first I thought living downtown was kind of cool, and I went back to Anderson Mill a lot over the summer to visit my best friends, Shanna and Morgan. Now that I’m in school and working part-time, I won’t be able to tackle the one-and-a-half-hour bus ride as often. I feel homesick and friend-sick. Too bad grand statements don’t come with back doors.

Señora Mendoza turns to the board. ‘Let’s start by reviewing some verbs you learnt last year. Suggestions?’

I start conjugating in my notebook:

I hate it here. You hate it here. She hates it here. He hates it here. We hate it here. They hate it here.

It’s unanimous. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m stuck between a jock and a hard face for another forty-two minutes.

Luckily, I’m easily distracted.

The classroom recedes as I drift to the set of my imaginary cooking show, The Sweet Tooth. Normally, I come here to escape my worries, but today I have something exciting on the agenda. Since Dad is out of town till late, I’ve decided to invite Rico over. Tonight will be the very first time I’ve ever …

‘Really? Your first time?’ Oliver James, celebrity chef and a frequent guest on my show feigns surprise. He leans against the granite counter and crosses his arms. ‘You seem so … experienced.’

‘Thanks – I think.’ Oliver gets away with murder because of his impish smile and English accent. ‘This is definitely a first, and Rico is special.’

‘Cracking, is he?’

I nod. ‘He’s just … perfect. So I need tonight to be perfect, too. That’s why I called you.’

‘Brilliant,’ Oliver says. ‘But are you sure you’re ready for this, pet?’

Rico and I have been seeing each other for exactly nine weeks, although it seems longer. He’s not only incredibly hot; he’s sweet and thoughtful, too. I’ve never felt this way about a guy before, and I want to take it to the next level.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I’m ready. But I’m a bit nervous.’

‘Don’t worry; no one knows her way around a kitchen better than you do.’ He walks over to the chalkboard I use to share the day’s food plan with my viewers and writes: GET NAKED MENU.

‘Oliver! I’m cooking for Rico, that’s all.’

He turns and cocks an eyebrow. ‘I thought you wanted a little rumpy bumpy. I’m setting the stage.’

The older ladies in the audience murmur disapprovingly. I’m the youngest girl in the country to have her own cooking show, and as much as they adore Oliver, they don’t want him leading me down the wrong path.

‘This is about love, not sex,’ I say. ‘All I want to do is talk to Rico about our relationship.’

There’s a relieved sigh from the audience, but Oliver looks horrified. ‘Flippin’ heck. You’re too young to be playing Happy Families.’

‘I’m not pretending we’re married,’ I say, striking through Oliver’s words and writing ROMANTIC DINNERÀ DEUX. ‘But I want to tell him how I feel and find out if he feels the same way.’

‘Bollocks,’ Oliver says. ‘Let him tell you how he feels when he’s ready.’

‘But I’m ready now, and I communicate best through my cooking.’

On the board, I sketch out my dinner menu: oysters on the half shell, steak au poivre, baked potatoes, and chocolate volcano cake.

‘You’re off your trolley,’ Oliver says, mussing his permanently mussed hair. ‘Mollusks are about as useful as a chocolate teapot in the romance department, and steak is too heavy. The point is to throw something casual together. If it looks like you’ve been fannying around forhours, he’ll run for the hills. It’s like asking for a commitment.’

I lean against the stainless steel refrigerator. ‘You’re underestimating Rico. Besides, I just want him to say I’m his girlfriend.’

‘Then trust me on this: Make it easy-peasy. No oysters, no candles, no rose petals, no frills.’ On the board he writes PENNEALLA ARRABBIATA AND STRAWBERRIES.

‘But dessert’s my specialty,’ I whine.

‘You don’t need the aggro.’ Oliver lifts the lid off a pot of simmering sauce and fills the air with the aroma of tomato, herbs, and garlic. ‘Pump up the heat with this, and Romeo will be on his knees under your balcony. And you, unlike Juliet, may live happily ever after.’

‘So you’re saying I should deny every romantic impulse I have?’

‘Correct. Do exactly the opposite of what you want to do. Hear me?’

Oliver’s hand drops onto my shoulder and squeezes. Hard.

Only it can’t be Oliver’s hand, because he doesn’t have long nails like daggers.

Señora Mendoza does. I see them as she picks up my notebook and reads aloud to the class: “Get Naked Menu: pasta arrabbiata and strawberries. Or … Romantic Dinner à Deux: oysters on the half shell, steak au poivre with baked potatoes, and chocolate volcano cake.”

She rolls every R suggestively, making it sound far worse than it actually is. Hollis is laughing so hard her toes are clenched to keep her flip-flops on.

Señora Mendoza drops the notebook onto my desk. ‘I recommend keeping your clothes on, especially near a hot stove. In the meantime, Zahra, conjugate to listen. En español, por favor.’

I do it, noticing that my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else – someone who knows she’s committed social suicide. Then I let my hair swallow me whole until the bell rings twenty-nine minutes later.

Hollis is smiling when I emerge, happy that I’ve saved her the trouble of kicking me to the bottom of the school food chain.

Fletcher is smiling too, but he seems intrigued. ‘Go with the steak,’ he says, in a faux whisper. ‘But getting naked wouldn’t hurt, either.’

Hollis stands and pushes past me, hitting my head with her bags – one, two, three. She pulls Fletcher to his feet, and he gives me a thumbs-up as they leave.

Austin High, I’ve arrived.

Cooking at Mom’s is a combat sport. There are too many people with too many opinions sticking their spoons where they don’t belong. Cooking at Dad’s, on the other hand, is virtually impossible. The apartment’s kitchenette was designed for reheating frozen food, not making romantic dinners. Even if there was more room, Dad has refused to buy me a set of basic kitchen equipment. He actually suggested I carry my blender back and forth from Mom’s on the two-bus commute. You’d think he’d be more supportive, knowing my goal is to become a celebrity pastry chef.

Luckily, my twelve-year-old sister, Saliyah, is easily bribed. In exchange for her getting Mom and my grandparents out of the house for three hours, I promised to do all her homework for a week. Three hours is plenty of time to make the arrabbiata sauce, dip the strawberries in chocolate (still easy-peasy), and be on my way.

The stresses of the day fade as I set out my magical glass mixing bowls, a complete rainbow of colors nested one inside the other. The violet bowl is my favorite, although it’s too small to hold more than the chilies that will hopefully turn this tomato sauce into a truth serum. The bowls aren’t really magic, but I’ve had more successes than failures with them. I had cooked Sunday dinner for years, until my parents ruined the tradition by breaking the news about their split over dessert. Now I’ve sworn off cooking for family, with the exception of Saliyah.

I start by opening the windows, turning on a fan, and flash frying the pancetta. Then I chop the onions and get to work on the tomatoes. By the time six of my seven bowls are full, I’m so calm that I actually believe I can pull this dinner off without triggering the Cookie Curse that has caused every guy I’ve baked for to dump me.

It all started with Sam Hoffler, my sixth-grade boyfriend, who walked me home from school for two solid weeks before finally kissing me. Back then, I thought a kiss really meant something, so I decided to show Sam how I felt by doing what came naturally: baking cookies. ‘The Sam’ was delicious – a basic sugar cookie with chocolate rosebuds. But the cookies were barely cool before Sam started walking home with a girl who brought grocery store brownies to school bake sales.

In seventh grade I created ‘The Tyrell’ for Tyrell Travers. We met at swimming lessons, and he rode his bike back and forth in front of our house until Dad threatened to line the road with tacks. Once Tyrell got the nerve to come to the door, I gave in and baked. The white chocolate Hershey’s Kisses on the dark chocolate cookies must have spooked him, because he dumped me the next day.

In eighth grade I created ‘The Logan,’ with ground almonds and a raspberry center. Logan Duprey and I had been together nearly four weeks, but he hadn’t bothered to mention his nut allergy. He survived; the relationship didn’t.

In ninth grade I created ‘The Jonah’ for Jonah Coen, who was so cute, but in retrospect, so selfish. I couldn’t see it at the time, though, and when Valentine’s Day rolled around, I rolled into the kitchen. ‘The Jonah’ was the finest of my boyfriend line: shortbread laced with Skor bars. I carried a tub of them over to his place for a romantic movie night, not realising Jonah had also invited six of his buddies for a zombie-fest. The guys ate all the cookies and teased Jonah so much about being ‘whipped’ that the breakup text he sent two days later wasn’t a big surprise.

Oliver was right. I can’t risk baking today, although if anyone could survive the Cookie Curse, it would be Rico. He’s not afraid of romantic gestures. The day after Dad and I moved, Rico showed up at the Recipe Box, the cookbook store where I work, with a triple ice cream sundae. We sat on the curb after my shift and ate it together as the sun went down.

I’ve finally hit the boyfriend jackpot, and I sense my timing for the big meal is just right. After cooking my way into Rico’s heart tonight, I’ll tell him exactly how I feel.

If he hasn’t told me first.

He’d better tell me first. I’ve just spent half an hour peeling and seeding fresh tomatoes when I could have opened a can.

He’ll tell me first. Rico obviously feels the same way I do. When we’re together, he acts like I’m the most important person in his world.

I can’t let doubts get to me now. Just because my parents’ marriage collapsed doesn’t mean the same thing will happen to me. I realise how important romance is to a relationship. If Mom and Dad had made more of an effort in that department, our family might not be in ruins today.

The sauce is almost done when I hear the car in the driveway. There’s the bang of a car door and the sound of running footsteps on the stairs. Saliyah turns the key in the lock and bursts into the kitchen, her long dark hair disheveled. ‘Sorry,’ she puffs, ‘I couldn’t stall them anymore. But I knocked over a flowerpot on the way in to keep them busy for a few more minutes.’

I crumple the recipe and toss it into the trash can. ‘You’re doing your own math homework,’ I say, shoving things into the cupboard.

Mom comes in two minutes later, and her face lights up. ‘Zahra, you’re cooking!’

I resist the urge to say, ‘Not for you.’ I can’t afford to raise any suspicions. So I give her a kiss on the cheek and say, ‘Just making pasta sauce.’

Her smile fades as she takes in the tomato juice splattered from one end of the counter to the other. ‘It looks like a crime scene.’

Mom tries to keep the kitchen sterile enough for surgery at all times – great if your appendix detonates, not so great if you like to get creative with food.

Sniffing like a hound, she says, ‘Do I smell … bacon?’

‘No.’ I stare into the pot until her dark eyes force the truth out of me. ‘Pancetta.’

‘Zahra!’

‘It was only two ounces.’

‘The quantity is hardly the point. It’s pork.’

‘Dad used to cook bacon sometimes.’

She shakes her head. ‘It’s different now.’

That’s for sure. Now all my parents think about is themselves. Mom’s obsessed with her parents and her culture crisis, and Dad’s become a workaholic. I’m basically raising myself.

‘Eating pork is forbidden for Muslims, you know that,’ Mom continues. ‘Your grandparents would see it as breaking faith with God.’

‘But they won’t be eating it,’ I say.

Relief and disappointment flood Mom’s face. ‘So you’re not cooking for us?’

What part of ‘never again’ didn’t she understand? ‘Mom, I wouldn’t serve Nani and Nana pork.’ I’m cursed enough without bringing the wrath of God into it.

Reaching for her trusty bottle of bleach, Mom prepares to purify. ‘Saliyah. Keep your grandparents busy in the garden till I can clean up. Tip over another begonia if you have to.’

My sister turns from the fridge. There’s a ring of chocolate around her mouth and two strawberries husks in the palm of her hand. Grinning at me, she grabs another strawberry and heads for the door.

Mom lights a homemade vanilla-and-bergamot candle to mask the scent of sin. Then she pulls on industrial rubber gloves and rinses pots and cutlery before stacking them in the dishwasher.

An expert in forensic cookery, she opens cupboards one by one to take inventory, wiping each item I touched. She checks the fridge, the recycling bin, and the garbage pail before announcing her conclusion. ‘You’re cooking dinner for Rico.’

‘I’m cooking for Dad.’ It’s not a total lie. He’ll get the leftovers.

She crosses her arms, rubber gloves and all. ‘You used hot pepper flakes and chilies. But you hate spicy food, and so does your father.’

‘Dad’s changed since you kicked him out.’ Again, not a total lie. ‘Now he brings home curry a lot. I guess it reminds him of home.’

‘I did not kick him out,’ she says. ‘It takes two people to make or break a marriage.’

‘Fine. I’m just saying he’s lonely.’ I taste the tomato sauce and make a show of putting the spoon back into the pot.

Mom shudders. ‘Use a fresh spoon.’

‘The germs will boil off,’ I say. ‘It needs more basil.’

Naturally, Mom’s already put the basil away and washed the cutting board. I take them out again.

‘I thought your dad was in Chicago,’ she says.

Saliyah must be the weak link. My parents avoid communicating directly if they can, and I’m counting on that today. If Mom decides to confirm Dad’s plans, I’ll be setting another place for dinner.

‘He’ll be home early,’ I say. Early tomorrow, since his plane lands close to midnight. ‘And he wants to meet Rico.’

True again, although I’ve worked hard to keep that from happening. Dad dislikes any guy I bring home until they’re history, at which point he starts talking about how great the guy is.

‘I’m surprised you’re subjecting that boy to your father already,’ Mom says.

I stay focused on my priorities, specifically getting home in time to straighten my hair. ‘You’ve met Rico, so now Dad wants to.’

‘Bumping into you two making out in the Arboretum Mall parking lot hardly constitutes a meeting.’

‘It was just a kiss goodbye.’

‘Tonsils included,’ she says, putting the basil back in the fridge. ‘This Rico … is he treating you well?’

‘Mom.’ I test the sauce again and decide it needs another pinch of pepper. I might not like heat, but Rico loves it, and the dinner’s for him. ‘Rico’s a really nice guy.’

She’s scrubbing the cutting board hard enough to break a normal woman’s fingers. ‘You said he doesn’t always return your calls.’

Mom and I haven’t had one of our heart-to-hearts over chai tea since the day Dad and I moved out, yet she still manages to collect and catalogue information to use against me. She has too much time on her hands. I wish she’d get a job or something. ‘Rico’s a busy guy. He has a lot of interests.’

‘You’re sure?’

There’s only one way to get her off my case. Turning away from the stove, I let tomato sauce drip off the spoon in a wide arc onto her clean counter and the floor. ‘Yes, Mom, I’m sure my boyfriend is a nice guy.’

Happily, her need to sterilize outweighs her desire to follow up on the B-word. Because it’s not exactly official.

Yet.

The evening is going exactly as planned. The pasta is delicious. Rico is saying all the right things. I am saying all the right things. Even my hair cooperated. Rico pushed it aside to kiss my neck earlier, and it didn’t snag his hand like a Venus flytrap.

I worked hard to keep things completely casual. It was Rico who arrived with the single red rose that’s now standing on the table in a water glass, since we don’t have a vase. It was Rico who dimmed the lights as we sat down. And it was Rico who lit the only candle I had on hand – a fat, wax Santa Claus that Mom nearly sent the way of pork. Oliver James might not approve, but no one is running for the hills. The boyfriend-killing Cookie Curse appears to have been broken.

The conversation flows easily, about music and art and places we want to see someday. For once I manage not to rant about my parents and ask about his instead.

‘Just the usual,’ he says, helping himself to more pasta. There’s plenty left because it burnt the skin off my tongue. ‘Dad’s got a big court case and Mom’s still teaching yoga. But let’s talk about you.’

Rico’s phone buzzes again, for maybe the fifteenth time, and although he ignores it, I start to feel a bit insecure.

‘Did you want to get that?’ I fully expect him to say no, but he pulls the phone out of his pocket, checks his texts, and grins. ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask.

‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Just a friend goofing around.’

His grin worries me. It’s the same one he gives me when I tease him about his cowlick. That grin is supposed to be just for me. ‘Which friend?’

‘Pete,’ he says, without a second’s hesitation. ‘The guys are checking out a band tonight and want to know if I’ll meet them there.’

‘You made plans for later?’ I try not to sound hurt, but I can’t help it. I slaved to make this night special, and Rico cutting out early was not on the agenda.

‘Of course not,’ he says, tapping at his phone. ‘I’m telling Pete to stop bugging me.’ He drops the phone in his pocket and reaches for my hand. I try to pull it away, but he quickly links his fingers through mine. ‘Did I mention that you’re the best cook I’ve ever met?’

It might be a line, but it’s one I like hearing. ‘You did mention that.’

He leans forward and gazes at me with eyes that look black in the dim light, but are really the most beautiful blue. ‘You’re going to be a famous chef someday,’ he says, with a dazzling smile. ‘But tell me this: if you plan on calling your show The Sweet Tooth, how come you’ve never baked for me?’

I lean forward in my seat, too. ‘Who says I haven’t?’

‘Oh, right.’ He runs his fingers lightly along my forearm until my skin tingles. ‘We haven’t gotten to dessert.’

Thank God I ignored the dissenting voice in my head and followed my instincts. There’s a tub of cookies sitting on the kitchen counter now – peanut butter with dark chocolate chunks. I managed to whip them up because Rico was nearly an hour late for dinner.

I think about getting them, but I don’t want to spoil the moment. He’s gazing and I’m gazing, and though it’s intense, I could definitely get used to it.

‘You have the most beautiful eyes,’ he says. ‘And you’re so talented.’

OK, he’s really laying it on thick now. He must feel bad about Pete’s calls.

‘You are,’ he insists, reading my expression. ‘I admire your commitment.’

That’s nice, but I was hoping he’d talk about another kind of commitment.

‘I have something for you.’ He reaches into the pocket of his coat draped over the back of his chair. ‘A hostess gift.’

I tear off the tissue and try not to look disappointed when I find a pot holder inside. A romance vacuum has opened under the table.

‘Turn it over,’ Rico says, grinning.

On the flip side is an adorable, long-lashed cartoon character in the shape of a molar. She’s wearing a pink gingham apron with a matching bow in her curly red hair, and holding a cupcake. Underneath are the words The Sweet Tooth.

‘I figured you’d need a logo,’ he says. ‘So I designed it and had it printed.’

I was wrong – this is the most romantic gift ever, because it says he believes in me. It’s a grand statement. Today a pot holder, tomorrow a diamond. I can imagine us sitting this way when Rico’s hair is silvery in the candlelight. Hopefully, I’ll still be surprising him with my cooking. That never gets old.

‘You like?’ Rico prompts me.

I snap out of my trance and reach across the table for his hand. ‘I love.’

‘Good,’ Rico says. ‘Because there’s something I want to tell you.’

This is it! Our big moment. My heart is racing but I try to sound cool. ‘Yes?’

He leans so far forward that all I can see are teeth and eyes. ‘Zahra, I—’

The phone cuts him off. Mine, not his. It’s probably Mom, and if I don’t pick up, she’ll call the cops. Or Dad’s cell. Either way, I’ll be dead.

‘Hold that thought,’ I say, reaching for the phone. Rico does better than that. He continues to hold my hand as I say, ‘Oh, hi, Dad.’ Brightly. Casually. ‘Where are you? Oh. You caught an earlier flight.’ Rico lets go of my hand. ‘No, nothing’s wrong. I have leftovers for you. See you soon.’

Rico is already slipping his arms into his jacket when I hang up.

‘You don’t have to leave,’ I say. ‘He’s still a half hour away.’

Rico’s phone buzzes again, and he pulls it out of his pocket. ‘No worries. I should get going anyway.’

I trail after him to the door. ‘But you were about to tell me something.’

‘This weekend,’ he says. ‘We’ll go for a drive and talk.’ What felt so right now feels so wrong.

‘Wait,’ I say, heading into the kitchen to get the cookies. ‘At least take these.’

‘Thanks,’ he says, leaning down to kiss me.

With Rico’s lips on mine, and his hands in my hair, everything starts to feel right again – so right that we’re still kissing twenty minutes later when a key turns in the lock. We look up, stunned, as the door opens and light from the hall floods in.

Dad looks stunned, too. His eyes bulge as they drop from my face to Rico’s hand, which has migrated to the small of my back, under my T-shirt, then jump to my hand, which is in Rico’s back pocket. ‘Zahra, what is going on here?’

His eyes bounce up and almost pop out of his head as he looks over my shoulder.

I turn quickly to see flames licking across the dining room table.

‘My pot holder!’ I scream. ‘Oh, Rico!’

But when I turn back, Rico is gone.

Chapter Two

Dad didn’t need to wreck his suit jacket. The old blanket on the couch would have done a better job putting out the fire, and maybe saved the table, too. Besides, this whole situation could have been avoided if he’d tested the smoke alarm and let me equip the kitchen properly. All the cooking shows warn you to have a fire extinguisher on hand. Maybe Dad expects me to carry that back and forth from Mom’s, too.

Rico feels terrible about what happened. I wish he’d stuck around to help put out the fire, but while Dad and I were panicking, it was Rico who called 911 and waited downstairs until the fire trucks came. I guess he was scared of Dad, and I can’t blame him. But Dad didn’t say much that night. He just kept checking and rechecking the dining room to make sure the fire was really out.

The ax fell the next day. I expected grounding. I expected withdrawal of e-privileges. I even expected Dad to send me back to Mom’s for round-the-clock supervision.

I did not expect to end up in group therapy. Yet that’s where I am only three days later, sitting on a folding chair in a church basement with three other girls and two guys. My parents, who took years to decide to split, managed to make this decision overnight so I could enroll in the fall session. They even sat in the same room for ten minutes to break the news that I’ll be attending every Thursday after school. Apparently it’s not ‘real therapy,’ just a support group for teens who have ‘families in transition.’ In other words, we’re not crazy, we just have crappy parents.

They claimed it’s not a punishment for the ‘Rico incident,’ but it sure feels like one. I should have told the whole truth and nothing but the truth (and kept an eye on the candle), but is it so wrong to want a little romance in my life? I guess it is, or I wouldn’t be plagued by the Cookie Curse. Well, I will never bake for a guy I like again. Lesson learnt. No need for group therapy.

My parents could use some counseling themselves. They sat at opposite ends of the couch during the sentencing, and the second they finished, Mom bolted. She accidentally brushed Dad’s leg on her way out, and they both flinched. That’s messed up.

Well, I’m done with them anyway. I’m not going to waste another second worrying about their happiness when they’re so willing to hand over their parental responsibilities to a complete stranger – a stranger who looks more like an avatar than a human being. The guy is tall, thin, and dressed entirely in black. His blond hair is precisely cut, and his blue eyes are so pale they’re frosty. I’m pulling up the drawbridge and filling the moat. This guy isn’t getting near my brain.

On the bright side, with an avatar in charge, there shouldn’t be much hugging. I was worried about that, even before I saw the other people in my group. One of the guys looks ready to blow. His eyes are dark and sinister under the brim of his black baseball cap. It’s a warm day, yet he’s wearing a worn leather jacket, with his hands buried so deep in the pockets that I can’t help wondering about concealed weapons.

The other guy looks stoned. Crossing his scuffed work boots, he checks me out and gives me a lopsided smile. He can’t be serious. Even if I didn’t have Rico, I’d never hook up with someone from group. The ‘how we met’ story would be too embarrassing.

The avatar claps three times to bring the meeting to order. ‘Welcome to Transitions,’ he says, circling behind our folding chairs. ‘My name is Dieter Schmitt and I’m a licensed therapist. Before we begin, I want to lay out a few ground rules. No electronic devices. No bullying. No whining. No tardiness. No—’

‘That’s more than a few,’ one of the girls says, as she digs through a gorgeous red leather bag that I recognise from In Style magazine. In fact, her entire outfit looks high-end. I’m sure she’d rather be shopping than stuck here with us.

‘No wallowing in self-pity,’ Dieter continues as if she hasn’t spoken. ‘No wishing you could change the things you can’t, or excuses for not changing the things you can.’

Rather-Be-Shopping looks up from her bag. ‘Did I walk into Alcoholics Anonymous by mistake?’

‘No snarky asides,’ Dieter says. ‘No disrespecting the process.’ He comes to a stop beside another seat. ‘And no dogs.’

A girl who looks pissed off at the world is twisting a brown leather leash around her fingers. At her feet is a hundred pounds of snoozing Rottweiler.

‘Banksy goes wherever I go,’ Pissed-Off-at-the-World says in a low, raspy voice that suits her offbeat style. She’s wearing a frayed velvet skirt with motorcycle boots, and her shiny black hair is cut into a 1920s-style bob. On her cheek is a black beauty mark that may or may not be penciled on.

‘Not to school, I’m sure,’ Dieter says. ‘And I doubt he’ll benefit from therapy.’

Banksy stirs in his sleep and bares two rows of very sharp teeth. Pissed Off smirks as I tuck my feet under my chair. Well, she can smirk all she likes. These boots were a guilt gift from Mom, and I don’t plan on leaving with fang marks in them.

Holding out his hand for the leash, Dieter stares the girl down with unblinking eyes until she releases it. ‘Good luck getting him to move,’ she says.

Dieter gives the leash a single, sharp tug. ‘Banksy, come.’ The dog stands immediately and follows Dieter out the door.

‘I’ve tied him up in the shade,’ Dieter says when he returns. ‘The tai chi group will keep an eye on him.’

He spends a few moments rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. When they’re just right, he continues his speech. ‘Group therapy works, but it also takes work. You have to listen to each other and offer your perspective. You have to come to terms with your new family situation and focus on moving on with your own life.’

‘Moving on,’ repeats a girl with blond curls and green eyes. Her long legs are crossed in front of her, and she looks so relaxed that I wonder if she’s been here before.

Dieter reaches for his clipboard to take attendance. ‘Evan Garrett?’

Stoned gives a lazy wave with one hand while scratching his bare knee through a hole in his jeans with the other. His bloodshot eyes are half closed. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Mostly.’

Ignoring the snuffle of laughter, Dieter ticks off Evan’s name with a silver pen. ‘Lauren Archer?’

Rather-Be-Shopping nods. Her hair is shiny and straight, a mockery of my own, which is threatening to take over the room. The basement of this huge old church is so damp that the industrial gray carpet is curling up in the corners, and the framed picture of Noah’s ark is swampy with mildew. You’d think the least my parents could do is send me to some upscale therapist with a leather couch. But Dad just couldn’t pass up a cheap community program that’s way too close to school for my liking. I’m bound to run into people I know – once I actually know people. ‘Sydney Stark?’

Pissed-Off-at-the-World flashes eerie, topaz eyes at Dieter and grunts an acknowledgment.

‘Zahra Ahmed-MacDuff?’

‘Here.’ I aim for casual but it comes out overly cheery. I can’t help it. No matter how I really feel, cheery is my default. I have a future in customer service. ‘But it’s just “MacDuff” now.’

‘Interesting,’ Dieter says, making a note on his clipboard.

Great. The session hasn’t even started and I’m already noteworthy. My goal in dropping Mom’s Pakistani surname was to distance myself and start fresh. Instead it’s made me look like I have issues.

Been-Here-Before starts singing: ‘“Nameless faces, trading places. I can run, but I can’t hide in the crowd …”’ Her eyes are closed and she’s fingering an imaginary guitar.

Ready-to-Blow rolls his eyes and says, ‘Freak.’

‘Rude,’ I say, before Been-Here-Before has time to respond. ‘There’s no need to be mean. It’s not like any of us wants to be here.’ I glance at Dieter. ‘No offense.’

Dieter’s thin lips tighten. He probably doesn’t want to be here either. Maybe he’s paying his dues so he can move on to real therapy. ‘Zahra’s right—’ He scans his clipboard and comes up with ‘Simon. I already told you, no bullying. As for you, Kalista,’ he says, ‘save your songwriting for your own time.’

‘You know it’s Kali,’ she says, proving she has been here before. ‘And I didn’t actually write those lyrics.’

‘Notts County?’ I ask. I’ve learnt a few things about indie bands from Rico.

Kali nods and smiles. ‘Isn’t Owen Gaines the cutest?’

‘Totally,’ Evan answers, rolling his eyes.

Dieter stares at Evan until he squirms in his chair. ‘A couple of last points before we get started. You need to be discreet and respect one another’s privacy. What happens in group stays in group. Understood?’

There’s a general murmur of agreement on this one.

‘The only thing I’ll discuss with your parents is your attendance.’ Dieter gets up to pace again. ‘Because they’re picking up the tab.’

‘Is this on the test?’ Stoned asks.

‘No tests and no grades, Evan,’ Dieter says. ‘The rewards may not be tangible, but they’ll last a lifetime. You are about to discover the healing powers of group therapy.’

Simon throws himself back in his chair so hard it almost tips. His hands come out of his pockets. One’s holding an iPod, the other a set of keys. ‘Just kill me now,’ he says.

Dieter plants shiny black shoes in front of Simon. ‘No such luck.’

‘If your “process” works,’ Simon says, ‘how come the Air Guitar Freak is back for seconds?’

‘Keep up the personal attacks and you’ll be back for seconds as well,’ Dieter says. ‘Why not just open up and share?’

We all groan.

‘That’s right, share,’ Dieter repeats. ‘You’ll be amazed at how much you can help each other when you see past your differences. Every one of you is in a similar situation. Your family has hit the rocks. You hate them. You think they hate you. Maybe you even blame yourselves.’

Nope, I still blame my grandparents. If they hadn’t come here, Mom and Dad probably would have carried on as they were – which didn’t look that bad to me. It was just chilly around the house. I guess their marriage was like an iceberg, with the big scary part hidden beneath the water. At any rate, with my grandparents now trying to de-assimilate Mom, Dad will never win her back. Not that he’s trying.

‘Tell us about it. Listen. Support. Trust.’ Dieter claps three times. ‘Now, who wants to start?’

I was sure Kali would be the first to wave her hand, but she’s gone back to swaying to unheard music with her eyes closed.

In the distance, a dog howls.

Sydney stands. ‘I’m outta here. You’re torturing my baby.’

Before she can leave, an elderly priest appears in the doorway, holding Banksy’s leash. The dog breaks free and runs to Sydney, stumpy tail wagging madly.

‘Sorry about the ruckus, Father Casey,’ Dieter says. ‘Sydney will leave the dog at home next week.’

‘Nonsense,’ Father Casey says, smiling. ‘Well-behaved dogs are welcome at St. Joe’s.’ Banksy sits quietly at Sydney’s feet. ‘Bring him inside next time, Sydney.’

Sydney’s bright red lips curl into a smile that transforms her face. ‘Thank you, Father Casey.’

Dieter takes a seat and waits till the priest leaves before saying, ‘Kali, you know how this works. Could you get the ball rolling?’

‘Sure,’ she says. ‘My mom just dumped her fourth husband, and that is why I’m back.’

‘Wow!’ The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

‘I know, crazy, right?’ Kali says. ‘I really liked Husband Number Four, and now he’s just … gone.’

‘Parents are selfish pigs,’ Lauren says. She puts her bag down beside her chair, forming a designer barrier between herself and Banksy. ‘My mom had an affair with her boss, and Dad sent me here because he thought I’d be devastated. But I get that relationships don’t always work.’ She gives Dieter a bright smile. ‘I’m fine.’

Dieter raises an eyebrow. ‘Sometimes it takes a while for the truth to sink in.’

‘Oh, I’m not in denial or anything,’ Lauren says. ‘I just focus on the good things.’

‘Like Prada and Gucci?’ Sydney asks, looking down at Lauren’s bag.

‘And Hermès and Coach,’ Lauren counters. ‘Retail therapy does help.’ She inspects Sydney’s vintage fashion. ‘But you have to steer clear of thrift shops.’

‘What else helps you cope, Lauren?’ Dieter intervenes.

‘My boyfriend,’ Lauren says, pushing her hair behind her ears with French-manicured nails. ‘I can tell Trey anything.’

Sydney repeats the last sentence in a singsong voice as she takes a plastic bag out of her backpack and offers Banksy a dog biscuit.

Dieter shoots a pointed look in Sydney’s direction. Her kohl-lined eyes are all innocence. ‘What? I’m agreeing with her.’ She balls up the empty plastic bag and tosses it into the trash can.

Kali is out of her seat in a flash to pluck the bag out of the trash and wave it under Sydney’s nose. ‘Hello? You can reuse this.’

‘Reuse this,’ Syd says, flipping her the bird. I notice her fingernails are chewed down and her left hand is splotched with red and blue paint.

Kali looks to Dieter, but he’s momentarily distracted by Simon, who’s plugging in his earbuds.

‘You should use biodegradable bags anyway,’ Kali says. ‘Especially to stoop-and-scoop for your canine Prince Charming.’

Dieter confiscates Simon’s iPod and shoots Kali a warning glance. ‘Some people take comfort from animals in times of stress.’

‘Others just get stoned,’ Sydney says, trying to shift attention to Evan.

‘Or sublimate their grief with anger and sex,’ Simon says. ‘Like I do.’

Evan almost falls into Lauren’s lap, laughing. I’m surprised he has enough brain cells left to know what sublimate means.

Kali talks over the guys’ laughter. ‘I agree with Lauren. A good relationship is the best distraction from family drama. When I see my boyfriend, Rick, the rest of the world just fades away. And then the songs come.’ She closes her eyes and hums a few stray notes. ‘It’s the ultimate therapy.’

Sydney isn’t the only one to snort, but hers is the loudest. ‘I had you pegged at school. You and your friends are too much.’ She turns to Simon. ‘It’s constant hallway karaoke.’

Kali crosses her legs again, and her arms too. ‘At least I don’t roll with thugs.’

‘Stains and Rambo are my best friends,’ Sydney says. ‘Even if we don’t sing together.’

‘You want to be scary by association,’ Kali says. ‘Dieter would say you hang with them to avoid making real friends.’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Kali,’ Dieter says, although he seems fine with the direction the conversation is taking. He’s even slouched a little in his chair.

‘I like hanging with guys because girls overanalyze everything,’ Sydney says.

I try steering the conversation to safer ground. ‘Does everyone here go to Austin High? I just started there this week.’

They tell me that Evan and Simon go to Travis, the other high school in the area, while Lauren attends a private school in the east end.

Syd confronts Lauren. ‘You probably come downtown for this so your society friends won’t know you’re in group.’

‘Of course I do,’ Lauren says. ‘I bet no one here is telling their friends.’

Dieter weighs in. ‘You should all be proud of yourselves for trying to deal with your challenges in a constructive way.’

Everyone single one of us laughs.

‘I’m not even telling my boyfriend,’ Kali says. ‘We’re pretty solid, but still.’

‘You don’t want him to think you’re a head case,’ Simon offers.

‘Exactly,’ Kali says.

‘I’m not telling my boyfriend either,’ I say.

‘Why not, Zahra?’ Dieter asks.

‘I don’t want to bring Rico down with my problems, that’s all,’ I say. ‘I’m sure he’d be totally supportive.’

‘Trey already knows all about my problems, including group,’ Lauren says. ‘But we’ve been together over a year. How did you and Rico meet?’

‘We met in a music store near the cookbook shop where I work.’

Kali uncrosses her legs and leans forward in her seat. ‘Is he cute?’

I nod, relaxing a little as I tell the story. ‘I’m not that into music, but he was so excited about all these new bands, I spent thirty bucks on his favorite CD. Who even buys CDs anymore? Anyway, I hated it, but I went back the next day and sunk another forty into a live bootleg album.’

Lauren laughs. ‘Did you get a decent return on your investment?’

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘We started talking about an art exhibit, and he invited me to come.’

‘You’re into art?’ Sydney says, running her eyes over my outfit. Obviously someone who wears regular jeans and sneakers can’t be arty.

‘I’m into Rico,’ I say. ‘If he’d invited me to a monster truck rally, I’d have been into that too.’

‘Girls,’ Simon says, in disgust. ‘You’re all frauds.’

‘It’s polite to show interest in other people’s passions,’ I say. ‘And it goes both ways. Rico backs my dream of becoming a chef.’

‘It’s not hard to show interest in eating,’ Evan says. His hair’s even curlier than mine – a big brown afro.

‘He made me a pot holder with my company logo,’ I say, regretting it immediately as the guys snicker.

‘That’s very romantic,’ Lauren says. ‘It shows he gets what you’re all about.’

‘Sugar and spice and everything nice,’ Syd says, smirking.

I simply smile because I happen to believe ‘Everything’s Better with a Little Sugar.’ It’s the Sweet Tooth motto.

‘My boyfriend burnt me a killer CD of his favorite songs,’ Kali says, beaming as she reapplies peachy lip gloss. Her teeth are white and straight.

‘That’s the oldest move in the book,’ Simon says. ‘I have copies of my seduction playlist on standby.’

Evan turns to me, and his eyes are finally wide open. ‘So, did Betty Crocker give it up for the pot holder?’

Dieter claps and says, ‘Crossing the line. Anyway, we’re nearly done for today.’

‘Thank God,’ Simon says, heaving himself off his chair. ‘I was afraid manis and pedis were next.’

‘Actually, team building exercises are next,’ Dieter says.

Kali’s the first to protest. ‘We never did exercises last time.’

‘Your last group didn’t need them. I’m assigning you a project to be done in teams.’ Dieter claps over us as we all start talking. ‘I pick the teams. And what did I say about whining?’

‘Zahra.’

Mom doesn’t have to say much to get her point across. There’s something in her tone that commands attention.

‘What?’

She gives me the look. ‘You know what.’

We’ve just sat down at the table and she wants me to cover my head. Before my grandparents moved in, Mom only cared about that on religious holidays, if then. Now it’s every meal, even a regular Friday night dinner like this one.

I understand that wearing a dupatta, or scarf, signifies respect to God and all that, and if Nani wants to wear one, fine. But I don’t think I should have to wear it, or pretend it means something to me. I’m fifteen. I can make my own decisions. And at the moment, all a scarf symbolizes for me is my family’s collapse.

To Saliyah, however, a scarf is dress-up. Today’s is mauve and sparkly and looks awful with her baggy tunic, which happens to be the top half of the salwar kameez Nani brought me from Pakistan. Why Nani would choose orange for my coloring is beyond me. It’s like she wants to piss me off.

Mom’s scarf is rose chiffon, a sunset surrounding her pretty face. From the neck down she’s in her usual Banana Republic shirt and pants.

Nani glowers at me from under her heavily embroidered turquoise scarf. If it weren’t for my grandfather’s hand over hers, she’d be giving me an earful. That hand serves as a plug. Without it, Nani pretty much yammers nonstop, and what she says is usually irritating.

With Nana doing his best to restrain Nani, I give in. Yanking the hood from my sweatshirt up over my hair, I say, ‘There. Everybody happy?’

Nani opens her mouth, but Nana tightens his grip on her hand. Technically I’m observing the rules. My head is covered and he’s hungry. He says a quick blessing, takes a hamburger, and passes the platter.

With the gag order lifted, Nani turns to my mom. ‘Sana, I gave Zahra a lovely dupatta for her birthday.’

The scarf in question is loaded with so many rhinestones that it squashes even my bushy hair. That was probably the point. Red is an uncommon hair color for East Asians, so it’s a constant reminder to her of my dad, or more specifically, of how my mom abandoned her family and customs.

I’ve already explained to her that red hair is a recessive trait that requires a gene from each parent. It’s beginner biology and Nani’s not stupid. She just doesn’t want to admit that Mom’s equally to blame for the mess on my head. The gene must have crept stealthily through generations of Nana’s Persian ancestors until it ambushed me.

Saliyah tries to change the subject. ‘Are you going to bake for me today, Zahra?’

‘I’m not in the mood,’ I say.

My ‘cheery’ default doesn’t always work at home, and with all that’s happened this week, it may be permanently broken. I didn’t want to come for dinner tonight, in case Mom brought up the fire or group therapy, but so far she hasn’t.

Actually, I never enjoy dinner here anymore, but Dad insists I come once a week whether I like it or not. He’s afraid Saliyah and I will grow apart. There’s no risk of that. My sister drives me crazy, but I love her. We can survive a separation.

Still, these dinners are uncomfortable. This is my home, but I don’t live here. Dad’s place isn’t my home, but it’s where I live. In other words, I have two homes and none at all. I’m a nomad in a green hoodie.

Nani mutters something in Urdu. Her English is excellent, so she switches it up if she doesn’t want me to know what she’s saying.

Saliyah has picked up a fair bit of Urdu, but she doesn’t like being caught in the middle, so she answers Nani in English. ‘Zahra’s in boyfriend withdrawal. She hasn’t seen Rico since Dad grounded her.’

I do hope to see him on Sunday afternoon, if he’s free and I can come up with a foolproof alibi.

‘You should be thinking about college, not boys,’ Nana says. He takes a bite of his hamburger and frowns. ‘American boys only think about themselves.’

‘Rico is very thoughtful,’ I tell him. ‘He just gave me the nicest gift ever.’

Mom slides the dish of achaar – spicy pickles– toward Nana. She must have made the burgers my way tonight. Usually she laces them with cumin, chili, and turmeric, and tries to pass them off as normal. ‘He did? You didn’t mention a gift.’

Of course not. I’ve revoked her clearance for insider information.

Saliyah whispers to Mom, ‘He gave her a pot holder when she cooked him dinner.’

There’s nothing wrong with Nani’s hearing. ‘You invited a boy into your home? Alone?’

Nana takes another bite of his hamburger and sighs. Even with the pickles there’s not enough flavor. He takes the top bun off and adds ketchup and chutney. ‘This is what happens when you let them think about boys,’ he says. ‘Trouble.’

‘Abba,’ Mom says, still calm. ‘Woh meri beti hai, mera faisla.’

I’ve heard this one a few times. It means something in the neighborhood of, ‘My daughter, my decision.’

I glare at my sister as I bite into my burger. Perfect. Just plain old beef. ‘Why’d you blab?’

Although her hair and eyes are a shade lighter than Mom’s, Saliyah looks just like her – without all the worry lines. Mom aged ten years overnight after seeing the size of my grandparents’ suitcases, and another ten when the trunks arrived.

‘I was only explaining that Rico’s a good guy,’ Saliyah says. ‘He’s not shallow just because he’s smokin’.’

Feeling the tension in the room rise, I jump in to control the spin. ‘It was an innocent dinner. And you’ll be happy to know that Mom and Dad are punishing me for it by making me go to therapy.’

‘Therapy?’ Nana says. ‘She’s sharing personal problems with a stranger?’

Mom gives him an exasperated look. There’s no winning with my grandparents. That’s probably why she left Karachi when she was seventeen to accept a chemistry scholarship at the University of Texas. Back then she stood up to her parents. Now, not so much.

Nani notices that Nana is still picking at his burger, and gets up from the table. She takes a dish of curry she made earlier out of the fridge and heats it in the microwave. When she sits beside him again, he just gives her a little smile. Forty-six years ago they were virtual strangers when their parents arranged their marriage. They met only twice, chaperoned, before the wedding.

It’s strange to think I’ve already spent way more time with Rico and I haven’t even met his family or friends. But arranged marriages are proof that you don’t have to know every detail about the other person to make a relationship last. It’s about chemistry. Some couples are just meant to be.

Nana slides me his curry. ‘Try this.’

He knows I hate curry, but he always offers it up. It’s like he thinks his genes will suddenly activate in me, and I’ll love it.

‘No thanks,’ I say, picking up my hamburger.

Nana shakes his head. ‘One day you’ll realise there’s nothing wrong with a little heat.’

‘Maybe,’ I say, watching as Nani passes him the hot sauce. It’s quite possible that I’ll end up liking spicy food once I’m cooking it for Rico every night. After all, marriage is all about compromise.

Chapter Three

I’m at the Recipe Box counting cash when someone says, ‘Can you help me, miss? I’m looking for a killer recipe to impress my boyfriend with.’

I look up to find Kali draped over the counter, wearing a green tank top that matches her eyes. Her curls are twisted into a messy knot that somehow looks elegant. She’s one of those people who have style without really trying.

Dieter teamed us up with Sydney to do a scavenger hunt. Using the cryptic clues he e-mailed us, we have to visit various locations around the city and present photos of them in next Thursday’s session. Dieter said no tests and no grades, but he’s still giving us homework.

René, the coolest boss ever, takes Kali’s request in stride. ‘I’ve got just the thing: Desserts to Die For.’

Kali gravitates to his side of the register. René always has this effect on female customers. He has twinkly brown eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, and at six-foot-three, he really works an apron.

I drag Kali to the gluten-free cookbook section, the only quiet place in the store on a busy Saturday afternoon. ‘What are you doing here? We’re supposed to meet at one thirty at Austin Java.’

‘Can’t you get off early? I checked out the clues, and this is going to take a while.’

‘I already cut my shift short,’ I say. ‘So this is costing me money.’ With Dad’s income spread between two households, my allowance has dried up. Now my work paycheck goes to cover my cell phone bill as well as anything I consider a necessity and Dad doesn’t. ‘That’s why I wanted to do it tomorrow.’

‘But tomorrow’s the free Notts County concert,’ Kali says, as if that trumps all. She was singing their song the other day. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a groupie.

‘Why don’t you meet Syd early and start solving the clues?’ I say. ‘I have to unpack some boxes before I go.’

Kali sets her bag on a shelf. ‘I’ll help you if it’ll go faster.’

I guess she thinks stocking shelves beats spending time alone with Syd. I’d have to agree. Syd seems prickly, and that dog is just scary.

René lets me off half an hour early, but it doesn’t get us any further ahead, because Sydney’s a no-show. After waiting an hour I suggest starting without her, but Kali’s too steamed. ‘The whole point is to get to know each other,’ she says. ‘Plus, the other team has three people, so they’ll win. It’s no fair.’

True, but I bet Simon and Evan aren’t exactly Lauren’s dream team.

Kali calls the number Sydney gave us again, and finally her mom picks up. When Kali explains our mission, Mrs Stark gives us Syd’s cell number and tells us where to look for her.

After leaving some blistering voice mails on Syd’s cell, we start walking. ‘She better have a good explanation,’ Kali says, as we circle the old converted warehouse Mrs Stark told us about. ‘And she better be damn good at scavenger hunts.’

I spot a small plaque on a door in the shape of a stroller with the initials MW painted on its side. ‘This must be it,’ I say. ‘The Maternity Ward. Although I doubt it has anything to do with babies.’

We step through the door and find ourselves in a cavernous space, where light streams through floor-to-ceiling windows. Several artists are lined up in front of the windows, working on canvases set on easels. In one corner, two guys are placing papier-mâché possums on the tiers of a giant cake platter. In another, a couple in nude body suits are painting each other green as a girl wearing a kimono videotapes them.