s TUESDAY
The sun woke me. Its rays pierced the curtains and my eyelids, announcing another hot day in the Emerald City. I’d been sleeping on the living room couch lately because my bedroom had started to feel small. As I stretched my legs, a bus drove past, a car honked, a man shouted. Some might find the city’s sounds annoying, but I’d gotten so used to them it would be weird to wake up to silence. That’s another reason why I’d started sleeping in the living room. The sounds outside the window reminded me that I was part of something bigger— that there was more to the world than my messed-up speck of space. It was Tuesday, which meant our weekly trip to Harmony Hospital. Mrs. Bobot liked to do housework in the morning so we usually left for the hospital around ten. The manila envelope from yesterday’s visit to the bookstore still lay on the kitchen table. I pushed the envelope aside, then grabbed a bowl, spoon, quart of milk, and a box of Cap’n Crunch.
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The Sweet Sixteen reality show was on TV. That day’s sweet sixteen was a brat from Austin, Texas, who wanted her friends flown in a private plane to Paris, where they’d rent the Eiffel Tower for a night of partying. She seemed blissfully naive that a problem-plagued world existed beyond her speck of space. As I watched her try on party dresses and scream at her stylist, I stuffed my face with Cap’n Crunch. During a commercial break, I turned the manila envelope upside down and dumped its contents onto the table, still hoping to find a name and return address. Fortunately, the clam scent was gone. I unfolded a piece of notepaper that was covered in bold handwriting. It described an old man who was the father of the girl with the long, honey-colored hair. He had a deeply lined face, one missing eye, and a missing front tooth. I skipped to the bottom of the page where the description continued. Apparently the old man didn’t bathe very often and he spent most nights at his neighbor’s house, drinking himself into a stupor. I searched through the other pieces of paper, all covered in the same handwriting. No name or return address anywhere. How could I get the envelope back to the guy from the bookstore? After I showered and dressed, the clock read 8:35. Should I wait around for Skateboard Guy? He wasn’t a fantasy anymore. He was a real flesh-and-blood person who worked in his father’s antiquities shop, and I’d made it perfectly clear that my life was complicated and that I couldn’t go out with him. But still, I really wanted to see him. Some people get up and crave that first cup of coffee. I’d come to crave the moment
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when he’d glide past. Tuesdays were tricky, though, because I usually brought bagels to the hospital because my mother loved them. If I left now, there’d be time for me to walk the two blocks to Neighborhood Bagels and get back to see Skateboard Guy. The morning air was already sweltering—another day of record heat. The scent of freshly toasted bagels floated past. Good luck to anyone in my neighborhood who was trying to diet, because that scent will put you into a kind of trance and pull you down the sidewalk like the Pied Piper. Inside Neighborhood Bagels I ordered Mom’s favorite, blueberry. Then I sat at the window counter and sipped an iced mocha. There was still plenty of time before I needed to get back to my window perch at home. Sweat dampened my lower back just from the short walk. It would be terrible to live in a place that’s always hot. Maybe that’s why the sweet sixteen girl from Austin, Texas, was such a raving freak. But who was I to judge? One girl throws temper tantrums, another girl forges signatures. One of the rules when I visited my mother at Harmony Hospital was that I wasn’t supposed to mention anything stressful. Dr. Diesel had set this no-stress rule, and it made sense. So I’d never told her that I was forging her signatures. I hadn’t mentioned all the letters from Heartstrings, the letters asking when she’d finish her next book. I kept thinking that she’d get well. But this latest letter was too much for me to deal with. Mom needed to know that the publisher was going to stop
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sending royalty checks. She had to know. She’d have to pull herself together and start writing again, because we didn’t have one hundred thousand dollars to return. Maybe, just maybe, this little piece of news would wake her up and bring her back to reality. Bring her back to me. “Hello.” The guy from yesterday’s romance writers’ event took a seat at the counter, leaving an empty stool between us. Was he wearing the same black hoodie? And who wears a hood in the middle of a heat wave? “Did you read my notes yet?” he asked. Paranoia crept up the back of my neck. If this had been a chance encounter he would have said something like, “Hey, how great to run into you.” Had he followed me? I remembered that serial killer who’d easily convinced girls to get into his car because he was Greek-god handsome. I chose my words carefully. “Your notes are very nice,” I said. “But you need to find someone else to help you. I’m not a writer.” He raised his eyebrows and they disappeared behind the rim of his hood. It’s hard to get a clear impression of someone who’s wearing a hood, but his gaze was as intense and hypnotic as it had been at the bookstore. The bright sunlight streaming through the window highlighted the slight reddish tint in his eyes. And his hand, which fiddled with a newspaper that was lying on the counter, was ghostly white. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something was wrong with him. I took a pen and notepad from my purse and set them on
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the counter. “If you’ll write down your address, I’ll mail your notes back to you.” “I knew this wouldn’t be easy,” he mumbled. Then he turned away. Sliding his knees beneath the counter, he folded his hands and stared out the window. I pushed the notepad closer. “I need to get somewhere, so if you’ll—” “Alice, I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you. Don’t ask questions until I’ve finished.” I scowled. He sounded like a parent talking to a child. Who did he think he was talking to me like that? I wanted nothing to do with this guy. “My name is Errol, but I used to be called Eros. Most know me as Cupid.” He continued to stare out the window. “I wasn’t named after Cupid. I am Cupid. The original, one and only Cupid.” Music and customer chatter competed with his statement, so no one turned to gawk or snicker. But I’d heard him. A pained smile spread across my face as I pretended to be interested. My suspicions were proven. Something was wrong with him and the last thing I needed was to be on his radar. “There’s only one thing I want,” he continued. “And that is to tell my love story to the world. Not the version you fi nd in mythology books, but the real story. The true story. I’m the only person who can tell it and I want you to write it.” He sat perfectly still, his gaze focused on the other side of the street. Or maybe he was staring at his reflection in the window.
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“I’m not a writer,” I said slowly, calmly, hoping he’d actually listen this time. He shook his head. “You say you’re not a writer. But I believe that it’s your destiny to write my story. We’ll each benefit from this arrangement.” Arrangement? A prickly feeling covered my arms. Then it suddenly made sense— he’d gone to a romance writers’ event not because he’d been dragged there by his girlfriend or because he was a fan of the genre, he’d gone there because of the Cupid thing. If anyone could relate to Cupid it would be a romance writer, right? There were plenty of people in Neighborhood Bagels so I wasn’t worried that Errol might try to hurt me. But how could I get away without pissing him off? One of the things you learn when you live with someone whose moods are unstable is the art of being agreeable. And that is why I smiled sweetly and nodded, as if I believed everything he was telling me. As if Cupid himself, in a black hoodie and jeans, sat next to me in a bagel shop. He turned toward me and folded his arms. “You don’t believe me. You think I’m insane.” “I don’t think you’re insane.” I tucked the notepad and pen into my purse. Apparently, he wasn’t going to give me a mailing address. “I’m sorry but I need to get going.” “You think I look nothing like Cupid.” “No. I don’t think that.” I swung my purse onto my back. “I suppose you’re just like everyone else in this century. You think Cupid is a child. A fat, pasty white cherub with wings.”
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That’s exactly how I imagined Cupid, but I didn’t tell him that. “Um, Errol, why don’t I go and get your notes? I’ll bring them here.” Problem solved. I’d bring the notes to the bagel shop and then they wouldn’t be my responsibility anymore. I could even give him the name of some local writing organizations. Maybe he’d find a writer willing to help. Wait, that wouldn’t be a good idea. I’d simply be making his craziness someone else’s problem. He narrowed his eyes as I slid off my stool. “You stay here. I’ll be right back. Ten minutes.” Grabbing my iced mocha and the bag of blueberry bagels, I raced home, checking over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following. Just my luck that the one guy who’d noticed me that summer had turned out to be delusional. What would it be like to date a guy who thought he was Cupid? Cupid was a god, right? So I’d be dating a guy who thought he was a god. Maybe that’s not so unusual. Once I was safely in my kitchen I thought about ditching Errol, but that would only be a temporary fix. He’d find me, I sensed it. So, leaving my stuff on the table, I grabbed the manila envelope and hurried down our building’s front steps. That’s when my phone’s alarm buzzed. Nine thirty. I spun around. Skateboard Guy came straight at me, a blur of white T-shirt and black hair. “Hey,” he said, jumping off his board. “You’re the girl who found our figurine.” Standing on the sidewalk, the sun beating on my face, I squinted at him. “Hi.” He stepped on the tail, tipping the skateboard upright.
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The red dragon looked ready to leap off and fly away. “You live here?” “Yeah.” I turned off my alarm and shoved the phone into my pocket. My heart pounded. I took a few quick breaths as I tried to figure out what to say. Coming face-to-face with a fantasy boyfriend is freaky enough the first time. “Where do you live?” “Up the hill,” he said. Then he smiled and swept his hair from his face. One stubborn strand remained, hanging over his left eye. I imagined reaching up and pushing the strand aside, then sliding my fingers through the rest of his shiny hair. “So are you going somewhere?” I held out the manila folder. “I have to deliver this.” “Where?” “Neighborhood Bagels.” I pointed down the block. “I know the place. I go there all the time.” He leaned against the front stoop’s railing. “You know, I kinda owe you a favor. That figurine you saved was expensive. I could deliver the envelope for you. I’m going right past the place. Then you don’t have to walk there in this heat.” I fiddled with the envelope. Maybe it would be best if I avoided any more contact with Errol. But I’d told him I’d be back. “That’s okay. I need to deliver it in person.” “You mind if I walk with you?” “No.” A huge smile broke across my face and the worst kind of giggle, the kind that makes you sound like a little girl, shot out of my mouth. I managed to cover it with a cough. He picked up his skateboard and we walked to the end of
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the block without saying anything. I became aware of every inch of my body. Did I have underwear lines? Had I missed any hair when I’d shaved the back of my legs? Would he notice that my toenail polish was chipped? Did my breath smell like coffee? “Is that your job? Delivering things?” “No,” I said. “I don’t have a job.” “Oh. I’m saving up for college,” he said as we started across the intersection. “Where do you want to go to college?” “I’m hoping for Stanford,” he said. “My parents went there. But there are lots of good premed programs to choose from. What about you?” This was it, one of those important questions that defines a person. Should I tell the truth, which was that I had no idea. Or should I make something up and try to impress him? “I’m thinking about premed too.” He smiled. Impression made. “What took you so long?” Errol asked. He was waiting outside Neighborhood Bagels, his hood draped over his head, hands in his jeans pockets. Dazed by Skateboard Guy’s smile, I’d almost bumped into Errol. Please, I thought, don’t make a scene. “Here it is.” I held out the envelope. Errol’s upper lip curled as his gaze darted to Skateboard Guy, who stood next to me, leaning on his board. “You’re giving it back?” “Yes.”
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“You’re not going to help me?” “Errol, I told you, I’m not a writer.” “I had hoped you’d be . . . cooperative, Alice.” After another searing glance at Skateboard Guy, Errol took the envelope from my hand. “I should have known better. I’ll have to find another way.” A bead of sweat rolled down the back of my neck as I watched him cross the street. I thought about wishing him good luck, but that might mean starting up the conversation again. “He was glaring at me,” Skateboard Guy said. “Are you two—?” “No!” I dismissed the notion with a snap of my hand. “I don’t even know him.” Pedestrians stepped around us as we stood in the middle of the sidewalk. Skateboard Guy slid his glasses up his nose. “Well, I’d better get to work.” He dropped the front of his skateboard. The wheels landed on the sidewalk. “So that’s your name? Alice?” I nodded. “Well, see you later, Alice.” With a push of his foot, he jumped onto the board and started down the block. “Oh, just so you know,” he called. “I think your pink pajamas are really cute. And I like Cap’n Crunch too.” What? My mind raced to the other morning, my hand shoved into a box of cereal, my face pressed against the window. Kill me now.
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A fiery blush rose from the base of my neck to the tips of my ears. Fortunately, Skateboard Guy didn’t look back. He swerved around a woman and her poodle, then darted around the corner. And while I stood there, trying to figure out how long he’d known that I’d been watching him from my window, I realized that I’d forgotten to ask his name.
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