Frogs & French Kisses Page 3

  I was wrong. My mom is clearly not the only person who can make magic geeky.

  3

  The Wheels on the Bus Go . . . Kazam!

  “Girls,” my mom says as she swerves into the right lane, totally cutting off an unsuspecting driver, “I have a confession to make.”

  I’ve ridden with my mother three times in my entire life, which is three times too many. She. Is. The Worst. Driver. Ever. She’s caused at least six almost-accidents in the last twenty minutes. I cling to my seat belt for safety. “Let me guess,” I say. “You don’t have a driver’s license?”

  My mom giggles. “Hilarious. Actually, smarty-pants, I’d like to discuss something important. Something serious . . .”

  Maybe she’ll finally tell us why she gave up witchcraft! About what caused the rift between her and Aunt Sasha, the aunt we never see.

  “I want to talk about dating.”

  Oh, no. A sex talk from Mom. Can anything be more embarrassing? To add vinegar to the wound, I’m trapped in a car driving back to the city, so I can’t even feign doing homework. My only option is to fake sleep. I roll my head so that it leans against the passenger’s side window, close my eyes, and exhale a thunderous fake snore.

  “Rachel,” she says, “relax. Not about you dating. About me dating.”

  I pop my eyes open. That I can handle. “You dating?” This should be fun. My mom dated a bit after the divorce, only on weekends when we were at my dad’s (she didn’t want to be the type who brought home lots of “uncles”), but then she gave up. She hasn’t so much as grabbed a cup of mocha joe with a man since then. “Anyone special? Someone at work? Do you have a crush?” Cuteness! Mom with a crush! Mom with a secret boyfriend? Has she snuck out of the apartment to see him at night?

  “There’s no one in mind. But I’d like to start again. Seeing your father remarry has made me think that it’s time for me to move on. And I wanted to know how you two felt about it.”

  A new boyfriend! Fun! Someone who will explain the inner workings of the male mind to me. Or—someone who has a hot son. Now we’re talking. They’ll get married and I’ll have a sizzling stepbrother. Too bad Raf’s parents are still together. What a horrible thing to think. Wishing him years of divorce anxiety just so my mom can marry his dad. And anyway, then he’d be my brother, which would make it mucho creepy if we got married. Or worse: what if my mom and his dad then got divorced? Raf and I would be forbidden to see each other. Just like Romeo and Juliet. How romantic.

  “You should definitely start dating again,” I say. “It’s time.” At the very least, we would have a man around to change lightbulbs. My mom is so lazy about that. The one in my bedroom ceiling lamp blew out just the other day. And what was my mom’s response to my claim that she should change it? That I should do it myself. Come on. What if I got hurt? That’s such a stepdad’s job. So is taking out the garbage. And setting the table. And taking my mom on trips so I can have wild parties.

  “Miri?” my mom asks. “What do you think?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Miri mumbles.

  “Come on, Sis, be supportive!” I twist my body sideways to glare at her. Doesn’t that girl ever watch Oprah? A “Go, Mom, go!” or at the very least a “Go, girl!” seems situation appropriate.

  My mom sighs. “I asked for her opinion.”

  Miri wraps a frizzy strand of her brown hair around her thumb, making the tip turn red. “It’s just that I’m not ready to wear another pukey pink bridesmaid dress so soon.”

  My mom laughs. “I said dating, honey, not marriage.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, Mir. Way to get ahead of yourself.”

  “Whatever makes you happy, Mom,” Miri says.

  Anyway, there’s no chance we’d wear pukey pink dresses to Mom’s nuptials. I’m thinking long, sexy black. Maybe we should get out of the country and do a location wedding. Like in the Caribbean. Fun, no? Then we can get married on the beach—I mean, she can get married on the beach—and we can tan at the same time.

  “So do you have anyone lined up?” I ask, excited. She should ask out Fireman Dave from the second floor. He’s hot.

  “No,” she says. “Truth is I don’t even know how to go about meeting quality men these days. The last time I had a real boyfriend was seventeen years ago!”

  Ping! “I’ve got it!”

  “No, you are not signing me up for one of those dating Web sites again, Rachel. They’re so humiliating.”

  “That’s not what I was going to suggest, big shot,” I say haughtily. I was actually thinking she could apply to the reality show Who Wants to Marry My Mom? Even though I hate watching reality TV, at least I’d get to star on it. But if potential for humiliation is her litmus test, I’d better think of something else. “It’s best you realize now that it won’t be so easy to meet good men in Manhattan. Don’t you watch TV? Aren’t the chances of remarrying in your forties like one in a hundred? Aren’t most men in your age group married, dead, gay, or jerks?”

  “First of all, I’m thirty-nine.” She veers into the path of an oncoming car but just before impact swerves back to her lane. “Maybe you’re right. My single friends haven’t found it so easy. Where am I going to meet men?”

  I wish that my mom has more luck than I have. If I haven’t been able to find a guy in my age group and none of them are married, dead, or out of the closet yet, the odds are not in my mom’s favor.

  She raises her hands as if in question and veers to the left, cutting off a bus diagonally behind us. She really is the worst driver. As the bus passes us, I peer into the windows and almost faint in shock.

  One hot man. Two hot men. Three . . . omigod. It’s a bus full of hot men.

  I don’t believe it. My heart pounds against my rib cage. Did I . . . did I just make that happen? Maybe I’m finally a witch! I attempt telekinetically to roll down the car window.

  Nada.

  A coincidence. But still. How lucky is that? “Chase that bus!” I scream, pointing.

  My mom gapes at me like I left my brain at the cottage. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a bus full of men! Talk about a dating pool. Go get it!” I’m bobbing up and down in my seat like a yo-yo.

  “I am not chasing a bus,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t want a speeding ticket.”

  “Do you see a cop?” I do an exaggerated look out the window. “I don’t see a cop. Go get ’em!”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Use magic!” I cry.

  “I don’t use magic! I’m a nonpracticing witch!”

  “Mom! It’s a new chapter in your life. Make some changes!”

  The gulf between us and the bus is widening. “I don’t know,” she says. “That’s not what I meant. . . .”

  “Now is the time. Give the bus a flat tire! Empty its gas tank!” The bus is now almost a football field away. Two football fields! Three! They’re getting away! “Follow that cab!” I scream.

  “It’s not a cab,” Miri snarls from the backseat.

  Why must she be so literal? Anyway, I know, but I’ve always wanted to say that. It sounds glam.

  “Rachel, give it a rest,” my mom says, but as her mouth forms the words, her eyes tell a different story, lusting longingly for the Hunks-on-Wheels. And that’s when a gust of cold air bursts through the car.

  I’m wondering why the air conditioner just kicked on when boom!

  The bus is tilted to its right. Oh my. Oh yes! My mom just gave the bus a flat tire! It grinds to a halt and pulls to the side of the road.

  I’m bursting with pride, like I just watched my child take her first steps. “You did it!”

  “I—I—I,” my mom stammers.

  “Quick, pull over beside it,” I instruct.

  She listens and parks the car on the shoulder of the road, right behind the bus.

  “Well, what do we do now?” Miri asks, kicking the back of my seat. Big baby.

  “We offer our assistance,” I say. “I know I’m not the best
wingman at the moment because of the scrape on my face, but it’s better than it was yesterday and Miri looks pretty cute in her overalls—”

  “What if they’re dangerous?” my scaredy-cat sister complains. “They could be serial killers.”

  “Yes, a bus full of serial killers, that’s realistic.” Come on, Miri, get with the program. “Let’s go!” I sing, and unlock my door.

  I glance over at my mom. She looks completely shell-shocked, blinking repeatedly as if specks of dirt just flew into her eyes.

  “Come on! Now or never!”

  She ogles the bus, looks at me, and then, just when I think she’s going to reverse right out of there, flips open the overhead mirror and gives herself the once-over. “All right, let’s do it.”

  Wahoo! I wish she wasn’t wearing her nerd-o jeans pulled up right to her waist. Although they do make her butt look all J-Lo.

  I flip open my mirror for a quick peek. Besides the chin absurdity, everything looks normal. Complexion = clear, nose = small, eyes = brown, teeth = straight.

  “This is so stupid,” Miri says, sulking. “What are you going to do? Help change the tire?”

  “We’re not going over to help them. We’re going so Mom can meet men. Now, put on a pretty please-date-my-mother smile and let’s go.”

  “Forget it. I’d rather stay here and edit my Save the World list. And leave me the cell phone in case you two get accosted, so I can call the police for backup.”

  Such a drama queen.

  “Keep the doors locked,” my mom says insistently, and then jumps out of the car. She cautiously checks for oncoming traffic, hesitates, and then, holding my hand, leads me toward the bus.

  Before we can get to the front, the door swings open and a tall, skinny man wearing a brown suede hat (in an obvious attempt to cover his thinning gray hair) steps outside. He’s wearing a thick green Patagonia sweatshirt, and a badge that says Baseball Hall of Fame, Tour Leader dangles from his wrinkled neck. A baseball tour! Excellent. The tour guide stretches his arms over his head and then scratches his burly gray eyebrows, looking startled to see us approaching. His gaze sways from Mom to me, then back to Mom, and then he smiles. “Hello.”

  My mom stands up straighter. Go, girl! “Hi,” she says, sounding almost . . . coy?

  “Hi,” he says. Excellent to the power of two! We’ve made contact.

  I elbow my mom in the side.

  “Anything we can help you with?” she asks, feeling my not-so-subtle cue. “Give you a ride?”

  Old Man Tour Guide shakes his head. “Nah. Thanks, though. Much appreciated. Very sweet of you to offer.” He (oh yes) tips the front of his hat as if he’s some sort of cowboy. Maybe he was a cowboy. In the 1940s. “The driver just called Triple A, but it will take them at least thirty minutes to get here.”

  “Great,” my mom says, eyes still on him. Old Man Tour Guide doesn’t look away.

  Yikes. Old Man Tour Guide is flirting with my mother! He’s a hundred years old! Fine, he’s at least fifty.

  OMTG sticks out his pale hairy hand. “My name is—”

  “How’s it going, Lex?” says a booming voice. As the owner of the voice steps off the bus, my heart literally swoons. Like if I were a cartoon, it would pop out of my shirt and jiggle. He’s gorgeous. About half OMTG’s age, at least six feet tall, thick light brown hair, and topped off with deliciously chiseled cheekbones. He’s wearing faded jeans and a Yankees jersey. I wonder if he’s a ballplayer.

  “I think the boys are getting restless,” he says, and cracks his knuckles. “Hello, ladies,” he adds as he notices us.

  Ten more men follow him off the bus. Ten more hot men. As each man steps off, he smiles at my mom. This is the dating pool jackpot.

  “So what kind of tour is this?” my mom asks Lex, who hasn’t yet realized he should get out of the way. I mean, come on. My mom should not be spending precious time with him when there are more appropriately aged step-fathers available. Lex could be my stepgrandfather. I could fix him up with my bubbe.

  “I lead a day-trip tour to the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown every Sunday from April to October. Have you been?”

  “Nope,” she says. And bats her eyelashes. Oh, no, what’s she doing? She’s wasting her flirting! I raise my eyebrow as a suggestive cue to move on.

  “I’d be happy to take you one day, Mrs. . . .”

  My mom blushes a deep fuchsia. “Ms., actually. But please call me Carol.”

  “I’m Lex,” he says, and sticks out his pale hairy hand again. Mom takes it, apparently oblivious to my eyebrow signals. Abort plan!

  “And this is my daughter Rachel.”

  I shake his hand reluctantly. And then I turn to the crowd of younger, hotter men and extend my hand to the specimen closest to me. “And what’s your name?” I ask.

  “Jimmy,” the guy says. He’s cute. Red hair, jean jacket, nice teeth.

  I tug my mom away from Lex. No need to date the frog when we’re surrounded by princes. “Mom, meet Jimmy.”

  She giggles. “Hi, Jimmy. I’m Carol.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he says, sounding gruff yet sexy. “You live in New York?”

  “Yes, I do,” she answers in a chirpy Mouseketeer’s voice I didn’t know she had. Impressive. Somewhat nauseating. The old broad has some tricks up her sleeve. “You?”

  Go, girl!

  “Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Florida. I came up to visit my wife’s brother and . . .”

  I should have looked at his ring finger before getting excited. Oh, no. What if these men are all married? Or if they all live in Florida?

  I can handle Florida. I’m not opposed. New school, perma-tan, Disney World . . . But my mom’s being a high-priced mistress? Not so much. Too much drama. I’d see the other woman’s kids at school and would have to pretend I didn’t know where their father was spending his nights. What if I fell in love with his seventeen-year-old son? Would it be my ethical duty to tell him, even if it would tear his soul apart?

  I snap back to attention just as my mom is being introduced to Adam, the hot guy in the Yankees jersey, Florida Man’s single brother-in-law (no ring). Much better. “I live in Jersey City,” he’s saying. Oh well, no tan for me, but being nearby will make their courtship easier. Fewer flights.

  “I’m a travel agent,” she’s saying.

  “One of the best in the city!” I pitch.

  The apples of her cheeks redden.

  “Isn’t she cute when she blushes?” I add, and she inserts her thumbnail into her mouth and is about to take a nibble when I gently yank her hand away. Must she gross them out?

  “Very cute,” Lex says, startling me. Enough, old man! Stop stalking my mom!

  “I was thinking of planning a trip down to visit Jimmy, my sister, and the kids,” Adam says, sidling up closer to her. “Do you think you could give me advice?”

  “Actually,” she says as she picks at her fingers behind her back, thinking I won’t notice, “I specialize in honeymoons. . . .”

  I quickly step on her foot. Is she that clueless? “Mo-ther, I’m sure you could help him out. Why don’t you give him your business card. And then he could call you.” I try to use my nonexistent telepathy to help her get it. Card . . . phone call . . . date . . .

  She nods and then stops picking long enough to reach into her purse and pull out a card.

  Adam smiles as he reads it. “Thanks.”

  “I need to book some trips too,” pipes up Lex. “Is there one for me?”

  Sigh. How transparent can you get, old man? I thought cowboys were supposed to be suave.

  Smiling, my mom starts handing cards out like candy canes at a mall in December.

  “Where do you recommend this time of year?” Lex asks, once again hogging the conversation.

  “France is beautiful in the spring. . . .”

  Where you should go, Lex, so you can leave my mother alone! Just as I’m about to interrupt, a new hottie, a blond hottie with big gree
n eyes, butts in for me. “Are you a travel agent? I could use some help with my miles. . . .”

  Wink, wink. Sure he can.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re back in the car and Operation HM 3 (Help Mom Meet Men) was a smashing success. What can I say? I’m brilliant.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” Mom says giddily. “I gave out eleven business cards!”

  “You took forever,” Miri moans. “It’s freezing in here. Can you start the car already and turn on the heat? I’m going to catch a cold.”

  I turn on the heat and then the radio and do a little seat groove to the beat. Maybe I’ll become a matchmaker. I’m like a puppeteer, commandeering the emotions of unsuspecting innocents. Who needs magic? All I need are clever strategies. Fine, we needed the magic to stop the bus, but otherwise it was all me. I can do anything I set my mind to, just like my mother always told me! Well, not anything. There’s nothing I can do about school tomorrow. If only I could conjure up a cancel-school spell. Or at least a freak snowstorm.

  I cannot face going to school tomorrow. Is it possible the JFK kids have forgotten about the fashion show fiasco? It’s been an entire week.

  Yeah, right.

  Even if the masses have forgotten, there’s no way the fashion show horribles have. London has probably spent the entire week preparing ways to torture me. After all, I did knock her off the stage and thus break her leg. Oh God. I need to go into hiding. Maybe my bruised chin will act as a disguise? No, I’m pretty sure it will be gone by tomorrow. The red has already started to fade.

  But Miri had the right idea. If I catch a cold, I can stay in bed the entire day.

  I turn off the heat.

  “Are you crazy?” Miri asks. “It’s freezing in here. Do you want to get sick?”

  “Yup.” I roll down the window and inhale.

  4

  Not Quite Gone, Not Quite Forgotten

  Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

  Nononononononononooooo. It’s seven a.m. Monday morning and my throat doesn’t hurt at all. How is that possible? I inhaled bitterly cold air. I showered last night and walked around the block—without blow-drying! I purposely didn’t take a vitamin before bed! (Don’t tell my dad; he’s obsessed with vitamins.) Also I didn’t have my evening glass of fresh orange juice. And I love my evening glass of juice. The rush of vitamin C gives me sweet dreams.