** Hi, there. Just to let anybody who is curious to know, there will be
two chapters left after this one, and then the story will be complete, my
summer project finished! Anyway, I apologize if the plot is getting more
and more bizarre. I keep writing late at night when common sense sometimes
escapes me (as it turns out, so do my editorial skills). Also, thank you
to everyone who has been leaving me feedback. I can't tell you how much it
is appreciated. I'd love to hear everybody's impression of this story,
especially since this is my first (and most probably last) foray into the
fan fiction world. Hope you enjoy the chapter. and also whatever few drops
of freedom you can still squeeze out of summer**
It was a weird day, a strange day, a bizarre day.
The kind of day where you feel like spontaneously stripping down to your bra and underwear and start dancing around the grand staircase to the sound of a washed-up Geri Halliwell peppy pop song while the housekeeping staff looks on wondering if they should alert your parents of your erratic behavior and if the vitamins they found on your night table were really ecstasy pills in disguise.
I was feeling quite satisfied with myself. After all, today was Friday. the day of Rebecca's school dance and the day where Rory and Tristan finally got together.
And I was to be crowned Chilton's resident matchmaking genius.
Okay. Maybe not crowned.
But I could probably convince Tristan to buy me a badge. It was the least he could do, after all.
Ugh. Scratch the badge. They scream forest ranger and county sheriff.
I brooch would be nice though. A nice one with diamonds on a silver pin, that would be okay.
So anyway, I was walking down the hallways with Anne-Marie Leblanc and Marisa Frances, two fellow Chiltonites whose only contribution to the school environment was improving the average looks quotient on campus, and they were busily discussing urgent business (the big question of the day: was Heath Ledger really with that witch, Heather Graham?)
Anne-Marie thought they would make a cute couple, but Marisa, whose cousin's cousin knew Heath's uncle's hairdresser believed he shouldn't be rushing into a relationship with anybody yet, especially since she hasn't had the time to move out to LA yet and scope famous movie sets while jutting out her hips and keeping her eyes mysteriously covered by Versace sunglasses.
And I was walking with them, you know, completely engrossed in my thoughts that Marisa would probably look better in Dolce and Gabbana than in Versace, when it hit me.
Bang.
Like a shoe to the head.
My plan was not flawless. There was a problem. There was a situation that I had not foreseen.
Gone were thoughts about brooches and ceremonial flags. Gone was the title of perfect matchmaker.
I was a failed Cupid. They had places for people like me, and those places where filled with discounted Richard Simmons' exercise videos (feel the burn!) and K-Mart place settings.
But I was a St. Martin, and a St. Martin does not squirm or cry at the first sign of adversity. We rise up to the occasion- usually by the ensuing bankruptcies and litigations that miraculously befall our enemies and competitors.
I quickly whipped out my cell phone from my purse with one of those moves that could have been easily employed by B-rated Western actors as they reach for the pistols in their holsters.
This caused Marisa to scream with glee before fainting dead away (it turns out she thought I was actually calling Heath Ledger and telling him not to commit to a serious relationship before he met a certain five-foot-nine, dark haired acquaintance of mine from school).
As if.
Anyway, so I dial this number and wait impatiently for the line to be picked up.
"Hello, Matt Jenkins speaking."
"Matt? Come quick. I need your help."
"You need my. who is this? Lauren?"
"No, it's Paula Abdul with a face lift. Of course, it's me."
He sounded impatient. "I just excused myself from a very important meeting with two of our top executives to take this call."
If he was looking for sympathy, he wasn't going to be getting it from me. "If it was such an important meeting, why did you answer the phone?"
"I'm expecting a call from the President of our subsidiary in Sidney."
"Oh. How convenient," I uttered. "Should I be impressed?"
"Impressed?" he sounded angry. "This isn't a matter of you being impressed or not. The last thing I need is for those people inside that board room right now to be discussing how I'm not measuring up as a potential future leader."
"Thanks for the lesson on Corporate America there, Matt."
"If you don't tell me, in two seconds or less, why you need my help right now, then I'm going to be hanging up and forgetting that you ever called."
"I need you to help me break into a locker at school."
Pause.
"What?!"
"Rory has a phone number in her locker that I need, and you know when you tried to pick up those Canadian models at the Bewelski shindig last month? They really weren't all that impressed with you, so you used that whole 'I'm a misunderstood bad boy' vibe you had going on that night, and told them that you once broke into a security deposit box. I figured that if you had managed to break into that, you wouldn't have any trouble with a simple school locker."
"Wait a minute here. Just wait a minute! You're basing this whole conversation on a pick-up line I used last month?"
"Just. please. Please come down here and help me."
I could almost picture him smiling into the phone, congratulating himself on having made me beg. "That all depends," he murmured seductively into the phone. "Which pair of undies are you wearing right now?"
"What?"
"Which ones? The tiger-print thong or the pink one with Winnie the Pooh on them?"
"How," I asked him in blind anger, "do you even know what type of undergarments I own?"
"Wouldn't you like to know. Give me a half hour and meet me in front of the fountain."
Click.
I looked up and saw that Marisa was just coming to and Anne-Marie was helping her stand up.
"Who were you talking to?" Marisa asked, her eyes still slightly rolled back.
"Men!" I muttered angrily. "All useless, pathetic human beings."
Marisa and Anne-Marie looked vaguely shocked at my outburst, but I wasn't even finished yet.
"And your Heath Ledger? Well, he probably isn't any different than any of them. However, his one redeemable quality, I'll bet, is that he doesn't snoop into girls' dressers to check out what type of panties they own out of some sick fetish whenever their younger sisters invite him over to dinner, which is a definite step up from the men I know."
With that, I walked away in a huff, already planning my next move.
Looking back, I probably shouldn't have said what I said about men. At least not aloud.
Because by lunchtime, there was a huge rumor circulating about Tristan and a possible cross-dressing incident.
***
So that was how that rumor came about.
I was wondering why people kept coming up to me asking if Donna Summer was my inspirational leader and would I be interested in trying their shoes?
Good thing I'm such a manly man that that rumor was dispelled by the end of the school day (punching Rodney Renburg in the jaw when he asked me what was my favorite shade of lipstick probably had something to do with it as well).
If not, the task of pursuing Rory would have suddenly become much, much more difficult.
I'm talking, a lone, blind, and one-legged man trying to scale Kilimanjaro here.
But thankfully, that wasn't the situation.
Anyway, so I was in algebra class, trying to discern what the hell Mrs. Morrison was talking about (matrices. who needs to multiply them anyway?) when Lauren suddenly sits down in the seat behind me.
"You're not in this class," I tell her quietly, while still facing the front of the room for Mrs. Morrison's benefit.
"No shit, Einstein."
I winced. "Ouch." I paused as Mrs. Morrison addressed a question to the class, and watched through the corner of my eye as Lauren ducked behind my head. Once the teacher turned back to the board to finish the problem, I continued: "no need for the strong language. What's got your panties in a knot, anyway?"
That seemed to only make her angrier, but she didn't respond for a while. Finally, she whispered back.
"I need to know Rory's locker number."
"Why are you asking me?"
She rolled her eyes. "Now's not the time to be coy, Tristan."
"It's not like I'm this looser with absolutely no life who hangs out by her locker every waking moment of the day hoping to catch a glimpse of her."
Lauren just raised an eyebrow.
"Okay. Fine, fine. It's number 4132."
Lauren took out her stylized note pad and wrote the number down. "Thank you, buddy."
"Why do you need the number for, anyway?"
She smiled, slyly. "I figured you needed some alone time with Rory tonight. But how would that be possible with everybody's favorite guy, Dean, hanging by her side constantly? So now, there's this change of plans: I'll be giving Dean a phone call tonight and you, my friend, will be the lucky bastard who gets to pick Rory up."
"And the locker number?"
"Who doesn't keep an address book in their locker with their boyfriend's phone number inside?"
I looked at her incredulous. "You're breaking into Rory's locker to get a phone number? There's this great little device, you see, and it's called a phonebook."
She rolled her eyes. "Have you ever tried getting somebody's number when you only know their first name? Besides, your hands get all dirty from fingering that cheap paper. Seriously, can I get anymore tacky if I appear at the dance tonight with newspaper-print stained fingers?"
"I won't even answer that."
At that point, Mrs. Morrison turned back to the class and started assigning problems from the textbook.
"I better leave before I get caught. or worse, get assigned homework myself. Just remember, pick Rory up at 6:30. Not 6:15, or 6:45. Six thirty. And whatever you do, don't wear that suit you wore to my cousin Vinny's wedding. you know, the one that looks like it's straight off the rack at Price Club. Be nice, lots of compliments all around, and don't forget not to go all caveman on me by saying something like 'I'm a man, I'm macho, I'm hot and you should be honored to be my chosen one' or I'll be forced to tell her about Karaoke night at the club and your interpretation of Whitney Houston's-"
I got impatient. "Okay, okay. I get the point. I can't screw this up, got it. I hate to remind you, but I'm the one with the most dating experience between the two of us."
She rolled her eyes. "Typical. You deny, deny, deny even when there's a problem."
"Just go already!"
"Fine."
And she was just about to leave, when I asked her a parting question.
"Who are you going to get to come open the locker?"
She didn't answer. Instead she just flashed me this mysterious smile like she was some femme fetal with a shady past, or an extra on Charlie's Angels.
But I wasn't fooled. I knew the true Lauren. Ten bucks said she bought a how-to manual from Barnes and Nobles and was getting Rebecca to do the work, poor girl.
***
And he's the one complaining about never getting any respect.
As if I would do anything that could possibly get Rebecca into trouble. One of us needs to succeed in school, after all, in order to get into one of those schmoozy girl colleges where they teach you all about the joys of volunteering for useless charitable committees with pathetic causes.
Instead, they should find real causes. Here are some of my top picks: the 'get Tom Green a decent movie script for the love of God' foundation and the 'organization for the removal of Enrique Iglesias' mole' (hello, it's not like the medical technology isn't there, so that can't be used as an excuse).
Anyway, so back home, the stage was set for the perfect St. Martin deceit.
"Rebecca," I told her. "I'll be calling Dean from my cell phone. That way, if he has caller identification, he won't be able to tell where I am. But I need you to play really loud music on the stereo system so that he thinks we're at the school dance already."
She nodded. "I'll take care of the music, you just take care of the conversation."
Taking a deep breath, I dialed Dean's number, and just as I was about to speak, Rebecca turned on the stereo.
Horror of all horrors. The song she chose was the Macarena.
Me: Dean, is that you?
Dean: Yes. Who is this?
By this time, I was frantically gesturing to Rebecca to change the music. Finally she caught on and started looking for another CD.
Me: This is Lauren. You know, the girl who goes to Chilton.
Dean: Rory's friend. Yeah. Aren't I supposed to meet you at a dance later tonight?
Me: The dance is right now.
Suddenly the Latin music stopped, and instead, unmercifully, the Village People's YMCA came on instead.
Dean: What? Where are you? I can barely hear you with the blaring music and all.
Me: I'm at the dance. So is Rory.
Dean: What?
Me: The dance started at five.
Dean: Five? Rory told me to pick her up at six thirty.
It was getting worse and worse. Suddenly the music veered from Micheal Jackson's Billy Jean to Ace of Base.
Me (yelling into the phone to be heard over the music): No. Rory asked me to call you about that. She thought it was seven. It actually started at five. It being a middle school dance, and all. So she's already here with me. She's waiting for you, actually.
Dean: She's at the school already.
Me: That's right.
Dean: Okay. Tell her I'll be there as soon as possible.
Me: Sure. I'll tell her that.
Dean: Oh, and by the way. I hope everything goes well for your sister tonight and that Mark Bilstore gets what he deserves.
I pictured Matt as Mark Bilstore, and his inappropriate comments.
Me: Oh, I'm sure he will.
One call down, another one to go. I waited twenty minutes before dialing again.
Me: Rory? It's me, Lauren.
Rory: Hello! How is everything?
Me: Fine, but why aren't you here yet?
Rory: Where?
Me: At the dance.
Rory: It doesn't start until seven.
Me: No, no. It started at five. Look, you must have been confused about the timing and all. But that's cool.
Rory: I'll be there as fast as I can. I'll call Dean and we'll go together.
I pretended the line was very bad and couldn't hear her.
Me: What? Oh listen, for your ride, I asked Tristan to go pick you up. He was in the neighborhood anyway.
I tried to think of an activity to make Tristan seem saintly.
Me: . volunteering at the orphanage. He told me he'd go get you.
Rory: What? There's no. wait a minute! I don't need a ride, I'll call Dean and we'll go together.
Me: I'm sorry, the line is really bad. I've got to go. See you soon!
And I cheerfully hung up the phone and danced around in victory as Olivia Newton John belted out "Let's Get Physical."
"What are you so happy about?"
I smiled. "She'll try calling Dean, but he won't answer because he's already gone. So Tristan will be her ride in the end."
I twirled around and collapsed onto the bed. "See, my plan. Foolproof. And I? Am still the reigning matchmaking genius."
"I wouldn't get too cocky yet," Rebecca warned, but she joined me on the bed and bopped her head to the beat of the song, seemingly unconcerned about the potential for failure.
***
It was a weird day, a strange day, a bizarre day.
The kind of day where you feel like spontaneously stripping down to your bra and underwear and start dancing around the grand staircase to the sound of a washed-up Geri Halliwell peppy pop song while the housekeeping staff looks on wondering if they should alert your parents of your erratic behavior and if the vitamins they found on your night table were really ecstasy pills in disguise.
I was feeling quite satisfied with myself. After all, today was Friday. the day of Rebecca's school dance and the day where Rory and Tristan finally got together.
And I was to be crowned Chilton's resident matchmaking genius.
Okay. Maybe not crowned.
But I could probably convince Tristan to buy me a badge. It was the least he could do, after all.
Ugh. Scratch the badge. They scream forest ranger and county sheriff.
I brooch would be nice though. A nice one with diamonds on a silver pin, that would be okay.
So anyway, I was walking down the hallways with Anne-Marie Leblanc and Marisa Frances, two fellow Chiltonites whose only contribution to the school environment was improving the average looks quotient on campus, and they were busily discussing urgent business (the big question of the day: was Heath Ledger really with that witch, Heather Graham?)
Anne-Marie thought they would make a cute couple, but Marisa, whose cousin's cousin knew Heath's uncle's hairdresser believed he shouldn't be rushing into a relationship with anybody yet, especially since she hasn't had the time to move out to LA yet and scope famous movie sets while jutting out her hips and keeping her eyes mysteriously covered by Versace sunglasses.
And I was walking with them, you know, completely engrossed in my thoughts that Marisa would probably look better in Dolce and Gabbana than in Versace, when it hit me.
Bang.
Like a shoe to the head.
My plan was not flawless. There was a problem. There was a situation that I had not foreseen.
Gone were thoughts about brooches and ceremonial flags. Gone was the title of perfect matchmaker.
I was a failed Cupid. They had places for people like me, and those places where filled with discounted Richard Simmons' exercise videos (feel the burn!) and K-Mart place settings.
But I was a St. Martin, and a St. Martin does not squirm or cry at the first sign of adversity. We rise up to the occasion- usually by the ensuing bankruptcies and litigations that miraculously befall our enemies and competitors.
I quickly whipped out my cell phone from my purse with one of those moves that could have been easily employed by B-rated Western actors as they reach for the pistols in their holsters.
This caused Marisa to scream with glee before fainting dead away (it turns out she thought I was actually calling Heath Ledger and telling him not to commit to a serious relationship before he met a certain five-foot-nine, dark haired acquaintance of mine from school).
As if.
Anyway, so I dial this number and wait impatiently for the line to be picked up.
"Hello, Matt Jenkins speaking."
"Matt? Come quick. I need your help."
"You need my. who is this? Lauren?"
"No, it's Paula Abdul with a face lift. Of course, it's me."
He sounded impatient. "I just excused myself from a very important meeting with two of our top executives to take this call."
If he was looking for sympathy, he wasn't going to be getting it from me. "If it was such an important meeting, why did you answer the phone?"
"I'm expecting a call from the President of our subsidiary in Sidney."
"Oh. How convenient," I uttered. "Should I be impressed?"
"Impressed?" he sounded angry. "This isn't a matter of you being impressed or not. The last thing I need is for those people inside that board room right now to be discussing how I'm not measuring up as a potential future leader."
"Thanks for the lesson on Corporate America there, Matt."
"If you don't tell me, in two seconds or less, why you need my help right now, then I'm going to be hanging up and forgetting that you ever called."
"I need you to help me break into a locker at school."
Pause.
"What?!"
"Rory has a phone number in her locker that I need, and you know when you tried to pick up those Canadian models at the Bewelski shindig last month? They really weren't all that impressed with you, so you used that whole 'I'm a misunderstood bad boy' vibe you had going on that night, and told them that you once broke into a security deposit box. I figured that if you had managed to break into that, you wouldn't have any trouble with a simple school locker."
"Wait a minute here. Just wait a minute! You're basing this whole conversation on a pick-up line I used last month?"
"Just. please. Please come down here and help me."
I could almost picture him smiling into the phone, congratulating himself on having made me beg. "That all depends," he murmured seductively into the phone. "Which pair of undies are you wearing right now?"
"What?"
"Which ones? The tiger-print thong or the pink one with Winnie the Pooh on them?"
"How," I asked him in blind anger, "do you even know what type of undergarments I own?"
"Wouldn't you like to know. Give me a half hour and meet me in front of the fountain."
Click.
I looked up and saw that Marisa was just coming to and Anne-Marie was helping her stand up.
"Who were you talking to?" Marisa asked, her eyes still slightly rolled back.
"Men!" I muttered angrily. "All useless, pathetic human beings."
Marisa and Anne-Marie looked vaguely shocked at my outburst, but I wasn't even finished yet.
"And your Heath Ledger? Well, he probably isn't any different than any of them. However, his one redeemable quality, I'll bet, is that he doesn't snoop into girls' dressers to check out what type of panties they own out of some sick fetish whenever their younger sisters invite him over to dinner, which is a definite step up from the men I know."
With that, I walked away in a huff, already planning my next move.
Looking back, I probably shouldn't have said what I said about men. At least not aloud.
Because by lunchtime, there was a huge rumor circulating about Tristan and a possible cross-dressing incident.
***
So that was how that rumor came about.
I was wondering why people kept coming up to me asking if Donna Summer was my inspirational leader and would I be interested in trying their shoes?
Good thing I'm such a manly man that that rumor was dispelled by the end of the school day (punching Rodney Renburg in the jaw when he asked me what was my favorite shade of lipstick probably had something to do with it as well).
If not, the task of pursuing Rory would have suddenly become much, much more difficult.
I'm talking, a lone, blind, and one-legged man trying to scale Kilimanjaro here.
But thankfully, that wasn't the situation.
Anyway, so I was in algebra class, trying to discern what the hell Mrs. Morrison was talking about (matrices. who needs to multiply them anyway?) when Lauren suddenly sits down in the seat behind me.
"You're not in this class," I tell her quietly, while still facing the front of the room for Mrs. Morrison's benefit.
"No shit, Einstein."
I winced. "Ouch." I paused as Mrs. Morrison addressed a question to the class, and watched through the corner of my eye as Lauren ducked behind my head. Once the teacher turned back to the board to finish the problem, I continued: "no need for the strong language. What's got your panties in a knot, anyway?"
That seemed to only make her angrier, but she didn't respond for a while. Finally, she whispered back.
"I need to know Rory's locker number."
"Why are you asking me?"
She rolled her eyes. "Now's not the time to be coy, Tristan."
"It's not like I'm this looser with absolutely no life who hangs out by her locker every waking moment of the day hoping to catch a glimpse of her."
Lauren just raised an eyebrow.
"Okay. Fine, fine. It's number 4132."
Lauren took out her stylized note pad and wrote the number down. "Thank you, buddy."
"Why do you need the number for, anyway?"
She smiled, slyly. "I figured you needed some alone time with Rory tonight. But how would that be possible with everybody's favorite guy, Dean, hanging by her side constantly? So now, there's this change of plans: I'll be giving Dean a phone call tonight and you, my friend, will be the lucky bastard who gets to pick Rory up."
"And the locker number?"
"Who doesn't keep an address book in their locker with their boyfriend's phone number inside?"
I looked at her incredulous. "You're breaking into Rory's locker to get a phone number? There's this great little device, you see, and it's called a phonebook."
She rolled her eyes. "Have you ever tried getting somebody's number when you only know their first name? Besides, your hands get all dirty from fingering that cheap paper. Seriously, can I get anymore tacky if I appear at the dance tonight with newspaper-print stained fingers?"
"I won't even answer that."
At that point, Mrs. Morrison turned back to the class and started assigning problems from the textbook.
"I better leave before I get caught. or worse, get assigned homework myself. Just remember, pick Rory up at 6:30. Not 6:15, or 6:45. Six thirty. And whatever you do, don't wear that suit you wore to my cousin Vinny's wedding. you know, the one that looks like it's straight off the rack at Price Club. Be nice, lots of compliments all around, and don't forget not to go all caveman on me by saying something like 'I'm a man, I'm macho, I'm hot and you should be honored to be my chosen one' or I'll be forced to tell her about Karaoke night at the club and your interpretation of Whitney Houston's-"
I got impatient. "Okay, okay. I get the point. I can't screw this up, got it. I hate to remind you, but I'm the one with the most dating experience between the two of us."
She rolled her eyes. "Typical. You deny, deny, deny even when there's a problem."
"Just go already!"
"Fine."
And she was just about to leave, when I asked her a parting question.
"Who are you going to get to come open the locker?"
She didn't answer. Instead she just flashed me this mysterious smile like she was some femme fetal with a shady past, or an extra on Charlie's Angels.
But I wasn't fooled. I knew the true Lauren. Ten bucks said she bought a how-to manual from Barnes and Nobles and was getting Rebecca to do the work, poor girl.
***
And he's the one complaining about never getting any respect.
As if I would do anything that could possibly get Rebecca into trouble. One of us needs to succeed in school, after all, in order to get into one of those schmoozy girl colleges where they teach you all about the joys of volunteering for useless charitable committees with pathetic causes.
Instead, they should find real causes. Here are some of my top picks: the 'get Tom Green a decent movie script for the love of God' foundation and the 'organization for the removal of Enrique Iglesias' mole' (hello, it's not like the medical technology isn't there, so that can't be used as an excuse).
Anyway, so back home, the stage was set for the perfect St. Martin deceit.
"Rebecca," I told her. "I'll be calling Dean from my cell phone. That way, if he has caller identification, he won't be able to tell where I am. But I need you to play really loud music on the stereo system so that he thinks we're at the school dance already."
She nodded. "I'll take care of the music, you just take care of the conversation."
Taking a deep breath, I dialed Dean's number, and just as I was about to speak, Rebecca turned on the stereo.
Horror of all horrors. The song she chose was the Macarena.
Me: Dean, is that you?
Dean: Yes. Who is this?
By this time, I was frantically gesturing to Rebecca to change the music. Finally she caught on and started looking for another CD.
Me: This is Lauren. You know, the girl who goes to Chilton.
Dean: Rory's friend. Yeah. Aren't I supposed to meet you at a dance later tonight?
Me: The dance is right now.
Suddenly the Latin music stopped, and instead, unmercifully, the Village People's YMCA came on instead.
Dean: What? Where are you? I can barely hear you with the blaring music and all.
Me: I'm at the dance. So is Rory.
Dean: What?
Me: The dance started at five.
Dean: Five? Rory told me to pick her up at six thirty.
It was getting worse and worse. Suddenly the music veered from Micheal Jackson's Billy Jean to Ace of Base.
Me (yelling into the phone to be heard over the music): No. Rory asked me to call you about that. She thought it was seven. It actually started at five. It being a middle school dance, and all. So she's already here with me. She's waiting for you, actually.
Dean: She's at the school already.
Me: That's right.
Dean: Okay. Tell her I'll be there as soon as possible.
Me: Sure. I'll tell her that.
Dean: Oh, and by the way. I hope everything goes well for your sister tonight and that Mark Bilstore gets what he deserves.
I pictured Matt as Mark Bilstore, and his inappropriate comments.
Me: Oh, I'm sure he will.
One call down, another one to go. I waited twenty minutes before dialing again.
Me: Rory? It's me, Lauren.
Rory: Hello! How is everything?
Me: Fine, but why aren't you here yet?
Rory: Where?
Me: At the dance.
Rory: It doesn't start until seven.
Me: No, no. It started at five. Look, you must have been confused about the timing and all. But that's cool.
Rory: I'll be there as fast as I can. I'll call Dean and we'll go together.
I pretended the line was very bad and couldn't hear her.
Me: What? Oh listen, for your ride, I asked Tristan to go pick you up. He was in the neighborhood anyway.
I tried to think of an activity to make Tristan seem saintly.
Me: . volunteering at the orphanage. He told me he'd go get you.
Rory: What? There's no. wait a minute! I don't need a ride, I'll call Dean and we'll go together.
Me: I'm sorry, the line is really bad. I've got to go. See you soon!
And I cheerfully hung up the phone and danced around in victory as Olivia Newton John belted out "Let's Get Physical."
"What are you so happy about?"
I smiled. "She'll try calling Dean, but he won't answer because he's already gone. So Tristan will be her ride in the end."
I twirled around and collapsed onto the bed. "See, my plan. Foolproof. And I? Am still the reigning matchmaking genius."
"I wouldn't get too cocky yet," Rebecca warned, but she joined me on the bed and bopped her head to the beat of the song, seemingly unconcerned about the potential for failure.
***