Love Me, Love My Broccoli Read online

  What readers have to say about Love Me, Love My Broccoli

  "Your book Love Me, Love My Broccoli is one of the reasons that I want to be an activist like Chloe."

  "I chose to read your book Love Me, Love My Broccoli because of the title. I thought it would be a funny book and it was. It gave me lots of good facts about animal rights."

  LOVE ME,

  LOVE MY BROCCOLI

  by

  Julie Anne Peters

  Copyright 1999 by Julie Anne Peters

  Revised and Updated 2011

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CHAPTER 1

  Things that make me sick:

  1. Whitney what's-her-face and Paul Poole, kissing in public, especially in the cafeteria where others are trying to eat.

  2. Meat. The smell of it, the sight of it, watching people eating it.

  3. My mother—

  Chloe tensed. She slammed the cover on her mental journal and filed the last entry in her head under To be continued. "Later, if ever," she muttered.

  "Hi, Chloe. Sorry I'm late. Mr. Keifer had a line of people waiting to talk to him and I just had to get help with my biology assignment." Muriel Blevins plunked down her books and slid into the chair next to Chloe.

  Chloe swallowed the soggy shred of lettuce gnashed between her teeth. She said to Muriel, "Since when do you need help with biology? You could probably give him a lesson on biomedical nuclear physics." She stabbed at a sunflower seed on her plate and added, "In your sleep."

  Muriel sighed wistfully. She draped herself forward over her stack of books.

  Oh no, Chloe groaned to herself. Not again. "Muriel, Mr. Keifer is ancient. I mean, he has to be fifty. Plus, he's bald and fat and probably married with kids our age. Twice our age."

  "I don't care," Muriel said. "He's brilliant. We connected in class today, if you know what I mean. When our eyes met across the room, I sensed our brain waves modulating in sync."

  "Oh, Mur. You're just having another out-of-mind experience."

  She turned and scowled at Chloe. "What do you mean 'another?'"

  Chloe widened her eyes at Muriel. "Remember Dr. Ingles? As I vaguely recall, you were planning to quit school to become a Tibetan sherpa so you could go with him on his yearly expeditions to Mount Everest."

  Muriel shrugged. "I would have too, if it weren't for my acrophobia."

  "You should've remembered you were afraid of heights before you prepackaged a hundred pounds of trail mix. And what about Mr. Holly, that math teacher you had last semester? You thought he was Chris Rock every time he said, 'So, Muriel. What's your sign? Plus or minus? Heh heh.'" Chloe faked a gag.

  "That was different. A childish infatuation. I was impressionable back then." Muriel picked up her can of guava juice, shook it, and peeled back the foil seal.

  Watching Muriel guzzle down her juice, Chloe shook her head. "I'm glad Mr. Keifer gets your adrenaline going," she said. "Now, we'd better get to work. Did you bring the flyers?"

  With her free hand Muriel slipped her notebook out from under her books. She flipped it open and handed a stack of pages to Chloe.

  Chloe read the top sheet. "These look terrific, Mur."

  Muriel finished her juice and set down the can. "You really think so?" She beamed at Chloe. "I'm not much of an artist. I didn't know if my computer graphic resembled the Brazilian Macaw or not."

  Is that what this is? Chloe studied the drawing more closely. She thought it was just a finger with a wart on it pointing to the text. Oh well, it was good of Muriel to volunteer to make the flyers. Believers were hard to find.

  She scootched back her chair, stood, and walked around the conference table, where the two of them had been lunching under their new club's banner. "Save the exotic birds of the world," Chloe called out in her commanding contralto. She thrust a flyer at a passing student, a girl she'd never seen before. "Halt the sale of exotic birds. Boycott all stores that sell birds of any kind."

  The girl glanced at the flyer, clucked in disgust, and dumped it in the trash with her lunch.

  Undeterred, Chloe pressed a handful of flyers into a passing group of students. "Save our birds from the cruelty of black marketers."

  "What is this crap?" A hulking guy in baggy jeans and a sports tee paused in front of the table. Squinting over Chloe's shoulder to read the banner behind her, he asked, "What's A-R-C?"

  "Animal Rights Crusaders," Chloe explained. "We're working to protect and preserve the animal life on our planet."

  "You mean like us?" He motioned to the group of guys who were clustering around him. "Us party animals?" They howled like hyenas. "And who are you supposed to be? Noah? Get it? Noah's arc?" He elbowed the guy next to him, who snorted.

  Chloe's eyes narrowed. She punched a fist into her waist and said, "For your information, bucko, there are creatures on this earth who are suffering. Helpless creatures, sick and dying all because of human exploitation—"

  "Who cares?" He crumpled the flyer and tossed it over Chloe's head.

  Chloe felt the hot mercury rising up the thermometer of her neck.

  The guy turned to his buddies and flapped his arms. "Arc, arc," he crowed. He swooped down with a claw finger and grabbed the beret off Chloe's head.

  "Give it back!" Her raspy voice rose to a shriek.

  He took off across the cafeteria. Chloe charged after him.

  "Chloe, forget it." Muriel caught up with her at the door. "Let him go. You have plenty of hats. Anyway, he's just a dumb jock and you know what they're like. Vapor between the ears." She demonstrated with puffed out cheeks. "Plus, I think we've attracted enough attention." Muriel motioned with her chin to the growing, snickering crowd near the table.

  Chloe flipped open her mental journal. Things I hate, number four, she etched in indelible think. Jock Neanderthals.

  "This yours?" Chloe heard a deep voice behind her. She whirled. Her red felt beret dangled from the index finger of a hand. Instinctively her eyes traveled up the attached arm. She gulped. It wasn't just an arm. It was his arm. His deeply tanned arm.

  "I apologize for that goon," he said as he fitted the hat back on Chloe's head. "You have to get used to Faber. He's a fullback. What do you expect?" He smiled at her.

  Those eyes, she thought. Those dark-chocolate eyes. Stop it, she chided herself. He's one of them.

  "Backs are mostly muscle, especially from the neck up." He tilted his head down to meet Chloe's eyes. "That was a joke."

  She straightened her shoulders. "Ha, ha," she said dryly.

  He gave her a hurt puppy look. "Don't I even get a thanks for risking my life to rescue your hat from the hulk?" He hooked his fingers together in front and flexed.

  Chloe sucked in a smile. She pivoted in place and mumbled, "Thanks." Then she hustled after Muriel toward the ARC table.

  "You're Chloe Mankewicz, right?" he said behind her.

  She stopped. Why was he following her? Even more important, how did he know her name? Chloe glanced over her shoulder and stared at him, then caught herself drooling and whipped her head back around. "Save the exotics," she called to no one in particular. Her voice had returned to its loud throaty resonance.

  "My social studies teacher was telling me about your club. She thought I might be interested in joining," he said at her side.
r />   With nearly lethal force, she punched a fisted flyer into an unsuspecting cheerleader's stomach. When the girl doubled over, gasping for breath, Chloe mumbled, "Sorry." Why didn't he leave? Chloe wondered. She'd been about as rude as crude oil. She picked up her pace across the cafeteria.

  "I guess because I wrote a paper on recycling, she thinks I'm out to save the world." When there was no response, he stepped in front of Chloe. "I'm Brett. Brett Ryan?"

  She skidded to a stop, millimeters away from him. I know who you are, she said to herself. All summer long she'd been watching him from her bedroom window while he mowed the neighbor's yard. Watching and wishing . . . She tried to dam the humiliating blush gushing into her cheeks. "So," she cleared her throat, "are you interested in joining, Brett Ryan?" She handed out a flyer behind him.

  He flinched and took a step backward. "Well, uh, no. Not really. Not that I think what you're doing isn't important. I mean, I do think we're trashing the earth. It's just that I have so much else going on right now. You know, football and wrestling, gymnastics coming up—"

  "Yeah, you wouldn't want to bend over backward or anything."

  He frowned.

  She widened her eyes at him.

  He burst into laughter.

  He's laughing at me, she thought. Her anger flared again. Just as she was about to storm off, he punched her arm playfully and smiled. "Or flip out."

  He touched me. Chloe melted in place. Those yummy eyes. That smile. "I have work to do," she mumbled, ducking around him and away. Her flip-flops flapped to the meter of the time bomb in her head. "Save the exotic birds of the world," she bellowed, wincing as her voice cracked. "Boycott the grand opening of Bird Boutique this Saturday. We know for a fact they obtain their birds illegally through black marketers. These merciless hunters sweep the forests for young birds, gas them, and tape their beaks. Then they transport them in crates for days or weeks on end without food or water. If the birds don't die of starvation, they die of despair. Don't allow this inhumanity to go on. Help save the birds."

  She glanced back over her shoulder. Rats, he was gone.

  CHAPTER 2

  The front door was locked and the curtains drawn when Chloe got home from school. "Oh, great," she muttered. "What's Gran into now?" She rummaged around in her oversized tapestry bag for her keys.

  Chloe unlocked the door. Warily, she pushed it in. The squeaky whine of the hinges dashed any hope she might have had for a surprise entry. She stuck in her head. "Gran?"

  No response. A shadowy white shape appeared. "Hi, Deaf." She opened the door the rest of the way and stepped inside. Stooping to run her fingers along the arched back of her sleek, white cat, Chloe surveyed the empty foyer. "Where is she?" Chloe whispered to her cat. "Where's Gran staked out today? Did guerrillas invade? Don't tell me, you didn't hear a thing." She smiled into the enraptured blue eyes of Deaf Leopard, her stone-deaf cat.

  "Gran, where are you? It's Chloe," she called. No answer. She sighed and started up the stairs.

  Without warning, the hall closet door flew open and a woman with a broomstick under her arm jumped out. "Hold it right there, assassin. One false move and you're a dead man."

  Startled, Chloe stumbled on the steps and went sprawling. "Gran, it's me, Chloe," she said, rolling over and holding her hands up in the air. "Don't shoot!"

  "Don't play mind games with me," the old woman seethed. "I know who you are . . . Ernst. Now, hand over that Luger nice and easy." She jabbed the stick at Chloe.

  "Gran," Chloe pleaded, then sagged, realizing it was useless. Her grandmother's imaginary stint with the CIA had possessed her mind again. Chloe reached into her bag for the first thing she could find that might remotely resemble a Luger, whatever a Luger resembled. "Here." She held out a neon green highlighter to her grandmother.

  "Put it down, right there, Ernst. Reeeeal easy." The old woman motioned with the broom handle to the bottom step.

  Chloe set the highlighter up on end. In her best German accent she said, "I sought vee ver rid of you een Berlin, Fraulein Mankevitz. But I zee you haf eluded our trap and outzmarted us again. I salute you." Chloe flicked stiff fingers off her forehead.

  The woman's wrinkled lips pulled taut into an arrogant smile. "I know your tricks, Dmitri. Do you take me for a fool? You will never capture me, never. Now," she bent to sweep up the highlighter, "if you will excuse me, I have a plane to catch." She aimed the plastic pen at Chloe and dropped the broom. "Once again I slip through your fingers, assassin. Remember, I am the serpent." She hissed. Her beady eyes scanned the room. Then she backed up into the closet and pulled the door shut behind her.

  Deaf Leopard purred in Chloe's ear. "I thought I was Ernst," she said to him. "Didn't she call me Ernst? If I was Dmitri I had the accent all wrong." Chloe pushed herself to her feet and counted to ten. Then she walked to the hall closet and knocked on the door. "Gran?"

  "Chloe?" came the muffled reply.

  Chloe smiled. She opened the door and held out a hand. Her grandmother blinked at her once before laying her frail fingers in Chloe's palm. "What am I doing in the hall closet?" she asked.

  Tugging gently at her grandmother's elbow, Chloe replied, "You were, uh, cleaning out the coats to give to Goodwill." She eased the closet door closed behind her grandmother.

  "Yes, of course." Gran patted Chloe's hand.

  The cuckoo clock in the living room squawked four. "Is it that late? Your father will be home any minute and I haven't even started dinner. Now you go wash up. I'm making my Ukrainian specialty tonight to celebrate."

  Oh no, Chloe thought. Not again. Veal kotlety with brain sauce? "Gran, remember I don't eat meat—" She stopped. "Celebrate what?"

  "Your birthday, of course. Your tenth birthday."

  Chloe peered into her grandmother's glazed eyes. She hooked a loose tendril of gray hair behind the thin, translucent ear and spoke tenderly. "Look at me, Gran. I'm fourteen now. Remember?"

  Her grandmother's eyes sparked momentarily, then died. "Yes, dear. Now go wash up. Get, get, get." She whisked Chloe away with the back of her hand. In her pink fuzzy slippers she shuffled off toward the kitchen, muttering, "Ten is such a trying age."

  Frisbee-style, Chloe flung her beret across the bedroom into the open cedar chest near her closet. She dropped her bag onto the bed, punched on the radio, and hummed along with the soulful moan of a sax solo on KJAZ. Deaf took up his sentry position atop the vibrating speaker. Chloe unfastened the black belt around her waist and tossed it on the bed. She'd redeemed it from a sale table last week at Janet's Near New Shoppe. It wasn't easy to find nonleather belts, and for a quarter, what a steal. Chloe began to remove her blouse when she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror.

  "Yikes!" She covered her head. "Who says the wooly mammoth is extinct?" She picked up a wide-toothed comb from the bureau and yanked it through her shoulder-length frizz.

  "Maybe I should get a short cut like Mur's," she said to Deaf. "It makes her look so, I don't know, sophisticated. Is there such a thing as a 'chic nerd'? I don't think so. 'Chic geek?'"

  Chloe twisted her unruly mop into a bun on top and secured it with extra-large bobby pins. Better, she thought. Now my head looks like a basket of Easter grass.

  She exhaled audibly. What could he possibly see in me? she wondered. Aloud, she answered her own question, "A hideous new species evolving, of course. Sort of a cross between Jane of the Jungle and Alien Invasion. Forget it, Chloe. You're not his type. Not that you'd want to be, right? After all, he is one of them."

  She flopped on the bed. Number five. She flipped open her mental journal. Hypocrites, especially one I know named Chloe Mankewicz. She closed the journal. "Give it up, girl."

  She stood and wandered toward the bay window. On her way she grabbed her Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara dolls off the bookcase shelf. Curling up on the window seat, Chloe pranced Rhett up to the crest of her bent knees. "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn," she told him.

  Liar. Chloe sig
hed and lowered the doll to her side. Her eyes strayed to the bookcase. It was getting a little crowded with Gone with the Wind memorabilia. And she thought Muriel was a hopeless romantic.

  "So what?" Chloe countered aloud. She loved every piece of her collection. It had taken her years to scavenge all the treasures. At last count there were nine music boxes. Each one tinkled Tara's Theme in a slightly different key. She had an original movie poster, the one with Scarlett melting over Rhett's hot hands while Atlanta burned in the background; a third edition hardback by Margaret Mitchell, most of the pages intact; and her newest addition, the redigitized GWTW DVD, last year's birthday present from Muriel, even though Muriel knew Chloe didn't have a DVD player. She didn't even have a TV. Chloe agreed with her father that TV was the root of society's decay, but she'd told Muriel she wouldn't mind watching GWTW at her house just once more.

  "Oh Rhett, Rhett," Chloe breathed in her thickest southern accent. She glanced out the window to her neighbor's yard. "Take me, take me now. Brett, oh Brett—" She freaked. What am I saying? Mortified, Chloe threw Rhett Butler out the window.

  CHAPTER 3

  The "yowl" traveled up the trellis to Chloe's second-story bedroom window. She stuck her head out and cringed. Her father peered skyward, rubbing the growing welt on his head. "What are you playing?" he said. "Gong with the Wind?"

  She made an apologetic face at him. "Sorry, Dad. Are you hurt?"

  He examined his fingers. "I don't detect any scarlet, my dear."

  Chloe rolled her eyes. "Would you mind bringing my doll up on your way in?"

  Dr. Mankewicz propped his bike against the rose trellis and bent to retrieve the Rhett Butler doll beside his foot. Chloe thought, not for the first time, that from a mile away you could guess he was a college professor. Tall, handsome, wearing mismatched socks. Straightening, he adjusted his wire rims at Chloe. "Is Gran . . .?" He let the question dangle.