Love Me, Love My Broccoli Page 4

  "Yes, I know. You don't need to keep reminding me." Her mother's accent thickened noticeably.

  Chloe licked her index finger and added another marker to her bingo board.

  "You are a busy bee." Her mother sighed again. "I don't suppose your father mentioned my invitation to Thanksgiving?"

  "That's ages away. Why don't we discuss it later?"

  "Because it won't happen," she snapped. "You'll avoid discussing it with me like you've developed quite a habit of doing. I'd like to have your answer now so I can make plans."

  Chloe felt trapped. She could tell her mother she didn't care if she ever saw her again, but that would be heartless. Besides, it wasn't the truth. At least, not the whole truth. She could never confide to her that Thanksgiving had become the saddest day of her life, that she mourned all the millions of turkeys bred in cruel conditions just to be slaughtered for one lousy dinner. Her mother would never understand. Anyone who could drop a live lobster into boiling water could hardly be expected to sympathize with a turkey.

  "I hate to leave Dad alone with Gran," she settled on. "You know how she is."

  Her mother said, "Why don't I ask them both to come along? Then you won't have any excuse."

  Chloe muttered, "I guess that'll work." Was it her imagination or did she hear her mother mark her own bingo card?

  "Wonderful. I'll plan on it. Now, I want to hear all about your date."

  Chloe choked. "I'm already late for my ARC meeting with Muriel. It was nothing, anyway. Just a movie. No big deal." Right. So why am I dying inside? she wondered.

  Chloe's mother said, "I'll call you later in the week. We can talk about it then. Maybe you can fit me into your schedule for, say, a quick bite of dinner? Vegetarians do eat sometime, don't they?"

  Chloe flared again. That's right, Mother. Bash me at every opportunity. "We eat, when the grazing's good," she said.

  "I know a fabulous salad bar. We'll go there."

  "Fabulous."

  Apparently her mother caught the sarcasm and cut the conversation short. After she hung up, Chloe exercised her jaws. They ached from clenching her teeth so hard. Deaf appeared, rubbing against her ankles and purring like a motorboat. Chloe bent to pick him up. She flopped him over her shoulder and padded to the sink to fill the teapot. Just as she set it on the stove to heat and was heading back upstairs to get dressed, the phone rang again.

  "What does she want now?" Chloe grumbled. "She always has to call back with the vital trivia she forgot." She held Deaf out in front of her. "'Oh, by the way, dear," she mimicked her mother's voice. "Mary Beth Bellingham was telling me that her daughter Sasha, you remember Sasha? That sweet little neighbor girl you used to eat mud with? Well, she's prom queen of the universe this year, blah, blah, blah . . .'" Deaf scraped a sandpaper tongue across the tip of Chloe's nose. She kissed him back. Lowering him to the counter, she answered the phone.

  "Yes, Mother. What'd you forget?"

  "I'm going to have to get a voice change operation if I sound like your mother," he said.

  CHAPTER 7

  Chloe dropped the cordless phone. It landed with a thud and bounced across the kitchen floor. She gasped, fell to her knees, and scrambled to retrieve it. "Are you still there?" she asked, juggling the receiver up to her ear.

  "Are we having an earthquake and nobody told me?" he asked.

  Chloe giggled. She leaned up against the dishwasher to sit cross-legged on the linoleum. "No earthquake." Except in my stomach, she thought. "Sorry."

  After a short pause he said, "You want to go to the football game with me today?"

  Chloe hesitated. Should I tell him the truth? she wondered. Come on, Chloe. 'Fess up. Tell him you despise football.

  "The game's at two between us and Laguna. Kelso's got a groin pull so he can't play and I'm the backup quarterback. It's my big chance. I thought you might like to come and watch me dazzle the high school scouts." He gave a short laugh. "Or destroy all hope of ever getting on the team."

  "Football, huh?" she repeated.

  "Afterwards, I thought we could hang a while at Cal's Tex Mex. You know, the dive where everyone meets after the games? 'Course, depending on how I do, you may not want to be seen with me in public."

  She couldn't imagine that. Ever. "Sounds like fun," she said. "The afterwards part anyway. I don't really want to go to the game, Brett. I mean, alone. If you're playing, I'd have to sit alone, right?"

  "Turk plays tight end . . ."

  Figures, Chloe thought.

  ". . . so I'm sure Lyssya will be going. You could sit with her."

  Like I said, I don't want to be alone. Chloe had a thought. "Would you mind if I invited a friend?"

  He paused. "Girl, I hope."

  Was he jealous? Chloe clucked. Get real. "Android, actually," she replied. "She's programmed to follow me anywhere."

  "Translation?"

  Chloe smiled. "My best friend, Muriel."

  "Oh, sure. That'd be cool. She can bring her boyfriend, too, if she wants."

  Chloe said to herself, I'll tell Muriel to dig up Harold's number. "She isn't really going out with anyone right now," she told Brett, adding to herself, Unless you count lusting after Mr. Keifer.

  "Want me to fix her up? There are always a few guys on the team in-between girlfriends."

  Chloe asked, "Is that what you are, in-between girlfriends?"

  "Not anymore."

  Chloe's ear melted all over the receiver.

  "What does your friend look like?" he asked.

  Oh, you know. Your basic nerd. "She's really smart. An honor student, and just about the nicest person—"

  "Maybe I'd better not, Chloe." He cut her off. "I wouldn't want it to come between us. I mean, it's not easy matching people up, you know? If they didn't get along they might wreck our time together. Then later they'd blame us for ruining their reputations or some other head trip."

  "Whoa, we wouldn't want to cause permanent psychological damage," Chloe said. She added quickly, "But it was nice of you to think of her. Muriel can still come with me to the game, can't she?"

  "Oh, sure," he said. "Then if we want to be alone later," he lowered his voice, "and I'm sure we will, we can drop her off. Okay?"

  Something in that plan didn't sit right with Chloe, but she couldn't say what. Might have been her hyperventilating that was making her lightheaded. Anyway, she was new to this dating game, so maybe that was the way it was played.

  "The kickoff's at two, Muriel." Chloe cradled the phone on her shoulder while she poured herself a cup of chamomile tea at the stove. "I'm sorry to cancel our protest march at Circus Kiev, but this came up, you know, unexpectedly. Please say you'll go with me."

  "Of course I'll go with you," Muriel said. "Even though I don't understand this. I don't understand you. I thought we agreed football was strictly for anthropoids."

  "It is," Chloe replied. "And most of them are apes, I grant you. Except for Brett. I mean, he's a real person, even if he is a jock. I want you to meet him, Mur. Tell me if I'm being a hypocrite to go out with him."

  Tell me why I completely lose control of my senses whenever I'm around this guy.

  "Muriel," she blew on her steaming tea, "tell me if I'm acting like an airhead. On second thought, don't."

  The football game was worse than boring, it was brutal. Chloe watched through her fingers, cringing every time she heard the crunch of bones or the crack of helmets. Whenever Brett got sacked, which was way too often for Chloe, she felt certain he was dead. At this rate, she figured, he'd be lucky to come away with less than a full body cast.

  Muriel brought along her biology homework. "What's the difference between organic reagents and analytical reagents?" she asked.

  "Oof. Did you see that? That primate just punched Brett in the stomach. I hope his paw swells up." Chloe leaped to her feet. "Kill 'em, you baboons!" she bellowed.

  "I've never known you to get so involved in blood sports," Muriel remarked, glancing up from her notebook. "I take t
hat back. You were pretty loud last summer at the prairie dog shoot."

  "Barbarians." Chloe plopped down on the bleachers, shaking her head. She turned to Muriel. "How could a rational human being ever justify shooting defenseless prairie dogs for sport? Or any other animal for that matter?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brett get tackled from behind. She jumped up and screamed, "Mow that turf head down!" Chloe plopped back down and chewed a knuckle.

  Muriel frowned at her, then resumed her homework.

  At Cal's Tex Mex after the game Chloe and Muriel each ordered a bean burrito, while Brett and the rest of the team ate six or eight hundred tacos. Chloe lost count.

  "Heck of a game, Ryan." Someone slapped him on the back. "That quarterback sneak was awesome. Super rollout to Penney. Keep playing like that and Kelso's gonna have to win his position back."

  "Thanks, McCaffrey," Brett said, beaming. "Hey, I want you to meet my girlfriend, Chloe. Chloe, this is Lance McCaffrey. You've probably heard of him. He's the official state record holder in the freestyle. McCaffrey, Chloe."

  "Hi," Chloe said absently. Her mind replayed the introduction. Did he say girlfriend? What's a freestyle? Could she get one for her hair? Where?

  "And this is Chloe's friend, uh . . ."

  "Muriel," Chloe rescued him. They all stared at Muriel, who was punching numbers into her scientific calculator at megahertz speed. Chloe elbowed her. Muriel whipped her head up and blinked. "Is it time to go?"

  Chloe blanched. "Muriel says hi."

  Brett introduced Chloe to all his friends: Tad Underhall, right guard. A deodorant? Fullenwider, catcher. Of what? KC Tall at short. It was all pretty confusing. Chloe didn't know much about sports. The only thing she felt sure of was the thrill of victory every time Brett said, "This is my girlfriend, Chloe."

  After the crowd at Cal's broke up, Brett and Chloe walked Muriel home. More like ran her home. As Brett yanked Chloe away from Muriel's door, she yelled over her shoulder, "I'll call you later, Mur."

  "Would you mind if I asked you something?" Brett said when they were alone, walking back toward Chloe's house.

  Is this when he proposes? she wondered. "I do," she said. Did I say that? "I mean, go ahead." She felt her cheeks growing pink.

  "I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but . . . well, your friend's kind of a geek."

  Chloe laughed. "I know. It's her most endearing quality."

  Brett answered with a lopsided grin, "I don't know about that. I was going to ask you not to bring her along next time. I mean, she doesn't fit in. She makes me, you know, uncomfortable."

  Chloe felt her anger piquing. Brett squeezed her hand. "I did hurt your feelings. I'm sorry. I just wanted you to know how I felt. There shouldn't be any secrets between us, not if we're going to start going together."

  She almost tripped on her feet. "Are we?"

  He smiled at her. "Aren't we?" That smile.

  "Look, about Muriel—"

  "It's probably the same way you feel about Turk," he said. "I know you think he's a moron, but we've been friends a long time. I guess I see things in him other people don't. We've been through a lot together, me and Turk. Anyway, I don't plan to force him on you every time we go out. Maybe once in a while you wouldn't mind doubling, but that's up to you. Same with Muriel." He cocked his head at her. "That okay?"

  How could he be any more reasonable than that? Chloe wondered. He was right about Turk. The guy was gutter sludge. She detested him. But Brett couldn't possibly feel the same way about Muriel, could he?

  She cast her eyes up at him, and he smiled back. She nodded agreement, and he leaned down to kiss her. It was their first mutual understanding.

  "Look at that!" Chloe cried suddenly, her head whipping around. Eyes narrowed, she stared across the lane of cars stopped at the traffic light. "Can you believe that idiot? Wait here."

  CHAPTER 8

  Chloe charged across two lanes of traffic, zeroing in on her target. She marched up behind a crusty Ford pickup to the driver's side window and rapped on the glass with a white-knuckled fist.

  The startled driver rolled down his window. "What the—" he sputtered.

  Chloe glared at him. "Do you know how many dogs are injured or killed every year because their owners allow them to ride in open-bed vehicles?"

  "Huh? What are you talking about?" He flicked a cigarette butt over Chloe's head.

  "Your dog." She pointed to the panting German Shepherd behind her. "Don't you know how irresponsible it is to let your dog ride in the back? What if you have to stop suddenly? What if he decides to jump out in the middle of traffic? Don't you care about your animal's safety?"

  "Get lost," he snarled, rolling up the window.

  Chloe pressed her fingers down over the rim of the glass. "Look, mister," she said. "You may not care about your dog, but there are people who do. I'd be glad to take him off your hands and find him a responsible owner."

  "Come on, Chloe. Leave him alone." Brett was beside her, pulling her wrists away from the window. With a final wrench of the handle, the driver sealed the window shut.

  "Brett, he's going to kill that dog." Chloe's voice broke.

  "It's his business," Brett said. His fingers clamped firmly around her arm as he began to lead her away.

  "It isn't," she insisted, pulling back. "It's the dog's business. Who's going to save that dog?" She couldn't free herself from Brett's grasp, so she leered at the driver and, in a screech, threatened, "I'm going to report you! You, you irresponsible jerk." She kicked his tire. "The Humane Society is going to hear about this. I've got your license number."

  The driver gunned his motor as the light up ahead switched to green. He pealed out, sending the dog skittering across the truck bed and crashing into the tailgate with a squeal.

  "Oh, God." Chloe hid her eyes.

  Brett ushered her back to the curb, weaving between oncoming traffic all the way. He leaned against a retaining wall at the corner and folded his arms. In silence he stood there, gazing into space, his head resting against the cold granite blocks.

  Chloe plunked her forehead against the stone. "I can't stand it," she said weakly.

  "Yeah. Well, I can't, either." Brett's voice brought Chloe's head up fast.

  He faced her. "Don't ever do that again. You could have gotten yourself killed."

  "I do it all the time," Chloe said. "Every time I see a dog riding in the back of a truck. It's so dangerous, Brett. Ignorant people need to be educated."

  "What if he'd had a gun, Chloe? He could have blown your head off."

  "Oh, come on—"

  "Don't you watch TV? It happens all the time. Crazies shooting people from their cars for no reason. Except in your case . . ." His voice trailed off. Closing his eyes, he turned away.

  Chloe's indignation flared, but she allowed it to cool before responding, "If I don't do it, who will?"

  "Someone else," he said. "Anyone. Just not you."

  She opened her mouth to protest, but Brett wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. He said softly, "I care about you, Chloe. I care a lot. I couldn't stand it if anything ever happened to you. Please, don't do it again. It scares me, okay?"

  She swallowed hard. He was telling the truth, she realized from the thumping of his heart against hers. Okay, so maybe it was a little foolish. And risky. Maybe she could just step up her letter writing campaign to the newspapers. She wondered if she wasn't fighting a losing battle anyway, trying to educate bucket heads.

  "I just wish people were more responsible," she murmured into his chest. She inhaled deeply. Hooboy, he smelled so clean, so zesty.

  "Bees," Dr. Mankewicz said, his eyes dancing. "Italian bees. The workers are bred to be gentle and the queens are the highest producers. They can lay up to two thousand eggs per day. I'll set up the hive out back under the apple tree."

  Brett glanced across the table at Chloe. He looked like a freaked-out field mouse. She reassured him with a smile. "Dad," she turned to her fa
ther, who was swirling honey into his tea, "did you really order a beehive?"

  "Super deluxe model." He smiled. "It comes with everything a new beekeeper needs: bee coveralls, veil, gauntlets, helmet, hive—and the bees, of course." He sipped his tea, wiggling his eyebrows at her over his mug.

  Chloe sighed. "My father collects hobbies for a hobby," she explained to Brett.

  His face registered complete confusion.

  "Let's see," she counted on her fingers, "there was the worm farm in the basement, which was replaced a year ago by the transcontinental train set—thank heavens. The worms stunk. Then, there are the stamps and the coins and I don't know what-all crammed into his desk. The garage is wall-to-wall woodworking tools; they bit the sawdust years ago. And in the attic are the kites, oil paints and tuba . . . did I forget anything, Dad?"

  He mumbled something about "investments," and took another sip of tea.

  Chloe said, "Oh, how could I forget the garden out back? Dad grows seafood." She forked a green bean into her mouth.

  Both Brett and her father frowned at her. She chewed and swallowed. "Crab grass. Get it?"

  Chloe's father chuckled. Brett gulped down his entire glass of iced tea in one swig. "Seconds on the sauerkraut?" Gran held out the still heaping bowl of pickled cabbage toward Brett.

  "No, thank you, Mrs. Mankewicz," he said, wiping his mouth with his twisted napkin. "I'm full. Everything was really good. Uh, great."

  She set down the bowl, then rested her chin on her elbows and said, "Tell us, Hans. How are Blue October's plans proceeding for sabotaging the politburo?"

  Chloe almost spit-sprayed the far wall. "Gran, why don't I help you clear these dishes?" She scooted back in her chair. Hauling her grandmother up by the elbows from behind, she signaled to her father to keep the conversation rolling.

  "So, uh, Brett," he said. "Chloe tells me you dabble in football."

  Chloe rolled her eyes. She grabbed Gran's plate and Brett's, then nudged her grandmother into the kitchen. Behind her she heard her father add, "I'm not too familiar with the game myself. I was a chess man in college. You've heard of the Orangutan opening, Mankewicz attack? I invented that."