One Smart Cookie Page 4

  “Not as dumb as mine.” He’s got this teasing look in his eyes, so I’m not sure if he’s pulling my chain or if he actually has a dumb last name. He kneels and tries out different flower arrangements. “How about a row of dark pink roses in back with the white ones in front?”

  “Looks good to me.” Like you, I want to add, but don’t. Seriously, he could plant them upside down, and I would still think we’re in the Garden of Eden. I read the logo on his T-shirt. “So the last name ‘Russo’ is a problem for you?”

  He looks surprised that I knew his name, until I point to his shirt. “Oh, no. I work for my Uncle Tony. Russo is his last name. But if you promise not to laugh, I’ll tell you mine.”

  “Okay, I promise. Cross my heart.” I make an X across my heart, horrified when my finger runs into a glop of peach filling. I flick it on the ground, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

  He says his last name, but I was too busy attempting to ditch the food blob on my shirt to listen carefully. “Wait. Did you say Manocchio? As in, ‘rhymes with Pinocchio’?”

  He throws his hands up in mock disgust, tiny clods of dirt flying. “Hey! You promised not to make fun of me. And I didn’t even tell you the worst part!” Although he’s pretending to be angry, he has a twinkle in his eyes and a hint of a grin.

  “What’s the worst part?” I ask, completely enchanted.

  He shakes his head despairingly. “Like Pinocchio, my nose grows when I lie.”

  “It does?” I respond without thinking. My trademark it seems.

  He lets out a hearty laugh. “Yeah, and my ears wiggle when I’m happy. Watch this.” He freezes and pulls his hair away from the tops of his ears. I see his ears move ever so slightly.

  Before I can comment, his uncle appears next to us with a small pine tree in his arms. “How’s it going, Giovanni?” he says, his slight Italian accent a lot like my family’s—noticeable but easily understood.

  So, the gardening god’s name is Giovanni. How completely poetic is that? I’d still be enamored with him even if his name was Otto Von Gloopensmoopen, but I never thought it’s be as sexy-sounding as Giovanni Manocchio.

  His uncle wipes his chin on his shoulder. “I know it’s nice to chat with this pretty girl, but I need you to get to work, capiche? Ask for her phone number, and let’s go.”

  555-438-1878, I shout in my head. Please, please ask me.

  “I’m working on it. It’s not like the old days, zio. Girls don’t give out their numbers like this.” Giovanni snaps his fingers.

  Yes, we do. 555-438-1878.

  His uncle turns to me. “Is Giovanni being polite? I promised his papa I’d look after him.”

  “Yep. He’s been a complete gentleman,” I respond, feeling both giggly and grown-up.

  “Glad to hear it,” he says, before turning to Giovanni. “Two minutes, then back to work.”

  As soon as he’s gone, I spit out. “So, your name’s Giovanni Manocchio? That’s so…so…” I search for the right word that would describe how melodic it sounds on my tongue without seeming like a complete poser.

  “Italian? Yeah, I know.” He shrugs, looking uncomfortable.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of ‘so exotic.’”

  “Really? My buddies all call me Gepetto. Not so exotic now, eh?” He chuckles, looking down at his feet. “Anyway, I probably need to get busy before I get fired.”

  “I already endured that humiliation today,” I say before realizing I just admitted that I’d been fired. Good Lord, someone shut me up!

  “Your parents canned you?” He squinches his eyebrows, staring at me.

  I wave it off. “Yeah. Long story.”

  “Sounds like a story I’d like to hear. Maybe today at lunch?” One eyebrow cocks upward.

  I do mental flip-flops down the sidewalk but play it cool. I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe if you promised to make your nose grow…”

  All signs of anxiety leave his face as he laughs. “It’s a deal! I’ll spend all afternoon thinking of great lies to tell you. But now that you know my name, it’s only fair I know yours. Or shall I just call you Miss Dumbrowski?”

  He’s gorgeous and clever? I’m in love! “Oh, sure. Make fun of my first name now. Miss is all my mother could come up with.” I poke out my bottom lip and pretend to pout, walking backward a few steps, toward home.

  Giovanni laughs heartily and plugs a flower into a hole. “Okay, then, it’s a deal,” he shouts. “See you at twelve, Miss!”

  “It’s Sophie!” I yell, completely swept away by this landscaper with a name that sings. As I float on the silver-lined cloud toward home, I realize I would never have met Giovanni if I had gone to the beach.

  Cursed, my butt.

  Chapter 4

  I’M SO ELATED OVER MEETING GIOVANNI that I almost speed-dial Teegan to tell her what happened. I can hear the conversation now:

  Me (excitedly): Hey, guess what, Teegan? I met a cute landscaper. He’s planting flowers down the block from us.

  Teegan: Exciting. Guess what happened to me? Mike kissed me when we were going one hundred and seventy miles per hour on the fastest roller coaster in the park and then asked me to spend the summer with him on his luxury yacht in the Caribbean. Gotta go.

  Luckily, I come to my senses before I hit call. What was I thinking? Teegan doesn’t deserve to hear my might-be-the-guy-I’ve-been-waiting-for news after dumping me for Fiona. I mean, Mike. Maybe both. Whatever.

  With a couple of hours to fill before lunch, I head toward Mom’s giant silver Caddy that she received in the divorce settlement from Rodrigo. It’s the only thing of value she got out of that marriage. After opening the door to let the car cool off for a good five minutes, I sit on Mom’s ugly pink cushion and start the engine. I nearly leap out of my skin when Bobbie Vinton’s Best Polka Hits of All Time CD blasts into life, volume twenty. I stab the eject button and tune in to my favorite top-ten hits station. Cruising the neighborhood, I finally make it to the drive-thru Starbucks about four miles away. After paying for my drink, I’m left with thirty-two dollars. Hmm…go shopping or save it? I snap my fingers decisively. If I want to make sure my lunch date goes well, I need some insurance that he’ll ask me out again. I know just where to go and whom to see—Andre.

  I stroll into The Hair Affair next door to our bakery, an iced Venti caramel latte extra whip in hand, and am greeted by my favorite hairstylist. Andre stands near the register in a baby-blue button-down silk shirt and white linen capris, filing his nails and blowing on them. As much as it kills me to say it, the guy’s got a way better wardrobe than I’ll ever have.

  “So-fay!” he coos, accenting the second syllable of my name to make it sound sort of French. He steps to the opposite side of the desk and hugs me.

  “An-dre!” I reply with equal enthusiasm.

  He frowns. “Uh-oh, sister. What did you do?” He lifts a section of my hair and lets it fall.

  “Nothing,” I lie, smoothing my hair, hoping he doesn’t notice I’d gotten it cut since last time he worked on me.

  He stares me down. “Well, somebody made your hair nasty, and it wasn’t me.” He purses his lips, waiting for me to fess up.

  I cave. “All right, I admit it. I went to Cheap Cutz a month ago for a trim.”

  He winces. “That butcher shop?”

  “I had no choice! My mom would only give me ten bucks.”

  “What? She thinks this job is easy?” He pouts and looks away, offended.

  I sigh, embarrassed. “You know my mom. She doesn’t pay for anything unless it’s leaking, ripped, or on the clearance rack.”

  “Must be why your hair is looking so sad right now. Here, it needs a tissue.” He plucks a tissue from the box on the counter and hands it to me.

  “Very funny.” I snatch the tissue from his hand, ball it up, and throw it at him. “Look. I’d love it if you were the only one to cut my hair. The only problem is I can’t afford you.”

  “Girl, you can’t afford not to. Let me gu
ess. Still no boy toy in the picture, am I right?”

  I nod and shrug. “Although I did meet a guy today who sorta-kinda asked me to lunch.”

  “Sorta-kinda?” Andre scrunches his face. “Did he use hand signs or something?”

  I laugh. “No, it was more like an invitation to stop by when he’s on his lunch break, so I don’t know if it’s a date-date or a friendship thing.”

  Andre rolls his eyes. “Men. I hate when they can’t say what they want.” He purses his lips again in obvious displeasure. “Lucky for you, by some freak of nature, I don’t have a customer. Must be some holiday today or something.” He waves his hand over the appointment book. “So, are you here for an emergency makeover? Hoping I can change sorta-kinda into a definitely?”

  I nod enthusiastically. “For sure! And my nails are a mess too. But if I get a manicure, it’ll only leave me twenty for a haircut. What will twenty bucks get me? A cut and blow dry, or only the cut?”

  “A consultation.” He turns his back on me, noisily straightening the nail polish bottles on the display.

  I resort to begging. “Please, Andre. I only have thirty-two dollars to my name. I’ll skip the manicure if you help me out.”

  Andre pauses to consider my situation. “My rate is fifty for a cut and style, but since you’re my friend and you’re desperately in need of love, I’ll do it for thirty if you give me two loaves of that sweet cheese bread. Oh, and two dozen of those cherry cookies with the swirls on top. Samson loves those. We’re hosting a brunch on Sunday.”

  I can’t believe my good luck. “Deal! Whatever you need.”

  “Now we’re in business. Follow me.” As we walk toward the back of the shop, he leans in toward me and quietly says, “Just keep the discount hush-hush. If my boss found out about it, she’d wring my neck. Yours too.”

  I nod, quickly acknowledging his request before introduces me to Modica, a Middle-Eastern shampoo girl with flawless skin. While she washes and conditions my hair, I hone in on the delectable lilac-scented shampoo on my hair and try to relax. I close my eyes, enjoying the warm water and her fingertips massaging my scalp. A few minutes later, she wraps my head in a towel and sends me to Andre’s station.

  “Sit, muffin pie,” he tells me. He slips a black hairstyling cape across my chest and closes the Velcro strips around my neck before tossing another cape over the mirror.

  “Why are you doing that?” I twist my head to look at him.

  Andre gives me a curious look—like I was the one doing something odd instead of him. “Because some clients are bossy, and I don’t need suggestions.”

  “Oh.” I feel like I’m about to undergo plastic surgery instead of a haircut, but since he’s doing me a favor, I don’t complain.

  After thirty minutes of clipping, snipping, and cooing, Andre steps back and checks me out. “Ooh, girl, you are looking fierce.”

  I reach up to touch my hair when he slaps my hand. “What are you doing?” he barks.

  “I just wanted to—”

  “No! Not yet.” He lifts a huge pink tackle box and sets it on the counter in front of me. There are dozens of designer makeup stickers on it—Bare Escentuals, Lancôme, Urban Decay, Mac, along with brands I’ve never heard of: Pinkie Swear, Hard Candy, Becca. “Since you have a sorta-kinda date with a man who is clearly afraid to commit, I have decided to do your makeup in order to force him to seal the deal.”

  “Really? I’ve never had my makeup done before!” I sputter, excited by the idea. “Just don’t make me look like a hooker.” I chuckle. “My mom wants that category all to herself.”

  He raises his eyebrows as he places his hand on his skimpy waist. “I never make my clients look like hookers, unless of course—” he clears his throat “—they ask me to.” He flings open his tackle box, revealing hinged shelves that pop open into a mini-Sephora store. He peeks over his shoulder and stares at me, like a customer deciding which loaf of bread to buy. “When I’m done with you, girlfriend, you’ll be one tasty pastry.” He uses his fingertip to rifle through scads of products, before selecting about seven different tubes and tubs and lining them on the counter, one by one. Like a master painter, he applies the products to my face—dipping and swirling, primping and flipping, until I’m sure I must look like a mime.

  What seems like an eternity later, Andre shakes his blue-streaked locks out of his eyes. “You ready to see my masterpiece?” He whips the cape off the mirror, and I’m shocked. I mean, really shocked. I don’t look slutty or crazy at all, just fun and flirty. My layered bob just barely touches my shoulders and accents the shape of my face perfectly.

  “Oh. My. Gosh! I…I don’t know what to say. You’re a miracle worker!” I gaze up at him, smiling in true admiration of his talent.

  He sniffs. “Eh. It was nothing.”

  By the time I get back to the bakery, I only have a measly fifteen minutes to figure out what to wear before I meet Giovanni for lunch. The second I walk in the door, I hear my mother’s braying cat-screech of a laugh, which means only one thing—there’s a man in the vicinity.

  Sure enough, it’s a stout older man in a black suit with hair dyed to match and a face so badly riddled with acne scars, he looks like he spent his childhood being pelted with rocks. The way my mom puts on her boudoir behavior to sell a few dozen cookies grosses me out.

  And then I see the light. This customer is wearing expensive leather shoes and a gold wristwatch that Mom must have pegged as a Rolex. She suddenly leans waaay over, attempting to make her messed-up version of eye contact—her chest making contact with his eye. And from the look on his face, she’s achieved her goal.

  My mother finally notices I’m there and immediately straightens up. “Oh…don’t you look pretty!” My mother coos, placing her hand on my back. She looks at Rolex Guy and purrs, “This is my daughter, Sophie. She will make some boy very happy one day. She’s lazy like a dog, but pretty like a cat, don’t you think?” She cackles with laughter.

  “Whatever.” I try to get around her, but she blocks my entry to the back room.

  She smiles at me. “This nice man here says he has a son that’s your age.”

  I glare at her, trying desperately to ward off any mention of a blind date. “That’s nice. Can I get by now? I have to go.” Then she does the unthinkable. She reaches up to the shelf beside her and grabs that godawful lotion of hers.

  “Mom, don’t,” I say, knowing what’s coming next.

  “Don’t be silly,” she says, squirting some of her lotion onto her hand that’s so strongly scented, a skunk would run for a clothespin. “I just need a little gardenia lotion to soften my skin.” She massages the cream onto her chest in slow, rhythmic circles.

  I want to dive behind the stacked pastry boxes. I hiss, “Stop it, Mom! That’s nasty!”

  “Why do you say that, Sophie? You like your skin all rough like a basketball?” She smiles at Rolex Guy. “Men like women to have soft skin, right?”

  “You know it.” Rolex Guy gives her a sheepish grin, like he’s been caught looking at Internet porn. I can’t believe she’s pulling this gardenia lotion trick again. She doesn’t think the leather mini-skirt, her poofy auburn hair, or her double-D chest that she’s got on display for every Tom, Dick, and Harry—pun intended—is enough of a billboard? What exactly is she selling, anyway?

  Luckily, I don’t have to be party to another one of Mom’s peepshow performances for long, because Rolex Guy slides his two loaves of bread and his box of pastries off the counter and saunters toward the door. “Okay, Irene. I’ll call you to make arrangements.”

  “Okee-dokee!” Mom follows him to the door. “Bye now! Talk to you soon!”

  He glances over his shoulder and smiles. “Definitely.”

  After he leaves, Mom says, “I think he has a nice boy for you.”

  “No thanks! I met my own nice boy today, thank you very much. In fact, I’m meeting him for lunch. Besides, I’m still mad at you for firing me.” I dash to the back room, wantin
g to avoid arguing with her again. Not that I believe the deal Busia made was real, but why risk it?

  Mom turns to shout at Busia. “Ma! I’ll be right back!” I hear her tagging after me up the stairs like an eager paparazzi. “Don’t be mad, Sophie. We weren’t working good together. Maybe it’s for the best. You want to be happy, right?”

  “Right. I want to work at a place where people appreciate me,” I say, hoping Dola doesn’t count sarcasm as being argumentative.

  “Yes, exactly,” she replies, completely missing the point. Or am I missing hers? Whatever. I don’t have time to debate this.

  I rush into my room and take off my shirt and shorts and then my bikini, sliding into a bra and panties instead. When I turn around, my mom’s leaning against the doorway. “Mom! How about some privacy?”

  “Eh, there’s nothing I haven’t seen.” She waves off my concern, walking into my room and leaning against the dresser, despite my request. “So, you’re meeting a new boy for lunch today? Tell me about him.” She’s all giggly now, probably because she’s relieved to hear that I’m not dating Teegan. Ironically, it seems Teegan is a much better girlfriend than a girl friend.

  I wonder how much to tell my mother about Giovanni. I don’t want her butting in to my love life, but on the other hand, I need her to forget about setting me up with the son of Bad Skin Man. I decide to keep it vague. “All I know is that he works for that new place down the block.”

  “Oh really? That reminds me. I want you to go with me on Saturday so we can see what it’s like inside. If they’re teaching people how to bake Polish pastries, I’m going to give them pieces of my mind.” She grabs a bottle of perfume off my dresser and spritzes herself liberally. “And while we’re there, you can introduce me to your boyfriend.”

  I cross the room and yank the perfume bottle out of her hand, waving my hand through the mist. “He’s not my boyfriend. We haven’t even gone out yet.” I set my perfume back down, figuring I’ve gotten enough on me already. I gently nudge her out of the way and pull open my T-shirt drawer. A stack of freshly laundered and folded shirts are there, thanks to Busia.