Bad Boy. Olivia Goldsmith
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if the gold begged the alchemist?” He knew, right away, he’d gone too far.
She let go of his hand. “I don’t think so, Jon. I love you just the way you are,” Tracie said, sounding just like his mother.
“Yeah, but no one else does,” he reminded her, but it was too late. She shrugged and again moved down the aisle.
“I couldn’t do it. Hey, did I say baking soda or baking powder?” she asked, looking at dozens of each stacked neatly on the shelf.
“You said soda,” he told her. “And you could make me over if you wanted to.”
Tracie paused. He hoped she was considering the project, but after another minute she shook her head. “I think I have to get baking soda. But maybe it was baking powder.”
Jon sighed. “What’s the difference?” he asked, dispirited.
“You use them for different things.”
“Duh. And what would those things be?” he asked. He was angry with her and he wasn’t going to let her get away with anything. “And how are they different?”
“Baking powder makes cakes rise.”
“I can read cans, too, Tracie,” he told her. “So what about baking soda?”
“Well, you can brush your teeth with it and you put it in your refrigerator to deodorize it.”
“And your friend from Santa Barbara forgot her Crest or was knocked over by the odor of your Frigidaire?”
Tracie gave him a look, then shrugged and threw both products into the cart. She turned toward the front of the store and marched away. Jon followed her. He wouldn’t give up on this brainstorm. He hadn’t gotten where he was at Micro/Con without persistence. Maybe humor would work. He crouched down, holding on to the cart handle, and began begging, the way kids beg their mothers for stuff in all stores. “Please? Please will you? Please? Come on. I’ll do anything. I promise.”
Tracie glanced around, clearly embarrassed. “Get up!” she hissed. He knew she hated public scenes and was counting on it. “Jon, you have a great apartment, a terrific job, and you’re going to be rich—as soon as you cash in your Micro stock options.” She tried to ignore the old woman with a basket over her arm and the tall young man with a cart full of beer. “Get up,” she repeated. “There have been plenty of girls who liked you.”
He didn’t get up. “But not that way,” he whined. “It’s never that way. Women want me as a friend, or a mentor, or a brother.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Bitterness didn’t sell projects. Anyway, Tracie was one of those girls, foremost among them, but he didn’t need to say so.
“Come on. Stand up,” she begged again. “People are looking.” Actually, the two had wandered off and now there was only a clerk, who wasn’t looking, because he was too busy affixing price labels directly onto grapefruits. Tracie left him. Fine. He’d use her embarrassment against her. He could make it work for him. Tracie pushed the cart to the checkout line at the front of the store. Good—there were lots of people around. Jon helped Tracie put the groceries on the conveyor belt. Still on his knees, he whined loudly, “I want interesting girls. The hot girls. But they all want bad boys.”
“Get up,” she hissed. “You’re exaggerating.” Unfortunately, it was too late for a crowd to gather. He’d have to use his trump card: her innate honesty.
“Come on, Tracie. You know it’s true.”
“Well …”
The cashier finally stared at the two of them. Then she shrugged and totaled the purchases. Tracie fished in her bag for the money. Jon sighed, stood up, and looked blankly at the rack of tabloids and women’s magazines. His knees were hurting. Begging was hard work. Then he noticed a GQ magazine. Some young movie star was on the cover, one who had recently dumped his girlfriend, publicly, on TV, right before the Oscars. Jon looked back at Tracie and pointed at the magazine cover. “I want to look like one of those kind of guys,” he said.
“It’s not just about looks,” Tracie told him, picking up her bag. “You’re good-looking … in a nice-guy kinda way.”
He took the bag from her and the two of them began to walk out. “Right. And that guy doesn’t look nice. He looks hot. He didn’t take his stepmoms out on Mother’s Day.” He turned back around and pointed to the guy on the cover. “What did he just do? You know.”
Tracie glanced at the magazine and shrugged. “He just told his new girlfriend that he’d like to see other people,” she told him, and walked out the exit.
Jon followed her. “I could do that! If I had a girlfriend. And if you’d help me,” he pleaded. “Look at it as your dissertation.” He ran back, grabbed the magazine as a reference point, threw a five-dollar bill on the counter, and raced after Tracie. “You’re an expert,” he told her. “Only you could distill all the rotten behavior that you found so adorable and inject me with it.”
Tracie was at the door of her car, fumbling with the keys. She took the bag from him, opened her door, and got in. “Forget this, would you?” she requested. “You’re just having a larger dose of your weekly Sunday self-hate than usual. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“Yeah. When I see Samantha,” he agreed glumly. “That will make me feel real fine.”
“Oh, Jon, just get on your bicycle and go home,” Tracie told him, so he did.
Tracie’s one-bedroom apartment was sunny, long, and narrow. It wasn’t exactly small, but the kitchen consisted only of a sink, a half-size refrigerator, and an old black gas oven—which she did keep her extra shoes in. Now, for privacy, a temporary screen concealed one end of the place, a “guest room,” so that Laura could have some privacy. Other than the cot, screen, and sofa, the only other real piece of furniture Tracie had in the living room was a desk covered with notes and photos and Post-its for article ideas. In fact, the whole apartment was covered with Post-it notes stuck on various surfaces.
Now at almost 2:00 A.M., after her day of sex with Phil and weird late-night breakfast with Jon, she was exhausted. She entered the place as quietly as she could. But Laura was up, busy with mixing bowls and cookie sheets. And—to Tracie’s complete surprise—Phil was there, too, lying on the sofa and strumming his bass guitar. He looked over at Tracie. “What took you so long? I blew off a rehearsal to be here. Plus, Bobby would have bought me free drinks because he just got his tax refund.”
Before she could answer, Laura responded, protective as usual. “It sucks to be you,” she told Phil cheerfully.
Tracie tried to ignore Phil. Phil was odd, and in some ways adorable. He showed his affection like this, by turning up because he missed her but not being able to admit it. Every time it happened Tracie got a kick out of it. He looked sexy, stretched out there, but he knew it, so she’d act cool. “What are you doing?” she asked Laura, who was cracking two eggs at a time into a bowl.
“Welding a crankshaft.”
“You’re cooking something, aren’t you?” Phil said, as if he’d just discovered DNA.
“Not cooking. I’m baking,” Laura told him. She smiled at Tracie. “Did you get the baking soda?” Tracie nodded. Back in Encino, a weekend had never gone by without both brownies and sugar cookies. Laura baked from scratch, even back then. Tracie’s only contribution had been licking the bowl.
“My mother used to bake,” Phil offered. “Chickens, hams.”
Laura rolled her eyes, then took a tray of cookies out of the oven. She lifted up one and gestured toward Phil. “Stupid want a cookie?” she asked with a cheery