Love Inc. Read online

  To Dave, for his unflagging enthusiasm

  and support for ‘Mercury Ink’.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Señora Mendoza keeps a hand on the doorknob and her eyes on the clock. At precisely three minutes past nine she closes the door with a firm click. ‘Summer’s over, people. Time to get to work.’ She crosses the room on her toes, like a ballroom dancer, and repeats her point in Spanish. ‘Hora de trabajar.’

  I can tell by the way she rolls her R’s that she learnt Spanish at home as a kid. I’d respect her more if she’d learnt the hard way, like us, or taught German. But I’m looking for flaws. I expect to hate everything here, from the teachers to the cafeteria fries. It smells worse than my old school, too – like perfume mixed with sweat and chalk dust.

  The door opens again and a guy with unruly brown hair blocks the entrance. Even without the football jersey, you’d know he’s a jock from the build and the confident smile. I suppose he’s good-looking, if you’re into big guys with small heads. Some girls must be, because I can hear giggles behind me.

  ‘Sorry, Ms. Mendoza,’ the guy says.

  ‘Fletcher,’ she says, ‘aquí, se habla español.’

  ‘Disculpe el retraso, Señora.’ The words slip easily off Fletcher’s tongue. He’s used to apologising for being late.

  A girl steps out from behind Fletcher and repeats, ‘Disculpe el retraso.’ She’s all sharp edges, but somehow still pretty. Great hair makes up for anything.

  Señora Mendoza rolls her eyes at the girl’s pronunciation. ‘Siéntese, Hollis. Mañana, llegue a tiempo.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Hollis asks. Her highlights shimmer as she tilts her head.

  ‘I said, be on time tomorrow.’ The teacher points to the empty seat to my right.

  Hollis lifts her right hand, which is clasped in Fletcher’s left. ‘We always sit together.’

  Señora Mendoza points to the empty desk on my left.

  ‘Let me introduce you to Zahra MacDuff. She’ll be sitting between the two of you this year.’

  ‘But, Señora—’ Hollis tries again.

  The teacher cuts her off with a stamp of a high heel. ‘Siéntese. Por favor.’

  Fletcher releases Hollis’s hand and they walk down the rows on either side of me. Dumping his backpack on the floor with a thud, Fletcher slides into his seat and turns to stare at me with eyes the color of a stagnant pond. Meanwhile, Hollis stands over me for a moment, hoping I’ll volunteer my seat.

  I knew starting tenth grade at Austin High would be tough. Hollis and Fletcher seem to rank pretty high in the sophomore chain of command, and the way I react now could make or break my year.

  Still, I got to class fifteen minutes early to stake my claim on exactly the right desk – second row in from the window, five rows from the front. I assumed (wrongly, as it turns out) that this was the perfect place to be overlooked. If I give it up now, will it say I’m a loser who’s desperate to please? Or will it say I’m a team player?

  I stare down at Hollis’s flip-flops as I ponder. Her toenails are polished a deep metallic blue embellished with tiny daisies. She has rings on four toes.

  Finally I look up. ‘Take—’

  ‘—the empty seat, Hollis,’ Señora interrupts. ‘Now.’

  Hollis’s flip-flops turn and she drops her purse, her backpack, and another bag to the floor, each landing a little closer to my feet. Finally she settles into her seat and crosses her legs. Five little daisies bob into my sight line to remind me I’m in trouble. Fletcher’s swampy eyes are still boring into me from the other side.

  Obviously, indecision was the wrong decision. I should have gotten my butt out of this seat and laid a red carpet for Hollis. I’m always a beat late. It’s the story of my life.

  I let my hair fall forward, grateful for the cover of the mass of red curls that polite people call auburn. I wish I could go back to my old school. Mom would be glad to have me at home, but I’ve vowed not to return while my grandparents are there.

  When they flew in from Pakistan last spring, I had no idea their visit would push my family over the edge. Mom had barely spoken to them since they’d disowned her for marrying a Scottish-American instead of what my sister and I secretly call an MOT – a Member of the Tribe. My parents’ marriage may not have been solid, but it was holding together until my grandparents put down roots in my bedroom. Mom talked less and less and Dad worked more and more, until July, when Dad finally realised he wasn’t wanted and moved out. I went with him, partly to make a grand statement, and partly to divide and conquer. My sister, Saliyah, is working the reunion angle at Mom’s end.

  At first I thought living downtown was kind of cool, and I went back to Anderson Mill a lot over the summer to visit my best friends, Shanna and Morgan. Now that I’m in school and working part-time, I won’t be able to tackle the one-and-a-half-hour bus ride as often. I feel homesick and friend-sick. Too bad grand statements don’t come with back doors.

  Señora Mendoza turns to the board. ‘Let’s start by reviewing some verbs you learnt last year. Suggestions?’

  I start conjugating in my notebook:

  I hate it here.

  You hate it here.

  She hates it here.

  He hates it here.

  We hate it here.

  They hate it here.

  It’s unanimous. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m stuck between a jock and a hard face for another forty-two minutes.

  Luckily, I’m easily distracted.

  The classroom recedes as I drift to the set of my imaginary cooking show, The Sweet Tooth. Normally, I come here to escape my worries, but today I have something exciting on the agenda. Since Dad is out of town till late, I’ve decided to invite Rico over. Tonight will be the very first time I’ve ever …

  ‘Really? Your first time?’ Oliver James, celebrity chef and a frequent guest on my show feigns surprise. He leans against the granite counter and crosses his arms. ‘You seem so … experienced.’

  ‘Thanks – I think.’ Oliver gets away with murder because of his impish smile and English accent. ‘This is definitely a first, and Rico is special.’

  ‘Cracking, is he?’

  I nod. ‘He’s just … perfect. So I need tonight to be perfect, too. That’s why I called you.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Oliver says. ‘But are you sure you’re ready for this, pet?’

  Rico and I have been seeing each other for exactly nine weeks, although it seems longer. He’s not only incredibly hot; he’s sweet and thoughtful, too. I’ve never felt this way about a guy before, and I want to take it to the next level.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I’m ready. But I’m a bit nervous.’

  ‘Don’t worry; no one knows her way around a kitchen better
than you do.’ He walks over to the chalkboard I use to share the day’s food plan with my viewers and writes: GET NAKED MENU.

  ‘Oliver! I’m cooking for Rico, that’s all.’

  He turns and cocks an eyebrow. ‘I thought you wanted a little rumpy bumpy. I’m setting the stage.’

  The older ladies in the audience murmur disapprovingly. I’m the youngest girl in the country to have her own cooking show, and as much as they adore Oliver, they don’t want him leading me down the wrong path.

  ‘This is about love, not sex,’ I say. ‘All I want to do is talk to Rico about our relationship.’

  There’s a relieved sigh from the audience, but Oliver looks horrified. ‘Flippin’ heck. You’re too young to be playing Happy Families.’

  ‘I’m not pretending we’re married,’ I say, striking through Oliver’s words and writing ROMANTIC DINNER À DEUX. ‘But I want to tell him how I feel and find out if he feels the same way.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Oliver says. ‘Let him tell you how he feels when he’s ready.’

  ‘But I’m ready now, and I communicate best through my cooking.’

  On the board, I sketch out my dinner menu: oysters on the half shell, steak au poivre, baked potatoes, and chocolate volcano cake.

  ‘You’re off your trolley,’ Oliver says, mussing his permanently mussed hair. ‘Mollusks are about as useful as a chocolate teapot in the romance department, and steak is too heavy. The point is to throw something casual together. If it looks like you’ve been fannying around for hours, he’ll run for the hills. It’s like asking for a commitment.’

  I lean against the stainless steel refrigerator. ‘You’re underestimating Rico. Besides, I just want him to say I’m his girlfriend.’

  ‘Then trust me on this: Make it easy-peasy. No oysters, no candles, no rose petals, no frills.’ On the board he writes PENNE ALLA ARRABBIATA AND STRAWBERRIES.

  ‘But dessert’s my specialty,’ I whine.

  ‘You don’t need the aggro.’ Oliver lifts the lid off a pot of simmering sauce and fills the air with the aroma of tomato, herbs, and garlic. ‘Pump up the heat with this, and Romeo will be on his knees under your balcony. And you, unlike Juliet, may live happily ever after.’

  ‘So you’re saying I should deny every romantic impulse I have?’

  ‘Correct. Do exactly the opposite of what you want to do. Hear me?’

  Oliver’s hand drops onto my shoulder and squeezes. Hard.

  Only it can’t be Oliver’s hand, because he doesn’t have long nails like daggers.

  Señora Mendoza does. I see them as she picks up my notebook and reads aloud to the class: “Get Naked Menu: pasta arrabbiata and strawberries. Or … Romantic Dinner à Deux: oysters on the half shell, steak au poivre with baked potatoes, and chocolate volcano cake.”

  She rolls every R suggestively, making it sound far worse than it actually is. Hollis is laughing so hard her toes are clenched to keep her flip-flops on.

  Señora Mendoza drops the notebook onto my desk. ‘I recommend keeping your clothes on, especially near a hot stove. In the meantime, Zahra, conjugate to listen. En español, por favor.’

  I do it, noticing that my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else – someone who knows she’s committed social suicide. Then I let my hair swallow me whole until the bell rings twenty-nine minutes later.

  Hollis is smiling when I emerge, happy that I’ve saved her the trouble of kicking me to the bottom of the school food chain.

  Fletcher is smiling too, but he seems intrigued. ‘Go with the steak,’ he says, in a faux whisper. ‘But getting naked wouldn’t hurt, either.’

  Hollis stands and pushes past me, hitting my head with her bags – one, two, three. She pulls Fletcher to his feet, and he gives me a thumbs-up as they leave.

  Austin High, I’ve arrived.

  Cooking at Mom’s is a combat sport. There are too many people with too many opinions sticking their spoons where they don’t belong. Cooking at Dad’s, on the other hand, is virtually impossible. The apartment’s kitchenette was designed for reheating frozen food, not making romantic dinners. Even if there was more room, Dad has refused to buy me a set of basic kitchen equipment. He actually suggested I carry my blender back and forth from Mom’s on the two-bus commute. You’d think he’d be more supportive, knowing my goal is to become a celebrity pastry chef.

  Luckily, my twelve-year-old sister, Saliyah, is easily bribed. In exchange for her getting Mom and my grandparents out of the house for three hours, I promised to do all her homework for a week. Three hours is plenty of time to make the arrabbiata sauce, dip the strawberries in chocolate (still easy-peasy), and be on my way.

  The stresses of the day fade as I set out my magical glass mixing bowls, a complete rainbow of colors nested one inside the other. The violet bowl is my favorite, although it’s too small to hold more than the chilies that will hopefully turn this tomato sauce into a truth serum. The bowls aren’t really magic, but I’ve had more successes than failures with them. I had cooked Sunday dinner for years, until my parents ruined the tradition by breaking the news about their split over dessert. Now I’ve sworn off cooking for family, with the exception of Saliyah.

  I start by opening the windows, turning on a fan, and flash frying the pancetta. Then I chop the onions and get to work on the tomatoes. By the time six of my seven bowls are full, I’m so calm that I actually believe I can pull this dinner off without triggering the Cookie Curse that has caused every guy I’ve baked for to dump me.

  It all started with Sam Hoffler, my sixth-grade boyfriend, who walked me home from school for two solid weeks before finally kissing me. Back then, I thought a kiss really meant something, so I decided to show Sam how I felt by doing what came naturally: baking cookies. ‘The Sam’ was delicious – a basic sugar cookie with chocolate rosebuds. But the cookies were barely cool before Sam started walking home with a girl who brought grocery store brownies to school bake sales.

  In seventh grade I created ‘The Tyrell’ for Tyrell Travers. We met at swimming lessons, and he rode his bike back and forth in front of our house until Dad threatened to line the road with tacks. Once Tyrell got the nerve to come to the door, I gave in and baked. The white chocolate Hershey’s Kisses on the dark chocolate cookies must have spooked him, because he dumped me the next day.

  In eighth grade I created ‘The Logan,’ with ground almonds and a raspberry center. Logan Duprey and I had been together nearly four weeks, but he hadn’t bothered to mention his nut allergy. He survived; the relationship didn’t.

  In ninth grade I created ‘The Jonah’ for Jonah Coen, who was so cute, but in retrospect, so selfish. I couldn’t see it at the time, though, and when Valentine’s Day rolled around, I rolled into the kitchen. ‘The Jonah’ was the finest of my boyfriend line: shortbread laced with Skor bars. I carried a tub of them over to his place for a romantic movie night, not realising Jonah had also invited six of his buddies for a zombie-fest. The guys ate all the cookies and teased Jonah so much about being ‘whipped’ that the breakup text he sent two days later wasn’t a big surprise.

  Oliver was right. I can’t risk baking today, although if anyone could survive the Cookie Curse, it would be Rico. He’s not afraid of romantic gestures. The day after Dad and I moved, Rico showed up at the Recipe Box, the cookbook store where I work, with a triple ice cream sundae. We sat on the curb after my shift and ate it together as the sun went down.

  I’ve finally hit the boyfriend jackpot, and I sense my timing for the big meal is just right. After cooking my way into Rico’s heart tonight, I’ll tell him exactly how I feel.

  If he hasn’t told me first.

  He’d better tell me first. I’ve just spent half an hour peeling and seeding fresh tomatoes when I could have opened a can.

  He’ll tell me first. Rico obviously feels the same way I do. When we’re together, he acts like I’m the most important person in his world.

  I can’t let doubts get to me now. Just because my parents
’ marriage collapsed doesn’t mean the same thing will happen to me. I realise how important romance is to a relationship. If Mom and Dad had made more of an effort in that department, our family might not be in ruins today.

  The sauce is almost done when I hear the car in the driveway. There’s the bang of a car door and the sound of running footsteps on the stairs. Saliyah turns the key in the lock and bursts into the kitchen, her long dark hair disheveled. ‘Sorry,’ she puffs, ‘I couldn’t stall them anymore. But I knocked over a flowerpot on the way in to keep them busy for a few more minutes.’

  I crumple the recipe and toss it into the trash can. ‘You’re doing your own math homework,’ I say, shoving things into the cupboard.

  Mom comes in two minutes later, and her face lights up. ‘Zahra, you’re cooking!’

  I resist the urge to say, ‘Not for you.’ I can’t afford to raise any suspicions. So I give her a kiss on the cheek and say, ‘Just making pasta sauce.’

  Her smile fades as she takes in the tomato juice splattered from one end of the counter to the other. ‘It looks like a crime scene.’

  Mom tries to keep the kitchen sterile enough for surgery at all times – great if your appendix detonates, not so great if you like to get creative with food.

  Sniffing like a hound, she says, ‘Do I smell … bacon?’

  ‘No.’ I stare into the pot until her dark eyes force the truth out of me. ‘Pancetta.’

  ‘Zahra!’

  ‘It was only two ounces.’

  ‘The quantity is hardly the point. It’s pork.’

  ‘Dad used to cook bacon sometimes.’

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s different now.’

  That’s for sure. Now all my parents think about is themselves. Mom’s obsessed with her parents and her culture crisis, and Dad’s become a workaholic. I’m basically raising myself.

  ‘Eating pork is forbidden for Muslims, you know that,’ Mom continues. ‘Your grandparents would see it as breaking faith with God.’

  ‘But they won’t be eating it,’ I say.

  Relief and disappointment flood Mom’s face. ‘So you’re not cooking for us?’