Chapter 6 Oh, Fer Yum
OH, FER YUM
MATS
I’VE FUCKED UP.
I’m driving Cleo to our second dinner and the atmosphere in the car is even colder than the late-January freeze outside.
She hasn’t said a word since I picked her up, which I suspect is harder on her than me.
I’m not a person who needs everyone to like me, but with Cleo, it feels very personal.
She hates everything about me. If appearing to be a loving couple is the key to securing this donation, then we are truly fucked.
And this time, it’s my own fault. Cleo held out an olive branch of sorts by coming to see me and talk about the big issue between us: her asshole brother.
Even now, I’m confused—did he not explain to her why he got taken off the team?
But concocting some bullshit excuse that makes him look blameless is exactly what I’d expect of him.
I can never tell her what happened, that’s completely up to him. But I could have held my temper better. And I definitely shouldn’t have asked her straight-up if she’s racist. What’s the point of a direct question, anyway? Nobody’s going to admit it.
Besides, after a year and a half on campus where I rarely heard anything about Cleo—suddenly, she’s everywhere.
She scores a highlight-reel-worthy goal in a weekend game that makes the Monarch hockey home page.
She’s in the Student Union Building, collecting canned goods for a food drive.
She’s leading her teammates as they attempt some viral dance for a Minks TikTok video.
It’s pretty clear that she’s nothing like her brother, and now I feel shitty for my assumptions.
So, it’s my turn to make the effort. Should we set up guidelines for this fake couple stuff?
She turns to me with narrowed eyes. Guidelines? Like what, Mr. Ego? Don’t fall for you? Because I can abso-fucking-lutely guarantee that’s not going to happen.
Then she crosses her arms and looks out the window, like a kid pretending she’s somewhere else.
I press on. What about a backstory? Like how we met? What we did on our first date? Our likes and dislikes? Or the million other things you’re supposed to know about the person you’re dating. I have a brain full of now-useless Lana knowledge.
We don’t need all that shit. Marjorie already thinks we’re a couple, Cleo scoffs.
How did she even get that idea?
Maybe her vision is as good as her hearing, and she mistook all the times you stared at me like I was a headless alien for adoration, Cleo snaps.
I have no idea what you’re talking about. Was I taken aback at some of the dating stories she told? Absolutely. But my shock was due to those jerks she dated. I can guarantee those guys weren’t raised by feminist mothers.
I have no idea what you’re talking about, she mimics in a nasal tone. Fine, here are my guidelines: Don’t touch me. Don’t call me any pet names. And don’t tell anyone that we’re pulling off this stupid fucking stunt.
Why are you warning me? You’re the one who’s more likely to tell all her friends that we’re fake-dating. I keep my personal life to myself. Well, I believed I did, but apparently it was all over social media.
Cleo flushes pink, which makes me realize I’m right. It’s oddly reassuring that she’s such a shitty liar. I’ve had enough with fake people.
Fine. Scratch the third thing, she admits.
That’s not what I mean, though, I say. How do we convince Marjorie that we’re a couple? Because that feels like a big challenge. And I’m not comfortable lying.
Barb said we didn’t have to pretend anything. We can act exactly like we did last week.
Maybe we could be a bit nicer to each other? You could stop insulting me all the time, I suggest.
Why? It’s not like Marjorie can hear me. Oh, wait, am I getting to you? Cleo’s evil smile tells me I’m in for even more insults.
If we work together, maybe we can secure the donation more quickly. Then we wouldn’t have to do this for the rest of the year, I suggest.
Cleo shakes her head. If I have to do this, I’m doing it my way. Insulting you is the most fun I get to have all evening.
Her stories would actually be funny, if every other remark wasn’t an arrow aimed at me. I park in the circular driveway and walk around to open the passenger door, but she jumps out before I get there.
I’m not fucking helpless, she snarls, slamming the door shut.
It’s called manners, I mutter as I activate the locks. Lana would sit in the car for hours if I didn’t open her door. However, Cleo is certainly not Lana.
We both plaster on pleasant expressions and ring the doorbell.
Geraldine greets us, and once again we are escorted into the sitting room. This time, Marjorie is wide awake.
Cleo and Roy. It’s so lovely to see you again, she says loudly. I hope you’ll forgive an old woman her machinations in getting you to return.
Of course. Visiting your lovely home is not a hardship, I say.
Cleo audibly snorts beside me. As she goes to sit down in a wingback chair, I grab her by the arm. Her eyes widen and her tricep flexes. For a moment, I fear getting punched in the face.
What the fuck, Mats? Rule number one, she hisses, shaking off my grip.
It’s taken. I point to the chair, where an ancient orange cat is snoozing, camouflaged by the floral upholstery.
Oh, shit. Cleo moves to sit on the sofa and raises her voice to apologize. Almost took out your cat there, Marjorie.
I’m sure Mr. Fluffer would let you know, she replies.
I sit on the other end of the sofa and ponder whether Marjorie has any idea of the slang meaning of the verb to fluff. Cleo is trying hard not to laugh, so I assume she’s thinking the same thing.
After hearing his name, the skinny cat stretches and jumps down. He comes over to investigate the visitors. When Cleo reaches down to pet him, Marjorie warns, He’s a bit of a grumpy-pants around strangers.
Too late. Mr. Fluffer has already scratched Cleo’s hand. She grabs a tissue from her pocket and tries to discreetly wipe away the blood while talking about the weather. At least Cleo’s penchant for talking too much comes in handy around here.
I let my own hand dangle beside my leg. The cat comes over to sniff it and the rest of me. When he seems to approve, I give him a top-of-the-head scritch. This goes on for a couple of minutes, then he jumps up on my lap.
Well, would you look at that, Marjorie says. You’re a regular Francis of Assisi.
I like animals. Mr. Fluffer settles his bony frame on my lap and goes right to sleep.
They say you can always trust a man who animals like. Right, Cleo? Marjorie says.
Right you are, Cleo booms, then adds quietly, Of course, there’s an exception to every rule.
Obviously, the universe knows that we’re trying to scam a nice old lady, because Marjorie decrees that tonight’s entertainment will be Cleo and I re-enacting the dances of her youth.
The only saving grace is that nobody films us making fools of ourselves.
And the exercise turns out to be a good thing, since tonight’s meal is even less nutritional than last week’s.
The ham with canned pineapple slices is tolerable, even if I avoid processed meats as a rule.
But the side dishes are pretty questionable.
Um, what’s this? I ask, as Geraldine plunks down a large casserole of something brown and white, then starts serving it up. There’s a lot of thick, creamy goo, and something brown and crunchy on top.
Funeral potatoes, Marjorie says. Yeah, for the funeral of anyone who eats this crap regularly.
Geraldine is not one to hoard her recipes. You take a package of frozen hash browns, add sour cream, cream of chicken soup, onion flakes, and grated cheddar. Then you sprinkle crushed cornflakes on top and bake.
Seriously? There is not one ingredient in this dish I consider to be food. Maybe the cheese, but it’s probably the super-processed kind.
Yummy. My mom makes this too. Cleo gives me an evil smile. Make sure you give Roy an extra helping. He needs a lot of calories to maintain that amazing body.
Geraldine’s eyebrows go sky-high at this suggestive remark, and I get a triple helping of death gloop. As far as I know, Cleo has zero knowledge of my body, but apparently this is all part of the fake-relationship game.
You deserve nothing less, baby, I drawl. There are only two rules for this fake relationship, and I’ve broken both of them in under an hour. What is it about Cleo that inspires this contrariness in me?
Thankfully, the other side dish is green beans with butter and almonds.
They taste canned, but at this point I’m really happy to eat anything that isn’t slathered in trans fats.
I’d like to be polite, but there’s no way I can finish all the potatoes.
I offer to take the plates into the kitchen so I can discreetly scrape off my leftovers.
You didn’t like my potatoes? Geraldine eyes my plate accusingly.
Sorry. There was just so much.
Well, don’t worry. I know you’re both athletes, so we’re having a salad next, she says.
I return to the dining room, where Cleo is talking women’s hockey in her loudest voice. We’re two points out of first place. You should come and see a game.
Marjorie nods. Maybe I’ll get Mats to sit with me and explain everything.
I’d like to, but Cleo and I usually have games at the same time. One night of this torture per week is enough. I’ll already need an extra workout to sweat out this dinner.
Let me check the schedule, Cleo yells as she pulls out her phone, then lowers her voice. Poor baby. Bet you’ve never even bothered to attend a Minks game.
I grit my teeth. As I said, our games are usually in conflict.
I’ve never been one of those guys who insists that only men’s hockey is real hockey, so this insult feels unnecessary. But Cleo doesn’t really know me personally, she has an impression based on lies and appearances.
Aha! Great news, Cleo says loudly. Two weeks from now, the Minks have a Friday night game. And the men’s games are on Saturday and Sunday.
It’s a date, then, Marjorie affirms.