17. Juno
CHAPTER 17
JUNO
Right after breakfast, I get to work on my first college application, starting with the University of Florida because their website mentions things like greenhouses, a herbarium, and the Ethnoecology Garden.
Once again, I thank saguaro for the awesome invention that is the personal computer. It makes life so much easier for someone with my conditionbecause it can read things on the screen out loud, and in general has settings that make everything a lot easier for me to read. If only my public school hadn’t forced me to deal with paper. Alas, Arnold Schwarzenegger in his role as the Governator hadn’t yet launched his initiative for digital textbooks. If I’d had text-to-speech in high school, I might’ve graduated as valedictorian, which would’ve helped my college applications tremendously.
I work tirelessly, pausing only to have a quick chat with El Duderino.
Dude, make sure to list me as a referral. It will totally impress those admission dudes.
By lunch, I realize that filling out college applications is a longer process than I thought, even though I have all my prerequisite info ready, like my scores and letters of recommendation. I also have an essay template, but I end up having to make a bunch of changes to make it fit the questions UF wants answered.
I’m just finishing up the application when my doorbell rings.
Weird.
I’m not expecting anyone. Quite the opposite.
I open the door.
A gang of fashionably dressed people is on my doorstep.
“Who are you?” I ask a guy with a rainbow Mohawk.
“I’m here to do your hair,” he says. He points at the lady next to him, whose outfit reminds me of a disco ball. “She’s your makeup artist.”
Stunned, I step back to let them in. This is clearly Lucius’s doing. Should I be pleased or insulted?
I’m not given a chance to decide.
The Mohawk guy orders me to dress for the event so that his work isn’t ruined later.
The crew barely give me privacy as I put on my new digs, and then it turns out one of them is merely here to make sure I look good in my outfit and to adjust what’s needed.
When I finally sit in the kitchen chair designated as “my spot,” the motley crew descends on me like vultures on roadkill.
The medieval torture—sorry, makeover—goes on for a decade before my doorbell rings.
“Oh, no,” Mohawk guy says. “We’re out of time.”
The disco ball lady examines my face the way I would a pot of fungus-gnat-infested soil. “I guess this will have to do.”
I open the door, and my breath hitches as I take in Lucius. He looks extra hot, and I can’t figure out why. I mean, the last time I saw him, he was also dressed in a bespoke suit with a tie, was clean-shaven, and so on.
“Did you get a haircut?” I blurt.
Mohawk gasps and rounds on Lucius. “You saw someone else?”
Lucius frowns. “No haircut. I merely put some gel in.”
Mohawk looks shocked. I guess grooming his hair is not in Lucius’s usual repertoire.
Lucius hands Mohawk and the rest of the gang enough cash to open a salon. “That will be all.”
Clutching the money, the makeover team skedaddles.
Lucius lifts a small, turquoise-colored shopping bag he’s holding. “I got you a little something.”
At first glance, my brain thinks the bag says “tip any & co.” But no, it’s all one word before the &, and the P is an F. An epiphany strikes. That’s “Tiffany & Co.,” as in?—
“I hope it goes with your outfit.” Lucius reaches into the bag and pulls out a box that’s the same turquoise color as the bag.
I gape as he opens the lid, revealing a necklace littered with enough of a girl’s best friends to form a small town. “You got me jewelry?”
He takes the bling out. “Score one for your powers of observation.”
Rendered speechless, I just stand there as he steps behind me and drapes the necklace around my neck.
Holy saguaro. His fingers brush my neck, sending zingers of pleasure to my nipples and beyond. “There you go,” he murmurs, his breath warm on the top of my head. “Now you look the part.”
Shaken, I step away from his proximity, face the mirror attached to the front door, and check myself out.
Yep. If the part I am playing is that of a billionaire’s girlfriend, Lucius and his team deserve an Oscar for costume design.
“We should go,” Lucius says. “But first, give me a tour of your place.”
A tour? I turn around and examine my tiny studio apartment. Does he think there are hidden rooms or something? Or that it’s a TARDIS situation where something is roomier than it looks?
With a snort, I gesture to my left. “That’s the kitchen.” I point at my Murphy bed that doubles as a couch when not in use. “That’s the bedroom and the living room. And last, but by no means least, my cactus.” I smile at El Duderino. “End of tour.”
“Oh.” He glances at the only other door in my place. “That doesn’t lead to more rooms?”
“Only if you consider a bathroom a room,” I say. “And yes, I splurged so my toilet isn’t just sitting in the middle of everything.”
He walks over to the bathroom door and peeks inside.
Crap. Did I leave any unmentionables lying around? Given how unruffled he looks when he closes the door, probably not.
“Let’s go,” he says and strides for the front door.
He holds the door for me on the way out and when we get to the limo—proving you can be rude and a gentleman in one infuriating package.
We sit opposite each other, and he offers me a drink.
Wow, really playing up the gentleman bit.
“Thanks,” I say pointedly when he hands it to me, so that maybe he’ll add the word to his vocabulary at some point.
We sip our drinks in awkward silence. Then he says, “What kind of dog are you?”
I nearly choke on my champagne. “What?” Is this a roundabout way of him calling me a bitch?
He sighs, like my reaction is super unreasonable. “If we were dogs instead of humans, what breed would you be?”
“Why?” I ask—which is only the tip of the iceberg as far as my questions go.
“It’s just a get-to-know-each-other question.”
I cock my head. “You sure?”
He pulls out his phone and shows me the screen. “I looked up a few online.”
He prepped for this? I scan the list of questions. Wow. The one he chose wasn’t actually the worst one. There are pearls like: “If you were invisible, who would you snoop on?” and “What smell do you consider the worst?”
I blow out a breath in exasperation. “If I had to play this stupid game, I guess I’d pick a Chihuahua.”
He nods approvingly. “Yappy, tiny, and mean—that tracks.”
Will I break a clause in our contract if I throw this champagne in his face? “I chose a Chihuahua because of the Chihuahuan Desert, home to the Mexican fire-barrel and Arizona rainbow cactuses.”
He sips his drink. “It’s actually cacti, not cactuses.”
My hackles rise. Or is it hackli? Dyslexia or not, I know this one. “You’ll find both spellings in the dictionary, so why have something be an exception when it doesn’t need to be?”
In general, if the English language were more regular, I’d have an easier time reading.
Lucius glares at me. “What do you mean, ‘exception?’ Cactus is of Latin origin and has an ‘us’ at the end. It’s stimulus and stimuli, not stimuluses. Bacillus and bacilli, not bacilluses. Locus and loci, not locuses.”
I roll my eyes. “Is grammar nazi the plural of ‘grammar nazus?’”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” he says.
“Neither does cacti.”
He sighs. “Fine. You want the next question?”
“No. You never said what kind of a dog you are.” Probably a pit bull, or some other breed famous for bad temperament.
“Rottweiler,” he says proudly.
Huh. I was close. “Untrainable and bad-tempered? That totally tracks.”
“Those are misconceptions,” he says. “Rottweilers have served humans for two thousand years. They were used in Ancient Rome.”
I scoff. “How about I choose the next get-to-know-you question?”
He starts to hand me his phone, but I shake my head. “A normal question.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Normal? You? Sure. What is it?”
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask.
No doubt black, like his soul.
He looks me in the eyes. “Honey.”
“That’s pretty vague,” I say. “The color of honey varies based on the nectar of the plant the bees eat. Orange blossom honey is lighter, while avocado is a darker amber.”
“Light amber,” he says. “What’s your favorite?”
“Green,” I say without hesitation.
He nods. “What kind of an aspiring botanist would you be otherwise?”
Wait, how does he—? Oh, right, the dossier.
“My turn again,” he says. “When it comes to pets, are you a dog person, a cat person, or a ferret person?”
“How many of your questions are dog related? No, scratch that, what kind of a person is a ferret person?”
“Me.” A hint of a smile plucks at his lips. “I have three of them.”
“Ferrets?” Should I tell him he seems more like a lizard guy? Or someone who owns a hairless cat named Mr. Bigglesworth?
“Is that your next get-to-know-you question?” he asks.
“Why not?”
He tells me about his mother saddling him with the ferrets and the useful factoid that Romans used them to hunt mice.
I cringe. “Do you have mice?” I’m not a fan of mice, rats, gophers, or ground squirrels. They all eat cactuses.
“No mice. Just ferrets.”
Good. “What kind of movies do you like?” I ask.
“It’s my turn to pose a question.”
I groan. “Fine. Go for it.”
“If you had to listen to the same music over and over, loudly, what would it be?”
“That one’s easy as I do that anyway,” I say. “Metallica.”
His eyes widen. “You’re not going to believe this.” He picks up a remote and hands it to me. “Up the volume.”
I do as he says, and the familiar riffs of Enter Sandman blast out of the speakers.
That’s right. He was listening to them in the elevator. How could I forget? I lower the volume back down before the urge to headbang grows too strong. That would mess up my carefully crafted hairdo, and I have a feeling that if the Mohawk guy saw a picture of such an atrocity, he’d find me and shave my head.
“They’re my favorite too,” Lucius says. “I’m just surprised you like them.”
I squeeze the stem of my glass tighter. “Why?”
“You look like you might like Justin Bieber,” he says without a second of hesitation.
If violence isn’t the answer to anything, why does it seem like I’d enjoy it so much? “And you look like you might like Ariana Grande.”
“Touché.” He straightens his tie. “How did you get into Metallica?”
I sip the champagne. “I was trying to find out what music my cactus liked. Most of it was as expected—The Beach Boys and other surf rock. The surprising one was Metallica. After a while, I grew to like it too—Metallica, that is, not the surfer stuff.”
He’s staring at me like I’ve morphed into a prickly plant myself. “Your cactus?”
“Yeah. I introduced him to you during the ‘tour.’”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t realize how important he was to you. I would’ve paid closer attention.”
“Next time, you should. No one who knows me would believe our fartlek if you were anti-cactus.”
He nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Is he mocking me? Maybe not. “How did you get into Metallica?” I ask.
“My mother is a huge fan, so I heard it a lot growing up.” He sets down his glass, a bit too roughly. “She even claims she dated a member of the band, though translated from Mom speak, that probably means a one-night stand.”
Wow. There’s a lot to unpack there, but before I get the chance, the limo stops and Elijah does his magic-trick-style door-opening routine.
“Here we are,” Elijah says when we come out.
“Here” happens to be the parking lot of California Science Center, a place I’ve been only once and so long ago that I barely remember anything except how cool the building looks on the outside.
To my absolute shock, Lucius grabs me by my hand.
Oh. My. Saguaro.
As he leads me inside, my palm feels like it’s going to orgasm… and then maybe explode. I don’t understand this reaction. At all.
Sure, his hand is big and warm and all, but I don’t even like the guy.
Our destination is a hangar where the space shuttle Endeavour hangs. Someone set up big round tables under the shuttle, with flowers and fancy chairs and other ritzy stuff.
Lucius leads me to a table under the shuttle’s left wing and pulls out one of the two remaining empty chairs.
Slightly overwhelmed, I sit and thank him.
A blond, extremely polished, and classically beautiful woman is sitting a couple of chairs over. She examines me with cold curiosity. The glittery, fancy surroundings seem to be her natural habitat, whereas I must stand out like a desert cactus in a swamp.
When Lucius sits down, she switches her attention to him—and I don’t like the admiring expression on her face at all.
“Hi,” I say to her with mock cheerfulness. “Looks like we’re the only girls at the table.”
The portly gentleman to my left chuckles.
The woman tears her gaze away from my date. “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
Damn. I didn’t realize it’s possible to sound “old money,” but she manages it perfectly.
Lucius gestures at her. “Juno, this is Eidith. She works for me.”
Hmm. “For” is better than “under,” I suppose.
“That’s Eidith with an extra ‘i,’” Eidith says.
Why add extra letters into words or names?
“Eidith, this is Juno, my girlfriend,” Lucius continues.
Wow. As soon as she hears the g-word, Eidith’s face goes through a kaleidoscope of expressions. Shock, disappointment, and incredulity are the start, followed by an essay-length opinion that boils down to:
Trash like this doesn’t belong with someone as rich and successful as Lucius. Only a pure-bred member of the one percent does. Someone like, say, me, Eidith with an extra “i.”
The most impressive part is how quickly all of that is gone, replaced with a smile that you could locate in a dictionary next to “cool politeness.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Juno,” Eidith says, sounding so earnest I almost wonder if I imagined her initial reaction.
“Nice to meet you too,” I say.
A waiter approaches with a tray of drinks, so everyone grabs a glass.
“How did the two of you meet?” Eidith asks with seemingly genuine curiosity.
Crap. How could we not have prepared for something this basic?
“We got stuck in the elevator,” Lucius says.
Huh. Going with the truth. Ballsy.
Eidith clutches her pearls. “During that basement fire?”
“Yep,” I chime in. “I was cold, and he gave me his jacket.”
“And then we hit it off,” Lucius says.
Yeah, hits almost got thrown, that’s for sure.
“A silver lining to a disaster,” Eidith says and again sounds like she means it.
Seriously, have I misjudged her?
“Exactly,” Lucius says. “When we got outside, the reporters must’ve picked up on our vibe, so they wrote an article about us. Haven’t you seen it?”
Judging by the look on Eidith’s face, she hasn’t but thinks she was supposed to.
Before Lucius can lie more about our meeting, a horde of waiters arrives with trays of appetizers that they set on the table.
“Is this thing on?” says someone on the big stage—a celebrity whose name I can’t recall.
As the room quiets down, the celeb says, “Thank you so much for showing up to support the children.”
Children? I was wondering what this fundraiser was about.
As I listen, I grab myself a deviled egg and a cracker with caviar.
Turns out, we’re here to support bringing technology to classrooms in the neighborhoods that desperately need it—a spooky coincidence given my musings about text-to-speech earlier today.
As I look from the stage back to my plate, I do a double take.
Most of my egg is missing, as is all of the caviar. Only the filling from the egg and the cracker remain.
What the hell?
I sneak a peek at the portly gentleman next to me. He’s eating other appetizers. Besides, there are more eggs and caviar on the table, so why steal from my plate?
Maybe it was Eidith? She’s so thin she could use extra food. But no. She’s too many seats away to get away with it unnoticed.
Oh, well. I grab some more and watch my plate carefully. Nope. Despite this hangar being space-themed, there isn’t a wormhole that just happens to connect my plate with another galaxy. Both chicken and fish eggs stay put—until I eat them.
“And now, we welcome everyone to the dance floor,” the celeb says, and club music begins to blast.
Is Eidith looking at Lucius with hope in her eyes?
Oh, no, you don’t. If anyone is dancing with my fake boyfriend, it’s me.
As if reading my mind, Lucius lowers his lips to my ear and asks in a sexy whisper, “Would you like to dance?”