Faking It - Crusie Jennifer (читать книги бесплатно полностью .txt) 📗

“The Scarlets are real,” Tilda said. “What are you stealing?”

“We’re not talking about me,” Davy said.

“We are now,” Tilda said. “Unless you’d like to agree that neither one of us really needs to know what the other one is up to.”

“Maybe we’ll talk later.” He leaned forward to get up as Steve scrambled out of his lap to follow Tilda.

“Maybe we won’t,” Tilda said. “For us there is no later. You’re out of here once we get back. Have a nice time in Australia.”

Then she opened the door, hitting him in the back with no guilt whatsoever.

DAVY WATCHED Tilda unlock the basement door, Steve on her heels, and then pull it shut behind them, neatly cutting him off from following her. A locked basement. Clearly the Goodnights had secrets. He tried to think if there was any way that could help him and decided that whatever was down there was Tilda’s problem, not his, and that was the way it should stay. A better plan was to go eat. The way his luck was going he’d be in jail by midnight, so he might as well take advantage of German Village ’s good restaurants.

At seven-thirty, he went back to the apartment, keeping the door ajar so he could hear Tilda when she came to get him. He turned on his cell phone and called Simon again, but there was still no answer, so Davy left a message that he needed fifteen hundred dollars FedExed to Gwen, sparing a moment to wonder where Simon was. Somewhere brunette, undoubtedly. Then since it was Friday, he dutifully punched in his sister’s number, and his niece answered on the second ring. “Hey, Dill, it’s me,” Davy said.

“Excellent,” Dillie said. “I need some advice from a guy.”

“Right,” Davy said. “I reserve the right to bail from this conversation at any time.”

“Don’t be wimpy,” Dillie said. “Jamie Barclay quit the softball team. She says boys don’t like girls who compete with them. Mom says that’s garbage. But she would say that. I mean, you know Mom. But Jamie’s mom says it’s true. And she’s been married to a lot of guys. So I need to know. Is it true? And don’t give me any of that after-school-special stuff.”

“Well, yes and no,” Davy said, following with some difficulty. “Some guys don’t. That’s not the point. You like softball, right?”

“Yes,” Dillie said. “But-”

“Well, what kind of loser guy would make you give up something you liked so he could feel better?”

“Yeah, I know,” Dillie said. “That sounds good, but-”

“Got your eye on a seventh-grader, too?”

“No,” Dillie said. “He’s in my grade. His name’s Jordan.”

“And he doesn’t want you to play?”

“I didn’t ask. He doesn’t know I like him. He doesn’t know I exist.”

“Okay, I’ve got it.” Davy thought for a moment. “I think you have to look at the big picture here, Dill. This guy, whoever he is, is a practice swing.”

“Huh?”

“Very few people mate for life with the people they fall for at twelve. Doesn’t mean it isn’t real, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter, but basically, we’re talking a practice swing in the big game of love.”

Dillie groaned.

“So he’s temporary. But softball is permanent. You can play softball forever if you want to. Softball is not a practice swing. The things you love are never practice swings.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s good,” Dillie said, sounding overly patient, “but I like Jordan. You know?”

“Right.” Davy looked at the ceiling and sighed. “I’m going to explain something to you, so listen carefully. And don’t ever tell your mom I told you. Or God knows, your dad. They’d never let me near you again.”

“Okay,” Dillie said. “Cool.”

“You can get anything you want from people if you approach them the right way. But you have to think it through and watch the other person very carefully. You have to think more about the other person than you think about yourself. You have to know the other person.”

“Is this some kind of Golden Rule thing?” Dillie asked, her voice skeptical.

“No,” Davy said. “Not even close. This is the basic, uh, sales pitch that every Dempsey knows in kindergarten. Five steps. Memorize them. Don’t write them down, memorize them.”

“Okay,” Dill said. “Shoot.”

“One, make the mark smile. In your case, Jordan is your mark.”

“Got it. Make him smile. How?”

“Smile at him. People usually smile back. And once they smile, they relax.”

“Okay. One. Smile.”

“Two, get him to say yes. To anything. Ask him if he watches the WWF or if he has a game after school. Anything, but get him to say it.”

“Okay,” Dillie said. “But I don’t get-”

“If you can get somebody to say yes to something, he’s likely to keep on saying it. You’re setting up a pattern so that he associates talking with you with saying yes. Then, three, make him feel superior to you. It increases his confidence and he’ll get careless.”

“So I do what?”

“Ask him a question he can answer. He’ll feel smarter than you.”

“Okay,” Dillie said. “That’s sort of girly, isn’t it?”

“No,” Davy said. “This is not a girls-are-dumb, boys-are-smart thing. This is lulling him into a false sense of security. This is you running a… sales pitch on the poor schmuck. Which is really unfair because you’re holding all the cards because you’re the girl, but you’re also a Dempsey, so it’s his tough luck.”

“Okay,” Dillie said. “One, smile, two, yes, three, superior.”

“Now he’s feeling pretty good around you,” Davy said. “So you want to reinforce that. So on four, you give him something. Like a compliment. Or half of the candy bar from your lunch. Something that makes him think he’s the one who’s ahead in the conversation.”

“Okay,” Dillie said, sounding confused.

“Then you move in for the kill,” Davy said. “On five, ask for what you want but do it so that he thinks you’re doing him a favor by taking it.”

“I want to know if he likes me.”

“Translate that into something concrete. Do you want him to take you to the movies? Walk you home? Give you his ball cap? What?”

“I want him to like me,” Dillie said.

“He probably does, you’re a likable kid. That’s too fuzzy a goal. Figure out specifically what you want. And in the meantime, practice it on people until it works. Just not on any people named Dempsey.”

“Jamie Barclay,” Dillie said.

“Good,” Davy said. “But don’t ever push it. If it’s not working, drop it and find another way in on another day. And do not tell Jamie Barclay. This is for Dempseys only.”

“Right,” Dillie said. “I love you, Davy.”

“I love you, too, Dill,” Davy said. “If the practice swing turns out to be a loser, I’ll come beat him up for you. Now let me talk to your mom.”

“She’s not here,” Dillie said. “She’s at a meeting.”

“Okay, tell her I said hi. Tell her I’m all right and I’ll call next week.”

“She’ll be mad she wasn’t here,” Dillie said. “You better give me your number. And not your cell phone. You always turn it off and that makes her mad. What’s the number where you’re staying?”

“I don’t think so,” Davy said, imagining Sophie talking to Tilda. “Tell her I wouldn’t give it to you.”

Dillie was quiet for a minute, and then she said, “Yeah, that’ll get me off the hook. I can see Mom saying, ‘No problem, I’ll just trust him because he’s never bed to me.’”

Davy grinned into the phone. “Very funny. Tell her I’ll be down to visit soon.”

“You’re coming to visit?”

“Yep,” Davy said.

“Good,” Dillie said. “Then you can teach me more of this neat stuff. I never learn stuff like this in school.”

“I can well believe it.”

“It’s too bad I can’t tell anybody, but I won’t because I know you’re right. You’re always right.”

Davy looked at the phone and laughed.

“What?” Dillie said innocently.

“I told you, never push it,” Davy said. “But that wasn’t bad. You hit four before I caught on.”