“Perfect,” said Ivy. “Now all we need is an appetizer.”
“How about a soup?”
As Ivy flipped to the front of the cookbook, she remembered their conversation at the Meat & Greet the previous day. “Killer idea,” she said with a grin. “After all, we already have salt and pepper.”
An hour later, Ivy had just put the lasagna in the oven when she heard the front door open.
“Ivy,” her father called, “I’m home!”
“In the kitchen!” Ivy called back.
When he saw them, Mr. Vega dropped his briefcase with a thud. I can’t believe he’s still so shocked by the sight of Olivia, thought Ivy.
“What have you girls done to my kitchen?” he gasped.
“Hi, Mr. Vega,” Olivia said, awkwardly wiping her hands on her apron, leaving bright red stains.
Ivy surveyed the situation. The counter was covered in blood paste and flour, and there were dirty bowls and spoons and pans on every available surface. As if on cue, the pot of water on the stove boiled over with a hissing burst of steam.
Ivy gulped. “Olivia and I are working on our art project,” she said.
“This is your art project?” her dad demanded.
Ivy nodded. “We have to make something for someone else, so we’re making dinner.”
“Well, then, I’d better leave you two artists to your work,” he said tentatively, slowly turning on his heels to leave the kitchen.
Olivia cleared her throat. “Mr. Vega? It’s sort of supposed to be a special occasion, so you might want to dress up a little bit.”
“What kind of special—”
“See you in an hour!” Ivy interrupted, and before her dad could say anything else, she waved him out the door with the backs of her hands like she was shooing a bat.
Ivy and Olivia were lighting the candles in the middle of the dining room table when the pipeorgan doorbell rang.
“Girls!” Mr. Vega’s voice called faintly from upstairs. “The door!”
Ivy was about to go answer it, but Olivia grabbed her arm. “Lesson of Love Number One: interaction is the key to attraction,” Olivia whispered.
“What does that mean?” Ivy asked.
The doorbell rang again. “He should get it,” Olivia said.
Good idea, thought Ivy. “DAD! CAN YOU GET THE DOOR, PLEASE?” she yelled. She snatched a black lacquer plate off the table. “WE HAVE OUR HANDS FULL OF PLATES DOWN HERE!”
A moment later, Ivy could hear the faint patter of her father descending the grand staircase.
Ivy and Olivia peeked around the corner into the foyer just as their father reached the bottom of the steps. His hair was slicked back, and he was wearing pin-striped black pants and a tailored white shirt under a gray blazer. Perfect! Ivy thought.
“Any woman would totally fall for him,” Olivia whispered.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Ivy’s father apologized as he opened the door. “Alice!” he exclaimed.
“It’s Charles, right?” Ivy heard. “Like the prince?”
Ivy’s father stood there, speechless.
Invite her in, Ivy pleaded silently.
“Please, come in,” her father said.
“Thanks!” Alice said and charged into the foyer. She was wearing an enormous crocheted sweater dress, black leggings, and silver leg warmers. On her head was a black faux-fur-lined trapper hat. She looks like a dancer in a Russian music video, Ivy thought.
“Creative outfit,” Olivia whispered hopefully.
Ivy’s father snapped his head in their direction like he’d heard. He locked Ivy in his gaze, and his eyes widened.
We’re staked! Ivy thought.
Rather than ducking out of sight, though, Olivia pushed past Ivy and marched into the foyer. “Hi, Alice!” She smiled. Ivy nervously hurried after her. “Thanks so much for helping out with our art project!”
Alice screwed up her lips. “I thought I was here for dinner.”
“You are,” Olivia said. “We had to create something special for someone else, so we’re making dinner for you and Mr. Vega!”
“That’s art?” Alice looked confused.
“That was my question exactly,” Ivy’s father said stiffly.
“I usually work in papier-mâché,” Alice admitted.
“It’s performance art,” said Ivy, pulling out the only explanation she had.
Alice’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I love performance art! Don’t you, Charlie?”
Charlie? thought Ivy. No one calls my dad Charlie.
“I once painted my whole body white,” continued Alice, “curled up in a ball, and hung myself from the ceiling for a piece. I called it:
The Phases of My Moon.”
Ivy’s father smiled uncomfortably.
As she and Olivia led the way to the dining
room, Ivy heard Alice say, “Wow Charlie, your house is so enormous and ultraconservative modern. You should really consider metallics!”
Good sign, Ivy thought. She’s interested in interior design.
Olivia and Ivy pulled out the two chairs opposite each other at the oak dining room table, which was strewn with dead rose petals atop the black silk tablecloth.
“There are only two places,” their father said, clearly surprised. “Won’t you girls be joining us?”
“We can’t,” Ivy said firmly.
“It would totally defeat the purpose,” added Olivia. “You know, of our art.”
Ivy was grateful when Alice brushed past her dad and took a seat. “Did you girls fold these napkins to look like bats?” she asked. “The Japanese say that origami is the purest art form.”