Love Potion #9 Page 3

  He uttered a bromide, and I wanted to hurl the paperweight on his desk at his head.

  “Tell me how I can regain what I had,” I demanded.

  “It doesn’t seem as if you can. I’m sorry, Andrey,” Dr. Griffin said. “Trying to recapture what you once had will not only prove to be frustrating but upsetting and disappointing as well.”

  I understood what he meant by frustrating. I clenched my hands so tightly my fingernails dug crescent moons into my palms.

  “How can I get it back?” I asked again.

  “I thought I’d made it clear—you can’t.”

  I felt as if the breath had been knocked from my lungs.

  “Never?”

  He shook his head. “Harvard holds nothing for you now. I think the best thing is for you to go home.”

  “And forget I was ever going to be the next Federico Bianchi?”

  Dr. Griffin relaxed in his chair and folded his hands over his belly. “Was that ever likely?”

  He must not have seen my transcripts if he could ask a question like that. I pushed out of my chair and headed for the door.

  “Our hour isn’t over,” the shrink said, steepling his fingertips together and peering at me over them.

  “I don’t need your condescension, Philip.” I’d never snapped at an adult before, having always been as shy and mild-mannered as Mom. Was this another result of banging my head against Judy Moore’s basement floor?

  He straightened abruptly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re not offering me a solution to this situation, so I don’t see any reason to continue our association.”

  “But—”

  I wasn’t going to get into an argument with him. “Good afternoon.”

  This was pretty much the end of my scholastic career. With no grades to support my scholarships, I couldn’t afford to remain at Harvard; I’d be tossed out. I returned to my dorm room, relieved my roommate wasn’t lounging on his bed. I had to make this phone call in private. I could have gone to a local coffee shop, but I had the feeling I’d break down in public, and that was the last thing I wanted to do.

  I took my cell phone from my pocket and speed-dialed the only person I could think of who might be able to help me.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Beaumont, it’s—”

  “Andrey White. How nice to hear from you.”

  “Th-thank you. You said it would be okay if I called.”

  “And I’m delighted to hear from you. How are you enjoying college life?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. If you have a spare minute?” I hadn’t even thought he might have a class.

  “For my favorite student? Always.”

  “You don’t have a class? I’m sorry, I should have thought—”

  “No, I’m between classes just now, so tell me. What can I do for you?”

  “I…I can’t stay here at Harvard.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t—”

  “Are you being bullied?”

  “No. No, it isn’t anything like that.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Suppose you tell me what’s going on.”

  “Did you happen to hear about me hitting my head on a concrete floor?”

  “Yes, that was a year and a half ago, if I recall correctly.”

  “Yes.” I drew in a deep breath. “The thing is, it did more damage than we realized at the time.”

  “What kind of damage?”

  “It’s affected my brain. I…I can’t…” I couldn’t prevent the quaver in my voice, and I was annoyed with myself. My voice hadn’t broken since I was twelve. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you with this.”

  “Andrey, don’t hang up.”

  “I—”

  “If you hang up, I’ll call you right back.”

  I couldn’t help laughing, although I was afraid it was on the watery side. “All right, I promise I won’t hang up.”

  “Good. Now, are you sure about this?”

  “I am. I’ve had an MRI. Afterward, I had my IQ tested again. I’ve…I’ve dropped so many points.”

  “Oh, Drey.” It was the first time he’d ever called me by my nickname.

  “My psychiatrist says I should suck it up.”

  “The bastard.”

  I gave a choke of laughter.

  “Well, he is. Listen. I’m going to drive up to see you.” He must have realized I was about to protest, because he continued, “It’s only a few hours with traffic. I’ll have Mrs. Heath take the rest of my classes, and I should get to Cambridge in time for dinner. I’ll expect you to buy.”

  This time I laughed in earnest. “All right, Mr. Beaumont.”

  “Call me Artemas.”

  “Artemas. Thank you.”

  “Hang tight, Drey. We’ll work this out.”

  “Thank you. Good—Artemas!”

  “Yes?”

  “Please don’t say anything about this to my mom. I haven’t told her yet.”

  “I promise I won’t. I’ll see you soon. Goodbye.”

  “Bye.” I hung up, buried my head in my hands, and cried. Mom had been so proud of my accomplishments. How was I going to tell her?

  * * * *

  Mr. Beaumont—Artemas—arrived at six, and he took me to Buon Cibo, a small pizzeria on Sherman Street. “I went to Harvard, too,” he murmured as he urged me to enter with his palm at the small of my back.

  “I haven’t been here before.” Well, I hadn’t been in Cambridge very long either.

  “In that case, I highly recommend the caprese pizza.”

  “Okay. I’ll be interested in comparing it to what I used to make at Uncle Angelo’s.”

  “You worked at Uncle Angelo’s? Why did I never see you there?”

  “Probably because I was usually in the kitchen.” I smiled at him. His presence was calming me down.

  “I wish I’d known. Beer?” he asked as a waiter approached our table.

  “I think I’ll stick with Coke.”

  “Wise choice.”

  “Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Claudio, and I’ll be taking care of you.” He placed a basket of bread and a small dish of herbs in the center of the table, then began rattling off their selection of beverages. “What would you like?” he asked as he poured olive oil over the herbs.

  “We’ll have a Magic Hat #9 and a Coke,” Artemas told him.

  “Am I correct in assuming the Coke is for you?” Claudio studied me intently, then glanced at Artemas.

  “Yes.”

  “Very smart.” He scribbled it down. “I won’t have to card you. And would you care for an appetizer?”

  “What would you suggest?” Artemas asked. I didn’t usually have enough spare cash to order starters but in this case…

  “The roasted pear bruschetta is excellent,” our waiter said, his pride evident.

  “All right, we’ll have that, and for our entrée, the caprese pizza.”

  “Excellent. I’ll put your order in and bring your beverages and the appetizer.”

  “Thank you.” Artemas waited until he walked away, then turned to me, and I jumped. I’d been watching him, almost as if I’d never seen him before. He was taller than me, no real surprise, since quite a few people were, and his eyes matched his mink-brown hair. It suddenly dawned on me I’d never noticed he wasn’t all that old, maybe nine years or so my senior.

  I felt myself blush. “Sorry?”

  “I said suppose you tell me what’s happened.”

  “Oh. Right.” Was my reaction to him another result of my brain being scrambled? Claudio brought our drinks, and I smiled absently. To give myself some time, I took a sip of my Coke, then tore off a chunk of the bread, which was warm and crusty, and dipped it into the oil. Finally, I drew in a breath, got myself together, and launched into my story, and Artemas listened with flattering attention.

  * * * *

  I came to the conclusion just as Claudio brought out the pear brusch
etta.

  “This looks amazing!” I enthused as I picked up a slice and took a bite. “Mmm!” I couldn’t help moaning in sheer delight. It tasted as amazing as it looked.

  Claudio beamed. “You like, yes?”

  “Definitely yes. Am I tasting a hint of rosemary?”

  His smile grew even broader. “You are.”

  “Can you tell me how it’s prepared, or is it the chef’s secret?”

  “It’s his secret, but since he’s my papa, he won’t mind if I share it with someone so appreciative. The pears are cooked in the oven with the rosemary you tasted, along with honey, balsamic vinegar, and red wine. Then the pears are placed on thin slices of toasted ciabatta and covered with prosciutto and bleu cheese crumbles. The liquid it’s cooked in is reduced and drizzled over the whole.”

  “It’s divine.” I had a feeling I’d have to take Uncle Angelo up on his offer of a job, and producing a dish like this might ease the sting of being a cook rather than a chemist the caliber of Federico Bianchi.

  * * * *

  We finished the bruschetta—the sauce was so good I couldn’t resist gathering up drops on my finger and sucking them into my mouth, and I blushed when I saw the way Artemas regarded my action with an eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth curled in a grin more tempting than it should be.

  I gave a choked gasp, then whipped my fingers away from my mouth. “Sorry.”

  “Not at all. It’s a pleasure to see someone enjoy his food so much.” He scooped up the last few drops for himself, and my mouth went dry as I watched him neatly lick his finger clean.

  The pizza arrived, still in its pan, and I busied myself with selecting a slice and taking a careful bite so I wouldn’t burn my mouth.

  And as we made inroads into the pizza, I continued babbling. You’d have thought I’d taken a dose of Love Potion #9.

  “Oh God, this is so good. I’m sorry I didn’t find this place sooner.”

  “You’ll be back surely?”

  “If I was staying, I would, of course. But…” I sighed. “What’s the point in me staying?”

  “From what you’ve told me, your test score indicates superior intelligence.”

  “What’s your score, Artemas?”

  He told me, and my jaw dropped.

  “Why on earth are you teaching high school instead of college?”

  He grinned. “Would you believe me if I said I liked teaching high school kids better?”

  “Well, different strokes, I guess.” I couldn’t have been a teacher. I’d been asked to tutor the football team my freshman year, and after two weeks, they’d boycotted me en masse. I didn’t mind too much, since they were all pretty much Neanderthals, but it came back to bite me in the ass when I was labeled a stuck-up stick-in-the-mud and spent the rest of my years at Muhlenberg friendless.

  He reached across the table, straightened my glasses, and tucked a strand of unruly hair behind my ear. “What did you test at, Drey?”

  His eyebrows didn’t just rise when I told him, they shot up.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. And I was twelve at the time.”

  “What were you doing in the Muhlenberg public school system? Don’t get me wrong—they offer an excellent education—but you should have been going to a school for immensely gifted children.”

  “My mom wanted me to have a normal childhood. She said my father’s parents made him live that kind of life, everything revolving around his intellect and his studies. She said it did something to him.”

  “You’ve never spoken of your father.”

  “Other than the fact he’s Italian, I don’t know who he is. Was. I’m not even sure if he’s still alive.” Although I got my blue eyes from Mom, I knew my black hair and possibly being left-handed came from him. “I don’t even know if he’s aware he has a son. Mom won’t talk about that time.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I had the impression his parents objected to the relationship although I don’t know if that was why he took off as soon as she got pregnant.” I tilted my head. “You really didn’t know my IQ? Didn’t you ever look into my records?”

  “There was no need, although I have to admit I was a little curious. However, as long as you got your work done, I felt they were none of my business.”

  Mom had sat me down when I was little and asked me to do my best to keep my intelligence under wraps. She treated it like a game, and at five, I entered the game enthusiastically. Her IQ was high also, so she was able to supplement my classwork with additional reading—lots of additional reading. She also had me correspond anonymously with some of the greatest minds in the country. As I got older, she decided it would be okay to reveal to my teachers a little of what I could accomplish. So while the school district was aware of my intelligence, they didn’t know the full extent of it until my freshman year, when my grades would start to count for college. I began taking AP courses and zipping through them.

  Artemas glanced down at the pan, which now contained nothing more than some strings of mozzarella and a few smears of pizza sauce. “Would you like an espresso?”

  “It’s too late in the day for me. The caffeine will keep me up all night, and that’s the last thing I need. But you go ahead and have one.”

  He raised his hand to call Claudio over.

  “Would you gentlemen like to order dessert?”

  “No, but I’ll have an espresso, and bring a hot chocolate for my friend here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Claudio bustled off.

  “Won’t the caffeine in the cocoa keep me up?”

  “This is Italian hot chocolate, you young philistine, and no, not in this drink.”

  Claudio brought our beverages, along with a plate of biscotti and a mini jug of anisette. Artemas poured some of the liqueur into his espresso and stirred it with a tiny spoon. The cup was equally tiny, and it should have looked a little ridiculous held in his large fingers, but it simply struck me as hot.

  “Salute.” He touched his cup gently to the glass mug my hot chocolate was in and smiled into my eyes. “Buona fortuna.”

  “To you, too,” I murmured, and we both took a sip.

  “So tell me, Drey. What are your plans?”

  “Obviously I can’t stay here.”

  “You’ve got the IQ, even if it isn’t as high as it once was.”

  “Not for what I want to do. I tried coming up with a formula for—” I bit back the words. The last thing I wanted to reveal was how pathetic I was to have need of a love potion. “That isn’t important now. I can’t—”

  “What about changing majors?”

  “All my scholarships are for chemistry. I wouldn’t be able to afford Harvard.”

  “I have some money set by. I could—”

  “No.”

  “All right.” He reached across the table and rested his palm on my hand. “Then come home. Community college isn’t as expensive.”

  “But—”

  “Come home.”

  What could I say? There was such hope in his eyes. I turned my hand over, and we were palm to palm. “I’ll come home.”

  “All right, then.” He signaled to Claudio. “Check please.”

  “I’m getting this, remember.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “But you said—”

  “It was an empty request to get you to agree to my coming up here.”

  “Let me pay my half at least,” I said. I gave him a wry grin. “I have money for that.”

  “Absolutely…not.” He reached over and squeezed my shoulder, then reached into his pocket for his wallet and withdrew a credit card. He turned pale and swore, and the expression on his face scared me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve got the wrong credit card.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This card is past its expiration date. The new card…” He closed his eyes as if attempting to recall where it had gone to. His shoulders rose and fell. “I called to activ
ate it, then put it down on my kitchen counter. That’s where it is right now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He pulled out a bill, then tipped his wallet so I could see the contents, or rather the lack of them. “I don’t have any plastic on me.”

  I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. The five dollar bill wouldn’t even cover the tip. “I guess you’re lucky I have a valid card.” I took my wallet from my pocket and withdrew a Visa card whose expiration date was 9/22. “Mom wanted me to have something for incidentals. I haven’t had to use it before, but this is the ideal opportunity, and—”

  “Oh God, Drey, I’m so sorry.”

  “You didn’t let me finish. It will be my pleasure.” I handed Claudio my credit card.

  “I’ll reimburse you as soon as we get back to Muhlenberg.”

  “There’s no need. No, let me finish. You drove three hours to come help me when you had no real reason to.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but I held up my hand.

  “This is the least I can do. Please let me do it.”

  Claudio returned with two copies of the check and my card, and I added a nice tip to the total, signed the restaurant’s copy, and put my copy along with the credit card back in my wallet.

  Claudio gazed at the check, and his eyes widened. “Thank you!”

  “Thank you, Claudio.” Between the time I’d been a busboy and the time I began working in the kitchen at Uncle Angelo’s, I’d spent six months as a server, and I knew how waiters always appreciated a decent tip.

  “Come back and see us.” He grinned broadly.

  I smiled, but I knew I wouldn’t return.

  “Let’s head back to your dorm room,” Artemas said as we left the pizzeria. “We need to get you packed and then head on out.”

  “Are you sure you don’t think spending the night might be a better idea? We can get an early start in the morning. Plus I’ll need to let admissions know I have to drop out.”

  “All right. I’ll drop you off and see about finding a hotel.”

  “You can stay in my room.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Well, I think it’s a great idea. My roommate is probably with his girlfriend.”

  “The key word being probably.”

  “Semantics. You can sleep in my bed—I’ll even change the sheets—”