THE CRUSH LIST
Ballyhoo
bal·ly·hoo
noun:excited commotion
1
PIPPA
When I was growing up, my favorite thing to do was to play dress-up. My sister, Phoebe, and I would sneak into our mother’s closet and try on her gowns and high heels.
Ah, to be a kid again.
Teetering around, we’d call each otherdarlingand I would try to get our brother to pretend to be Prince Phillip fromSleeping Beautyso we could dance, but he’d always refuse. It may have had something to do with how we’d call himFelipewith the French pronunciation, likefellplusleap.
If that weren’t bad enough, invariably, we’d argue because even though we understood it was make-believe, he thought it was dumb for someone named Phillipa (me) to marry a guy named Phillip.
He probably thought we were making fun of him because it was around that time when he insisted that we call him Freddie instead of his given name, Phillip.
He and I are twins, and yes, our parents named us Phillip and Phillipa, respectively.
He’s Phillip Frederick Thompson, aka Freddie, and I’m Phillipa Grace Thompson, aka Pippa. Or, Princess Calliope Avington Twinklebelle. What can I say? I was five.
Suffice it to say, Phillip became Freddie and was the cool kid. Everyone calls me Pippa for reasons unknown and I’m the awkward one. And then there’s Phoebe, the third Thompson sibling, whom I’m debating whether to call in for backup. She’s the one you want in your corner, whether you’re going into battle or playing a board game.
Even though Freddie is about a minute older than me and Phoebe is the baby, technically making me the middle child, she’s the most mature of the three of us. She’s our nursemaid, St. Bernard from Peter Pan, making sure the Darling little Lost Boys, erm, boy and girl, don’t stray too far off the beaten track.
Once, while on holiday in Qatar, I met a man who claimed to be Captain Hook. Let’s just say that after that incident, Phoebe made sure I didn’t wander away while we were shopping in thesouq.
Invisible glue holds me to the edge of the bed in my childhood room, which Mum has kept largely the same after I moved out. While here visiting, I went through an old box and found my journal, containing many of my original rules and lists, most notably,The Crush List.
I experience that same little internal quake I always did when thinking about my crush. Seeing him in person routinely caused a full-on temblor. Thankfully, it’s been years since I last made a fool of myself in front ofThe Crush.
Then realization spikes my inner seismograph.
Referring to one of my rules, I dial the worrisome thought back because there’s no sense in jumping ahead when I already have a more imminent social situation to deal with that requires my sister’s immediate help.
Biting my lip, I presscallon my cell phone.
Phoebe reliably answers by the second ring. “Do you need bail money? The number of a dating coach? Or a cookie recipe?”
“Ha ha,” I say dryly, though a dating coach isn’t the worst idea. “I need you to convince me to attend a soiree hosted by one of Mum and Dad’s friends.”
“In that case, go meet Mum and Dad. Wait. Where? Why? Are you home, or are they in Concordia?”
I give her the rundown about how I made a quick trip to London because I needed to visit the dentist.
“Dr. Gundry? He’s still?—?”
“He’s alive, well, and still has the hairiest hands of anyone I’ve ever seen. But he also does great work and a girl with a fake tooth needs the best.”
“Oh, Pippa. Not another one.”
“No, the same one.”
If you’re wondering why I have a fake tooth, ask Freddie to explain what possessed him to drive the metal locomotive of a toy train into my mouth at a high rate of speed.
