“My mom made mashed potatoes,” I explain. “It reminded me.”
She nods as we head out to the driveway, past the flower beds that have succumbed to fall weather. “What about it?” she says over her shoulder.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s just frustrating. I get irritated every time I think about it. And I’m worried about the food bank, I guess. Our funding is already abysmal, and Lionel Astor will cut it more if he wins.”
“Raise money,” Juniper says.
I snort. “Because it’s that easy.”
“Well, no, but there are ways. Hold a fundraiser. A silent auction. Or do a hunger banquet. Something like that.”
I come to a stop next to her questionable little yellow Volkswagen, parked in the driveway much straighter than when I first saw it out in front of Grind and Brew. “What’s a hunger banquet?”
“Are you about to open the door for me? Like, chivalry?”
“What?” I look down, and sure enough, that’s exactly what I’m doing—my hand is outstretched, reaching for the handle to the driver’s side. I snatch it back, ignoring the littlegrin on Juniper’s face. “No,” I say. “What’s a hunger banquet?”
She nudges me out of the way, and I step aside.
“It’s basically a banquet where three economic tiers are represented statistically,” she says, opening the back door and laying Caroline’s clothes neatly across the seat. “Upper, middle, and lower. You’re assigned one of those tiers at random when you arrive—pick a piece of paper out of a hat, that kind of thing. And then whatever economic tier you’ve ended up with determines the meal that you get. But it’s all based on the most recent statistics on poverty, see?” She stands up, closing the door to the back seat.
“Okay…” I say, gesturing to her, indicating to keep talking.
“So only a very small number of guests at the banquet will be fed a super nice meal—fifteen percent, I think,” she goes on. “That fifteen percent represents the upper class. They sit at nice tables with tablecloths too. And then thirty-five percent of the attendees represent the middle class, and they get a middle-class meal with middle-class seating. The other fifty percent represent the lower class, and they basically sit on the floor and get rice and water.” She shrugs. “I went to one in college. The percentages might have changed since we did it, but that’s the gist. It’s pretty impactful, honestly, and it’s a good way to raise awareness. Your high schoolers might benefit.” Then she looks at me, frowning. “Are you coming with me? Didn’t you guys just start dinner?”
“Huh?” I say. “Oh. Yeah.” Why is it my first instinct to follow this woman? “Do you, uh, want to join us?” I don’t really want her to, because I’m not ready for my family to meet her when I’m still figuring out my feelings, but it seems polite to ask.
She laughs, though. “No, I’m good. Thanks, though.”
I nod. “Drive safe.” I cringe at my ownlameness, waving her off awkwardly once she gets in, starts the car, and pulls out of the driveway.
I’m able to field off questions relatively well when I return inside, but I spend the rest of the evening wondering how I could convince a bunch of high school kids to pay to come sit on the floor and eat rice.
* These are the middle names of a set of twins I know, because—once again—coming up with names is hard, and I like putting in real-life tidbits!
18
IN WHICH JUNIPER DOES NOT CALL ANYONE PAPA
In preparation for our meeting with Tonya von Meller, Aiden transforms from dark academia professor into Dapper Dan. And while dark academia professor is who I’d much prefer to live with, I can’t deny that Dan has his own kind of charm. Who knew that Aiden in pastel would be so worth seeing? I have to fight off heart palpitations when he puts his hand behind my headrest and turns in the driver’s seat to back out of the driveway. My eyes follow the curve of his arm, the lazy way it rests over the steering wheel, and finally he throws me a look.
“Cut it out, Juniper,” he says. “You’re driving me crazy.”
“Good crazy or bad crazy?” I say, since I can’t very well deny I’ve been staring.
His head whips toward me, though, his foot coming down hard on the brake—like a maniac. The entire car shudders and jerks. “What did you say?” he says with his wide eyes on me.
“Whoa.” I give the dashboard a few gentle pats to make sure it doesn’t get mad at us. He might think cars are inanimate creatures, but I have stories that prove otherwise. Sunshine inparticular is a vengeful lady; it’s a good thing we’re taking Aiden’s car instead. “Drive like a normal person, please. We have someplace to be.”
He sighs, and even though he doesn’t give any indication he’s getting a headache, I bet one will show up soon enough. He always seems to get headaches around me, especially when he’s sighing like that.
“Here’s the GPS,” I say, propping my phone up against the dash. Then I look down at my outfit, making sure everything looks fine, smoothing out a few stray wrinkles with my hands.
These clothes make me feel like a sexy lawyer or something. I kind of like it. It’s not my normal, but there’s just something about a power suit. And this one is elegant and sexy, but it means business too, with the blazer and the fit of the pants and the closed-toe pumps.
“All right,” I say as I run through all the details in my mind, trying not to leave anything out. “Your name is Bentley?—”
“Bentley?”
