Chapter Forty-one

THE ANDERCHRONICLES

By Me, Ellee

[WARNING: The following story has been rated FNF*]
*Fiction NOT Fact

[PLEASE CONSIDER THIS: The following characters don't exist in reality, only in the author's . . . uhhhhhhhh . . . imagination—so don't get any ideas.]

"A Valentine Thing"

Isat on the floor a few minutes longer hugging Molly. She’s always there to give me comfort in my times of Andersadness. And it certainly seemed to me like this was one of those times—again. Andy’s reaction to our Valentine kiss was the same reaction he had to our New Year’s Eve kiss. It’s always just a kiss-of-the-season thing with him. Ohhhhhhhhh, DANG, I wondered, doesn’t he feel something for meeee? Even a tiny little bit?

"Molly . . ." I whispered in her ear, thinking she might have the answer, "does Andy feel anything in his heart for me— anything at all?"

She immediately jumped up and started licking my face and said,

"Woooooooooof, wooooooooof, woooooooooof . . . WOOOOOOFFFFF!!!!"

"Reeeeeeally! Did Andy tell you that?"

"ARRRRF!"

It made me feel a lot better just hearing it. So I hugged her and added,

"Oh, thank you dear, sweet Molly Girl!"

I knew she was just trying to help, but I needed to hear it from Andy.

Eventually, I got up and was on the way to my room, so I could fling myself across the bed and indulge in feeling terrible for a while—maybe even cry a little, but as I passed the mail table in the front hall, something pink caught my eye. It was lodged behind the Brazilian Foot Fern, the large plant next to the table, and only a tiny corner of it was visible. I stooped down to retrieve it from it’s hiding place, and much to my astonishment and delight, I found it was an envelope— a pink envelope, a very familiar-looking pink envelope. And . . . Annnnnnnnd . . . it had my name written on the front, in Andy’s very own hand writing. My heart leaped, and I gulped. Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, ohhhhhhhhhh. My very own invitation! I cried.

"Look Molly! IT’S MY INVITATION!"

"Owwwwwoooooo!" she howled for joy as I showed it to her, and then she started jumping up and down and running around in circles.

"You know what this means, don’t you, Molly? It means . . . I WAS INVITED TO HIS VALENTINE PARTY! ! ! It must have fallen behind that plant when you and I crashed into the mail table when we were playing Slide 'N' Glide."

At that I threw my arms around her and hugged her to me, I was so happy. And she was happy, too. Her little tail was just a-waggin’.

Wasting no time, I quickly tore open the envelope and pulled out the pink invitation which read,

Ma Chere Ellee,
The honor of your divine company is requested at
My Very Special Valentine’s Day Party
The Fourteenth Day of February
In the Marie Antoinette Dining Hall
Chez Moi
6:00 p.m. to whenever we personally decide it’s over.
Tendrement,
A

I cried warm tears of joy as the realization was coming into full focus: Andy had invited me to his party. It wasn’t an oversight; he hadn’t forgotten; he hadn’t meant to leave me out. HE REALLY HAD INVITED ME! My invitation had just gotten lost. It was there all the time, hidden behind that plant. As I clutched it to my heart, I noticed the scent of Andy’s special cologne permeating the pink paper, just like all the other invitations.

I was so happy, I read it again. This time something caught my eye. It was the way Andy had signed it—simply, A. I wondered what that capital letter stood for. Probably, Andy, I thought, but it could also mean . . . amour. AMOUR! I squealed just thinking about the possibility—amour—Ahhhhh YES! YES! YES! Andy was sending me a hidden message in that letter A— or not. Hmmmmm . . . well . . . probably not, I decided. "Ohhhhhhhhhh, dang!" I sighed, as I came back to my senses, disappointment rushing in.

But there was more! He had hand-written a note at the bottom of the invitation telling me not to worry about what to wear to the party, because a surprise was on its way from the House of Che in Paris. WOW! WOW! WOW!—MY WONDERFUL, FANTASTIC DRESS! It was all planned—right from the start. It really was MY dress! Andy had it made just for me by French couturieres ! And I wasn’t just an afterthought at his party. He had intended for me to be there all along!

However, the fact still remained, our Valentine Kiss had meant nothing at all to him. I was just about to start my pity party then, but at that moment I heard someone coming down the hall. When I turned to see, I came face to face with Harriet, who, from the looks of her, had a head start on my party—she was already crying, even before I had started. And then I realized, she was right in the middle of her own pity party.

"Harriet, what’s wrong?" I rushed to console her.—Why was I rushing to console the one person who had personally caused me so much grief from the moment I crawled out of my box? I asked myself.

But those Harriet-sized sobs had completely over-taken her by then, and she wasn’t able to respond. Instead she just threw herself on my shoulder and really let it all out. If my arms could have spanned the great expanse of her body, I would have patted her on the back and said, "There, there, now. It’s aaaaaalright." But since they couldn’t, I just said,

"Harriet! Get a grip!"

And then I threw her off my shoulder—she was staining my silk blouse with her deluge of tears—I mean, what else could I do? However, dislodging her was no easy task, but thanks to the fact that I had made it into the semi-finals, not once, but twice in girls' weight lifting, I was able to eject her on the second try.

"Harriet, what is the matter with you?" I implored, pushing her mammoth frame toward the library, where I had her sit down on a chair, which creaked under the colossal tonnage.

I handed her a box of tissues and sat down next to her. Her eyes, spinning like pinwheels in a hurricane, were still in the midst of a torrential downpour, which, with a fistful of tissues, she was now attempting to mop up as the tears saturated her glowing red face, causing all her mole hairs to swim for their lives.

And then she grabbed another fistful of tissues and commenced blowing her nose. After a few seconds, when everything had been evacuated that wasn’t hanging on for dear life, she reversed the air flow, causing the pressure differential to begin suctioning up anything left fluttering, her gaping nostrils now quivering like a violent wind tunnel, churning up a massive amount of high-velocity air, as it was sucked back into the cavernous chamber of her big nose. Finally, when she was finished with all that, she managed to cough out,

"It’s . . . it’s . . . Feuler . . ." But that was all she could spit out before convulsive sobs took over once again.

"Harriet!" I yelled, smacking her on the back, hoping the sudden jolt would knock her back to reality. "SNAP OUT OF IT! Who’s Feuler ?"

"Feuler Gooch—my boyfriend," came the unexpected answer.

"Boyfriend????!!!"

Henna-Happy Harriet has a BOYFRIEND? How did that happen?

"Your boyfriend? . . . YOU have a boyfriend???"

"YES, I have a boyfriend!

"Does HE know this . . . I mean . . . ummm?"

The question was out of my mouth before I realized what I had said. I was finding the idea inconceivable.

"OF COURSE HE KNOWS IT!!" came her offended reply.

"Oh Harriet, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean—"

"Well, what did you mean?" she barked, cutting me off.

"I meant . . . uhhhhhhh . . . that is . . . ummmm . . ." But that was exactly what I meant. "Harriet," I quickly added, changing the subject, "where did you meet this . . . this Feuler?"

"I met him at a singles’ bar. We’ve been seeing each other for several weeks now."

"WHAT? Y-You . . . you frequent singles’ bars???" Revelations were coming fast now.

"YES . . . you got a problem with THAT?"

"No . . . no, absolutely not, Harriet! I don’t have a problem with that . . . not at all."

But I was having a problem keeping a straight face, as I thought about Henna-Happy Harriet at a singles’ bar. I mean, who would pick up on her at a singles’ bar? I knew then I really had to meet this Feuler Gooch. But sadly the opportunity to make his acquaintance would never be mine, because, as I later found out after she finally pulled herself together, he had left her for another woman—a Hooters' cocktail waitress over on West 56th Street. And that’s why she was in tears.

By the time I had finished with Harriet’s pity party, I wasn’t much in the mood for my own. I’d seen enough tears that morning to last for the rest of the day, so I went upstairs to the arboretum, where I curled up on the wicker couch with a book.

After a while, being in the warm sun that was streaming in from the conservatory windows, I found I wasn't able to keep up with the sentences, which insisted on wandering all over the page. So I pulled the soft green and blue plaid throw over me, and gave in to the allure of sleep.

Some time later, when I opened my eyes, I could see a figure sitting opposite me. When I squinted to focus, I recognized the exquisite blue of the eyes watching me—they were Andy’s. His tall frame was laid back in the white wicker chair, which he had pulled up next to the couch, his tie loosened, the top button undone, his elbows perched on the armrests, with the tips of his long fingers together in mirrored fashion. He stared at me for a long time. And then, all of a sudden he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, and said,

"What exactly did you mean, Ellee, when you said it was . . . just a . . . a Valentine Thing?"

I swallowed hard. I wasn't sure how to respond. "Oh . . . well . . . I . . . you know . . . on . . . on Valentine's day . . . uhhh everybody kisses . . . right? . . ."

His eyes searched mine for a minute, then he hung his head, dropping his gaze to the floor, and whispered— more to himself than to me,

"Right."

Bye for now,
Love,