Read Online In the Bag by Kate Klise - Free Book Online Page A

can’t wear a T-shirt to opening night,” he said. “Wear this jacket with a white dress shirt and jeans.”
    “I don’t have a white shirt,” I said. “It was in my bag.”
    “We’ll get you a new shirt,” Dad said. “What shoes do you have?”
    “Just my Chucks,” I said, gesturing to my feet.
    “I’d prefer leather,” Dad answered, pulling his chin like a professor. “But it is a postmodern show. I guess those will be okay.”
    Fine. Whatever. I’ll get whatever he wants me to get. I can change in a bathroom if I need to.
    Dad had to get back to work on the exhibit space.
    “Let’s meet at the hotel at seven for dinner,” Dad said, putting me in a cab. “We’ll get some paella. You like that, remember?”
    I did remember. But of course all I could think about was checking my e-mail. I was dying to know how Coco had responded to my suggestion. Why the hell not fall in love?
    Of course it was easy to be bold online. But seriously, I was seventeen years old. I was in Europe, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t I be falling in love?
    When I made it back to the hotel, I dumped the Corte Inglés bags on the floor in the business center and logged on to my e-mail account. One new message.
     
Fr: CocoChi@com
To: Webbn@com
Subject: What a tangled Webb . . .
Spidey, you’re adorable. And falling in love sounds like fun. Really! (And from the full disclosure department: I’ve never done it before. Have you?) But ugh and merde! I’m afraid this isn’t going to work. My mom is being a total Blackhawk. As in helicopter mama gone apeshit. I don’t think I’m going to be able to break away from her while we’re in Madrid. I am SO SORRY about this!!! It is no reflection on you, I promise. Please write back so I know you’re not mad. I’m totally upset about this. We should’ve been the stuff movies are made of, y’know?
Coco

CHAPTER 22
    Coco
    I don’t know if it was jet lag or the mussels we had for lunch or the stress of meeting—or not meeting—Webb. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t hungry for dinner that night. Neither was Mom. But I needed to check my e-mail.
    “Actually, something sweet sounds good,” I told Mom. We were walking back to the apartment from the Metro stop. “Can I pick up some treats for us at the patisserie across the street from Solange’s place?”
    “Good idea,” Mom said. “Get me something lemony. I’ve gotta call Solange.”
    “Cool,” I said. “I’ll meet you in the apartment in a few minutes.”
    After I saw her put her key in the front door to Solange’s building, I ducked into the Internet café to see if Webb had responded. He had.
     
Fr: Webbn@com
To: CocoChi@com
Subject: Re: What a tangled Webb . . .
Not mad, just disappointed. Mr. Hitchcock had such high hopes for us.
(And no, I’ve never done it before, either.)
     
Love,
Webb
    Love? I stared at the word. Love. What a sweet boy. Okay, I had to make this work.
     
Fr: CocoChi@com
To: Webbn@com
Subject: Re: Re: What a tangled Webb . . .
I know. I’m disappointed, too!
Love,
Coco
     
    I studied my message before sending it. Coming from me, “Love” seemed forced. I deleted the word. But then that looked cold. So I deleted my name, too, and pressed SEND.
    His response arrived seconds later.
     
Fr: Webbn@com
To: CocoChi@com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: What a tangled Webb . . .
Can I suggest an alternative? (Tell me now if I’m wasting my time.)
     
Fr: CocoChi@com
To: Webbn@com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: What a tangled Webb . . .
No! I mean, yes! Suggest away! I really DO want to meet you.
     
Fr: Webbn@com
To: CocoChi@com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: What a tangled Webb . . .
Okay, here goes. What if instead of meeting in Madrid, we met in Paris? Could you convince your madre that you’ve got some kinda bug—I don’t know, maybe like spontaneous leprosy or something—and you’re too sick to fly to Madrid tmw? If so, I could take a morning train up to Paris and meet you there tmw pm. Without the