Free Bad Boy by Olivia Goldsmith

was in school? Come on, Tracie. Look at it as a challenge, a way to use all the research you’ve gathered from those tattooed boyfriends of yours.” He observed her interest. Now, create desirable opposition. “Otherwise,” he said, as casually as he could, “Molly is right.”
    At the mention of the waitress’s name, p. 70 Tracie stopped again and turned to face him. “Right about what?” she asked, brusquely. Then she turned away to examine the flour.
    “Repetition compulsion,” he explained, his heart beating hard. He’d hooked her. “You’ve just been repeating yourself for no reason for the last seven years. Wasting time. But if you could become an alchemist . . .”
    She crouched down, reading the label on one of the lower flour sacks. “Who would have thought there were so many different kinds of flour?” she asked, a mere distraction technique he’d simply wait out. “Do you think she wants sifted bleached or sifted unbleached or unsifted unbleached or unsifted bleached?”
    Jon remembered Barbara’s biscuits of fifteen hours earlier and grabbed the presifted bleached. “This kind,” he said, handing her the package. She stood up and accepted the bag. “So how ’bout it? Will you teach me?”
    She shrugged, placed the flour in the cart, and began to move down the aisle. “Okay,” she admitted. “Maybe I can write a pretty good feature and blow-dry my hair on a rainy day in Seattle without getting frizz. But I can’t bake, and no one could teach you to be bad. You can’t be bad, so this can’t be serious.” She turned away.
    Jon suddenly felt desperate. He imagined seeing Samantha at work the next morning and could hardly bear it. Plus, Tracie was right: It was much worse that he had called. What made him so unutterably stupid at times?
    But despite her disclaimer, Tracie could help p. 71 him, if only she would. She held the key, but she wouldn’t give it up. What kind of friend was that? He told himself he had to go for a strong close. He’d succeeded in getting million-dollar project allocations. He could do this. He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around, looking directly in her eyes. “I’ve never been more serious in my life. And you’re the only one who can help. You know all my dirty little habits and you’ve got your Ph.BB. You majored in Bad Boys all through college and you’re doing your graduate work at the Seattle Times. ”
    “Well, it would be a challenge, that’s for sure,” Tracie said, smiling at him. With affection. Yes! he cried to himself, though he didn’t let his victory show. Tracie raised her eyebrows and with them her last objection. “But why would any alchemist want to turn gold into lead?” she asked, and took his hand warmly.
    “Because the gold really wanted to change,” Jon told her. “What if the gold begged the alchemist?” He knew, right away, he’d gone too far.
    She let go of his hand. “I don’t think so, Jon. I love you just the way you are,” Tracie said, sounding just like his mother.
    “Yeah, but no one else does,” he reminded her, but it was too late. She shrugged and again moved down the aisle.
    “I couldn’t do it. Hey, did I say baking soda or baking powder?” she asked, looking at dozens of each stacked neatly on the shelf.
    “You said soda,” he told her. “And you could make me over if you wanted to.”
    p. 72 Tracie paused. He hoped she was considering the project, but after another minute she shook her head. “I think I have to get baking soda. But maybe it was baking powder.”
    Jon sighed. “What’s the difference?” he asked, dispirited.
    “You use them for different things.”
    “Duh. And what would those things be?” he asked. He was angry with her and he wasn’t going to let her get away with anything. “And how are they different?”
    “Baking powder makes cakes rise.”
    “I can read cans, too, Tracie,” he told her. “So what about baking soda?”
    “Well, you can brush your teeth