Free Queen of Babble by Meg Cabot

room—which is really just part of an L off the living room, where the family’s dining table is. Geronimo is already sitting next to the chair at the head of the table, alert for any scraps that might fall his way.
    “Where should I sit?” I ask Alex, who, in typical teen fashion—I guess it’s universal—shrugs.
    Just then Mr. Marshall walks in and pulls out a chair for me with gallant flair. I thank him and sit in it, trying to remember when my own father ever pulled out a chair for me, and failing.
    “Here we are,” Mrs. Marshall says, emerging from the kitchen with several platters that are steaming. “In honor of Andy’s friend Liz’s first visit to this country, a genuine English country breakfast!”
    I sit up a bit straighter in my seat to show how excited and flattered I am. “Thank you so much,” I say.
    “You really didn’t have to go to so much—”
    Then I see what’s on the platters.
    “Tomato ratatouille,” Mrs. Marshall says proudly. “Your favorite! And our own very English interpretation of the same dish, stewed tomatoes. Also stuffed tomatoes, and an egg and tomato omelet.
    Andy told me how much you love tomatoes, Liz. I hope this meal will make you feel right at home!”
    Oh. My. God.
    “Liz?” Mrs. Marshall, I realize, is looking down at me with concern on her rosy face. “Are you all right, dear? You look a little…peaked.”
    “I’m fine,” I say. And take a big gulp of my milky tea. “It looks great, Mrs. Marshall. Thanks so much for going to all this trouble. You didn’t have to.”
    “It was my pleasure,” Mrs. Marshall says, beaming as she takes a seat in a chair across the table from mine. “And please, call me Tanya.”
    “Right. Tanya,” I say, hoping my eyes don’t look as wet as they feel. How can he have made such a mistake? Did he not even READ my e-mails? Was he not evenlistening that night of the fire?
    “Who’s missing?” Mrs. Marshall asks, looking at the empty chair across from Andrew.
    “Alistair,” Alex says, reaching for a piece of toast. Toast! I can eat toast. No, wait, I can’t. Not if I want to stay a junior size nine. Oh God. I’m going to have to eat something. The egg and tomato omelet.
    Maybe the egg will drown out the taste of the tomato.
    “ALISTAIR!” Mr. Marshall bellows.
    From somewhere deep in the house, a male voice calls, “Oy! I’m coming!”
    I take a bite of the omelet. It’s good. You can barely taste the—
    Oh no. Yes you can, actually.
    The thing is, it was an honest mistake. About the tomatoes, I mean. Anyone could get something like that Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    mixed up. Even a soul mate.
    And, I mean, at least he remembered I’dmentioned tomatoes. He may not have remembered what I actually said about them. But he obviously knows I saidsomething .
    And it’s not like he’s not busy, teaching the children to read and all.
    And waitering, apparently.
    Seeing that no one is looking at me, I knock some of the omelet on my plate and down onto the napkin on my lap. Then I look over at Geronimo, who has left Mr. Marshall’s side, apparently sensing he’s not going to be scoring any scraps over there.
    The collie meets my gaze.
    Next thing I know, I have dog nose in my crotch.
    “What’s this now?” A boy who must be Andrew’s second-youngest brother, Alistair, appears in the doorway. Unlike his mom and two brothers, Alistair’s hair is bright, coppery red—probably the same color his dad’s had been, before he lost it all…judging from his eyebrows, anyway.
    “Oh, hullo, Ali,” Mrs. Marshall says. “Take your seat. We’re having a traditional English breakfast to welcome Andrew’s friend Liz from America.”
    “Hi,” I say, looking up at the redhead, who appears to be just a year or two younger than me. He is dressed from head to toe in Adidas apparel…Adidas warm-up pants, jacket, T-shirt, and shoes.
    Perhaps they’ve asked for his personal