As I slid back under the sheet, I ran my hands along the curves of my breasts and stomach. Sometimes it still surprises me that I no longer have a girl's body. That at some point over the past few years, womanhood has crept up on me, complete with hips, hairs and Grand Tetons. It reminds me of hide-and-seek, when It calls out, Ready or not, here I come, even if you haven't found a safe place to duck away yet. Ready or not, the game has begun. And there's nothing you can do to stop it.
If our first night in New York City was bad, the ensuing days made it look like a whirlwind trip to Disney World. In fact, I've composed this mental letter to The Guinness Book of World Records:
Dear Record Keeper:
I'm writing to request consideration for “Three Most Horrible Consecutive Days.” If you don't already have this category, I recommend you create it immediately and make me your charter member. Here's why:
Our first morning in Manhattan, I went downstairs to walk the dog, only to discover a traffic cop slipping a ticket under the windshield wiper of our car. I tried to explain how we just moved here, but she pointed to an “alternate side parking” sign two feet away and launched into a ten-minute lecture about complying with street cleaning rules. And I don't even have my license yet! What's more, when I handed the ticket to my mom, she got upset that I didn't explain how we just moved here.
Speaking of dogs, there's this law that you have to scoop up after them, even in Central Park, which is right near our apartment. I found this out upon exiting the scene of the crime, when a complete stranger launched into a ten-minute lecture about complying with doggy-doo rules. I'm beginning to think I'm in a police state! Of course, I had no Baggies on hand, so I had to rummage through a nearby trash bin for a newspaper. If I had stock in a soap company, I'd be a millionaire by now.
Speaking of complying with rules, our eighth-floor apartment adheres to the “heat rises” law of nature. It's stuffy and sweltering and other than this tiny metal fan, the only draft we get is when someone exhales. The building superintendent, who everyone refers to as “the super,” offered to install an air conditioner for a nominal fee, to which my mom replied, “No thanks… synthetic air gives me a headache.”Synthetic air?
Speaking of my mom, she has metamorphosed into a toy mouse that's been wound too tight. She's attempting to make up for her fourteen-year hiatus from the city by doing and seeing and tasting everything she reads about in the newspaper. At once. With me. So even though we've barely unpacked our suitcases, we've already gone to two gallery openings, a tenement museum, a restaurant where everything contains peanut butter, a Brazilian street fair and a free opera in the park, to name a few. And we've probably trekked enough to have circumnavigated a small country by now. Ditto for stock in Band-Aids, if you get my drift.
I could go on forever, but I'm sure you have your hands full assessing the largest potato in Idaho. I'd offer my phone number, in case you needed to check facts, but my mom forgot to ask Bell Atlantic to hook up a jack beforehand. Now they're saying it won't happen until the early part of next week, if we're lucky. Do we sound lucky to you?
In desperation,
Samantha L. Davis
In order to plead a strong case, I wouldn't include this in my letter, but there is one redeeming factor about New York City: I like our building. It's the tallest on the block and red brick, with marigolds around the trees in front. The super sprays them with a hose every evening so the water can soak in overnight rather than be dried up by the heat of the day.
The super lives on the first floor with his wife, whom everyone calls Mama. They're in their sixties and from the Dominican Republic, which is the eastern half of an island in the Caribbean. Mama doesn't even speak English. I mentioned to the super that I've taken Spanish for two years, so whenever I see him in the lobby, he asks, ¿Como estás? to which I respond, Muy bien. It's nothing more than How are you? and Fine, but it's still pretty cool. I bet Ms. Guerrero would be proud, especially since she used to emphasize that the only way to learn a foreign language is to be immersed in the culture. Which always seemed like an odd thing for a Spanish teacher to tell a class full of kids in Ithaca.
The super was the one who told me how to get to the roof, by riding the elevator to the top floor and taking the stairs the rest of the way. As I ventured up on the fourth day, I didn't realize what a treat I was in for. I mean, it's just an ordinary rooftop, covered with metal panels and strips of tar. And I'm lucky I'm not scared of heights, because there's only a short brick wall running around the perimeter. But the view was spectacular. Buildings as far as the eye could see, the Hudson River to the west and beyond that, New Jersey.
Later that evening, I grabbed my guitar and headed up again to catch the tail end of the sunset. The metal rooftop was still warm from the sun. As I sat there finger-picking an Alanis song I'd just heard on the radio, I felt a sense of peacefulness. This was probably the first moment I'd slowed down since we arrived in New York City, what with Mom's frenetic pace. It's not like I'm this slovenly spoilsport; I just needed time to digest all the changes. Mom has opted for the plunge-headfirst-into-pool method, with me strapped to her back. I'm beginning to think I'm a victim of her most recent acquisition, Reinventing Your Life. When she toted it home from the bookstore on our first day, I just shook my head. I'm sure self-help works wonders for some people, as long as they understand that miracles don't happen overnight.
I strummed a G-A-D chord progression. The sky was growing so dark I could barely see my fingers. I began to feel an aching in my gut, some blend of lonely and nervous and empty. It reminded me of when I was nine and spent a forlorn week at this YMCA camp on Keuka Lake. Only then it was classic homesickness. Much harder to diagnose this time around, seeing that my physical home is presently overrun with Oscar Mayer Wieners and half of my parental unit is seven floors below me.
Maybe it's Ithaca that I miss. I wonder what Kitty is doing right now. Probably hanging out with Jack, seeing a movie at the mall. And what about Dad, three thousand miles away? Does he even know we've arrived in Manhattan? I wonder if Mom has called from a pay phone to tell him. I sure haven't, even though he mailed me his new number right after he arrived in California, along with an embroidered blouse for my birthday.
When I saw it in Berkeley, I thought of you immediately, Dad had written in the card, which I'd tucked in the back of my dictionary. I considered cutting the shirt into tiny pieces and ramming it down the garbage disposal, but instead I folded it into a corner of a duffel bag. So now, as with all my belongings, it's stirred into one of the many piles strewn across the apartment.
On Tuesday afternoon, I was just tackling a heap of winter clothes when Mom demanded that I accompany her to the grocery store for our first big shop. Thus far we've been subsisting on fruit, bagels and Chinese takeout, but we have yet to stock up on staples. Staples. Up until a few weeks ago, I'd never given a second thought to the sugar in the cupboard or the soap in the shower. I'd just assumed they'd be there.
Everything was okay at first. I pushed the metal cart through the brightly lit aisles, and Mom tossed in various items, commenting how the prices here were double those of Ithaca. But as we approached the Tex-Mex section, Mom's voice grew progressively louder.
“Can you keep it down a little?” I whispered. “It's no big deal.”
“No big deal?” she boomed. “It's not like we have money galore.”
First synthetic air and now money galore! Where was Mom coming up with these phrases? I glanced around. The only person in sight was a middle-aged woman reading the nutritional value on a bottle of salsa.
I felt my throat constricting. So money was now an issue? I mean, we were never rolling in it in Ithaca, but we could pretty much afford whatever we needed. And we always took a yearly vacation, even if it was just to California or West Palm Beach, where Mom's mother lives. Before the trial separation, I remember hearing talk about Mom not working during Dad's sabbatical year so she could concentrate on her art. I guess that pla
n has flown out the window along with all the others. Mom has already been poring through the helpwanteds for teaching gigs, and even went to a copy shop this morning to fax her résumé to a few places. It felt strange when she asked for my input on the cover letters, commenting about how painting was much more her forte than writing.
By the time Mom and I arrived at the counter, our cart was so full that the checkout lady suggested we pay extra for delivery. As she quoted the fee, Mom let out a low whistle. I eyed the three teenage girls in line behind us and prayed Mom wouldn't pull another doozie out of her choice-phrase satchel.
True to form, Mom pointed to me and bellowed, “I have my own personal delivery service.”
I began thumbing through People as if I was about to take a pop quiz on celebrity weddings.
On the way home, both of us outfitted with more bags than a pack mule, I walked a few strides behind Mom. Not that I was even trying to; Mom has adopted this power walk since we arrived in Manhattan, a pace that is literally and figuratively hard to match. Especially with the blisters that have bubbled up on my feet, even though I've been wearing my beat-up old sneakers night and day.
Upon reaching our building, Mom shot in ahead of me. I caught the door an inch shy of closing. As I entered the lobby, she disappeared into the elevator.
“At least you could have held …,” I started to say, but as I approached the automated doors, I stopped short. Mom wasn't the only person inside. And not only that, but the other person happened to be the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen in my entire life.
“Got it?” he asked me, releasing the door open button and pushing 15, the top floor.
I tried to speak but no sound came out.
As the doors closed, I attempted to hide the fact that I was staring at him. He was in his midtwenties, with shoulder-length black hair and angular cheekbones dotted with enough stubble to put Kitty's senior men to shame. And his lips. I could have written a dissertation about those lips. Moist. Succulent. Very kisser-friendly.
He was also a dead ringer for Johnny Depp, who I happen to think is the sexiest person alive, even though Kitty pointed out that he's old enough to be my father.
It's not like I'm planning to marry him, I responded. But even if I was, plenty of May-December relationships work out fine.
Sure, if you've got a thing for drool, dentures and Depends, Kitty pshawed.
My legs were shaking so hard I was convinced Johnny Depp could tell. I glanced down. Omigod. Why had I never noticed before that my beat-up old sneakers made my feet look huge?
“You just move in?”
Hearing J.D.'s voice made me jump. I opened my mouth to respond. Again no sound.
“Yeah.” Mom pressed the button for the eighth floor. “Thursday night.”
J.D.'s chest muscles rippled through his thin T-shirt. I was tempted to reach over and stroke them. Instead I watched the floor numbers light up. Four … five … three more to go. Omigod. J.D. just peeked at my breasts! I tried to relax my mouth, but it's times like these when I develop amnesia, suddenly forgetting what to do with my face, my hands, everything. Why hadn't I worn my slinky black tank top that reveals every curve, rather than this baggy T-shirt that makes the rest of my girth appear as supple as my C-cups? Kitty's always saying that if you want people to buy your apples, you've got to put them out for sale.
Melons too? I once asked her.
Even watermelons, she said, smirking, as I whacked her arm.
“Are you two sisters?” J.D. was looking from Mom to me.
I glanced at Mom. Those deep circles under her eyes still haven't gone away, even though we've been in Manhattan for nearly a week. I gripped my bags tightly, wishing the elevator would hurry up and arrive at our floor.
“No.” Mom laughed. “This is my daughter. She's just sixteen.”
Omigod! Blood rushed to my cheeks. Where was the button that could evaporate me into thin air?
As the elevator opened, Mom turned and said, “By the way, I'm Roz and this is Sammie.”
“Sammie.” J.D. grinned. “Nice.”
Nice what? Nice name? Nice boobs? Sneaking one last look as the doors were closing, I could have sworn he winked at me. Omigodgodgod!
“Nice guy,” Mom murmured, unlocking the door.
“He looks like that movie star. I can't place him, though.”
I made sure to keep my mouth shut. Next thing I know she'd probably go and tell him that as well.
Seconds after we entered the apartment, disaster struck. Moxie, who still isn't accustomed to being holed up in two rooms, stampeded out to greet us. As she lunged forward, I attempted to sidestep her, stumbled and spilled one of my bags. And guess what should fly out and hurtle to the floor, smashing into pieces—the liter of olive oil, of course.
“Shit!” Mom and I shouted at the same time.
Moxie careened under the futon, tail between her legs.
As a yellow pool of oil spread over the hardwood floor, I dashed into the kitchen in search of paper towels. We hadn't gotten any yet, so I grabbed a dish towel and threw it over the spill, which nearly sent Mom into a tailspin.
“What was I supposed to use, toilet paper?” I snapped.
After twenty minutes of scrubbing and sopping and gingerly picking up splinters of glass, I decided to take a shower. I felt disgustingly greasy. I never wanted to see another bottle of olive oil as long as I lived.
I started up the water as soon as I was in the bathroom. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I frowned. My hair looked so stringy. I hope it was from the oil. I hope it didn't look like that in the elevator. I hope J.D. didn't notice.
J.D. My stomach flipped over as I began to undress, stuffing my dirty clothes into the laundry bag.
Maybe we'll run into each other on the roof one day, start talking, really hit it off. And I don't just mean small talk … we'll go below the surface. He'll listen to what I have to say and then he'll tell me about his work, but not as if I'm a kid. It will be adult to adult.
You don't seem sixteen. He'll shake his head.
Age is just numbers, I'll say. It's the person inside that counts.
That's deep, Sammie, he'll say, gazing into my eyes.
J.D. won't notice the “untouchable” sign on my forehead. No, he'll find me sexy. Sexy and irresistible. He'll be my first lover, gently nibbling my neck, whispering in my ear. Afterward, as I snuggle in his sinewy arms, he'll think how lucky he is to have met someone like me. How most women out there are so jaded.
The bathroom was getting steamy. Bare naked, I swiped my hand across the foggy mirror and studied my reflection.
“Hi, J.D.,” I said huskily.
Pushing my breasts together, I tilted my head to one side and puffed up my lips, like those Victoria's Secret models always do.
“How do you like these, J.D.?”
Not so bad, I thought, pulling aside the curtain and stepping into the shower. Not so bad after all.
Are you almost ready?” Mom hollered from the bathroom, where she was drenching herself with a vanilla spray that she'd picked up at some boutique yesterday.
I didn't answer. I was crouched next to the stereo, blasting “Both Sides Now.” That's this amazing Joni Mitchell song—just voice and acoustic guitar—about coming to terms with growth and change. I've never listened to her music much before, but I stumbled across this CD during the move. It must have been Dad's. He's crazy about Joni, from back when he was in college. Supposedly, he wanted to name me Chelsea, after her song “Chelsea Morning.”
I wouldn't mind being a Chelsea. Chelsea Leigh Davis. Chelsea Leigh Davis would be equal parts poise and intrigue. Chelsea Leigh Davis would swivel her hips, toss her tendrils of hair and look a guy in the eye when talking to him. Chelsea Leigh Davis would flash her captivating smile upon entering a room, making people lust for her story, not to mention her body.
“I didn't hear you.” Mom's voice was louder this time. “Are you almost ready?”
“Yessss!”
I shouted back.
Joni was singing about looking at clouds from both sides now.
“I can leave anytime,” I added.
We're going to the Rosenthals' for dinner. Shira Rosenthal was Mom's college roommate, back when she was Shira Krantz. But ten years ago, Shira's husband died suddenly of a brain aneurysm, leaving her with two small children: Eli, around my age, and Becca, then a baby.
Shira is a social worker at a home for delinquent teenagers. You'd think a profession like that would drain someone, but whenever she calls she's always upbeat, often talking so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear. I should know. We spoke several times this spring, when Mom was trying to place me in a good public school. Shira knew an administrator at Beacon—Eli's artsy high school—who pulled some strings to get me in at the last minute.
“Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels,” sang Joni, “that dizzy dancing way you feel …”
I rewound the CD a few bars. What amazing imagery! I understand exactly what Joni is referring to, like she's talking directly to me. I'd love to know “Both Sides Now” by heart. It sounds like it would be a cinch to learn on guitar, but it's actually rhythmically complicated, the sort of song where I used to ask for Dad's help. He would set down his book, grumbling something about how Bob Dylan didn't tear his father from Melville. But after a few minutes, Dad would be so engrossed I'd have to pry my guitar from his grasp, teasing him that Dylan became the folk music legend, not Herman Melville.
Mom appeared in the doorway, wearing only a magenta bra and bikini underwear set, a towel turbanwrapped about her hair. Her stomach swells out a little and her hips are the birthing variety, like mine, but for someone who's going to turn forty-three in a few weeks, Mom's got a fairly decent body. Sometimes it seems like she gets more visual ravishings from guys in the street than I do. Which is depressing, seeing that I'm supposed to be at the prime of something in my life, I just haven't figured out what yet. As Mom began rummaging through our shared closet, I looked away. We didn't used to strip in front of each other.
Love and Other Four-Letter Words Page 4
