“Wheeeeew!” she shrieked, tumbling onto his lap, knocking off his sunglasses.
“How 'bout it, Rosenthal,” Alex hollered as he secured his shades, “aren't you gonna get us some grub?”
Eli started toward the kitchen. Jenna leaped off Alex's lap and chirped, “I'll help!”
As Jenna trotted after him, Alex cracked up. Shay, who'd just explained that heat triggers his asthma, began puffing at his inhaler.
Becca and I resumed playing, but I felt self-conscious with the guys sitting right there on the couch.
“Are you playing spit?” Shay asked.
I nodded.
Becca flung down a succession of nine, ten, jack, queen, jack, even though I had a jack waiting in my hand the whole time.
“You just moved here, right?”
I glanced up at Shay. He blew his bangs off his forehead, but they landed right back where they'd been. How did he know I wasn't from the city? All I'd told him was my first name.
“Spit!” Becca cried, slapping the pile with a single card.
Eli and Jenna returned with a six-pack of Coke, a bag of pretzel sticks and the rest of the chocolate chip cookies from last week. Eli plopped the snacks on the coffee table while Jenna made a big production of delivering the Cokes to each person individually. She didn't look me in the eye when she gave me mine. Though a few minutes later, I noticed her checking me out, in that scrutinizing way that girls tend to do to each other. Up, down, over, back. Pause at the boobs. Pause at the thighs.
“Spit! I won!” Becca screamed after slaughtering me in the next two rounds.
Jenna pumped the volume on the television. The Real World was just beginning.
“Do you want to keep playing in my room?” Becca asked me, scooping up her cards.
I don't know what came over me as I said, “No, thanks.”
Mistake #2.
As soon as Becca was gone, I regretted it immediately. Surveying the room, I was transported back to 1492, the lone native standing on a beach as the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria docked at the Canary Islands. I grabbed a handful of pretzels.
Meanwhile, Jenna and Alex chattered away as if I weren't even there. A few times, Shay tried to bring me into the conversation, but I didn't really know what to say to them.
I started to worry that I smelled bad. Luckily, the sweat on my tank top had dried already. When no one was looking, I swiped my hand under my armpit and brought it up to my nose. Not bad. At least I can rule that out.
“How do I look?” Jenna asked. Some guys on The Real World were discussing pot, so she was pinching a pretzel stick between her thumb and pointer finger and sucking in rapidly, as if it was a joint.
“I know something you'd look even better sucking,” Alex said, grinning.
“Yeah,” Jenna retorted, “except the pretzel would fill up more of my mouth!”
Alex pinned Jenna against a couch cushion and began tickling her. As Jenna squealed, I groaned inwardly. I've seen her type before, the kind of girl whose impertinence to guys results in their lusting after her. Except for Eli. I mean, he'd barely spoken, so I couldn't get a sense of his feelings for her. But she definitely wasn't teasing him. And from the way she kept glancing at him, making references to prior conversations they'd had, it was obvious there was something going on.
Two people on The Real World were getting in an argument. The guy, a premed student by day and a cross-dresser by night, had apparently borrowed his housemate's fishnet stockings, torn a hole in them and slipped them back in her drawer.
“Remember the last time we watched this, Eli?” Jenna asked. “Didn't they get in a fight then too?”
“I don't remember.”
Eli shrugged. “What do you think it takes to get on a show like that?” Shay asked, fiddling with his inhaler.
“You have to have something quirky about you,” Alex said, “something cool and unusual.”
“I bet you think you'd be perfect for it!” Jenna swatted at his sunglasses.
As Alex dodged Jenna, I glanced over at Eli, just in time to catch him looking at me. He turned away quickly, grabbed a chocolate chip cookie and gobbled it in one bite.
“Of all of us,” Shay said, “who would be most likely to get on The Real World?”
“You couldn't pay me a million dollars to do it.” Jenna swigged her Coke. “No way is someone filming the inside of my bedroom.”
“I don't think they allow X-rated content on MTV.” Alex chuckled.
“Screw you!” Jenna shrieked.
“Sure.” Alex dove at her waist, tickling her again. “Then I could join every other guy in this city!”
As Jenna writhed next to him on the couch, Shay ignored her and asked, “What about Sammie? I think she could do it.”
I froze. Eli shoved another cookie in his mouth, this time with the voracity of Cookie Monster.
“I don't think so.” Jenna wriggled away from Alex, addressing me directly for the first time. “You're too—”
“Absolutely, completely average,” I cut in. Mistake #3. I'd meant to finish her sentence before she said something like pathetic and ugly, but it wound up sounding stupid.
“If you insist,” Jenna said, smacking her burgundy lips together. “I was just going to say ‘fresh-faced,' like Eli.”
We all glanced over at Eli. He shoved a third cookie in his mouth, even though he couldn't possibly have finished chewing the others. Maybe he was experiencing air deprivation due to the food lodged in his throat, but his face was as red as a fire engine.
If you insist?” Phoebe boomed across the dog run the next morning. “She said, ‘If you insist'?”
“Yeah … that's pretty much what she said.”
We were sitting on the bench that was shaded by an umbrella of leafy trees. With the heat wave still in full blast, the temperature was already in the upper nineties, without the slightest hint of a breeze. But this time Phoebe had brought along a doggie dish and a bottle of water.
“We're obviously dealing with one insecure little bitch! Jenna's obviously threatened by you.”
“By me?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
“Why would someone like her be threatened by someone like me? And anyway, I'm probably more insecure than all of them, and I'd still never say something like that. …”
“First of all”—Phoebe leaned over to refill the dish at our feet as Moxie lapped up the remaining water— “coyotes are so skittish and unpredictable. And second of all, Jenna's obviously the more insecure one. Look at the way she had to put you down to make herself feel better.”
“You've got a point. …”
“I mean, everyone is insecure to some degree,” Phoebe continued, “but it doesn't mean we can go around dishing out insults whenever we feel like it.”
“Are you?”
“Where do I begin?” “But I just thought … you just seem so confident. …”
“To quote my sister, Charlotte, ‘Confidence and insecurity are not mutually exclusive,’ Phoebe said, folding her arms across her chest. “For instance, deep down, I like myself. But I also wish I weren't such a runt. I wish the guys at school didn't think of me as a buddy type. I wish I could fill more than a jog bra—”
“Are you kidding?” I interrupted. “I wish I could fill up just a jog bra!”
“Are you kidding? I would kill for yours. …”
“You can have them!”
“Okay.” Phoebe giggled. “Let's make a dual appointment with a plastic surgeon. Whatever they take from yours they can siphon into mine!”
“Gross”—I made a face—“but you've got yourself a deal.”
I glanced at the people strolling down the street, sipping iced coffees. Everyone seemed to be moving more slowly these past few days and it was catching me off guard. I guess I'd grown accustomed to the fast clip of the city.
“Doesn't it feel like a big catch twenty-two?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“It seem
s like guys only go out with girls who've had boyfriends before, like they have this stamp of approval that they're ‘girlfriend material.’
Phoebe nodded. “You can't get it unless you've had it but you must have it in order to get it.”
“Something like that …”
“That's why my only date so far has been in a chat room with Mountainking.”
“Do you think it will always be this way?” I asked.
Phoebe adjusted the Velcro on her knee brace. “Charlotte says it gets better in your twenties. That guys start appreciating women who have something to say.”
“But I don't want to wait until then.”
“I know.” Phoebe scrunched up her nose as she began ripping the Velcro back and forth. After a minute she said, “Remember the other day, when we were talking about birth control pills?”
I nodded. We'd had a long discussion about the Pill when I told her that Kitty had started taking it after Jack got a battery of tests for sexually transmitted diseases, so they wouldn't have to use condoms. We both agreed that when we have a serious relationship that's exactly what we'll do too.
Especially since condoms are so icky, Phoebe had added.
How do you know? I'd asked. A few years ago, I'd stumbled across a pack of lubricated condoms in Dad's desk drawer while I was searching for a hole-punch. I didn't open them or anything. But I did check back a week later, only to discover that two were missing, which made me feel really strange inside.
That's when Phoebe told me how she once swiped a condom from Charlotte's toiletries bag. You wouldn't believe how big it got, she grinned, describing how she'd filled it with water from the bathroom faucet. When she got to the part where she flung it out her thirdstory window and watched it explode on the sidewalk, she was laughing so hard she could barely finish.
But this time around she was solemn.
“I went to my dermatologist yesterday and she wants me to go on the Pill.” Phoebe paused. “I haven't even gone to first base yet and I'm starting birth control pills.”
“Why?”
“For my skin. They say the Pill can clear up acne.” We were quiet again. This was the first time Phoebe had mentioned her complexion. I wouldn't say it's horrible, mostly rough reddish patches and a few painfullooking pimples, but it's the kind of thing that always looks worse to the person who has it.
I shaded my eyes from the sun. Maybe I should fill her in on Mom and Dad after all. About the lump I got in my throat upon hearing Dad's voice on the answering machine yesterday, something for Mom about health insurance forms. Or how Mom forgot to order an air conditioner until this morning, two days into the most severe heat wave in years. Now they're saying they can't deliver it until the end of the week, which seems pointless because the equatorial temperatures may well be over by then.
I struggled to take a shallow breath.
“Sammie?” Phoebe asked, the hint of a smile on her lips.
“Yeah?”
“Charlotte told me something else too.”
“What?” “She says coyotes are the most common roadkill in the Southwest. That some people even swerve their cars to hit them.”
“Really?” “No one would ever swerve toward a chocolate Lab.” “Thanks.” I smiled too. “Thanks a lot.”
When Phoebe showed up at the dog run on Monday, she had a camera strapped around her neck.
“What's that for?”
We'd arrived at the exact same time, so we were standing on the sidewalk outside the dog run. Moxie was sniffing Phoebe's knee brace. Dogma was sniffing Moxie's hindquarters.
“Mountainking.” Phoebe moaned. “When we were chatting online last night, he wrote that he's going on a date with the fry girl at McDonald's, where he works.”
“Oh, no.” I leaned against the metal gate. “It gets worse,” Phoebe said. “I wrote back that that's fine with me because I've had a boyfriend all along and we're practically engaged.”
“Oh, no,” I said again.
“Oh, yes. I regretted it the instant I sent it.” “What did he say?” “Here's the worst part. He wrote, I quote, ‘I'll believe that when I see it, as in a photograph of the two of you together.’
“So what did you say?” “Here's the worst part. I wrote, I quote, ‘Could you ask anything easier of me?’ Phoebe leaned forward onto the fence, burying her head in her hands. “Oh, Sammie, what have I gotten myself into?”
“Can't you just scan an image of any couple? I could probably dig up one of Kitty and Jack.”
“I would,” Phoebe wailed, “except he knows what I look like! I dug through shoe boxes of photos last night, but the only men I have pictures with are my dad and brother. And I can't do the incest thing, not even for Mountainking.”
“So where from here?”
Phoebe straightened up again, lifted the camera over her head and handed it to me.
“Congratulations.” She grinned. “You have just become a professional photographer.”
“But …” I glanced up and down Columbus, where the majority of people were executive types hurrying to the subway, and parents pushing drooling babies in strollers. “Who?”
“You just take the pictures,” she said, “and leave that up to me.”
Phoebe grabbed my hand and steered us toward Central Park. The heat wave, which had lingered all week, was finally supposed to break today. The radio was predicting severe thundershowers by early afternoon. But that was pretty hard to believe, seeing that the sky was clear and blue, without a single cloud.
Once we were in the park, Phoebe suggested we head to the Boathouse. That's this place where you can rent rowboats to take onto the small lake, but they also have a fancy restaurant and a snack bar.
“Where the food is,” Phoebe sang, “is where the boys are!”
“But how?”
She just pressed her fingers over her lips as she hurried me along. I gripped Moxie's leash with one hand, and with the other I steadied the camera so it wouldn't bounce against my chest.
Phoebe treated us to two iced teas as we settled outside the Boathouse, fastening the dogs to the wooden picnic table. There were a few people milling around, mostly tourists, but Phoebe remained optimistic.
“I'd take a seeeexy Italian lover any daaaay,” she drawled, attempting some accent that sounded anything but Mediterranean.
As I stirred sugar into my drink, I spotted a guy, probably in his late twenties, carrying a newspaper under his arm.
“What about him?” I whispered, pointing my chin in his direction.
“Too old.” Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “He'd look like a pedophile.”
After a few minutes, I noticed a lanky guy, much closer to our age, chaining his bike to the wrought-iron fence.
“How about him?”
“Too tall.” Phoebe shook her head. “He'd make me look like a midget.”
We'd just finished our iced teas when Phoebe sucked in her breath. A family of three, most likely from out of town, was ambling by us. The mother was carrying a Manhattan guidebook. The father was carrying a video camera. The clean-cut teenage son looked like he'd rather be getting a root canal without Novocain.
“Just right,” she murmured, heading toward them. “But Phoebe …,” I whispered. I had no idea how she was going to attempt this.
“Follow me,” she said, beckoning, “and get ready to snap.”
I had to lift my gaping jaw off the pavement as I watched Phoebe explain to the family that we were interns at Seventeen and had an assignment to photograph “everyday” teenagers for an upcoming issue. Before I knew it, the parents stepped aside, the father started his camcorder and Phoebe waltzed up to the guy and latched her arm around his waist.
I snapped a picture.
“Maybe you should take another,” the mother said, “in case it doesn't come out.”
The guy scowled.
Phoebe beamed.
I snapped wildly.
“You definitely have more balls than I do,” I told Phoebe
as soon as they'd disappeared down the path.
“It's not that hard.” Phoebe grinned. “And it's ovaries … not balls!”
For the next few hours, as an “intern” at all the major teen magazines, I photographed Phoebe with at least a dozen different guys. Only one turned us down, whispering that he was running from the Feds. We weren't sure whether to believe him, but judging from the way his eyes darted suspiciously around, we weren't going to challenge him either. There was only one shot left on the film when gray clouds started to form in the sky.
“Uh-oh.” Phoebe glanced upward. “We should head home.”
“There's one thing we have to do first,” I said, wiping mustard off my fingers with a napkin. Phoebe and I had just split a soft pretzel.
“What are you …”
But I didn't stick around to explain. Instead I tossed her the camera and marched up to a guy with reddish brown hair and a goatee.
“Excuse me?” I asked. My hands started shaking, so I stuffed them in my pockets.
“Yeah?”
“We're interns at Jump and need to take photos of everyday …” I paused.
“Sure.” He grinned, slinging his arm around my shoulder. “I'm all yours!”
When he walked away, I couldn't wipe this gigantic smile off my face.
Phoebe dashed up to me and gave me a big hug.
“Who's got the ovaries now?” she asked. “And with an Airedale at that!”
Just then, a drop of rain plopped onto my arm. I untied the dogs as Phoebe sheltered the camera under her shirt, and we started across the park. We'd just reached the spot where Phoebe and I usually say goodbye, when lightning streaked the sky, followed two seconds later by a loud clap of thunder. Dogma froze, huddling close to the ground.
“What should I do?” I shouted. It was pouring by now, rain dripping off my cheeks, my nose, my lips.
“He's petrified of thunder,” Phoebe shouted back, both of her hands still on the camera. “He's not going anywhere.”
“I can carry him to your place if you want.”
“But it's ten blocks up.”
“That's okay.”
Love and Other Four-Letter Words Page 10
