From Butt to Booty

by Amber Kizer

“Don’t let Mike spend a lot. I don’t need something flashy.”

  “Uh. Uh.” I have nothing to say.

  “Night, Gert.” She giggles and hangs up.

  “Ni—” I put the phone down without finishing the word. What’s the point?

  I was so good. How did she know? What’s with the covert conversation not being so covert?

  I quickly dial Mike. “She’s a six. Let’s go Saturday.”

  “Did she—”

  “Nope, doesn’t have a clue.” Sometimes lies are best for everyone’s sanity and safety. I have a very low pain tolerance.

  The away bus. This is what I ran for. I’ve missed my first three away bus opportunities due to blatant cowardice and bad hair. It’s now or never. I must make a move—the season is waning and I’m still running after Lucas without direction. This is why I have put up with the huffing and cramps and the sweating. Lucas. And me. On an away bus. Oh, there are stories of dreams coming true on away buses. Fairy tales may have sparkly horse-drawn carriages, but reality has old yellow exhaust belchers. Road trips with only the light of the passing streetlights and cell phones. Ah, the allure.

  It’s really rather weird. We get let out of class two periods early. Of course, we have to do all the work, but we don’t have to sit through class, which is great. We lug all our stuff onto a stinky school bus. But the adrenaline is running high and fast, so it feels cool. I know it’s bizarre, but it’s true.

  Lucas walks by as I’m standing in line with my girls to get on the bus and I catch a sniff of his manly-boy smell. He’s changed soap brands. Am I a stalker to know this?

  Nah, that would mean anyone with a crush and a nose falls into that category.

  I get stuck sitting at the back with Maggie and Clarice. Miles away from Lucas. But we’re on the way to the game. It’s daylight. This is not the important part of the trip, so I’m cool. I will bide my time.

  Their locker room smells like ours. Weird.

  We warm up. We run around a little. We practice kicking the ball. The game starts.

  I barely have time to take a step before Candace is airborne and yelling, “Clear it!”

  The other team looks like they’re not sure how they happened to be here. I like the dazed and confuzzled look; it means we have a chance to win a game.

  At least they don’t try to run the whole time. I hate the opponents who dart around like a school of piranhas in cute shoes.

  I study the sidelines. Do they have a coach? I really can’t tell who it might be.

  The ball comes at me. I hear yelling. I spin. I dive to get the ball. But I miscalculate and hit the dirt with my foot. It sticks. Have you ever noticed that dirt stops momentum? Especially frozen dirt.

  Why does our goalie get to wear long pants and the rest of us are stuck in shorts in the middle of winter? My cleats are bright red. I like to pretend they are like Dorothy’s shoes and they’ll take me home if I click my heels three times.

  The other team obviously just needed to warm up. Now they’re all serious and speedy. Scary, too.

  Clarice goes to throw in the ball. Why did she throw it right to the opponent? It’s not like she couldn’t tell the difference between our teams—they are lean, mean muscle machines that don’t look human and we are the girls with curves, huffing and puffing. Look for the red faces and sweat and you can immediately tell who is who.

  At halftime I hear they’ve won state like eight times in a row. Of course, three of those years there wasn’t an opponent, so they were pretty much given the title just for showing up.

  After second half starts, I think they’re finally getting tired. The ball is flying toward me. Wrong direction. Must get it to go the other way. I swing my leg back and shoot.

  “Foul!” the ref shouts like we’re all hearing impaired. “High kick.” He points at me.

  Huh. Okay, so it looks more like a Rockettes line kick, but puh-lease, so not a foul. It’s not like I actually kicked anyone in the head. She had really good reflexes and I missed making contact.

  Candace takes the ball all the way down the field on her own. It’s like everyone is too tired to stop her, and she just races down there at top speed. She can control the ball like she’s attached to it with Silly Putty. I’m so unclear how she does it. She shoots, and the ball just misses the top of the goal frame. So close and yet so daringly far.

  “Heads up!” Mack yells. The ball is in my section of the field and I am supposed to insert my body between the oncoming team and the goal. Yeah, right. Assuming way too much about my commitment to the little white and black ball.

  Where’d the ball go? It was just here. I twirl around, trying to locate it. How does someone lose a ball that size?

  Mack won’t stop yelling. It’s not like we can understand anything he says, but he doesn’t quite get that. He yells a lot of stuff, hoping we’ll pick out one or two percent of the whole; he believes in quantity coaching. Of course, I mostly hear “practice is over” and “nice job, Garibaldi.”

  We win the game, thanks to Candace, Becky and Krista. We sink-shower since it’s late; we really don’t have time to full-shower. Not that I really want to get naked in front of any of these girls. Clothes are armor. Armor is good.

  I wait until the ride home to talk to Lucas. There’s lots of cheering, but it’s a two-hour trip and people are stinky and tired from the game. There’s not much conversation and Clarice and Maggie know exactly what I’m up to. Hard to fool friends with good brains. They slide into the seat right behind Lucas and throw their bags on the seat next to him.

  “Hey, Gert, we saved you a seat,” they say in unison as I climb the stairs to the bus. They manage not to giggle. I’m near the back of the pack, having learned early that the back seats are taken up fairly quickly and the guys stay near the front of the bus. Pretty much it’s a way to get closer to Lucas without being all transparent about it.

  “Thanks.” I shove their stuff to the side by the window and sit. This gives me a perfect excuse to sit nearer the boyly-man. Manly-boy. Such a fine line.

  “Great game, Gert,” Lucas says as we pull onto the freeway. “You know what plans Tim has this weekend?”

  “No.” Why ask me this?

  “Just curious. You being tight with Adam, thought you might have heard.” He shrugs.

  “Nope, sorry.” I grimace, frantically flipping through the Rolodex of my brain trying to think of something to say.

  Miles zip past. iPods pop out. Lucas’s included.

  I have to tap him on the shoulder to get him to take out his earpiece.

  “What?” He genuinely looks interested in anything I might say. Maybe that’s his secret—looking like he cares. Not a lot of guys can pull that off.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” He shrugs and pulls off his other earpiece.

  “Have you ever been dumped?” I lower my voice, not wanting the entire bus to hear me.

  He’s surprised. Or I think that’s surprise. It’s kinda hard to tell with the streetlights whizzing past in the dark. He leans in. “Of course. Are you breaking up with me?” he says, smiling.

  I roll my eyes but don’t answer.

  “This about that guy?” he asks.

  My heart speeds up. He knows? He saw us together and wondered? This could be good.

  “Cuz Tim mentioned it was pretty cruel.”

  Great. I deflate. Perfect. “Yeah, I guess I was curious if there’s ever a good breakup. Or is it always like that?”

  “First time, huh?” He nods. “That’s the worst.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. It gets better, though. After you figure out that there’ll be another girl, or guy, coming along. It’s not like you’re never going to date again.”

  I like his confidence in my dating future. Of course, he could just be speaking from personal experience and then it’s not so confidence-building. Now, this sounds like good advice. Even mature. But think about it. This is blue-ribbon guy talking to me.
Me. The odds of our oceans having the same number of fish are slim to none. Besides, scientists say there won’t be any fish left in the next few decades, so there can’t be that many now, right?

  “Ya get me?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I guess so. Thanks.”

  “Anytime.” He puts his earpieces back in and goes to sleep. Either that or he just doesn’t want to talk to me anymore so he’s pretending. But there’s drool, so I’m pretty sure he’s not pretending.

  I watch, trying not to be too creepy and obvious.

  I put on a skirt. This is a momentous occasion. I must dress appropriately.

  “You’re sure she doesn’t suspect anything?” Mike asks for the hundredth time as we climb into his tiny gnome car.

  Hmm. Again I consider whether or not it’s in my best interest to tell the truth. “No, not a hint.”

  Seriously, why do people ask questions they only want one answer to?

  We walk into a huge jewelry store. One of those stores claiming to have cornered the diamond market that sells only hand-cut, magically mined perfect stones. The bling is blinding. “Wow.”

  Okay, either I underestimated the choices or I overestimated Mike’s ability to make decisions. Or both.

  “What’s the budget?” I ask, glancing around at the display cases. Mike always has a budget. Dude had a financial plan when he was six, or so I’ve heard during the why-can’t-you-be-more-like-your-brother-when-it-comes-to-money lectures from the parentals.

  Mike’s eyes are glassy and hugely dilated. “No budget.”

  “Huh?” I must have misheard.

  “I don’t have a set amount.”

  “Do you have a ceiling?”

  “Reasonable.” He shrugs. Sweat trickles down the side of his face.

  What the hell is reasonable? That’s like saying I’m going to have a rational tantrum. “Diamonds” and “reasonable” don’t go together in the same sentence. “You do know that De Beers started the whole ‘a diamond is forever’ thing as an ad campaign after World War Two, don’t you? This is the tradition that isn’t even older than our parents.”

  That snaps him out of it. “Where do you get this stuff?”

  “I’m just suggesting you not feel the need to get a diamond.”

  “I’m getting a diamond. Everybody gets diamonds for engagement rings.”

  We peer over a case with about a thousand solitaires in various sizes and shapes.

  I continue. “Most diamonds have some blood on them, either during the mining process or in the trade. Children are orphaned, maimed, killed.”

  “Charming.” A saleslady with capped teeth and a sprayed updo smiles at me like I’m a leper at Miss America.

  “Gert. Listen to me.” Mike grabs my arm. “We are getting a diamond. We are saving the world another day.”

  I shrug him off and paste a smile on my face that replicates the one across the counter from us. “I’m trying to be supportive. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to be a lemming if you wanted to be different and daring. I wanted you to know you have options.”

  He relents and pulls out a hanky to wipe at the sweat. “Thanks. I get that. I’m optioning my right to buy the ring that says Heather’s name regardless of whether or not children have been orphaned.”

  “Okay. I’m cool with that.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “But what’s the budget really?”

  “There’s no budget.”

  “No, really?” Oh, buttocks, I must save Mike from himself.

  “Can I help you?” Charming Lady asks.

  I don’t like her. She was a Pop-Giggle hybrid in high school, I can tell. She probably plans their class reunions because she genuinely thinks the world can’t get better than high school. I wish we could go somewhere else, but Mike seems set on this store.

  He nods. “I need an engagement ring.”

  “Who’s the lucky lady?” Charming asks, looking at me like there’s no way I could possibly be the lucky lady.

  “His girlfriend,” I answer.

  “Heather,” Mike says, like there’s only one Heather in the world and Charming must know her.

  “Splendid.”

  Who says “splendid”? Really, who says that?

  She taps her perfectly manicured hands on the glass. “Sometimes it helps to know if the young lady works? What are her hobbies? What type of accessorizing does she prefer?”

  I start talking to Charming to take the pressure off Mike. “She’s a preschool teacher. Likes kids and wants kids.” I glance at Mike to see if he’s agreeing with my assessment of his future wife. “She doesn’t wear a lot of jewelry, I’d say a few tasteful pieces. She prefers accessories that aren’t flashy.” I add this last knowing full well that Charming gets a commission on the size of the bill. Flashy takes out a few of the larger, more heavily secured tables of gems.

  I’d also like to mention for the record that there are no price tags visible. Frankly, I think they should be color-coded so you know what you’re falling in love with before you get socked in the stomach with the bottom line. It’s sneaky, I say. Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky.

  Charming Lady nods. “That gives us a starting place. If you’ll allow me to suggest a few?”

  Mike nods jerkily. It’s even air-conditioned in here. It’s February and they air-condition the place. I don’t think it’s because diamonds sweat. I think it must be the average condition of men walking through those doors.

  She pulls out a couple more trays. “These are our most popular pieces. All are one to three carats total weight.”

  “That’s nice.” Mike points at one. “So’s that one. That, too.”

  Okay, this is going to take forever.

  “Are you focused on a solitaire?”

  “Why do you ask?” I raise my eyebrows. I can tell she wants to say something but she’s still sizing us up. “Well, if the young lady—Heather, is it?—works with children? Presumably she’ll want to wear this every day? Perhaps she’d prefer a few small stones, even a band of small stones, rather than a single larger stone. Our professional clients tend to stay away from large single stones.”

  Yeah, some of these could permanently maim small children. I see blind preschoolers running around.

  “I think she’d like those two.” I point to a couple of heart-shaped diamonds. Smallish.

  Mike gasps. “Heart-shaped. Yes, that’s her.”

  “Good, we’ll stick with rings that have a heart-shaped stone in them. Might I ask what your profession is?” Charming directs the question toward Mike. I guess she doesn’t think I look old enough to have a profession.

  Mike jumps like she’s pointed a gun at him. Obviously, cogent thought is beyond him at the moment.

  She sends me a small smile and quips a brow in question. “He’s a professor at Simon Randalph,” I say.

  “Oh, that’s a very well-respected private university.” She beams. I guess it pays more than the local community college.

  “Green!” Mike shouts this last word like he’s got Tourette’s.

  “Green?” Charming and I ask in unison.

  “Her eyes are green. Green’s her favorite color.”

  “Uh-huh.” I shrug. News to me.

  “Okay, that’s good. Let’s look at diamond and emerald combinations.”

  “H-heart,” Mike stammers.

  “Yes, in heart shapes. Of course.”

  I wonder if she does this all day long. Trying to distinguish gibberish from the mouths of terrified buyers and finding a ring to match. I feel the need to apologize to her on Mike’s behalf. “He’s normally very articulate,” I say.

  She smiles at me, a twinkle finally warming her gaze. “They all are until they walk in here. Even the most sincere groom gets a little giddy at the prospect of buying an engagement ring.”

  Interesting. I wonder if brides all hesitate before saying yes, or if the hesitations come at night, in the dark.

  A very painful four hours later, Mike selects a banded ring with three ston
es representing past, present and future. They’re small enough that they won’t injure Heather’s kids and large enough that you can tell they’re heart-shaped. They even have her size in stock.

  I had to steer Mike away from the rings only worn in rap music videos or down the Red Carpet. Rings where he’d be dead before he’d had the chance to pay them off, even with the very nice finance package offered by the store.

  Velvet box in pocket, we walk out into the brisk snowy air. Cupids dangle from the Plaza’s streetlights.

  “Thanks, little sis.”

  “You’re welcome. Are you doing roses and candles and moonlight?”

  “I can’t really control the moonlight thing—forecast is cloudy. You think I should do roses and candles?”

  I hesitate, as his color is just starting to return to normal. “What were you planning?”

  “I don’t know. One knee after dinner.”

  “Do you have reservations?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Where?” Please don’t be Chuck E. Cheese.

  He names the “it” romantic restaurant.

  How clichéd!

  “What?” he asks.

  Dude is a Mensa boy. You’d think he could be more creative than that.

  I don’t say anything.

  “I’d rather do it at home, but she’s not going to wait in the car for me to light all the candles and I’d never concentrate worrying about burning down the building while we were at dinner.”

  It’s not like my Valentine’s Day is going to be anything worth saving the date for. “Why don’t I come over and light all the candles, turn on the music, et cetera, et cetera?”

  “And then be there? Thanks, but this is scary enough without an audience.”

  “No, I’ll watch out your window and sneak out. I can hide around the corner from your apartment door when you go in, then ride the elevator down and drive home.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Well, yeah. You’re my brother.”

  He looks pleased. Touched, even. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, have it all there. I can just set up. You do the shopping. It has more meaning if you’ve bought all the stuff.”

  “You’re probably right. But it’s tempting to give you permission to use my Visa.”