Then we both reached for the door again. This time, though, we didn’t butt heads—we just kind of let out these nervous giggles; then Jeffrey stepped back and waved toward the door with this “go ahead” gesture, so I ended up opening my own door. Which was weirdly disappointing, in a way.
“So,” Jeffrey said as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Where are we headed?”
“Well, I know this great Cuban-Chinese place,” I said, managing to make it sound like I’d just thought of it, when really, I’d racked my brain for almost two hours to come up with a place that had plenty of vegetarian options but where I wouldn’t have to eat tempeh again. And the Cuban-Chinese place was cool—for one thing, the food was great, like spicy Chinese food with rice and beans and these awesome fried plantains. For another thing, the waiters were out-of-control surly. I’m talking, they practically threw the food at you, which was always good for a laugh. Plus, it’s owned by our neighbor, who is a very nice man and has a super-cute pug named Zero.
Jeffrey grimaced. “Actually . . .” he said slowly, “I’m kind of on a boycott. I’m not eating any Chinese food until Tibet is free.”
I sat there for a moment, trying to process what Jeffrey was talking about. Tibet? I guess this was one of his good causes. . . . Be sympathetic, I told myself, even though I didn’t see how boycotting Cuban-Chinese food prepared in America by Mr. Wong who lived three blocks away was going to help anything. Then again, I’m really not up on current events, so . . . “Oh, right,” I said, as though I had momentarily forgotten my own Chinese-food boycott.
“I was thinking we could hit the Polish food festival,” Jeffrey said. “They’ve got these amazing dumplings. . . .”
I nodded like Polish food was the greatest thing since the creation of exfoliant, even though I didn’t really know anything about it, except that it probably didn’t involve tempeh. Which made it okay by me. “Sounds good.”
“Great,” Jeffrey said brightly.
“Great,” I repeated.
We sat there, smiling blankly at each other for a moment, and I racked my brain to think of something clever to say. “Polish food,” I started awkwardly. “That reminds me of a story. So this Polish guy and a Catholic priest are in a rowboat—”
Jeffrey’s blue eyes were staring at me as though what I had to say was the most incredibly important thing ever, and suddenly I realized that he was the world’s worst audience for a Polish joke. I mean, Jeffrey was the sweetest, most earnest person I’d ever met. He was in the International Club. He read poetry. He only ate things that were (a) vegetables and (b) not hurting Tibet. I didn’t want to offend him.
“So what happened?” Jeffrey asked.
“Well . . . their ship went down, and they had to live in that lifeboat for forty days before they were rescued,” I improvised. “But before anyone could reach them, the priest fell overboard and was eaten by a shark.” Jeez, where did that come from? I wondered.
“Oh, that’s so tragic,” Jeffrey said, his blue eyes clouding.
Way to go, Frannie, I thought. Now you’ve depressed him. Perfect date material. What would Laura say? I wondered desperately. Something uplifting, I guess. I decided to tack on a happy ending. “Yes, but the Polish guy had been a criminal, and when the priest died, he decided to dedicate his life to doing good works. So it was kind of inspirational.”
“Wow.” Jeffrey shook his head as he started the car. “What an amazing story. There’s a lesson in that.”
“Yeah,” I said, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. The lesson is . . . don’t try to tell the most PC guy on earth a Polish joke, I thought.
Silence descended over the car as we started toward downtown. I snuck a sideways look at Jeffrey’s profile and watched his hand on the gearshift as he drove. Mmmm. Who needs dinner, anyway? I thought. The view is delicious.
I could hear the tires humming as we drove, and after a few minutes, I decided I had to break the silence or I’d go completely insane. “So, uh . . . how did you become interested in Tibet?” I asked, grasping at straws.
“Well, I got into Buddhism a couple of years ago,” Jeffrey said, downshifting sexily. “That was when I became a vegetarian. And that was when I started reading up on the plight of Tibet. You know, China has been doing the most horrible things to the blahbie, blahbie, blah.”
Well, actually, he didn’t really say “blahbie, blahbie, blah,” but that was kind of where my brain tuned out his words and started searching for something intelligent to say on the subject. Tibet, Tibet . . . My dad always reads National Geographic, I thought. Hadn’t there been a cover story on Tibet a while ago? I seemed to remember flipping idly through the article while I was waiting for Laura to get off the phone. . . . There were pictures of mountains and guys in robes. They must have been Buddhist.
Finally, Jeffrey stopped his diatribe about Tibet, and I said in my most earnest voice, “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to go there. I think I’d love to climb Mount Everest someday.”
For a minute, Jeffrey looked confused; then he laughed. “I think you’re thinking of Nepal,” he said gently.
Crap! Nepal! That was the article I’d flipped through. “Oh yeah,” I said quickly. “I just meant that I wanted to go to Nepal too. In addition to Tibet. It’s all just so fascinating.”
“Yeah, Nepal is interesting because they have all of these issues with the Sherpas,” Jeffrey agreed, launching into some speech about Sherpa rights. Personally, I wasn’t sure what a Sherpa was (isn’t it some kind of yak?), but I was just glad that Jeffrey was talking about something.
I decided to just sit back and watch his full lips move as he explained the situation with Mount Everest and the Sherpa-yaks. It was like hearing my grandmother speak in Greek—I only understood about every third word. It’s funny—I’d always thought of myself as someone who cared about the world and the environment and all of that junk. You know, I’m a maniac about recycling, and I always snip up my six-pack rings so the squirrels won’t get caught in them. But I was starting to realize that I had a long way to go if I wanted to learn to speak “Jeffrese.”
Note to self, I thought, read this month’s issue of National Geographic, and go online to find out more about Tibet.
One thing was becoming very clear: Marcus and I had a lot of research to do if we were going to make this relationship with Jeffrey work out.
“Well, here we are,” Jeffrey said as we pulled up in front of my house three and a half hours later.
“Yep, here we are,” I agreed.
Silence. Then my stomach gave a queasy lurch.
Why did I have to eat all of that kielbasa? I wondered miserably. It was not sitting well. Actually, it kind of felt like it had come alive in my gut, like that beast in the Alien movies.
Polish food: when good sausage goes bad.
I guess it was my own fault. The food festival had been more fun than I’d expected—and the food was great—so I’d kind of let down my guard.
The first thing I saw when we got there were these old people in crazy crinoline outfits, dancing to this bopping polka music. They looked like they were having so much fun that I tried to get Jeffrey to dance with me, but he wouldn’t do it. Of course. Guys never do. Marcus once told me that he won’t dance because he doesn’t want to look like a dork, and I told him that was funny coming from a guy who dressed up as Stanley Kubrick (don’t worry, nobody else has heard of him, either—he’s a movie director and Marcus’s hero) for last year’s Halloween party, but he still wouldn’t get his booty out there.
So Jeffrey and I ended up wandering around the booths filled with homemade crafts and different foods, and he kept explaining the significance of everything to Polish culture, which was interesting in the way that social studies is interesting. The fact was, the smell of the grilling sausages was driving me crazy. But I thought I’d better not order any. . . . I didn’t know what Jeffrey would think. Finally, we stopped at a booth, and Jeffrey ordered a plate of pierogi. I’d never even heard
of it.
“Try this,” he said, holding out a small dumpling.
I eyed the food dubiously. “What is it?”
“It’s delicious.” The corners of his mouth tucked into a smile, so I opened my mouth. His fingertip touched my lower lip for a split second as he popped the pierogi inside.
The dumpling was warm . . . and it yielded gently as I bit down, revealing creamy cheese and potato. “Mmmm.”
Jeffrey smiled. “Better than tempeh,” he said. “Right?”
“I love tempeh,” I lied.
Jeffrey gave me a look, as though my nose had just grown about a foot. “Frannie, nobody loves tempeh.” Then he laughed, which made me laugh.
“Okay, okay,” I admitted finally. “The truth is, I’m not really a vegetarian.”
“Really?” Jeffrey pretended to be shocked. “Because the way you’ve been eyeing the sausage stands all night totally made me think that you wanted to go get some tofu.”
I laughed, but I could feel myself blushing.
“You want to try some?” Jeffrey cocked his head toward a booth, where spicy sausage was hissing on the grill.
I lifted my eyebrows. “Won’t it gross you out?”
“No.” Jeffrey shook his head. “You go ahead. I’ll stick with these pierogi, though.”
So once I had the green light, I went ahead and got a plate of sausage and fried onions, which was unbelievably delicious. Then we had some cheese-filled nalesniki, which are these crepe-like things, and some jablecznik, which is apple cake, and some sok, which is just fruit juice. The best part was, the food gave us something to talk about. I mean, sure, most of the conversations were just, “Mmmm, this is so good!” and, “Do you taste cinnamon in this?” but it was better than discussing Sherpas. And like I said, everything was great, and I was having a pretty good time . . . until the car ride home. That’s when the kielbasa really kicked in.
My stomach let out a groan. “So!” I said brightly to cover the noise. “That was fun.”
“Yeah,” Jeffrey agreed. “It was.” A smile played on his lips. “So . . . what are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night?” I squirmed in my seat and tried to subtly adjust the waistband on my mini. “Oh—just, uh, hanging out with Marcus. Doing our usual thing.” A belch tried to crawl up my throat, but I pushed it back down.
“Mind if I come?” Jeffrey asked.
What? Oh my God, I thought as I shoved a damp hank of hair away from my face, Marcus will kill me if I invite Jeffrey along on our hang. Then again, maybe he would kill me if I didn’t. This whole boyfriend thing had thrown me into a new zone with Marcus—so much for brain twins.
Now it was Jeffrey’s turn to look uncomfortable. “I mean, if you think it would be weird—”
“No, no,” I said quickly. My stomach started to burble away, and I realized that I was going to need a bathroom in about forty-five seconds or this car was going to lose its pine-fresh scent in a way that wasn’t going to be pretty. Get out of car now, my brain said. Worry about consequences later. “I mean—yes! That sounds fun. Just come over around six.”
“Okay, great.” Jeffrey smiled.
That seemed to be it, and I was desperate to leave, but I was having a hard time making myself get out of the car. What if he’s building up to a kiss? I wondered. What am I supposed to do? Is there some kind of cue I’m supposed to give? It was hard to even consider flashing him a come-hither look when my stomach felt like it was about to explode.
I waited another moment, but Jeffrey didn’t lean toward me or anything. Then my stomach let out a lurch like I’d just fallen off a hundred-foot cliff, and my decision was made. “Okay, see you tomorrow,” I said quickly as the pressure built against my tight miniskirt. “This was great—thanks again. ’Bye!”
“I’ll call you!” Jeffrey shouted after me as I slammed shut the car door and hurried up the front walk.
I didn’t even have time to give him a wave—I shoved my way into the house and made it to the downstairs bathroom—just in time. Okay, let’s just say that I’d made the right decision. Even if I had missed out on a kiss, I never would have gotten another one if I’d stayed in that car three seconds longer.
Mom was standing by the sink, scraping something into the garbage disposal as I walked into the kitchen about fifteen minutes—no, I’m not kidding—later. She was still dressed in a navy blue business suit. “Hey, Mom,” I said. “What’s up?”
Mom gave me a smile. “Just finished dinner. I only got home about half an hour ago.”
I checked my watch. It was ten-thirty. “Wow. Late! Were you out on a hot date or something?” I teased, slipping into a chair at the kitchen table.
“A hot date with my computer,” Mom replied with a laugh as she sat down across from me. “We seem to be spending a lot of time together lately.”
I nodded absently. It was true—Mom had been spending a lot of time at work, even working on the weekends. Laura had actually made dinner twice last week. I hadn’t really thought about it, but it was kind of unusual.
“Mom . . .” I said, propping my elbows on the table and putting my chin in my palms. “What was it like when you met Dad? Was it . . . was it love at first sight? I mean, did you click right away?”
Mom looked at me carefully. “Why are you asking?”
I shrugged, thinking about how hard it was for me to talk to Jeffrey. “No reason. Just wondering.”
Mom sighed and sat back in her chair. “It was such a long time ago, sweetie. I hardly remember. . . .”
“Was it ever—you know—awkward?” I asked.
Mom smiled at me, but it was a faraway smile. “It’s always awkward at first, when you meet someone new. You don’t know what to say . . . they don’t know what to say. . . . Then you get to know them, and you can hardly believe there was a time when you weren’t finishing their sentences for them.” She looked at my face carefully. “Is this about your date tonight?”
I twirled a thick chunk of hair around my index finger. “Kind of,” I admitted. “I guess I just can’t wait until I stop feeling nervous all the time.”
Reaching out, Mom took my hand between her own. “I know that this is hard to believe, but you’ll reach a point when you miss that nervous heart flutter. You’ll miss the romance.”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure that what my mom was saying was true. I mean, that thing with the pierogi when Jeffrey touched my lip had been kind of romantic . . . but I’d have exchanged that in a heartbeat for being able to get rid of the jerk feeling I had after confusing Nepal and Tibet. “I don’t know. . . .”
Mom shrugged. “Well, I miss it.”
“You do?” That was news to me. “But you and Dad are so lovey-dovey.”
“Mmmm.” Mom drummed her fingers on the table once, twice, then stopped. “Do you know what Laura and Steve are doing tonight?”
I rolled my eyes. “Picnic under the stars and chocolate fondue.”
Mom nodded. “You know they got that out of a book?”
“What?” I stared at my mom. “Are you kidding?”
Sheepishly, Mom reached into her briefcase and pulled out a red paperback with pink lettering. She shoved it across the Formica table at me. The Romance Handbook, the title screamed, Revitalize Your Relationship in Just Five Weeks! Over One Million Copies in Print!
Oh, that is so Laura, I thought. To do everything by the book! I started to giggle, but it got caught in my throat when I saw my mother’s expression. Her blue eyes locked on mine—studying my reaction. I cleared my throat. “And . . . the fondue is in the book?”
Mom flipped through the pages. “‘Chapter Three—Plan Your Perfect Date,’ ” she read aloud. “It has a whole list of ideas.”
“Wow . . .” I said. And then, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I said it again. “Wow.”
“So—I was going to try it out on your father.” My mother’s eyes, which were usually a serious dark blue, were sparkling.
Whoa—that was way too vivid. I slapped the book closed. God—why couldn’t I have been born in the forties? I wondered. Back when parents never told their children anything. But I didn’t want to hurt Mom’s feelings. “Um, sure, Mom,” I said, trying not to sound completely grossed out. “Why not?”
Mom pulled the book back and turned the cover so that she could look at it. “Why not?” she repeated softly, more to the book than to me.
I hauled myself out of my chair. “I think I’m going to bed,” I said.
“Okay, sweetie,” Mom said, tucking the book back into her briefcase. “ ’Night.”
Once I was in my room, I flopped on my bed and stared at my computer. Jeffrey would be home by now, I thought. I should see if he’s in the chat room. But I didn’t move. I just didn’t have the energy to try to think of things to say to him.
I’ll write him tomorrow, I decided, reaching for my phone. Once I’ve had a chance to look through National Geographic. I punched in Marcus’s number and let it ring. Right now, I just wanted to have a conversation that was easy on the brain.
Why wait for tomorrow night to deliver the full report? I decided. Not that I’d get much of a chance then anyway, with Jeffrey coming over. So I really have to call Marcus now. Besides, I needed to tell Marcus that we had to get some polka music ASAP. Those beats were off the hook. And I knew that he was the only person on earth who would appreciate them the way I did.
Five
“How about just plain cheese?” I asked. I was staring at the pizza menu on Frannie’s kitchen table, trying to come up with something vegetarian. Jeffrey was coming over, and I knew he wouldn’t eat our usual—ham and pineapple, aka pig and pineapple—and none of the veggies sounded good to me.
“Cheese . . . sure . . .” Frannie had a pan of blondie batter in one hand and was trying to open the oven door with a giant mitt on the other hand. Her mom would have probably made a whole dessert buffet if Frannie had asked, but she wanted to make these herself, even if they were from a mix.
M or F? Page 7
