M or F?

by Lisa Papademetriou

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  I flopped down on the bed all smiles. There was plenty NOT to smile about, but I couldn’t help it. First of all, “Frannie” had been honest, funny, and just a little edgy, which frankly couldn’t hurt. I felt like I had done my job and done it well.

  Second (and this is the more screwed-up part), I liked how excited he made me feel. I knew I deserved more than a crush on a straight boy, but right now that’s what I had, crumbs for a starving man. And as long as I kept Frannie’s interests first in line, then none of this had to be a problem.

  Of course, there was still the matter of catching her up on what had happened. It was too late to call now, so I’d have to get her when she came to school after her dentist appointment in the morning. Between first and second period. At her locker. Most importantly: before Jeffrey got to her.

  This would be a good place in the movie for everything to speed up into super-fast motion. The numbers on the clock in my room start changing rapid-fire. Maybe there’s some kind of hard-driving music to add tension. The sun pops up; I get ready for school; I catch the bus; students race around the halls in a blur; I go to my first class. . . . Then it slows down to normal, just long enough to show how bored everyone is, contrasted with me looking anxiously at the clock . . . which then speeds up again. It spins around another forty-five minutes and then goes back to normal just as the bell rings for the end of class.

  I jumped up and beat everyone else out into the hall. Jeffrey had second-period gym on the other side of the school, but still, there were no guarantees here. I took the stairs two at a time, headed for Frannie’s locker.

  “Hey, Marcus!” It was Ethan Schumacher, coming right at me.

  “Hi, Ethan, I can’t—”

  “Just real quick,” he said. “You’ve got to come to the next GSA meeting. I’m officially begging. Guys are a complete endangered species at those things. I’m drowning in estrogen.”

  I kept walking. “What about Nicole?” Nicole was aka Peter Mintley when she wasn’t out, which was most of the time at school.

  “Estrogen by intention,” Ethan said.

  “Carlos?”

  “GSA meets at the same time as yearbook. He’s not coming.” Ethan lowered his voice to a confidential volume. “And Brendan Thomas isn’t ready yet.”

  Just then I saw Frannie come around the corner at the far end of the hall. I yelled and waved. She waved back and started opening her locker.

  “Gotta go, Eth.”

  He kept pace with me. “We meet Mondays after school, in room 108—”

  “I know, I know,” I said, desperate to shake him off. I stopped walking. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

  “Great, because . . .” Oh God, he was still talking.

  And then—and then—I felt a hand on my shoulder from behind and heard Jeffrey’s familiar voice. “Hey, Marcus,” he said, and kept going, straight toward Frannie.

  Close up on my throat as I swallow hard. Exaggerated sound effect: Gulp.

  “Later, Ethan.”

  “See you then!”

  “Jeffrey, wait up!”

  The most I could hope for now was to get to Frannie at the same time as him. After that, I had no idea what I’d do. I caught up just as he reached her. He had barely gotten out the ing in good morning when I blurted, “Frannie, we have to get to stats early to set up for that project.”

  I could see Frannie knew right away that something was up since there was no project. She played along beautifully. At first.

  “Oh, right,” she said. “So I guess we better go.”

  Jeffrey looked confused. “Um, okay. Catch you at lunch?”

  “Sure.” I answered for her.

  “Sure,” she echoed.

  “Oh, and thanks again for volunteering,” he said.

  There it was. I could only imagine Frannie’s thoughts. Thanks for volunteering? For what? The Polish food festival? For having you over?

  I stood at my locker with Jeffrey between us, where he had his back to me. I nodded subtly at Frannie and mouthed “no problem” while I pretended to work the lock.

  “No problem,” she said. Her eyes flicked over to me again, and when Jeffrey turned to look, I scraped my nose on my locker door, trying to disappear.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  “I’m fine,” Frannie said. I could hear the fake smile in her voice.

  “No one ever wants to do STF,” he said, “But it’s actually a lot of fun.” The boy’s got a voice that makes you want to slide right down inside his throat. No wonder he can get people to do things.

  I glanced over at Frannie and pointed at my wrist. Time to go.

  “Do you know what time it is?” she asked.

  Doink!

  Jeffrey pointed at her vintage Swatch. “Is your watch broken?”

  Doink!!

  “Oh yeah, it is.” Frannie folded her arms. “I just really like to wear it. Anyway . . .” Then she laughed for no apparent reason, which wasn’t so good. Then she snorted, and I knew I had to step in.

  “Frannie, are you ready? It’s ten after.” I could barely look at Jeffrey. “Sorry to drag her away,” I told him. “But we really have to set up for that thing.”

  He flashed his Jeffrey Osborne smile, the one that went so well with the voice. “No problem. I’ll see you guys at lunch.”

  As he walked away, I looked into my locker again, wondering if it was possible to get in and close the door behind me. Too late. Frannie grabbed my arm and started pulling me down the hall.

  “What the hell just happened?” Her voice had that upbeat-but-tense quality, as in, Darling, I think I’m going to have to kill you.

  “It’s ninety-nine percent good,” I said, trailing along beside her. “Depending on how you look at it.”

  “Go on.”

  I chose my words carefully. “Put it this way. You and Jeffrey had a really good chat online last night.”

  She stopped dead in the hallway. Erica Blevins actually bumped into her, and Frannie barely got out a “sorry,” she was so intent on me. I motioned her off to the side.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “Tell me everything he said and everything I said.”

  I pulled the chat transcript out of my back pocket. “Actually, I printed it for you.”

  She took the paper and read it at least twice on the way to class without saying a word. I felt like a puppy, waiting to see if she’d pat me on the head or roll the thing up and smack me with it. Just as we got to the door for stats, she stopped short again and smiled at me.

  “We had such a good talk.”

  I exhaled for the first time in about a minute. “See?”

  The second bell rang. “Okay,” she said with her hand on the doorknob. “You’re forgiven. But just this once.”

  Forgiven? I wasn’t exactly asking for forgiveness. This had turned out pretty well for her, after all, but I didn’t push it.

  She turned and whispered to me now since we were in the middle of a crowded classroom. “Just please don’t be me without me around anymore. My nerves can’t take it.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Neither can mine. It won’t happen again.”

  I even thought I meant it.

  “Frannie and Marcus, do you mind if I start class?” Mrs. Duke and most everyone else was looking at us. We slipped into our usual spots in the back, where Jenn was saving us seats. Once Mrs. Duke started lecturing, Frannie scribbled something and tilted her notebook for me to see.

  One question. This carnival thing. What did I volunteer for? What’s STF??

  I shrugged. All I knew was that it had something to do with a good cause. Jenn leaned in and read the note, then shrugged too, not that she had any idea what this was all about.

  I scribbled back an answer.

  Dunno. STF = Save the Ferrets?

  Six
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br />   “A skirt, definitely.” Jenn’s voice sounded positive, so I cradled the phone between my shoulder and neck and started sorting through the pile of clothes on my bed. Skirt, skirt, skirt . . . Okay, I had a green-and-black plaid kilt, a couple of minis, a long maroon velvet thing, two crinolines that I liked to throw together sometimes, a sarong, and a fifties poodle skirt that I’d stolen from last year’s production of Grease and never worn. Where to start?

  “Who wears a skirt when they’re volunteering at a carnival?” Belina demanded. “Frannie—go casual.”

  My girls were on a three-way call, giving me some pre-Jeffrey fashion therapy. Not that it was helping much. Every time I pictured Jeffrey’s smile or his warm blue eyes, I got a fluttery feeling in my stomach, and my brain stopped processing things—like whether my striped orange-and-green shirt and flowered skirt were a brilliant ensemble or seriously hideous together. I’d just stand in front of my mirror, thinking, Clash? Not clash? Clash? Not clash? Then an image of Jeffrey would flash through my mind, and I’d space out for a while. . . .

  It wasn’t helping that I had to dress for some mystery activity that Marcus had signed me up for. Of course, as Marcus would point out, a date is a date. Still, I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to kiss him or kill him.

  “Go with jeans,” Belina prompted.

  “Jeans?” I wasn’t sure. I mean, I hardly ever wear jeans, under any circumstances. It’s not that I have anything against them—except that they tend to fit me weird and make me look like a dumpy housewife impersonating a high school student. All I had was one pair that I’d found in a Dumpster on the campus of Saint Xavier Boarding School at the end of the term last year. Marcus and I liked to pick the trash there at the end of the semester because the kids were rich, and they always tossed out tons of great stuff before heading back home. I started digging around in the bottom of my closet, searching for the jeans, as the argument continued in my ear.

  “But Frannie has great legs!” Jenn insisted.

  “She’s got good boobs, too,” Belina pointed out. “She can wear something low-cut.”

  “She should wear her hair up, then,” Jenn said. “To accentuate her neck.”

  “No, down,” Belina snapped. “Otherwise there’s too much emphasis on her nose.”

  “Um, hello? I think you just turned a corner into not helping.” I blew out a sigh. “And I can’t find the jeans.” I was starting to get irritated. How could someone who buys her clothes by the pound have nothing to wear?

  “Black pants, then,” Belina suggested. “You have a hundred pairs of those.”

  “Purple is the new black,” Jenn chimed in.

  “Jenn, I wouldn’t wear purple pants even if I owned them,” I said patiently. “My butt would look like two giant eggplants in a catfight.”

  “I love your butt!” Jenn cried. “Mine’s so tiny.”

  I rolled my eyes. Jenn has a real gift for compliments. “Okay, everyone,” I said into the receiver. “Thanks for the help—I think that about wraps things up here.”

  “So what are you wearing?” Belina asked.

  “I have no idea,” I told her. “See you guys at the carnival.”

  “Don’t you want to hear what I’m wearing?” Jenn asked Belina as I clicked off.

  I dug around for the jeans one last time, but it was no go. They had disappeared. The only thing at the bottom of my closet was an old pair of purple cowboy boots. I’d bought them at a flea market a few months before because I fell in love with the flowers stitched on the sides. Hmmm, I thought as I held one up. They’re a little bit country . . . a little bit rock and roll. . . .

  Oh, who am I kidding? I chucked the boot back into the closet. Jeffrey would think I was nuts if I wore those. I definitely got the sense that he thought I was kind of borderline insane ever since the whole movie-night-with-Jeffrey evening.

  Which, if I tell the truth about it, was kind of disappointing. I know that not everyone is tuned into Marcus’s and my wavelength . . . but I somehow thought that Jeffrey would be. After all, he’s a sensitive guy. He’s not hung up on being trendy, and he does his own thing. But it hadn’t turned out that way. He’d hated Sholay, and he hadn’t even bothered to hide it.

  And to tell the truth, it kind of bothered me.

  I really hate it when you try to share something with someone and they just stare at you like you’re nuts. That was part of what I loved about Marcus. You could say something like, “The way the afternoon light is shining on that trash can is really beautiful,” and he would know what you were talking about. He wouldn’t feel the need to point out that trash cans aren’t beautiful, that they’re just trash cans, made of green plastic and overflowing with broken and rejected objects. He would see the light too, and he would agree. . . .

  Stop it, stop it, stop it! I told myself. Don’t compare Jeffrey to your best friend. And don’t do that thing where you pick out every little flaw in a guy and then tell him to get lost before you’ve even given him a chance. Jeffrey’s great. He’s sensitive, and smart, and sweet. So what if he doesn’t like Indian musicals? Besides, he could have just been having an off night, or maybe he was nervous or something. I know I was.

  But you know what really bugged me about the whole thing? I could see how hard Marcus was trying to help me out. He wanted the date to be perfect so badly that when it wasn’t, I almost felt more disappointed for him than for myself.

  “Hey, Frannie,” my dad said, yanking me out of my thoughts. He was standing in the doorway to my room, this half-amused, half-confused smile on his face. “Doing some cleaning?”

  I looked down at my cluttered bed and sighed. It is a sad, sad commentary when a father thinks his teenage daughter might actually be spending a Friday night cleaning out her closet. Although I could see why he’d gotten that impression. I’d spent the last hour tearing through my closet, tossing all of my clothes into three piles: “maybe,” “no,” and “no way.” Basically, my room looked like a landfill. “Just trying to find something to wear,” I told my dad.

  “Ah.” He nodded, like I’d just said something perfectly rational. My dad is a man of few words, but he does have an amazing ability to humor people.

  “I have a date,” I said. For some reason, I felt like I needed to offer him an explanation. Because he was still standing there, I guess.

  “Yeah,” Dad said slowly. “I do too.” He sighed heavily. “Your mom has this book. . . .”

  I nodded. “The Romance Handbook.”

  Dad looked at the ceiling. “Tonight it’s chapter one: ‘Relive the Magic.’”

  “Well . . . that sounds like fun,” I said in my most encouraging voice as I twirled a chunk of hair around my finger. “Everyone likes magic.”

  “We’re supposed to re-enact our first meeting,” he said darkly, folding his arms across his chest.

  Whoa. “So . . . you’re going to a church potluck supper?” I asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  Dad nodded miserably. “And we’re supposed to pretend that we don’t know each other at first. Mom is insisting that we take separate cars.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Sounds really . . . magical.”

  Dad snorted. “Two cars to one supper,” he repeated. “Do you know how much gas costs these days?”

  “Well . . .” Only my parents could take a handbook on romance and use it to create the world’s most unromantic evening. I decided to change the subject. “What’s chapter two?” I asked.

  “‘Recapture a Sense of Spontaneity.’” Dad sighed again. “Next week, Mom wants us to just drive into Chicago. With no plan!” There was horror in his dark eyes. My dad is heavily into planning. “She doesn’t even want to make dinner reservations because that isn’t ‘spontaneous’ enough.”

  I winced in sympathy. Poor Dad, I thought. He has to humor so many people in this family. “Does it get any better?”

  “Well . . . chapter six looks pretty good,” Dad admitted.

  Oh, ew—the parental sex
chapter! I had to force myself not to clap my hands over my ears and sing lalalalalala at the top of my lungs. Instead, I let out a nervous giggle that made me sound like a crazed cricket.

  Dad leaned against the door frame. “So—where are you and Marcus off to tonight?”

  “I’m not going out with Marcus,” I told him, picking a blouse out of my “maybe” pile and studying it. “I have a real date, with that guy who came over the other night. Jeffrey.” No to you, red satin shirt, I thought, tossing it aside. I regret to inform you that I will never find your missing button. Go make someone at the Salvation Army happy.

  Dad rolled his eyes. “Women,” he said in this jeezyou’re-all-alike kind of voice.

  I looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You just love to have two guys fighting over you.” Dad gave me a knowing smile.

  A giggle bubbled up at the back of my throat, but I swallowed it. Wait a minute, I thought. Is Dad joking? Actually, I wasn’t sure. Dad’s humor is usually deadpan. . . . Then again, he looked pretty serious right now. “Dad, you know Marcus isn’t interested in me—he’s gay.”

  “What?” Now Dad looked like his eyes might just pop out of his head and roll around on the floor. Apparently he hadn’t been joking after all.

  But how could my own father have not noticed? I mean, I knew the minute I met Marcus that he was as gay as the Easter parade. Don’t get me wrong—he doesn’t wear European clothes or talk with a lisp or carry around a Lhasa apso named Trixie like queer people on TV. He’s just . . . so . . . gay. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s because he’s interested in old movies, or because he doesn’t follow every fashion trend, or because he isn’t afraid to order Frosted Flakes with a grilled cheese sandwich. Not that any of these things are automatic “you’re gay,” signals. No, I decided, it was more that I hadn’t felt uncomfortable around him. I’d known right away that he wasn’t checking me out. And I’d known that the fact that he wasn’t checking me out wasn’t some kind of dis, either. I guess it’s just a vibe.