Dream Girl

by Lauren Mechling

  “Helpful, my foot,” Becca said loudly. Her hair was up in a loose bun and she was wearing a white wool dress with navy tuxedo-style ruffles. “This place is crazy. They didn’t let women become members until, like, two years ago, and they still have all these rules like women aren’t allowed to use the main staircase or walk across the lobby unaccompanied.”

  “Oh my God, that is so sexist,” Rye said in a loud whisper. She was so thin I’d only just noticed her. She seemed to have yet to notice me.

  “You’re free to leave,” the man I took for Becca’s dad reminded her, and I could see the woman sitting next to him stifle a laugh.

  “You must be Claire,” this beautiful mom-aged person said warmly, turning my way. “I’m Becca’s mom, Deirdre.” I could see the resemblance between Becca and her mother. Deirdre was a brunette, and she’d accessorized her simple navy dress with the most amazing violet gemstone earrings. “And this is my husband, D. K. Shuttleworth.”

  “Good to meetcha,” he said, standing to reach over and clamp my hand so hard I wanted to jump up. He had bushy eyebrows and Becca’s huge brown eyes. He was wearing a blue monogrammed blazer, knee-length red shorts, and moccasins. It was an interesting look.

  After we’d all ordered, Becca went to the bathroom and I got to talking to her parents. My initial nervousness quickly evaporated. There was a sweetness underneath their formality, and I couldn’t stop laughing when Mr. Shuttleworth told me a dopey joke about Beethoven in his grave (the punch line: “He’s decomposing”).

  “Oh, he’s a regular Woody Allen.” Becca’s mother rolled her eyes. “Now, you’re from France, is that right?”

  “My dad is,” I said. “We go in the summer.”

  “Do you know what a lucky thing you are?” she exclaimed. “Now, where in France do you go, exactly?”

  “We start out in Paris, then we drive around and visit other friends and relatives in the countryside.”

  Her experience of the country was probably a little different than mine—I doubted she’d ever visited a public pool or witnessed a rooster running around a backyard—but I had no trouble talking to her about the long lines at the Louvre or how the consistency of a French baguette is impossible to replicate in America.

  “Wait.” I remembered something. “Where’s the birthday girl? Aunt Joyce?”

  “D.K.’s sister Jocelyn,” Becca’s mom corrected me. “She couldn’t make it.”

  Becca’s dad rubbed his temple and took a zealous glug of ice water.

  “She’s going through a bit of a thing,” Becca’s mom said.

  “Oh,” I said awkwardly, not wanting to seem overly nosy.

  “A ‘her husband just left her for his dental hygienist’ thing,” she shared. “I don’t think this was the first thing her husband had. Just the first one he was caught having.”

  “Aha.” I nodded crisply. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Oh, we’re not,” she said, smiling wearily. “It’s for the best.”

  “Then I guess I’m not sorry to hear it?”

  “She catches on fast,” Becca’s dad said.

  “I screen my friends carefully,” Becca bragged as she wedged herself back in next to me.

  I enjoyed the appetizer course—and not on account of my crab cake, which tasted like a broiled hockey puck. It was entertaining to listen to the family talk about their upcoming weekend in the Bahamas as nonchalantly as if they were planning an outing to the movies, and then they did that thing I’d only read about in Kiki’s etiquette books where people change seats between courses to maximize the number of conversational partners.

  Next, I sat with Becca’s grandparents, D.R. and Dixie. I could tell Becca’s grandmother was eager to size me up. “So, Claire,” she started in a Southern accent as deep as the sea, “what do your parents do here in New York?”

  “My mom’s a writer,” I said, not wanting to get into the weirdo particulars of her career. “And my father’s a French professor.”

  “Is that right?” She raised her eyebrows in what seemed like appreciation. “Well, you and Rye must have a lot to talk about. Her father’s in foreign capital at one of the big banks.”

  Her husband nudged her. “Dixie, she said French professor, not French investor.”

  She paid him no mind and smiled across the table at Rye and Andy. “Aren’t they a darling couple? And did you hear how they met?”

  “No.” But I was dying to.

  “They were at school together, and Andy was always chasing Rye around but she wouldn’t acknowledge him. Then this summer, she showed up on his doorstep and said she’d changed her mind.”

  “Completely out of the blue,” D.R. said. “She’s quite something, that one.”

  “I can relate,” Dixie added. “When D.R. first asked me out, I thought he was a playboy.”

  “She made me jump through some serious hoops.” He chuckled. “The good ones will do that to you.” He glanced over at Rye and nodded approvingly.

  During dessert I ended up sitting between Becca’s dad, who was taking care of some business on his BlackBerry, and Andy, who was too occupied shoveling his pecan pie into his mouth to introduce himself to me. All I could do was sit in my chair and pretend not to notice that Rye was at the other end of the table, eyeing me witheringly.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Andy finally said. “She’s nice on the inside, I promise.”

  “Thanks,” I said, spearing a piece of plum tart. “But isn’t the point of being nice that it’s on the outside?”

  “You sound like my old etiquette school teacher.”

  I gave him a double take. “You went to etiquette school?”

  “Is it that hard to tell? Thanks.”

  Before I could apologize, he told me not to worry about it and nodded over at his parents. “They’re brilliant at finding ways to waste money on their son.”

  “It was that good?” I smiled.

  “The only thing I remember is that you’re supposed to walk around with your umbrella pointing down.”

  “Did you skip the ‘no elbows on the table’ lesson?”

  “Apparently.” A smile crept across his face, and he walked his elbows off the table. I was overcome with a strange urge to run my hand over the top of his brown fuzzy head and had to focus all my attention on my dessert.

  He put his fork down. “I’m Andy, by the way.”

  “Claire.” My face went hot.

  “Right.” He gave me a strange look and went back to polishing off his pie.

  “You’d think they could find a piano player who knows at least a few songs besides ‘Imagination,’” he said a few moments later. I hadn’t paid much attention to the music, but suddenly I realized that he was right—the guy at the Steinway had been playing the same song all night. “Why don’t you go and put in a request?”

  “I doubt I’d be of any use,” I said. “The only songs I know by name are by girl groups.”

  “Don’t think they’re all that into girl anythings around here. Except girls.” His eyes scanned the room. I saw his point—practically everyone else in the room was an old man. “I used to know all the old standards. Too bad my memory is subpathetic.”

  “Speaking of your memory.” Rye pulled a chair up between us and started to massage the back of Andy’s neck with her spidery fingers. “Did you recall I have a paper due for my women’s studies seminar?” While she and Andy exchanged quiet words, I stared at her inky mane and wondered how long it would take my hair to grow into a shampoo ad like hers.

  “If you just wait ten minutes—” I overheard Andy say.

  “Sure,” came Rye’s perky response, “as long as you make the clocks go back an hour.”

  “Fine.” Andy pushed his chair out from the table. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  The pair stood up, exchanging unenthusiastic looks. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong about them as a couple. As far as I could tell, they had nothing in common—apart from
the fact that they were equally hot. “Rye has to go write a paper,” Andy told the table. “I’m going to help her get a cab.”

  While everyone else said their goodbyes, I sat there playing with my napkin, worrying that Andy wasn’t coming back and that Rye had whisked him off to whatever black mushroom cloud she came from.

  Becca and her dad were talking to an elderly man who had wobbled over to the table, so I didn’t try to butt in. At last Andy returned and twitched back into his seat, but we didn’t exactly pick up where we’d left off. He was instantly consumed in a bout of under-the-table text messaging, a million worlds away from me.

  Finally, when being ignored by him was becoming unbearable, I mustered the courage to ask him about Columbia. “Have you joined any clubs at school or anything?”

  Great opening gambit, Claire.

  He laughed. “I’m not much of an organized activities kind of guy. I take a lot of long walks. Does that count?”

  “Let me clarify,” Becca broke in. “By ‘long walks’ he doesn’t mean sixty-minute power walks. This guy will go till all hours.”

  “I’m not a total antisocial weirdo, I just like exploring the city.” Andy defended himself.

  “My little brother’s like that,” I told him, “and I know it’s not the same thing, but I like to ride my bike to far parts of the city.”

  “Far? Where?” I couldn’t tell if he was skeptical or just curious.

  “Everywhere…. My parents have all these old New York City guides. In Queens I’ve gone as far as just before La-Guardia airport…. the Botanical Garden in the Bronx…this really cool public garden in Riverdale called—”

  “Wave Hill? I’ve been up there, too. Ever been to the cactus house?”

  “That place rocks!” I burst out. “Did you see the hot-pink cactus?”

  “No, I missed the most obvious thing in the room.” He stuck out his tongue playfully.

  I felt my blood turn a hundred degrees hotter, and I had to look away and think about something less exciting. Slugs. Shoelaces. Vinyl siding.

  None of it worked.

  I liked this guy. And apart from the facts that he was (a) my best friend’s brother, (b) already taken, and (c) a zillion levels out of my league, he was perfect for me.

  After dinner, Becca’s parents and grandparents went home, and Becca suggested that she and Andy and I go upstairs. “There’s always a book party on Thursday nights. Sometimes they’re fun.”

  I couldn’t say that was exactly what I was in the mood for—the few times I’d let my parents drag me to their friends’ book launches I’d found myself in some fluorescent-lit university office watching academics eat cheese and crackers with their mouths open—but I had a feeling this night might be different.

  And was it ever. The library was all dark wood paneling and rolling ladders and books dating back to the American Revolution. The bookends were classic stone busts—presumably of deceased Portrait Club members. Piles of the book that was being celebrated were stacked next to the globe on the table in the center of the room.

  As for the living members in the room, well, Becca’s description of “dead white men waiting to happen” wasn’t completely off the mark.

  Andy led us through the crowd to another window seat. I ended up in the middle, and Andy turned to face me.

  “You having fun?” he asked.

  “Of course. It’s great up here.” I made sure to look at both of my hosts.

  “It’s too bad the roof is closed,” Andy said. “You can see everything from up there….”

  “It’s true,” Becca jumped in. “You’d go nuts, C. There’s some very good peeping opportunities. Last time we were up there we were looking right in on some dinner party where all the guests had to come dressed up like trashy celebrities.”

  “Those were trashy celebrities,” Andy said. “VJ Salmonella lives in that apartment.”

  “He means DJ Umbrella,” Becca said to me, rolling her eyes.

  It was doubtful that Andy noticed, but his leg was pressing against mine. It made me a little nervous, and I scooted back.

  My spine rammed into something pointy and I spun around, expecting to see a piece of hardware—a coat hook or window latch.

  “What the…?” I cried. It was the exact same duffel bag from my dream, with the black-and-white plaid and everything.

  “That’s called a bag,” Andy said. “I believe it’s an item that’s associated with gym-going homo sapiens.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said, “I had a dream with…Never mind.” It dawned on me that telling them about the levitating bike and my flying was probably not the smoothest move. Same went for Kiki’s spiel about my dreams leading me somewhere. “Well, it’s a long story, but there was a duffel bag that looked exactly like this one, with the plaid and everything.”

  “Spooky.” Andy’s voice was deep—almost the male equivalent of mine—and I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me.

  “There must be a present for you inside,” Becca said. “Go on, take a look.”

  “No,” I protested.

  “Live on the edge a little.” She raised one of her eyebrows deviously. Then, when I still wasn’t budging, she reached over and took the bag from me. As discreetly as she could, she unfastened the zipper and pulled out a worn copy of a book called Take Two: How to Manipulate a Man with a Winning Second Impression. Next, she unearthed a pink and silver scarf that we both instantly recognized. It was Rye’s.

  “No way!” Andy didn’t seem to be too troubled by our discovery—he was shaking lightly with mini-fits of laughter.

  “Rye does not own that!” Becca squealed. “I can’t be seen holding it. You take it!” Becca tossed the book, hot potato style, into my lap.

  Before I could thumb through and read any of it aloud in the mocking tone it surely deserved, its rightful owner was standing over me.

  “Looking for something?” Andy inquired teasingly.

  Rye let out a nervous squeak and snatched the bag away from Becca, bringing the book to her chest. “I was studying up here before dinner and forgot my book bag.”

  I felt absolutely mortified. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

  “What’s with the self-help crap?” Andy asked his girlfriend, clearly holding back laughter. “I thought you only read feminist theory.”

  “That’s what it’s for.” Her cheeks crimsoning, she murmured something about a feminist theory research paper.

  “What are you talking about?” said Andy.

  She took a deep, impatient breath and explained, “I’m deconstructing contemporary how-to manuals for women and comparing them with Victorian guides for young ladies. Kind of silly, I know.” She paused, our cue to assure her it was anything but silly.

  Andy took the bait. “That’s cool,” he said, scooting away from me and reaching out to pull his girlfriend onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and mumbled into her hair. “Just don’t get any lame ideas from that book. You know more about manipulating men than any self-help guru.”

  And then everyone giggled. Well, everyone but me.

  { 14 }

  Divine Intervention

  “Enter at your own risk,” Henry said as I walked through the front door. He was slumped on the couch, sipping out of a Mont-Saint-Michel souvenir mug and watching some show about turtles.

  “What’s the matter? Am I in trouble or something?”

  He looked confused. “When have you ever been in trouble, Claire?”

  Our parents don’t do trouble. They can be nags about things like homework (they’re pro), snacking (con), and wasting money (violently con), but they’re pretty lax about the drugs, sex, and rock and roll stuff—at least, so far they are.

  “So what, then?” I slipped out of my shoes and padded into the apartment, trying to puzzle out what my brother was talking about. All I could see was a typical postdinner crime scene at the table: a hardening casserole, balled-up napkins, and a huge pile of unpaid bills standing
in as the centerpiece.

  “Here we go,” Henry said, rolling his eyes toward our parents’ bedroom.

  The door cracked open and out thumped Mom, clutching a huge stack of paper and an enormous bottle of Evian. She looked as much like a model as usual, only this time for a runway show with an “electrocuted tragedy” look.

  Mom placed her stuff on the table and started walking in circles, talking to herself. “Earmark the proposal…rodeo index…file the column…”

  “She’s been like this all night,” Henry whispered under the narrator, who was explaining that turtles used to have teeth.

  “Wish me luck,” I said, and got up to pull out a chair for her. “What’s up, Mom?” I asked cautiously. She collapsed on the seat almost immediately and pressed her thumb over her right nostril, breathing in through the left side. With her eyes still closed, she covered up the left nostril and breathed out through the right side.

  “I’m just overwhelmed,” she said when she was done with her breathing exercise. I’m used to seeing her get melodramatic about her professional life, but this time there was an unfamiliar edge to her voice. “I can’t keep up.”

  “Keep what up?”

  “Everything.”

  “And what part of everything in particular?”

  It went on like this for a little while. Finally, I got her to explain. She’d been trying to help Dad with his Zola research, and meanwhile, the Miss Rodeo America book was taking longer than she’d hoped, and her astrology column was due the next day at noon. “Every time I finish anything, I’m already late with the next thing,” she said. “It’s my third extension, and they said if I don’t get something in, they’re finding a new astrologist.”

  “You’re not in such bad shape,” I told her, trying to be positive. “You just need some sleep and you can bang out the column in the morning.”

  “I can’t.” She sniffed. “I have to go to the Miss Rodeo publisher’s first thing tomorrow. They said they have an office for me to work in.”