by C. D. Payne
SUNDAY, December 13 — 7:45 P.M. I’m back from the big city. What a delightful day! We went to the downtown Santa Rosa mall, another big mall, plus the fashionable east-side shopping center. After approaching a state of near-despair, Carlotta found a lovely azure chiffon dress with three-quarter-length sleeves, beaded bodice with high lace collar, and a daringly scooped-out back. I was hesitant at first, but Sheeni insisted it was “perfection personified.” A brassiere will be impossible, of course, so I’m not exactly sure yet how I’ll work out Carlotta’s figure. I may have to strap things on with duct tape. Dress, gloves, and shoes (high heels!) came to $368.17. Being a young woman in the social whirl certainly runs into some tall paper. I wish I had rich parents like Sheeni.
I also had to kick in another $43.89 for a completely useless clutch purse. I may be able to cram in a lipstick, eye shadow, and eyebrow pencil, but what will I do with my blusher and breath mints? Fuzzy may have to lug those. Thank God I don’t have to worry about tampons. I’d have to decorate them with rhinestones and wear them as earrings.
That reminds me. Sheeni is insisting I get my ears pierced. Another painful sacrifice for love and I’m still only 14. When will it all end?
For being an ancient wacko religious zealot, Sheeni’s mother can let her hair down and be surprisingly pleasant to be around. Of course, long years of intensive practice have made Sheeni a master at maternal manipulation. Under her daughter’s skillful cajolery, Mrs. Saunders drove over 150 miles through heavy holiday-shopping traffic, bought us all a nice lunch, and wrote out checks totaling nearly $700 for Sheeni’s ball finery.
As for Carlotta and Mrs. Saunders, they got on like two cross-generational soul mates. I think Sheeni’s mother approves of Carlotta as a companion for her daughter because she dresses conservatively, is respectful of her elders, and acts like a lady. I also told her at lunch that I was thinking of going into missionary work when I graduated from college. She was thrilled and invited me to attend church with them next Sunday. I also agreed I would help pray for her son’s release from the temptations of mortal flesh (Lacey).
Carlotta had some firsthand experience of this herself as she was helping her friend try on dresses. Just the two of us together in nearly a dozen intimate dressing rooms. What a shock when Sheeni prepared to squeeze into that first fuchsia gown.
“Goodness, Sheeni,” remarked Carlotta, “you’re not wearing a bra.”
“Well, I’m looking for something strapless,” she replied, tugging up the skintight satin. “So I thought I’d better not wear one today. I hope you’re not offended.”
“Uh, not at all,” said Carlotta, sitting down and struggling to think about the stock market. “It’s just us girls here.”
Carlotta was more modest. She went into dressing rooms alone and obdurately declined her friend’s gracious offers of assistance. These brief interludes of solitude also served as welcome cooling-off periods for my flagrantly overstimulated nervous system.
“Mutual funds,” repeated Carlotta to herself as she struggled into silks, satins, velvets, and chiffons. “Stock mutuals versus bond funds. Which, do you suppose, offers the best opportunity for long-term capital growth and tax-sheltered income? Nope, not this dress. I look like I’m testing for the remake of Bride of Frankenstein!”
Despite Sheeni’s entreaties, Mrs. Saunders resolutely vetoed every strapless design, finally consenting to a moss-green silk dress with spaghetti straps. Still, no one could describe this compromise gown as conservative. Going on, on, and coming off, it registered a cumulative 9.2 on my Richter scale.
To spite Vijay, Carlotta had a change of heart and talked her friend into buying the highest pair of heels in Northern California. I only hope you know what doesn’t wind up at her escort’s eye level.
MONDAY, December 14 — No news in today’s paper about the mysterious Nick Twisp disappearance. Good. I hope the FBI loses interest and goes back to wiretapping Teamsters and harassing environmentalists.
As expected, Bruno was waiting for Carlotta this morning in the alley.
“How about another kiss, baby?” he cooed.
“I’m not your baby,” replied Carlotta coldly. “And I feel my herpes flaring up again. I’m getting another ugly chancre on my lip.” “Where?” he demanded.
“I’ve covered it over with lipstick, Bruno. I had to. The pus was beginning to drain.”
That cooled his ardor in a hurry.
In world cultures class, Dwayne took a break from snapping Carlotta’s bra straps to invite her to be his date for the Christmas dance. In this instance, I felt tact was uncalled for.
“Dwayne,” declared Carlotta, “I wouldn’t go with you to a dogfight in Tijuana.”
Dwayne looked intrigued. “I ain’t heard about that, Carlotta. Who’s arrangin’ it? Maybe I could enter Kamu, my wonder dog.”
“Why don’t you,” replied Carlotta, sensing an entrepreneurial opportunity. “The entrance fee is only $25. Payable to me.”
“That’s a lot of money,” he said doubtfully.
“Yes, but the grand prize is $5,000.”
“OK, I’ll ask my mom. So you wanna go to the dance with me, Carlotta? Huh? Huh?”
“No, thanks, Dwayne. I’m already spoken for. I’m going with Fuzzy DeFalco.”
“Fuzzy, huh?” said Dwayne, obviously disappointed. “Then who should I ask, Carlotta?”
“Why not Janice Griffloch? I hear she has the hots for you.”
“OK,” said Dwayne, “I will!”
At lunch, hurrying to commandeer a vacant chair beside Sheeni, Carlotta was amazed to encounter her sartorial mirror image.
“Tina,” said Carlotta, “where did you get that lovely outfit?”
“Like it, Carlotta?” Tina Manion asked, twirling around. “It’s the Mussolini Revival!”
“It’s a breath of fresh, fashion-conscious air,” I replied.
“Carlotta,” said Tina, gripping her shawl, “I’ve been trying to reach you all weekend. I figured out who your father is. He wasn’t a writer at all!”
“I know,” I said, interrupting her. “Inspired by your interest, I put the question directly to Mother. She broke down and told me everything. My dad was Adolf, her Rumanian masseur.”
“Oh, dear,” said Tina. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Mother finally produced the missing birth certificate. What a shock to discover one is half Rumanian. But what a rich heritage to explore. Would you like a massage sometime, Tina?”
“Oh dear,” she replied anxiously. “I hope there’s time to change my news article.”
“Why, what’s the problem?”
But my fashion double had abruptly fled.
Carlotta also missed a deadline. When she arrived at the Scholarly Elites’ table, her chair was occupied by a dwarfish Indian speaking French. Seething inwardly, I dined at the Shunned Loners’ table, from which seat I was able to observe zit-plagued Janice Griffloch administer a sharp rebuke to the jaw of a despised bra-strap snapper.
Carlotta received her second dance invitation of the day after school at the lunch counter of Flampert’s variety store. The assignation was made hurriedly during art class, at the request of you know who. Though surprised, Carlotta agreed. I assumed Trent wished to discuss his situation with Apurva. His actual intention, when haltingly but charmingly expressed, nearly knocked me off my stool.
“You want me to go to the dance with you?” asked Carlotta, dumbfounded.
“Yes,” replied Trent softly. “If you’d like to, Carlotta.”
“But, Trent, what about Apurva?”
“Apurva’s been banned from my life, Carlotta. Her parents found out about us.”
“So?”
“Well, so I can’t see her anymore.”
“Why not?” Carlotta demanded.
“What do you want me to do, Carlotta? Sneak around?”
“That’s a good place to start. Apurva loves you, Trent. Who cares what her parents say?”
“
I do. I think we should respect their cultural traditions.”
“Even if their tradition is dogmatic parental fascism?”
“That’s our interpretation of it, Carlotta, as Americans. To us, raised in our cultural milieu, their actions seem unfair and heavy-handed.”
“They are!”
“Not necessarily, Carlotta. Not in the context of their social structure.”
“Is that why you wouldn’t sleep with Apurva?” I asked.
“Who told you that?” he demanded, shocked.
“Trent, between Apurva and me, there are no secrets,” I lied.
“Well,” he conceded, “that’s part of it. Her culture believes brides should come to the marriage bed as virgins.”
“Her culture also occasionally burns brides when their dowries prove inadequate,” I pointed out. “Do you condone that practice as well?”
“Of course not, Carlotta. Why are you getting so upset?”
I ignored the question. “OK, besides cultural qualms, what else is holding you back?”
“You’ll misinterpret what I say.”
“Try me, Trent.”
“Carlotta, Apurva is a very beautiful girl, I mean, woman.”
“That’s a fair statement,” I conceded.
“How do I know I love Apurva? I mean intellectually. How do I know I’m not just entranced by her physical beauty?”
“What difference does it make?”
“It means a great deal to me.”
“I see, Trent. So you thought you’d ask out somebody less attractive to see if you can divorce aesthetics from love.”
“That wasn’t the only reason, Carlotta. I do like you. You’re very… offbeat.”
“Trent, you don’t love someone intellectually. You love them with your body. Physical appearance is a powerful source of desire. Believe me, I know.”
“Beauty is an accident of genetics and societal conventions,” he retorted. “What about the unlucky people? Don’t they have an equal right to be loved?”
“Sure. And they are—by other ugly people.”
“I wish I were ugly,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Then if someone said they cared for me, I’d know they were sincere.”
“Yes, unless you were rich or well connected or sang rap songs or juggled flaming torches or distinguished yourself in a thousand other ways. There’s always room for doubt, Trent, if you want to play those games.”
“I do feel strongly for Apurva,” he admitted. “I think about her incessantly. Especially when I walk her dog.”
“Then make love to her, Trent. She wants you to, quite badly.”
“You’ve spoken to her on this topic, Carlotta?”
“At length, Trent. Believe me, she’s made up her mind. Taking her to bed would not be an act of cultural imperialism.”
“I’m too young for marriage, Carlotta.”
“Apurva does not expect marriage, Trent. She’s a modern woman living in a global culture. She realizes young love can be transitory.”
“Thank you, Carlotta. You’ve given me much to think about.”
“Don’t think, Trent. Act!”
“I’ll try, Carlotta. If I require assistance, can you serve as our go-between? Apurva’s parents aren’t likely to suspect you.”
“I’d be glad to, Trent.”
“That still doesn’t give me a date for the dance. Apurva could never get permission. Are you available, Carlotta?”
“Sorry, Trent. I’m spoken for. But I have a suggestion.”
“What’s that?”
“If you’re really serious about separating aesthetics from love, ask Janice Griffloch.”
Trent paled under his perfect tan. “Janice Griffloch. Yes, that is a suggestion worth considering.”
Carlotta ordered another piece of pie. This day she could afford to indulge her sweet tooth. Trent was picking up the tab.
When I got home, Carlotta phoned Sheeni immediately. After a warm exchange of pleasantries with Mrs. Saunders, I was connected with My Love.
“Sheeni, I wanted to tell you, before you heard it from someone else: Trent Preston just asked me to the Christmas dance, 40 minutes ago in Flampert’s variety store.”
“You’re kidding, Carlotta.”
“No, and I want you to know I refused him. Out of loyalty to you.”
“I appreciate that, Carlotta. But hadn’t you already promised to go with Fuzzy?”
“Fuzzy would have released me from that obligation. He is more flexible, Sheeni, than you imagine.”
“What did Trent say when you turned him down?”
“He was disappointed, of course. I suggested someone else. Someone I think you may approve of.”
“Not Apurva?” asked Sheeni suspiciously.
“No. Janice Griffloch.”
“Oh, Trent would never ask her, Carlotta.”
“I think he may be seriously considering it.”
“But why?” Sheeni demanded.
“He wants to separate beauty from affection.”
“Well, in that case Janice Griffloch would be an appropriate place to start. Well, Carlotta, now we have another reason to look forward to Friday night.”
“It should be quite exciting,” I agreed.
“At my suggestion, my brother’s volunteered to drive us all to the dance, Carlotta. It’s such an inconvenience that Vijay and Fuzzy don’t have their licenses.”
“Your brother Paul?” I asked doubtfully.
“Yes. He says he’s looking forward to seeing you in your ball gown, Carlotta.”
I’ll bet he is.
“Oh, and, Carlotta,” she continued, “I’ve made an appointment for you to get your ears pierced tomorrow after dinner.”
“Sheeni, I think I should mention there’s a history of hemophilia in my family—on the Rumanian side.”
“Hemophilia only affects males, Carlotta. Don’t be a coward. We all have to make sacrifices for beauty. Don’t you want to look your best for Fuzzy?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“I’m going to loan you my blue sapphire studs, Carlotta. They’ll go nicely with your dress. That is, if you’re healing properly.”
I think I’m going to be sick.
8:20 P.M. The phone just rang as I was working on my physics problems. It was Fuzzy, calling in a state of extreme excitement.
“Hi, Nick,” he said. “I’ve got some amazing news.”
“Me too, Frank. You’re never going to believe this. Trent just asked Carlotta to the dance.”
“Really? Man, Carlotta must be foxier than she looks. That’s going to work out perfectly.”
“What do you mean?” I asked suspiciously.
“I just talked to Heather. And guess what?”
“She’s pregnant from unprotected phone sex?”
“No, Nick. She’s coming here! For a visit!”
“That’s nice, Frank. Your parents said it was OK?”
“Are you nuts, Nick? The parents are out of the loop. Hers and mine. She’s telling her parents she’s visiting Darlene in Salinas.”
“But where will she stay?” I asked, as a dreadful realization dawned. “Forget it, Frank. No way is she staying here.”
“But why not, Nick? You’ve got lots of room. She can take the bed and Carlotta can camp out on the sofa. It’s nice and soft.”
“I’ve already slept on that couch, Frank. It’s registered with the torture committee of Amnesty International.”
“OK, Nick. Heather and I can take the couch.”
“Frank, if Heather stays here, I’ll have to be Carlotta 24 hours a day!”
“Aw, we can tell Heather.”
“No way, Frank. If she blabs to anyone at her school, and you know she will, chicks always do, Bernice’s parents will nail my scalp to their living-room wall. I have a better idea. Why not stay at your Uncle Polly’s house? He has a hot tub.”
“It’s way out in the boondocks, Nick. Besides, who wants to get in a hot tub your uncle croaked in—
even with Heather? That is so gross.”
“Well, it’s your grandmother’s house, Frank. I suppose I can’t refuse. When is Heather arriving?”
“That’s what’s so great, Nick. She’s coming on the bus Thursday night. So we can go to the Christmas dance. I can go with Heather and Carlotta can go with Trent.”
