by Mindy Raf
“We’re not dating,” I interrupt Pam. “We’re not going steady, we’re just … hanging out. That’s all,” I say. And kissing. We’re kissing. We kissed. We kissed and we’re kissing. I need to sit down.
“Sorry to, um, interrupt,” Marcus says now. “Just wanted to drop this off.” He holds up the giant Dance for Darfur binder.
“Oh, hello Marcus! I didn’t even see you back there! Thank you, thank you,” Mom says. “I just talked to your mom and I was frantic because I left a flash drive in there with all my spreadsheets. Izzy, you have to help me decide on food. Remind me about that. Speaking of, are you hungry, Marcus?”
“Oooh, a tuna melt, make him a tuna melt. You make such good tuna melts, Linda!” Pam says, looking like she might want one herself.
“Oh, no I’m all right, thank you,” Marcus says.
“Marcus.” Pam turns to him and says in a very serious top secret tone, “Linda makes the best tuna melts.”
“Oh, Izzy.” Mom is looking me up and down now and shaking her head as if she’s seeing me for the first time today. “Look at you. You’re dressed like a homeless person.”
“No, that’s okay, Linda. The homeless look is trendy now,” Pam assures Mom. I catch Marcus smiling a little out the corner of my eye.
“I can’t believe this is what you were wearing this whole time!” Mom eyes my art studio clothes again as if my wearing them today will have catastrophic effects on both of our futures.
I don’t care, though. I just kissed Blake Hangry in our driveway. I just kissed Blake Hangry in our driveway. I repeat this to myself over and over again as Mom picks me apart from head to toe. But my mental “I just kissed Blake Hangry in our driveway” shield is penetrated when I hear Pam say out of the corner of her mouth, “I knew she liked boys, I just knew it!”
“I know,” Mom says back to her in an equally terrible stage whisper, as if they’ve discussed this before. “Allissa and her theories. Not that I wouldn’t support it if—”
“Of course, no. Both sides of the pond are fine and dandy, but I knew, I knew she liked boys!” Pam rasps, grabbing a cold stuffed mushroom from the coffee table.
Allissa and her what? Oh my God! And now Marcus is outright laughing.
“You guys!” I burst out. “I’m standing right here!”
“What?” Mom says as if she didn’t just imply that she’s had a talk about my sexual orientation with both Allissa and Pam. Great, so up until tonight, my mom thought I was a homeless-looking lesbian. That’s just great. Sometimes my mom lectures me about spending too much time thinking about boys, how they have one-track minds, and how not to lead them on or give them the wrong idea, and then other times I hear her on the phone talking to Pam and saying how worried she is because I’m not social enough, or ever talk about boys with her. I never know what I’m supposed to do. I’m either too suggestive or I’m not suggestive enough. I’m about to go upstairs and strangle my sister, when I remember, I just kissed Blake Hangry in our driveway, and everything around me goes mute as I smile and cling to that incredible mental snapshot.
“So what did Grandma want?” Mom asks, zapping me back to the present.
“Oh. She said she paid another doctor’s invoice, a new one, and she says don’t send her any money.”
“Right,” Mom says. “You know, I really could scarf down a whole tuna melt right now!”
“Oh,” Pam says, turning to Mom, “really?”
“Yes, but … we really should finish with the tiles upstairs before it gets really bad outside.”
“You’re right, yes. Okay, I’ll choose one, I promise,” Pam says, leading Mom back upstairs.
I watch them go. Since when does my mom ever scarf down tuna melts, or anything else for that matter? She’s more a re-arranger when it comes to the food on her plate.
“Hey,” Marcus says, and I turn around as he’s putting the binder down on the coffee table.
“Hey. Sorry. I’m … I’m so sorry you had to witness all that,” I say.
“No, I didn’t see anything.”
“Oh, no, I was talking about … Oh. Well … Oh.” I look back at Marcus, his face slowly turning a familiar nail polish pink. “I was um … talking about … my mom and Pam and all their crazy—”
“Right. Yes, well … right.”
“Do you want a pop or something?” I ask.
He nods and walks with me to the kitchen.
“You know, I thought you were your mom.” I hand him a can and an empty glass.
“What?”
“When I saw the car in the driveway, I almost had a heart attack.”
“Yeah? Well, if my mom saw you with Blake like that she would’ve probably dragged you into the house and … hosed you down with hand sanitizer or something.”
“Exactly!” I wipe my mouth from almost drooled juice, and then, “I knew you saw!”
“Oh. Yes. Guilty.” He takes a large gulp from his glass. “Actually, I kind of had this urge to punch Blake in the face.”
“What?!” I sit next to him, resting my elbows on the table.
“No! I mean … it’s just ’cause … I mean, if I saw a guy groping Jenna in our driveway I would want to punch that guy too.”
“Wait, what do you mean?” Then I look down at my cup, getting it. “Oh, right.”
“So, not that it’s any of my business, but why was your grandma calling about your house being on fire?”
“No, she was just being overdramatic,” I explain, heading to the sink to wash out the pulp from my glass. “She was calling about Mom’s doctor.”
“Right.” Marcus nods, getting up to bring his glass to the sink as well. “So why …”
“Well, my grandma’s helping us out a little because insurance doesn’t really cover Mom’s visits with her specialist, and there were a lot last summer, so …”
“Hmmm,” Marcus says, and then, “So what exactly does your mom—”
“I’m in Broom tomorrow, Friday, and head back Monday morning,” Allissa practically shouts into her phone, strolling into the kitchen on her cell. “And prob next weekend too to help move the office stuff out, but let’s do lunch on Wednesday. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!” She pauses when she sees what looks like Marcus and me doing the dishes together. “Uh-huh,” she says into the phone, opening the fridge. “I know, me too!” She grabs an apple from the drawer and waves at Marcus. He returns the wave and walks over to the fridge, grabbing us a couple of apples too. “Well, tell her she’s being cheap. Or next time you go out, just make sure she has cash on her.” Allissa fades out as she goes back upstairs.
“Here,” Marcus says, handing me an apple.
“Thanks. So … you’re alive.”
“What?” he asks mid apple bite.
“You survived the rest of rehearsal without me.” I keep a straight face, taking a bite.
“If you call crawling under the auditorium seats and curling into the fetal position for two hours ‘surviving,’ then yes.” He smiles at me with all his teeth, and I laugh so hard, I spit out a piece of my apple, which lands on his shirt.
“Classy,” he says, picking the apple bit from his collar. “Yeah it wasn’t that bad. And I remembered I had ice cream in my bag from Steve’s Freeze during my free eighth period, which I successfully used as a peace offering when mediating a fight between Emily Belfry and Sara Ronaldson over who had the more perfect, perfect pitch. So really, I was a hero.” He shrugs one shoulder.
“Well, wow. I don’t have perfect pitch, but you should probably bring me a pint of Steve’s ice cream tomorrow anyway.”
“Oh, I should? Huh, one play rehearsal and you’re already a diva.”
“Strawberry, please. Um … shouldn’t you be writing this down?”
He raises his eyebrows at me.
“Actually, make it vegan ice cream. Real dairy might sully my vocal cords.”
Marcus chuckles and sits back down at the table. “So …” he says, “you and Blake, huh?
”
“Oh. Yes.” And soon I succumb to another driveway-kiss mental snapshot that sends me sitting back down too.
“So you’re, ah … you’re going steady now? Congratulations.”
“Thank you, yes, I’m wearing his pin on my sweater right here.” I point to my T-shirt. “Kinda weird, right?”
“Yeah, I guess he is kinda weird.” Marcus smiles.
“No, you know what I meant … him interested in me and stuff?”
“No. I don’t think that’s weird.”
“It’s just that guys are always paying attention to my sister … or Jenna—” I stop, seeing his expression. “Sorry.”
“Moving on,” he says, waving his hand.
“I’m just saying that when guys talk to me, it’s usually just comments and stuff, or being jerks, and that doesn’t really count.”
“Hmmm …” is all he says, and then, “So you have a date for the dance now, that’s good.”
“Well no, not yet.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you have to hit a bunch of house parties with him first before you can go to an official school dance.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking. “Yeah, maybe,” I say, thinking about this Saturday night. And I guess I make a weird face or cringe or something, because then Marcus asks, “What? You don’t like parties?”
“Oh. No … I like them fine. I just … I mean, I’m not antisocial or anything, but I sometimes don’t see the point of hanging out with a whole bunch of people at a party if all you really want to do is hang out with just one person.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I think I would rather hang out with that one person, but have a party on speakerphone. That way we could still have an audio party vibe and not feel like total losers.”
“That’s a brilliant idea. We should make an app—Party Sounds: For People Who Just Want to Stay Home.”
“We could branch this out, you know, beyond parties,” Marcus adds. “Maybe make a whole series of audio apps. Like Restaurant Noise: For People Who … Just Want to Order In.”
“Perfect,” I say, and am about to suggest Mall Noise: For Online Shoppers when we hear Allissa scream out, “Shut up! What? Why did you call him back?” from her bedroom upstairs.
“Hey, did I ever tell you I saw Allissa a couple times around the U of M campus last summer? I think she was dating a guy in the class I was taking.”
And I immediately know he’s talking about Spray-Tan Bill. That’s what my mom and I called this guy Allissa went out with last summer when she showed us his rather orange-faced picture.
“Yeah,” I say, “I think that relationship lasted about five minutes.” I smile thinking about how many pictures of Allissa’s college “boyfriends” I’ve already seen since she graduated from Broomington last year. “Allissa’s relationships tend to be very … um …”
“Transient?”
“Yeah, she dates a lot.”
“Well, she’s pretty and all,” Marcus says, but kind of more to himself than to me, and then he looks right at me and says, “It’s amazing how little you guys look alike.”
I freeze in his gaze for a second, and then look down at my apple, focusing on the brown outline forming around my last bite. After what seems like a nine-hundred-year pause, Marcus blurts out, “Oh! Oh, no. No, that’s not what I meant. Ah, I didn’t mean that you’re—”
“No, whatever, it’s fine.” I wave my hand to signal the end of the whole exchange, but Marcus keeps talking.
“No, no. See … ah … you’re pretty too.”
I look down desperately at our cream-colored kitchen floor, wishing it was quicksand, while Marcus continues fumbling for words.
“You’re both pretty. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re not pretty, Izzy. You are. You’re not ugly. Neither is your sister. But see, ah, I would categorize her as really pretty and you as more of a …”
Large-breasted, potentially diseased, frizzy-haired freak.
“… a classic … a classic … beauty, you’re more of a classic beauty type.”
I continue to squint at the floor, and then look up, humoring him with a small smile. “Good save, Marcus.” But Marcus doesn’t crack a smile. He looks like he’s about to say something else, when, thankfully, Pam wanders into the kitchen.
“Oh my Lord, it looks colder than a witch’s broomstick outside.” Pam peers out the window. “Don’t make me go out there!”
“Stay. It’s snowing. The roads are probably terrible,” Mom says, following in after her.
“No, no, gotta get home.” Pam is already grabbing her coat off one of the chairs.
“Marcus, you sure you’re not hungry?” Mom asks.
“No thank you, Mrs. Skymen. I should … um … I should get going too,” he says.
“Oh good.” Pam shimmies into her coat. “Walk me to my car, sweetie. If I fall on this ice, I’ll never get up.”
So Mom and I walk Pam and Marcus to the door, and then just before they head out, Mom turns to Marcus and says, “Oh, and great idea by the way.”
“What?” Marcus asks.
“For the sculpture. Your mom said you came up with it. We really want something prominent to display in that front lobby window and, Izzy, you can handle a map, right?”
“What map?” I ask.
“Oh, well, my mom was pressing me for decoration ideas,” Marcus says, “and I thought maybe some kind of map.”
“Of Darfur, a sculpture!” Mom adds.
“I’d forgotten I’d mentioned it, and that’s of course if Izzy even wants to—”
“It’s such a great idea,” Mom says, nodding rapidly. “A festive map.”
“Uh, sure,” Marcus says, avoiding my gaze. “I guess Izzy could make it … festive.”
“Yes, of course,” Mom declares, nodding at me.
I shake my head at her.
Finally we say good-bye and watch as Marcus leads Pam down our driveway. Mom’s still nodding enthusiastically, repeating, “A festive map.” Then she lets out a huge yawn, stretching her arms above her head, the large sleeves on her top hanging low.
“What’s up with that top, Mom?”
“What do you mean?” She looks down at it as if she doesn’t remember what she’s wearing today.
“Nothing, it’s just so … flowing. I didn’t know you were into … What are those things called?”
“Tunics. It’s a tunic. They’re very comfortable. And they’re in fashion.”
“Of course they are.” I humor her. But since when does Mom wear something because it’s “fashionable” anyway? She’s all about being tailored and fitted. She hates looking “unnecessarily sloppy.”
“It’s just … so big.”
“It’s supposed to be, Izzy. That’s the style.”
“Oh. Okay.” I nod. “You hungry? Should I heat up dinner?”
“Well … Allissa’s not eating because she’s doing this new diet thing and apparently lasagna has too many stars or not enough hearts? She had an apple earlier. And I’m still full from all those appetizers, a little nauseated, actually. I think the stuffed mushrooms didn’t quite agree with me.”
“Oh. Okay …” I look at her.
“And I’m just wiped, so I think I’ll head to bed. You okay with heating up the food?”
I nod. Mom starts up the stairs and soon Leroy, who has supersonic stair-creak ears, bolts awake from his pre-bedtime nap to her side. “Hey, Mom,” I call to her. She stops and half turns, Leroy stops and half turns as well. “Everything okay?” Then this weird, worried look comes over her face for a second and I find myself rushing to add, “I mean for Saturday and the DIA, now that you’ve met Blake and—”
“Oh. Yes.” She closes her eyes for a second. “And I realized today I’ve met his mother.” She opens her eyes and smiles. “We worked on a toy drive last year.”
“Oh … okay, good.”
“So, you think you two might go together, to the dance?” Mom asks, using her forced-casual-because-I’m-really-
very-excited voice.
“Um … well.” And I try and use my forced-casual-because-I’m-really-very-excited-too voice when I say, “Maybe. I don’t know,” but I’m not as skilled as my mom and think I unintentionally flash my “I kissed Blake Hangry in our driveway” smile. Why else would Mom just start grinning wildly, nodding her head up and down, and start rambling about corsages, and dresses, and haircuts as she and Leroy make their way upstairs.
I walk back to the kitchen and heat up a lone piece of lasagna, still wearing that smile. But then I realize: How in the world am I going to have time to make a whole map sculpture of Darfur and the rest of the decorations and three more new pieces for my portfolio? Unghhh.
I stress-eat everything in sight and go back for seconds, positive I’m already off the charts of whatever system Allissa is using to track her calories. As I open the fridge, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the shiny silver doors. A classic beauty? What does that even mean? Allissa made me take this magazine quiz once called “Do you have what it takes to be a hottie?” and I didn’t. My results fell into the “Well, You’re Not Ugly” category. “Beauty” is not even near the same category as “Well, You’re Not Ugly.” I stare back at my fridge reflection. I arch my back, flinging my arm over my head all Dionysus-like. Yeah, Marcus definitely does not understand what “classic beauty” means.
As I head upstairs for bed, I start my art studio countdown, telling myself that I’m going to focus and finish that new painting tomorrow, even if means ditching a little of play rehearsal again. I get into my pajamas, wondering how I’ll tell Jenna about Blake and suddenly feeling jittery with excitement. But only for a second, until a mental snapshot of her disapproving face pops into my head with a thump of anxiety. I shake it off. I’ll convince her to come out to the party. I bet Nate will be there too, and Blake can help set them up so he’ll ask her to the dance, and we can all go together. I know she doesn’t want to go alone. Not that Blake’s officially asked me yet, but maybe he will at the DIA … I do my body check for any new lumps, bumps, rashes, or red flags, and then collapse into bed, still wearing my secret “I kissed Blake Hangry in our driveway” smile.
Girlfriend.
