“Better not be!” says Dad. He thinks this is funny.
“It’s a science project,” I say.
“Super,” says Dad, through a mouthful of pie. “You still into the poetry? Or is science the new thing?”
Poor, poor Dad. I used to get really mad when he couldn’t keep track of the simplest facts about my life. But then Mom told me the story about the empty boat. It’s an old Buddhist story. A monk was fishing from a little boat in a river, and he looked up and saw another boat heading right toward him. He got very angry and started calling to the other boat to turn away, watch where you’re going, stop, STOP! But it kept coming, and the monk got so furious he jumped up and down, yelling and hollering, till he almost fell out of his own boat. And then the other boat floated right up to him and he saw it was empty. It was just being carried along by the current. And the monk laughed and laughed.
After dinner, Dad and Laura tune the TV to something they think I’ll like, and Moose climbs on the sofa and snuggles his big golden head in my lap. But I can’t stop yawning, so nobody objects when I excuse myself and retire to the room Dad and Laura call Felicia’s room, even though it has nothing to do with me. It’s all princessey and decorated in pale pastel colors, like an Easter egg. It does, however, have a phone.
My first Kittencall is to Kat. Before I can even tell her about Dervish’s house, the music, the visions, the KISS, she starts babbling at me. It is incredibly unlike Kat to babble. Something must be up.
“Bleeping blintzky bleepskanya! Felicia, you are reading my mind to call me! The grossest possible thing has happened! It’s about Dmitri.”
Who’s Dmitri? I think, and then I remember: the creepy new accompanist! The gross old guy with the weird vibe.
“At the end of our rehearsal today he gave me a card,” babbles Kat. “I didn’t even open it till I got home, because I was too busy thinking about all the mistakes I made during rehearsal, and that the program I had picked was stupid and boring and maybe I should throw out all the pieces and choose different ones.”
“You always say stuff like that before a recital,” I say.
“Yes! And it’s always true! But that’s not the point!” cries Kat into the phone. “The point is, it’s a love letter! Three pages in tiny little script . . .
“ ‘And so, my darling Katarina, I finally must bring myself to confess these feelings that are burning so hotly in my bosom. I watch you play for day after day and I dream I could be your violin! Embraced by you and made to sing with joy!
Yours, in every way,
Dmitri’
“That’s how it ends. I feel sick,” says Kat.
“ ‘Hotly in my bosom’ is pretty sickening,” I agree.
“I don’t mean the prose! It’s just gross! He’s like, thirty. And I can’t stand that he’s been watching me this whole time and thinking stuff like this without my knowing!”
We agree that Dmitri is gross, the letter is gross, and it’s totally unfair that now she has to decide what to do about it because all she wants is to have a good recital. It’s way too late to find a new accompanist, and despite his über-grossness Dmitri is an excellent pianist. And even if she could replace him, she’d have to make up some reason OR tell her dad about the letter.
“And that would be very bad,” Katarina says in a low voice. “He’d be so mad. I don’t want to think what might happen.”
Poor Kat! I give her what assurances I can and tell her I’ll see her at the Pound on Monday.
It’s too late to call Jess now, so the tale of my kiss from Matthew will have to remain untold a little longer. As I slide under the smooth pastel-colored comforter, I tell it to myself once more, changing a few details as I go—move the kiss lipward, add mushy dialogue, tag on a happy ending and fade-out, in a little heart shape.
I also think about Kat’s dilemma. The source of Dmitri’s weird vibe has been revealed, and it is X. The dark side of X, the gross, unwanted X from an inappropriate person who has taken things way too far in his own mind.
I think this, and all of a sudden my cheeks flush hot and red like Jersey pizza sauce.
Is this what I’m doing with Matthew?
GROSS! GROSS! GROSS!
When I wake up after a night of strange, sandalwood-scented dreams, I resolve to monitor my own X more closely. The last thing I want is to be the gross3 Dmitri of Matthew’s world. That would be the biggest ewwwwww of all.
So many thoughts in my head! I know I’m supposed to be on poetry hiatus, but different rules apply in Lauraville, where I must use any means necessary to maintain my mental equilibritude. I grab my notebook and my second-favorite pen (because it’s closer) and begin to work.
A Sonnet of X Gone Wrong
When X arrives, unwelcome as a flea,
Repel the itch with herbs and oil of tea tree.
Resolve to be a friend he’s glad to see,
And not a total freak like weird Dmitri.
I’m trying to think of a better rhyme for “Dmitri” when there’s a tap on the bedroom door.
“Oh, you’re awake!” Laura says, waltzing right in. “Great! I wanted to catch you before you got dressed. Look, I bought you some clothes!”
Laura drops a heap of peachy-colored stuff on the foot of the bed. That’s when she notices that I’m writing.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable working at the desk?” she says. “It’s so hard to get ink stains out of the sheets.”
Felicia’s Private Kitten Directive Number Iambic Pentameter: A Poem Cannot Be Written at a Desk.
“I’m fine here,” I say. “Thanks for the clothes.”
She brightens. “I was at the mall and they were having a fantastic sale. I thought this color would really flatter your complexion. I hope the girls’ sizes fit!” Laura adds. “You’re developing such a womanly figure!”
Furball alert: I gag on the word “developing.” Gag.
“I’m gonna go tidy up before Hurricane Charles gets here!” she chirps. “And then we’ve got some superfun stuff planned! And French toast for breakfast! Okay?”
I’d prefer plain cereal, but okay! It’s Sunday and this is what Dad and Laura do. Shop at the mall! And make big breakfasts! And plan outings! I picture all the exclamation points of Laura’s speech as little sitars, swaying and twanging emphatically away. This strikes me as so hilarious I start to laugh out loud.
“Great!” says Laura, delighted by my obvious delight. “I’ll make extra! With lots of syrup!”
By the time I get dressed and down to breakfast I’m fairly presentable, in my Pumas and dark hip-hugger jeans, with a black zippered hoodie layered over a peachy long-sleeved sweater. I push up the sleeves of the hoodie and make sure you can see the peachy sweater cuffs sticking out. This is a reasonable compromise, in my opinion.
If Laura is disappointed she doesn’t show it. “See, Charles! I told you she was here!” she says. Hurricane Charles arrived while I was in the shower, apparently. He is actually crazy about me, which is fine.
“Feeeeeesha!” he yells, and runs to give me a big hug. We do our elaborate ritual of high fives.
“French toast, anyone?” says Dad.
“Ewwwwwww!” says Charles. “I want pancakes!”
“We’re having French toast!” announces Laura, like this is a fresh tidbit of happy news.
“Hey, champ,” says Dad, his voice sinking into a lower register. “It’s good. You’ll like it.”
“Pancakes! French toast is too eggy!” says Charles, putting his arms straight down with his hands in little fists. I kind of see his point.
“But Feesha’s having French toast! Right, Feesha? Aren’t you having French toast?” Like, when did Laura start calling me Feesha? I have to end this, now.
“Chuck-o,” I say. “You are a person of refined taste. I want to take you to the very best restaurant in all of New York. It’s called the Moonbeam Diner. And everyone who works there is in a moon costume.”
“Like astronauts?” he
says, frowning but intrigued.
“Sort of. And when you get there, one of the moon people gives you a menu that’s waaaay big, as big as you are. And inside is a list of every single kind of food there is.”
“Pancakes?” says Chuck-o.
“Ten kinds of pancakes,” I say. “And at the Moonbeam Diner you can have anything you want, because they have this big menu to choose from. But we’re not there today. Today we’re at your house.”
“My house,” he says. “No menu.”
“No pancakes,” I say.
“Just French toast,” concludes Charles, scrunching up his face. “Can we play astronauts?”
“After we eat,” I say. Laura puts two plates of French toast on the table in front of us. She’s biting her lip. Dad is already eating and reading, in his own Sunday-paper world. And it’s not even the Times.
After breakfast the day was spent mostly in the car, with stops at the petting zoo, the mall (there’s always a reason to stop at the mall, it seems), the handmade ice cream place, and a McDonald’s drive-through, after Charles went into meltdown and started screaming for a Happy Meal. After he got it he gave me the chicken nuggets, ate a few fries, and busied himself with the crappy toy du jour for exactly five minutes. Then he fell asleep in his car seat.
Dad drops off a sleeping Charles and a tired-but-still-“Wasn’t that super?”-ing Laura at their house before driving me home. I give Charles a tiny kiss goodbye on his head, but he doesn’t stir.
By the time the Camry makes it to the East Village it’s after eight. It’s cold and dark out, but the kind of cold and dark that’s full of streetlights and yappy dogs being walked and boisterous people spilling out of cafes. Truly, there’s no place like home.
“Bye, kiddo!” Dad says. “See you at lunch with what’s-his-name. Wednesday or Thursday. I’ll check my book and call you.” We smooch and he waits till I’m safe inside the building before he drives away.
Upstairs, Mom’s folding laundry and having her tot of Shiraz and grooving to some Bjork. That’s a relief. Sometimes I catch her playing Billy Joel on the sly, usually when she’s doing housework. Mom may run an esoteric bookstore in the East Village now, but once upon a time she was a nice girl from the Long Island suburbs. That’s where she met my dad, in fact.
I know I’m supposed to wait to ask her about matters pertaining to X until Matthew is here, because that’s what Matthew and I agreed, but I was mulling something over in the car and out of my mouth it pops. “Mom,” I say. “Why don’t you get a boyfriend?”
From the look on her face, you’d think I suggested she join the NRA. She rolls an entire sock ball before answering.
“Felicia,” she finally says, in a voice that makes her seem taller than she is, “relationships take time. Relationships are work. I don’t have any time, and I have more than enough work, and I was in a relationship for many years and it’s just not that easy. A boyfriend,” she continues, and now she’s looking at me sternly, as if it’s me we’re talking about and not her, “is NOT the only golden road to happiness.”
But it couldn’t hurt, is what I’m thinking. “I’m just saying,” I say. “Dad has moved on. You guys just didn’t have IT, you know? The X-factor. The catnip of Love. But maybe it’s out there, somewhere.”
Mom clams up, rather uncharacteristically, I should point out. She rolls another sock ball, except the socks don’t match and she doesn’t notice.
“Well,” she finally says, with a rough sniff. “Even Meg Ryan got divorced, in real life. So who knows anything?”
8
Our Next Interview Leads to a Barefoot, Bruising Lesson of Love
Randall’s karate school (which he calls a dojo) is in Chinatown, and as we rumble our way downtown on the N train, zooming through subterranean tunnels that were blasted through the rock of Manhattan a hundred years ago, Matthew and I wonder what Randall’s sensei will be like. I’m imagining a wizened Asian fellow prone to pithy, inscrutable statements. Matthew is picturing more of an action-hero type, sort of Jackie Chan meets Keanu Reeves. Clearly, there has been too much Blockbuster in our young lives.
We duck and dodge our way through the throngs of tourists and bargain hunters on Canal Street and arrive at a weather-beaten wooden door painted bright red, sandwiched between an herbalist’s shop and an Off-Track Betting storefront. There’s no sign and no buzzer, but it’s the address Randall gave us. The door is unlocked. I guess if your hands are lethal weapons you don’t worry so much about locking the door.
We push the red door open and step inside. Nothing but a rickety wooden staircase up a dark stairwell.
Matthew turns to me. “Creepy!” he whispers. “This is fun!” He’s half right, in my opinion. But up the stairs we go, Matthew in front, till at the top we turn left and enter (insert sound of Chinese gong, reverbeverbeverberating!): the Fiery Dragon School of Self-Defense.
Yes, we’re in the right place, except there’s no Randall, and, as far as we can tell, there’s no sensei, either. The only person here is a middle-aged man in baggy jeans, a black leather jacket, and a bunch of gold necklaces, talking fast in Spanish on his cell phone and drinking a Coke. He’s leaning back in a black office chair, with his feet up on a rickety metal desk. The phone on the desk is ringing, but he ignores it and continues talking into his cell.
Threadbare would be a kind way to describe this place, with its old brown carpet and walls in dire need of a paint job. Other than the chair and the metal desk, the room is empty except for a long wooden bench and a soda machine. The dojo itself is on the other side of a Plexiglas wall, with an entrance at either end. Like the curious Kitten I am, I take a step inside.
“Hey, niña!” yells the man. “No shoe in the dojo!”
“Sorry!” I cry, hopping back. Me and my shoes. It’s so hard to get it right.
“Can we look around?” Matthew asks. “We’re waiting for Randall.”
“Ah, Randall!” he exclaims. We’ve said the magic word. “Okay, look around. No shoe,” he says. He goes back to his phone call.
Barefoot, we enter. The dojo is basically an empty room with mirrors at one end, like a dance studio except the floor is covered with thick mats. There’s a punching bag in the corner and a collection of padded clubs, very Fred Flintstone, hanging on nails along the far wall. Where is this sensei person? And where is Randall? I haven’t really talked to him since Trip’s horrifying pronouncement regarding the Randall-Loves-Me thing. Not avoiding him on purpose, mind you, just, you know, failing to acknowledge his presence.
But now Randall is late! Is he home changing his outfit a million times, in anticipation of seeing ME? Do Dawgs even do stuff like that? How awful, if so. I resolve to be more relaxed about my wardrobe selection process in the future, even if I know I might be seeing Matthew. I mean, unless it’s CERTAIN that I WILL be seeing Matthew, in which case the wardrobe selection does deserve careful and prolonged consideration. . . .
This fascinating train of thought is derailed at exactly that moment by the sound of Randall speaking in a deep, abrupt voice:
“Osu! Onegaishimasu, Sensei!”
Matthew and I look out through the windowed wall of the dojo to the reception area, where we see Randall bowing deeply to his sensei.
And Sensei, now finished with his phone call and his Coke, is bowing right back.
“Hey, guys,” says Randall, spotting us. “Sorry I’m late! I was calling to tell you but no one picked up the phone. I guess you’ve met Sensei Reynaldo.”
“Not exactly. I’m Matthew,” says Matthew.
“I’m Felicia,” I say. “Sorry we didn’t realize who you were.”
“You think I be Chinese or something?” Sensei asks, smiling.
“Uh, yeah,” I say.
“Why?” asks Sensei, with an even bigger smile. “Karate is Japanese. Me, Sensei, is Dominican. I make dojo in Chinatown because rent is cheap. And because I love dim sum!”
He bows to us both. We bow back.
&nbs
p; “Felicia-Felicia!” he says, smiling. “I like you name. In Spanish means happy! You be happy always with that name, yes?” Sensei Reynaldo’s teeth are very white and there’s something sweet about him, now that he’s being friendly. He looks at me and Matthew. “Randall say you have question for Sensei? You want to train?”
“We want to learn about love,” I say, watching Randall out of the corner of my eye. Did his cheeks redden?
Sensei grins again. “Ah! We train karate, you train love! Ha, ha, ha! Wonderful. Come inside dojo. I teach love and karate, together! No shoe, please.”
And thus begins our barefoot lesson of love from Sensei Reynaldo.
“Love!” says Sensei as we all sit down on the mats inside the dojo. “Love is why I start to do karate! Back home, in DR, where I grew up—”
“The Dominican Republic,” Randall explains.
“Yes. Santo Domingo,” says Sensei. “When I was little boy, same age like Randall”—Randall rolls his eyes at this—“there was a girl. Not so beautiful girl, normal girl, but most beautiful girl to me, you understand?”
We nod and he continues. “I love this girl, but she no love me! I try to win her, her—sorry, my English! What this?” He puts his hand on his chest.
“Her heart,” says Randall.
“Her heart,” Sensei repeats, working hard to get out the two h’s. He laughs. “I teach Randall karate, he teach me English! See? Everybody teacher, everybody student! In karate is same. Yellow belt teach white belt, orange belt teach yellow. Even most high-high-high black belt, always learn.”
Randall nods at his sensei’s words. He looks comfortable, for once.
“I brought her presents, flowers, I cook her favorite food and leave by her house. You cook?” Sensei asks Matthew.
“Not really,” Matthew says, flustered at the question.
“Man should cook! No woman resist man who cooks!” Interesting idea. I don’t remember my dad ever making anything but mashed potatoes when he lived with us. Now he grills. Now he has a deck with a gas-fired barbecue and silver-plated skewers from Williams-Sonoma.
Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love Page 8
