Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love

by Maryrose Wood

  I am sitting at the counter of the Moonbeam Diner, alone, eating a slice of cherry pie with no enjoyment whatsoever. And the very, very, very last person I want to see right now is Randall.

  “Hi!” says Randall, appearing out of nowhere. “I didn’t know you came here. I love this place.”

  Before I can say anything that might persuade him to GO AWAY, he’s on the stool next to me. “Wow!” he says. “You look so pretty!”

  I start to conjure up a wisecrack about how surprised he sounds, but he babbles on. “I mean, you always look nice. But today you look extra nice. There’s something about your hair that way. It’s nice to be able to, uh, see your ears.”

  “Thanks,” I say, fervently wishing one of us would disappear.

  “Your eye looks better, too,” he says. My ears, my eye. What’s next, my glorious elbows?

  “I’m wearing a lot of concealer,” I say. “A lot.”

  “Good,” says Randall. “That’s good.” He seems encouraged that I haven’t run away yet, even after that freakish barrage of body-part compliments. “Hey,” he says in a different voice, “about that poem I wrote . . .”

  “The seasonal reference was masterfully done,” I say, sounding more bitter than sincere.

  “Thanks. Anyway—when I wrote it, I was just trying to apologize. I didn’t want you to think, like, you know . . .”

  I think I do know what he’s trying to say, but since he’s hell-bent on having this conversation right now, when I am so not in the mood, I might as well make him work for it. “Think what?” I ask, all cruel innocence.

  “That I was like, uh, hitting on you.”

  “But you already hit me!” I wisecrack. He’s so teasable and I’m in such a bad temper, I can’t help myself.

  “I know!” says Randall, growing exasperated. “Listen, Felicia, I think you’re a really nice girl and all. You’re smart, and pretty, and, I mean, I like you a lot. But I know you like Matthew, and so I didn’t want to be gross. I just think you’re cool. You know?”

  What’s funny-sad, or more sad-funny, to be accurate, is how sitting here, hearing Randall profess his love for me, is so pathetically familiar. Even if I weren’t in such a horrible mood, he’d seem sort of fumblingly sweet and even likable, but it wouldn’t change how I feel.

  Just like—but then my cheeks start to go cherry-pie red again, so I have to take a few calming breaths, since Randall’s right here, mooning over me in the Moonbeam—

  —just exactly like how the Search for X, though it might get me a first-place prize at the science fair, a job at NASA, and a full scholarship to Harvard, seems increasingly unlikely to change anything at all between me and Matthew.

  Except, maybe, for the worse.

  Poor me! Poor Randall! Poor unrequited lovers everywhere!

  And then, my Kittenbrain desperate to think about anybody’s unrequited-love woes but my own—

  —and maybe, just maybe, wanting to console my flattened heart by finding out—purely for entertainment’s sake, mind you—just How Much Randall Loves Me—

  —I remember Kat and gross Dmitri, and that I need to ask Randall for a big, big favor.

  “Randall, listen,” I say, sweet as pie. “I need to ask you for a big, big favor.”

  “Sure,” my willing X-slave replies, smiling and clueless, eager to be of service. “Anything you want.”

  12

  I Try and Fail to Put the Kibosh on Our Search and Encounter the Walking Embodiment of X

  Doris Jean Amberson is recoiling in horror from Frosty, who would really like to get a close-up sniff of her strawberry lip gloss.

  “Do you mind?” she says, keeping her face as far away from Frosty as her long neck can stretch. “These are my church pants.”

  “C’mere, Frosty!” says Jess, retrieving the snuffling bunny from Deej’s lap. “Frosty is a VERY unusual rabbit,” she says, nuzzling her nose against his. “Isn’t he, Matthew? Tell Deej about your research. It’s INCREDIBLY fascinating!”

  If she were anyone but her, it would be plain as the pink nose on Frosty’s face that Jess was flirting shamelessly with Matthew. SuperKitten Jessica Kornbluth! My best pal and littermate, who keeps a picture of Gandhi taped in her locker! (Like, isn’t he in a band?)

  “The right combination of genetic engineering, pre-and postnatal nutritional supplementation, and intensive cognitive stimulation has resulted in some really impressive gains,” Matthew explains as he scoops Frosty out of Jess’s arms and noogies him on the head. “I’d say Frosty is about ten times as smart as the typical domestic rabbit. Smarter than a really smart dog, not quite as smart as, say, a four-year-old kid. Human kid, I mean.”

  Deej picks some silvery fur off her black turtleneck sweater with an expression of distaste. She looks around the lab, which is filled with puzzles and games and all kinds of special equipment for the rabbits to play on. “Maybe you should give your toys and your vitamins to a kid, then,” she says, dry as a bone. “A human kid, even.”

  “That WOULD be interesting!” agrees Matthew.

  “That’s enough rabbits for now!” Jess interjects. She’s eager to have Deej’s first day-long visit to the Pound go well. Just yesterday, Jess cleverly and successfully argued before the MFCS faculty steering committee that students from other New York neighborhoods should qualify for the Pound’s visiting student program, just as students from other countries do. If today is a success, Deej could be the first candidate.

  “Thanks SO much, Matthew, the work you’re doing is FANTASTIC!” says Jess. “We’ll see you guys later. I want to take Deej for a walk in Gramercy Park before lunch!” She holds up her official, fully authorized key to the park. “Won’t that be FUN?”

  Deej waves a lukewarm goodbye, throws a baleful look at poor Frosty, and follows Jess out. She seems a little tense, but who wouldn’t be? The Pound is an unusual school, and when Jessica Kornbluth is your guide, you’re going to have a BUSY day.

  “That Jess sure has a LOT of energy!” says Matthew, starting to sound like someone I know. “That is SO great!”

  I yawn. I can’t help it. I was up really, really late, writing a whole batch of MatthewMatthewMatthew poems by flashlight (sorry, Mr. Frasconi, but you are NO help to me in Berlin and a heartbroken poet must do what she must!). This morning when I reread them, the poems seemed kind of angry. Which puzzled me, because how could it be Matthew’s fault that he’s not in love with me AT ALL and prefers Jess, the Energizer Kitten?

  I yawn again, for spite. Matthew-who-loves-Jess is droning on about the Search for X. “Isn’t it going WELL?” he enthuses, Jess-like. “I think this Opposites Attract idea is very promising, and I was wondering if you had any thoughts on that.”

  Of course I do, since by the way I was WEARING this experiment on my feet yesterday and I hope he and Jess will be very happy together and think of me now and then as I spend my pathetic X-less life alone. Maybe I’ll get a cat when I’m old. Maybe I’ll get twelve cats. Pets can love anyone, so they say.

  “I’ve also been reviewing the rest of our interview data,” he prattles on. “Another theme that seems worth exploring is the Mutual Rescue.”

  “Mutual Rescue,” I say, in my crabbiest voice. “What’s that?”

  “Remember, from our meeting with Dervish Greenstream?” says Matthew, all chipper. “She said when you’ve saved each other’s lives the karmic something-or-other is very powerful. I’m sure she was talking about X!”

  What I know that Matthew doesn’t, yet, is that I am SO OVER the Search for X. I’m serious. What’s the point? I mean, I may not know WHAT X is, but I know exactly WHERE it is.

  It’s in Matthew, Jess, Kat, Trip, and Meg Ryan.

  It used to be in Mom and Dad, but it’s not anymore.

  And it’s definitely NOT in me.

  But out of sheer habit, my brain tries to imagine how we would accomplish this Mutual Rescue experiment. I know! We could have Matthew and Jess jump out of an airplane together, with only one pa
rachute between them. . . .

  Alors! That’s mean. And totally unfair to Jess, who is an innocent and unknowing participant in my secret jealous X-drama. Besides, she’s never said anything to me about liking Matthew. But then again, how could she, when I’ve been so MatthewMatthewMatthew all year?

  Breathe in, breathe out. Okay. If I take that logical approach to things that Matthew finds so X-citing in OTHER people, I must conclude that I don’t have any way of knowing how Jess feels unless I ask her, which I plan to do as soon as possible. In the meantime, there’s something else I must do. And that is put the kibosh on the Search for X.

  “Matthew,” I begin, sounding all singsongy like my mom, “what if our Search for X is just—a bad idea?” I venture this calmly, pleasantly. No need for drama. I want our research to die a painless, natural death. “Maybe you should present the rabbits at the science fair instead. They’re INCREDIBLY fascinating, you’re bound to win!”

  Have I always been this evil? I smile at him, as if saying, See, problem solved, no hard feelings, don’t-bother-getting-up-I’ll-let-myself-out and au revoir!

  Matthew smiles back at me, as if saying, Buck up, partner, Marie Curie had bad days, too! “The rabbits are for senior year,” he says. “Did you know that I’ve been raising the IQ of each generation by an average of ten points? I can breed three generations of rabbits every term. By the time I graduate, Frosty will look like a dumb bunny compared to the rabbits I’ll have then.”

  I know I said no drama, but for some reason this makes me furious. “Don’t say that about Frosty!” I cry. “That’s not fair!”

  Matthew looks surprised. “Why not?” he asks. “Frosty’s a real achievement, but I know I can do better.”

  But I’ve lost it, and I don’t even know why, and words pour out of my mouth as if someone else is saying them. “So fine!” I yell. “What are you going to do with him, then? Sell him to a pet shop? Just get rid of him, like you don’t care about him?”

  Like you don’t care about ME or ANYTHING but your stupid DATA and Jess-Jess-Jess-Jess-JESS?, my unbelievably mean, inner hurt-and-angry voice screams.

  I have gone way, way, unforgivably too far, in my own mind. But Matthew, not knowing this, just looks at me with that calm expression I saw on his face when we were interviewing his mom.

  “You could have him, if you want,” he offers after a moment. “He really likes you.”

  “I’m sorry, Matthew,” I stammer. “But I’m not sure I want to do this anymore.”

  “I know how you feel,” Matthew says. He feeds Frosty a lettuce treat. “Science is hard.”

  “Fee! FIRST of all, I would NEVER go out with Matthew, knowing how you feel about him!”

  Jess is looking at me so intently her face seems to be floating somewhere in front of her body.

  “If you like him, you should, though,” I say, sniffling. “I mean, he’s never been interested in me anyway. Oh, Jess! I feel so stupid!” And that is the truth of it.

  We’re sitting on a bench inside Gram, near the center of the park. Deej is a little ways off, examining the statue of Edwin Booth. After my almost-outburst at Matthew, I knew I had to talk to Jess pronto, and I knew she was in Gram with Deej. I only had to run around the perimeter breathless and crying twice before I found them and got their attention so Jess could let me in through the gate.

  “I would NEVER do that,” Jess repeats, “because I think you would be really sad if I did, and you’re my FRIEND!” She hugs me to prove her point. “Plus, I can honestly say I’m NOT interested in Matthew. I mean, he’s perfectly nice,” she adds, far too polite to disparage my taste in Dawgs.

  “But why not?” I whine, stubborn as a stump, wiping my nose with the tissue Jess has magically provided. “I mean, I look at Matthew and I get all fluttery inside. I mean, I used to. Okay, I still do, but it’s OVER! Totally, completely OVER! Even though it never really was!” Trying to put this into words is giving me a major headache.

  “He’s perfectly nice,” Jess repeats gently. “He just doesn’t do it for me.” One might say Jess finds no single aspect of Matthew offputting in any way. “Maybe he’s a little . . . distant or something. I like guys who are more affectionate.”

  “He’s affectionate with the rabbits,” I say, startled by the fact that she has a point.

  “Of course he is. But I’m not a rabbit!” she says. “And neither are YOU.” This seems to settle the matter for Jess. “So! What’s going on with Randall?” she asks.

  “Randall! Nothing!” I burble. “I mean, nothing. I mean, the other day he wrote me a poem. And then I ran into him at the Moonbeam and he told me I was smart and pretty and he liked me. But other than that . . .”

  “WHAT? He wrote you a POEM? Ohmigod, that is so ROMANTIC!” Jess’s dark, pupil-less eyes glitter with excitement. “What was it about?”

  “About kicking me in the face,” I say. “Listen, Jess, it’s just like you said. Randall’s perfectly fine, he just doesn’t—I don’t know! He’s not my idea of what a boyfriend should be!”

  “What do you feel when you see him?” she asks.

  “It’s not what I feel!” I say, temples throbbing. “It’s what I DON’T feel! When I’m with Randall, I don’t feel—”

  “Anxious?”

  “Yes. I, mean, no! I mean, he doesn’t make me—”

  “Insecure? Obsessed?”

  “Jess!”

  “Jealous?”

  Jess’s ability to sink a basket every time she shoots can be incredibly irritating when you’re the hoop. I clam up. And anyway, Deej is coming back.

  “To be, or not to be!” Deej calls out, laughing. “That statue gives me a chill. He looks like he’s about to talk.”

  Jess, who knows all about her own tendency to be a know-it-all, now shows admirable self-control by saying only this, to me:

  “Huh. I guess Randall’s NOT for you, then.”

  Nevertheless, her point has been made. As Jess and Deej start chatting about Edwin Booth, Hamlet, the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, and other topics, I resolve to pay more careful attention to my feelings the next time I see Randall.

  Perhaps I’ve been unfair. Perhaps there’s more to Randall than meets the accidentally blackened eye.

  The next time I see Randall, he is standing outside the big practice room in the basement of the Pound, affectionately smooching Katarina Arlovksy on the cheek.

  “Bye, honey!” he says to her, loudly enough to be overheard. “Have a good rehearsal. I’ll be back later. Call me if you need me!” He taps his belt as if he carries a cell phone there, which I know he doesn’t. No cell phones in the Pound, it’s one of the rare rules around here.

  Kat puts her arms around Randall and gives him a hug. “Thanks, sweetie!” she says, in a voice that doesn’t sound like her. “I’ll see you later!”

  “Bye, shnooky!”

  “Bye, honey bun!”

  Kat sees me and rolls her eyes.

  A deafening Russian cacophony of pianistic suffering cascades out of the big practice room behind her.

  She gestures for me to come closer, and she speaks pianissimo to me and Randall. “Dmitri didn’t take it that well,” she whispers, panicky. “We’re supposed to be practicing the Haydn but all he’ll play is Rachmaninoff! I want you to come back in one hour! Okay?”

  “Okay, bye darling!” says Randall loudly. “Bye-bye, cutie pie!”

  Randall gives her another peck. Pale and nervous, Kat retreats into the practice room.

  “We have an hour,” Randall says to me, quite pleased with his performance. “Wanna do lunch?”

  A mysterious pang is forming somewhere inside me. Is it hunger? I take a moment to pay careful attention to my feelings, and what I’m feeling is this:

  When I asked Randall-Who-Loves-Me to pretend to be Kat’s boyfriend, I didn’t think he’d be so bleepsky-smooching-cutie-pie GOOD at it.

  “Sure,” I say, beyond confused. “Let’s eat.”

  Randall, who is t
aking his responsibility as Kat’s protector quite seriously, does not want to leave the building, so we’re stuck eating at the Pound. The food here is not your usual school cafeteria fare. It’s more like what you’d find at an organic multi-ethnic gourmet restaurant, which is fine when you’re in the multi-ethnic gourmet mood, but not on days like today, when a Kitten needs comfort and wants a grilled cheese sandwich.

  I settle for two granola bars and some chocolate milk and follow Randall into the dining room. The Pound’s rumor mill has definitely slowed down as the three black-eyed Kittens have healed, but I know that dining tête-à-tête with Randall will rev it up again. Tant pis! Or as we say in English, like I care at this point.

  To tell the truth, I both dread and crave the chance to spend this hour with Randall, sifting through my feelings and looking for a trace of Felicia-and-Randall X. Luckily for my ambivalence, Jess and Deej—and, interestingly, Trip—are at a table in the corner. I can tell by the way Trip’s sitting that he’s been sending megawatts of flirty rich-boy charm in Deej’s direction. It must be her five minutes.

  Jess is, of course, superhappy to see me, and Randall, and especially me with Randall. “How’s Kat?” she asks us. “What’s happening with Dmitri?”

  “He’s playing Rachmaninoff, really loud,” I say.

  “Is that bad?”

  “Kat seemed to think so.”

  As Jess starts to fill Deej in on the saga of Kat and Dmitri, her tale is interrupted by the ring of Trip’s cell. Trip seems to have a special dispensation on the Pound’s no-cell-phone rule, which the rest of us have chalked up to the Mysterious Privileges of the Rich. He always carries one but I’ve never seen him use it, until now.

  “Hi, buddy, wassup?” he says quietly into the phone. “Sure. Yup. No worries, I’m clean as a whistle. You outside now? Be right there.” He hangs up. “Be back in a sec, beloveds,” he says to us. “I gotta go pee in a cup.” And he leaves.

  We’re all confused. “What was that?” asks Randall, concerned. “Is he sick?”