Who's Your Daddy?

by Lynda Sandoval

TIME: 3:50:51 P.M., MST

  Uh-oh, Mer. Sounds bad! (((((((((((Meryl)))))))))))))

  As for your mondo-baffling question, TRL is a television show on MTV (which stands for Music Television—they show music videos and stuff) where … um, it’s hard to explain. It’s filmed on the street, sort of, in NYC, and they have pop stars and bands and stuff come on to be interviewed and perform. It’s really cool, if you’re into television and pop stars and all that stuff you aren’t into.

  But, why do you want to know??? Does this have something to do with the debate team? Is Ismet on the debate team? Whatever it is, don’t sweat it!!! You’re fine, Mer. We love you just as you are.

  xoxoxoxo—Lila

  Friends 4ever!

  FROM: Lipstickgrrrrl@hipgirlnet.org

  TO: MerylM@Morgenstenifamily.com, LawBreakR@hipgirlnet.org

  SUBJECT: re: S.O.S—LIFE SUCKS!!!!!!!

  TIME: 4:05:22 P.M., MST

  Meryl, girl, WHAT on earth HAPPENED???? Lila already told you about TRL, so I won’t waste the space. But, fill us in! I hate to hear you sounding so upset. If Ismet said something awful to you, I’ll kick his butt!!! I love you, too. ((((((((((MER)))))))))))

  Your best friend forever, Caressa

  FROM: MerylM@Morgensternfamily.com

  TO: LawBreakR@hipgirlnet.org, Lipstickgrrrrl@hip-girlnet.org

  SUBJECT: re: S.O.S—UFE SUCKS!!!!!!!—update

  TIME: 4:11:59 P.M., MST

  Hi Guys—

  [SIGH] I’ve calmed down some, I think. Sorry for the panic, but I was fresh from the humiliation, and I really needed to talk to you both RIGHT THEN. And no, Caressa, Ismet didn’t say anything mean to me. I just made a fool of myself because I misunderstood something he’d invited me to do. It had to do with this TRL—little did I know!!

  I don’t usually let that stuff bother me, but with Ismet, it did.

  Slight change of subject, girls. I’m just starting to feel like the dumb supper was TRULY DUMB, as in STUPID. Maybe I was completely off base when I said I thought it worked. I mean, all Lila does is snipe at Dylan, and he has a perky blonde girlfriend anyway. Ismet isn’t interested in me IN THE LEAST. And Caressa, you with your famous twenty-one-year-old musician thing—enough said. It’s just not turning out like I know it would have if the dumb supper had worked its magic!

  Maybe it didn’t work after all. I don’t know. Don’t mind me. I’m rambling. Thanks for the hugs, both of you. I’m going to go read or meditate or eat chocolate or cry (again!) or something. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.

  Love, Meryl

  A few minutes after I’d signed off, the phone rang. It was Shefka. I didn’t want to talk to her, but when I tried to pretend I wasn’t home, my mom looked at me like I’d lost my mind. So, I released this big sigh and just took the cordless phone from her. I’d have to face Shefka sooner or later.

  “Are you okay?” Shefka asked, after the hello part.

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “I’m … sorry I ran out like that. Is Jenita okay?” I bit my bottom lip.

  “She was disappointed to see you go, but she is fine.”

  I sat down on my bed, leaned against the upholstered headboard, then crossed my legs. “I was just embarrassed is all. I didn’t mean to upset her. Or you.”

  “But, why were you embarrassed?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Ismet told me about your conversation. He has no idea what’s going on. Clueless boy.” She paused. “Can I ask you, is this something about the television show?”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “It is.” I spent a few minutes explaining the way my family lives, and just like I knew she would, Shefka asked polite and intelligent questions and wasn’t the least bit judgmental.

  “I wish you would have just said something to me, though. It is not such a big deal.”

  I sighed again—something I’d been doing a lot of. It was like I lived inside a Jane Austen book or something where everyone was basically sad and dissatisfied. “I would’ve, but I was caught off guard in front of your brother.”

  Again, she lapsed into a small silence. “You like Ismet, don’t you?”

  Panic zinged through me briefly, but I couldn’t lie. I bonked my head against my headboard. Thank goodness it was padded, or I might’ve suffered permanent damage. “Ugh. Am I that transparent?”

  She laughed. “Not to him, if that is what worries you. You know how boys are.”

  “Clueless.”

  “Yes. Especially my brother. But, I had an idea of your feelings. I could tell by the way you look at him.”

  I hoped she didn’t feel like I was using her to get closer to Ismet. I needed to make it clear to her, because I abhorred hurting people. “I do have a crush on Ismet, but that’s not why I spend time with you and Jenita. I hope you know that.”

  “Of course. No need to worry. But, I guess I should tell you a few things about Ismet.” She sounded almost apologetic.

  My stomach contracted with something ice cold that felt like fear. What could she possibly say? Was he dying of a terminal illness? Was he gay? Was he promised in marriage to some waifish girl from Bosnia? Madly in love with a Turkish pop star? I braced myself. “Um. Okay, what?”

  “Well, as much as I am proud of being Bosnian, Ismet is … the opposite.”

  “What?” Shock riddled through me.

  “Yes. Since we moved here, he wants to be the all-American boy, with all-American clothes and music … and”—she paused, and I held my breath—“an all-American girlfriend.”

  UGH. Of course. “Why?” I sort of whispered.

  “I do not really know. But, he is pretty … how do you say? Swayed? By the popular culture,” she said. “He wants to fit in that way. And he wants a girlfriend who can help him fit in.”

  Which meant he didn’t want ME.

  I can’t even tell you how disappointed I was to hear this about my number-one crush. One thing I’d never be able to do was help someone fit in with the popular culture. As if. “Great.” I swallowed thickly. “I’m just what he doesn’t want—a girl who knows diddly-squat about all that stuff.”

  Shefka made a regretful sound, but she didn’t sugarcoat her reply. “I think, probably not, Meryl. At least not now while he is being struck by the stars.”

  I smiled a little, in spite of my mood. “Starstruck?”

  “Yes, that is what I meant.” Another hitch in the conversation. “I’m sorry. If it is any consolation, I think you are sweeter than any of the girls Ismet fancies from school.”

  Ismet was interested in girls from school?

  A sour swirl of jealousy moved through my middle. I did not EVEN want to know their names. “It doesn’t matter,” I lied in this brittle, fake-cheery tone. I felt a resurgence of the tears I’d shed earlier. “Really. I don’t need a boyfriend.” Shefka didn’t say anything, because she probably knew I was lying to myself. “Can you do me a favor, though, Shefka?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Don’t tell your brother I have a crush on him.” I crinkled my nose at the mere thought. “I’ll get over it.”

  “Well, all is not lost. You never know. Ismet might come around eventually.”

  Yeah. Sure. And I would suddenly turn into a hip and cool girl just like that—abracadabra. “Whatever. I mean, if he does, that’s fine. I still don’t want him to know how I feel.”

  “Will you continue to visit our house?” She sounded pensive, almost frightened of my answer.

  I smiled—a bittersweet kind of a smile. Shefka was a good friend. “Of course I will. I’d miss you and Jenita too much if I didn’t. Plus, I’m still your Spanish tutor.”

  “Good. Ismet does consider you a friend, you know.”

  I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “Well … great. Friends.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “That’s a good thing.”

  Yeah, sure it was.

  It pretty much boiled down to this: Lila was one of the guys, I was a “good friend,” and Caressa? Temporarily
deluded. I decided right then and there that the dumb supper had indeed been a colossal failure, pointing all three of us toward the absolute MOST wrong guys ever.

  They’d never like us. We’d never date them.

  Our prom night dreams were a bust.

  We were dateless, still, and firmly back at square one.

  That, as they say, was that.

  ten

  Fall dragged on like a particularly wicked case of PMS, leaving all three of us cranky, bloated with disappointment, and basically despising all things male. Despite our aspirations, nothing good had happened to any of us so far this year. No brilliant ideas, no progress in the dating department, no demonstrable improvement in our social lives—nada.

  Big shocker of the millennium (not)—Caressa never heard anything back after she sent off that expertly forged letter to Bobby Slade. She was actually surprised by that fact, whereas the rest of us were hoping the lack of feedback would be the lightbulb inside her head to make her realize, Hey, Bobby Slade is all wrong for me, what with him being OLD and me being MAJOR JAILBAIT. Why didn’t I see it before? It didn’t work that way for Caressa at all. She was still convinced her destiny was as Mrs. Bobby Slade. Whazzup?

  Though she’d promised me on the afternoon I’d forged Mr. Thibodoux’s siggy that she would quit stalking the twenty-one-year-old and start fishing in the pond of available guys our age, she had yet to cast a single line. Then again, she was pretty swamped with the dismal play rehearsals, so I decided not to issue a smackdown. It wasn’t like Meryl or I were really out there baiting hooks either.

  Speaking of Meryl, the whole Ismet deal had pretty much gone down the crapper. She had gotten a lot less optimistic about her prospects with the guy after it looked like his goal in life was to pretend he was an all-American boy with a starring role on The O.C., instead of grasping hold of the reality that (1) he was and always would be Bosnian, which was (2) perfectly OKAY—duh, and (3) his family had unfortunately moved him to freakin’ White Peaks, Colorado, not Orange County, California.

  NEWSFLASH: LIFE IS NOT A TV SHOW.

  HELLO! Was everyone in this town perpetually stoned?

  Meryl was still gaga over the guy, though, and she spent a goodly portion of her time pining away for him and their missed potential like a freakin’ war bride. She just couldn’t think of an effective way to show him she was right for him, and the rest of us had begun to think maybe she wasn’t.

  I, in contrast to the delusions of Meryl and Caressa, had my feet firmly grounded in reality. Okay, so I still had a crush on Dylan, aka he-who-is-completely-wrong-for-me, but he was still dating Jennifer Hellspawn Hamilton. This was a fact I had fully and easily accepted, therefore I had not and would not act on my insane attraction. I was, instead, working off my tension by doing everything possible to make Hellspawn jealous.

  It was child’s play, really.

  Jennifer had nothing on me … well, except for the good looks, the popularity, the hot guy, blah blah blah. But in the wits department, I was battling with a woefully unarmed opponent, which was a beautiful thing. She despised me, but hey, that didn’t change the fact that I got to spend tons of quality time with her boyfriend while she pouted at home. Ha freakin’ ha! I know that sounds evil, but if anyone deserved to be taunted, it was her.

  By the big weekend after Thanksgiving, my pals and I had pretty much written off ever having meaningful relationships of any kind with the opposite sex. I had also written off the possibility of ever looking cool in front of my peers, because once again, I was forced into very visible junior narcdom. Yes, it’s true. I had to work at the famous White Peaks Christmas Market looking like a public-relations dweeb of the first order.

  The big annual Christmas Market went down for the full weekend after Turkey Day. It started Friday night with the tree-lighting ceremony, ice skating on the lake, a bonfire, hay rides, and copious mulled-cider consumption, not to mention midnight bikini skiing for your real hardcore types. People from all over the state (not to mention Wyoming and New Mexico) flocked to White Peaks for the festivities, spending the weekend shopping, listening to live music, watching ski exhibitions, and eating fun stuff like roasted chestnuts and funnel cakes.

  It was usually my favorite weekend of the year—USUALLY being the operative word in that statement. This year from hell, instead of getting to hang out with my friends and ogle the out-of-town hotties, I had to stand on a street corner and hand out fliers and coupons from the various shops and restaurants on the main shopping drag in Old Town. IN THE MAN PANTS.

  It blew. I probably didn’t have to tell you that.

  Here’s what blew most of all: Dylan was excused from this particular exercise in humiliation, leaving me to toil in the misery alone. Yeah, again the FAIRNESS was in question.

  The events stretched from the main drag in town to the Olympic launch ramp for the ski jumpers near the White Peaks ski resort, and DYLAN, as a member of the high school ski team (aka the ELITE), got to forgo Dacron polyester hell in order to don his tight-fitting hottie garb and perform exhibition jumps for the enthusiastic crowds. He had girls from a freakin’ tri-state area fawning and swooning, whereas every guy alive was giving me and my large butt a wide berth, no pun intended.

  The town looked perfect—all snow-covered and merry—and I didn’t care. I glumly shoved fliers in people’s hands, all the while hosting a gala pity party for myself.

  I was down to a mere five MILLION or so fliers and coupon books to hand out when Meryl and Caressa showed up.

  “Hey, Lila.” Caressa held out a hot cup of mulled cider, and the spicy tartness swirled up on the steam to tantalize my senses.

  “Mmmm. Thanks.” I gratefully set aside my stacks of handouts, hoping they’d all blow away, and took the cup. I watched my friends over the rim of my first sip. Mulled cider was just what I needed. I started to feel more positive. “What’s up with you two?”

  Caressa and Meryl exchanged a quick glance, then Meryl smiled at me bravely. “I’ve been researching new ways for us to figure out who our boyfriends might be. I think I found some stuff we can try.”

  My head was shaking NO even before she’d stopped talking. “Meryl, with all due respect, haven’t we learned our lesson? The dumb supper resulted in nothing but disaster.” I paused, indicating my outfit. “Why risk making things worse?”

  “How could things possibly get worse?” Caressa asked. “I say, we try some of the ideas.”

  I scowled for a moment, but curiosity got the best of me. “Okay, like what?”

  Meryl’s face relaxed. She knew she had me. Reaching up to tuck her hair behind one ear, she said, “Well, one of the customs says to swallow the heart of a wild duck, and you can have whichever guy you want.”

  My eyes bugged. “Uh, ix-nay on the eart-hay. I’m not swallowing animal guts of any kind. I’ll become a nun first.”

  Caressa laughed. “My reaction exactly.”

  “I know, guys. I wasn’t going to suggest we do that. I just wanted to tell you the story because I found it interesting. Plus, it gives me comfort to know we aren’t the most desperate girls in history.”

  “Good point.” I sipped my cider, trying not to think of slimy duck parts. “What other ideas?”

  Meryl gave us this evil grin. “Well, I read a thing where you cut your fingernails and grind the clippings into powder, then stir them into cider. If you give this concoction to your crush, he’ll like you back.”

  I considered making Dylan guzzle my nasty fingernail clippings. The notion held some retaliatory appeal. “That cheers me up. But, what else?”

  “A lot of ideas with apples.”

  “Huh?” Caressa said.

  “Well, one tradition says that we should lick our knuckles and stick an apple seed on each one. Then someone else … like, for example, Caressa, you’ll secretly name the seeds on Lila’s hand. Once that’s done, she’ll wiggle her fingers until they all fall off but one. The one left is the guy she’ll supposedly date.”
>
  “That sounds a lot better than swallowing animal organs. But then, what doesn’t?” I mused. I glanced around the bustling marketplace. “If we’re gonna do this, let’s do it. Where can we get some apples?”

  Meryl swung her backpack around in front of her, unzipped it, then extracted a plastic bag full of apple seeds. “I was hoping you were up for it, so I came prepared.”

  “Aren’t you optimistic,” Caressa said, with a laugh. She licked her knuckles and stuck out her right hand.

  I pulled off my glove with my teeth and did the same.

  Meryl carefully placed apple seeds on our knuckles, then licked the back of her right hand and extended it. I grabbed the bag of seeds and hooked her up.

  “Okay, let’s go around in a circle. Caressa, you name Lila’s seeds, I’ll name yours, and Lila, you name mine.”

  “Deal.” We were all silent for a few moments, naming the designated person’s seeds. I named the seed on the knuckle of Meryl’s middle finger Ismet, for symbolic reasons.

  “Ready?” Meryl asked.

  I took a deep breath, released it, then nodded. We both glanced at Caressa.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  At the same time, we all started wiggling our fingers. I watched Meryl’s hand, since I knew who her seeds represented. The pinky seed fell off first, then the index finger seed followed suit. Uh-oh. I started to get nervous. I stared at the seed on her flip-the-bird knuckle, willing it to drop off before the other one. Sure, the other one represented Peter Dickensheets, a computer-genius type from school with a name so profoundly WRONG, no one should ever consider marrying him. But I hadn’t been able to think of anyone else on the spur of the moment. Besides, even a boy named PETER DICKENSHEETS was a better prospect for Meryl than a guy who didn’t want her.

  Alas, Dickensheets fell to the ground.

  I stopped wiggling my fingers, unable to believe that Ismet was the seed left, then I looked down and noticed that I only had one seed left, too. On my pinky knuckle. Caressa kept wiggling until only her ring finger knuckle still had a seed.

  “Okay,” Meryl said, breathlessly. She dipped her chin. “Who does my seed represent?”