In Stereo Where Available

by Becky Anderson

  I giggled. “Same here. My roommate checked with her Ouija board and found me the perfect guy.”

  He smiled tepidly. “Really?”

  “No. He’s perfectly boring, though, if that counts.”

  Carter laughed and tucked his thumbs into his back pockets. “Mine’s an airhead. She’s fun, though, and she’s cute. I don’t think she likes me. The feeling’s mutual.”

  “We should run away together,” I joked in a stage whisper.

  He grinned. Someone behind me jostled me forward and Carter took a half step backward to keep me from bumping into him.

  “You want to go outside?” he asked. “Seriously. It’s packed to the gills in here. And it smells like the prep room at the AKC Championships.”

  I looked over my shoulder at Lauren. She was right under the disco ball, dancing back-to-chest with Prabath. Brad was sitting by himself at our table, a sweaty glass of water in his hand. I felt sorry for him. I could go over and sit with him, but then, what difference would it make? I’d still feel just as sorry for him, except I’d be bored and uncomfortable and filling him with false hope.

  I turned back to Carter. “Sure.”

  We slipped out through the back door of the club into the cold winter air. The sudden silence rang in my ears, and the long city street seemed dizzyingly empty and open.

  “Much better,” said Carter with satisfaction. “You want to go sit in my car?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “It’s kind of messy. I never seem to get a chance to unpack.”

  “That’s all right. It won’t bother me.”

  We walked to the pay lot across the street from the club. Carter opened the passenger door and held it open politely. His car was messy, all right, but none of the mess was his. The backseat was filled with latex chew toys, doggie sweaters, a blanket, a box of Beggin’ Strips, and a tangle of balled-up plastic grocery bags.

  He sat in the driver’s seat and turned on the heater and the radio, playing with the buttons until he settled on a slow, reflective Natalie Merchant song. It was the kind of music that would have made Jerry gag. Light from the security lamps glinted in Carter’s hair, and I remembered the way he had looked on our last date, his hair spiked-up and shiny with sweat. The memory sent a swirl of electricity through me.

  “My friends are going to be so ticked at me,” said Carter.

  I lolled my head against the headrest and looked at him foggily. “Maybe next time they’ll find you a better date.”

  He smiled and leaned back, resting his hands on the bottom of the steering wheel. The shadow of stubble on his cheeks was uneven, adolescent-looking; he wouldn’t be able to grow much of a beard. His arms, too, were nearly as smooth as mine. I thought of the way Jerry had looked that morning, fuzzy-chested and masculine, glaring at me from the doorway. The lonely feeling that had been stalking me since this morning settled into my stomach and made itself comfortable. He hadn’t called all day.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Carter. “I’d rather be with you anyway.”

  He reached his hand out and traced a slow semicircle above my knee, questioningly. I didn’t stop him, but I looked lazily down at his hand, watching the way my black stockings darkened with the touch of his finger. He traced a squiggle up my thigh, stopping before he reached the hem of my short skirt, circling into a spiral.

  “I have a boyfriend, Carter,” I said quietly.

  His finger froze and then lifted. He laid his hand back onthe steering wheel.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I thought, you know, since you were out.”

  “No, my roommate’s just meddling. I had a fight with him. My boyfriend, I mean.” I laughed unhappily. “And I’m drunk.”

  He squinted at me and grinned. “Is that a put-off or an invitation?”

  I laughed again. “It’s a put-off.”

  “Too bad. What was your fight about?”

  “I’m not sure. Dispensing personal information, I think.”

  “You mean ‘divulging’?”

  “Yeah, that. Sorry. He was all mad when I left this morning.”

  There was an awkward silence and through the fog of my consciousness I realized what I’d just admitted—or, at least, what he thought I’d admitted. I started to explain, but thought better of it. Judging by the look on Carter’s face, the clarification wouldn’t help much.

  “Well, I hope you work it out,” said Carter.

  “Thanks.”

  “Actually, I hope you don’t.”

  I grinned. “Thanks.”

  “If you get fed up with him, though, give me a call. If my friends keep setting me up like they did tonight, I’ll still be available.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. There’s someone for everyone.”

  He looked at me wryly, his feathery-lashed brown eyes luminous in the reflected streetlight. “Don’t start quoting Hallmark cards at me.”

  “Maybe it’s true,” I insisted. “Maybe it’s not a cliché.”

  He shrugged. “I guess you’d know. You’re the one who’s got a thing for guys who collect photos of dead people—and bodybuilders in red velvet—”

  I smacked him, giggling. I’d told him about my other suitors during our last dinner date, and he’d found the subject hilarious. He curled up against the car door and tried to duck, but he didn’t stop talking. “Hey, baby—wait ‘til you see what I’ve got in my sack—”

  “Stop it. Stop it.”

  “—you wanna guide my sleigh tonight?”

  I reached for a copy of American Toy Breeds from the floor and swatted him with it. Suddenly my phone rang, and we both went quiet. I unclipped it from my skirt and checked the caller ID.

  “Is it him?” asked Carter warily.

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  He sighed and popped the door open. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  In half an hour Jerry was at the club, stepping out of his Jetta with a bouquet of roses in his hand. Carter waved to me from the entrance as I got in the car. He still hadn’t gone back inside.

  I woke up beside Jerry the next morning, his arm around me and two of the cats curled up by our feet. As soon as I opened my eyes, I could smell the stale cigarette smoke in my hair, and my skin felt sticky with last night’s sweat.

  “Oh, yuck,” I said. “I smell horrible.”

  “You smell fine. It’s kind of nostalgic. Memories of my bar-crawling days.”

  “Ugh. I’m getting in a shower right now.”

  Jerry grabbed my arm as I started to climb out of bed. “Confession,” he said.

  “Confession? I didn’t do anything.”

  “No, me. You know yesterday morning when I said I wasn’t jealous about your ex calling?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I lied.”

  I laughed and turned toward him, the duvet twisting beneath my legs. “I’m not interested in Bill.”

  “What about Brad?”

  “Not him, either. Jeez, when did I get so popular? I passed by Bill coming out of Safeway the other day. Maybe that’s what inspired him to call me.”

  “Whatever. I’m warning you ahead of time, if you’re ever in the shower or something and your phone rings and his name pops up on your caller ID, I’m going to answer it and tell him I’m boinking your brains out. Sorry.”

  I smacked him on the arm. “Don’t be a jerk.”

  Jerry laughed. “Go get in your shower. I’ll go make you the breakfast I promised yesterday.”

  While Jerry made chocolate-chip pancakes, I sat in the living room playing with Marco and chatting with Jerry’s sister. Her name was Stella, and she looked a lot like Jerry, with those same eyes the color of anciently faded blue jeans and the same neat little angles to her jaw. She was a year older than me and had a friendly, Mom-like look about her. I felt a little shy around her, both because I knew a lot about her marriage troubles and because she knew I had spent the night in her brother’s bed.

  “So what do you think of my brother?” she asked.


  “I like him. He’s a nice guy.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. Even so, there was still a hint of a smile on her face. “Usually that’s why girls don’t like him.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “They think he’s too nice. They think he’s a pushover.” She leaned toward me secretively. “He’s not a pushover.”

  “He’s not?”

  “No. He’s forgiving, but once he gets fed up, stand back. Even at his school, he’s got a reputation for it. That’s why they always try to get him to break up fights, because he’s not afraid to dislocate somebody’s shoulder in the process. He’s finally found a good use for his lousy impulse control.”

  “Did he tell you my little sister’s in one of his classes?”

  “No. Did she set you up or something?”

  “No, actually, I tricked him into going out with me when he thought I was somebody else.”

  She gave a delighted laugh. “Did you really? That explains a lot. You didn’t seem like his usual type.”

  “What’s his usual type?”

  “The high-maintenance ditz. You know the kind. Those bubbly girls who want to be treated like royalty.”

  I braced myself as Marco plunked himself down on my lap. “Yeah, I went to grad school with a girl like that.”

  “Well, he gravitates to them. And then two months later, when they figure out all he really wants to do is stay home and watch movies, they get bored and dump him. His last girlfriend was one of those. She cheated on him and ditched him right before Christmas. That was two or three years ago.”

  “Oh, that’s mean,” I said. I wondered if she was talking about Serena, the ex-girlfriend Holly had told me about. “I could never do that to anybody.”

  “Has he invited you down to Florida for Christmas?”

  “No. I don’t think we’re really at that stage yet. He hasn’t said anything about it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s going to. He talked about you nonstop at Thanksgiving. Mom wants to meet you.” She peered around the corner into the kitchen. “Hey, Jerry,” she called.

  “Almost ready,” he called back.

  “Are you inviting Phoebe to Mom and Dad’s for Christmas?”

  There was a long pause. “I was planning to.”

  She smiled at me. “See?”

  I sighed and shielded my eyes in embarrassment. Jerry appeared into the threshold of the living room, holding a spatula.

  “What is this?” he asked Stella. “Matchmaking at gunpoint?”

  “I’m just helping you along.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of managing my own relationship.”

  “Not from what I’ve seen.”

  He shot her a bloodcurdling look and pointed the spatula toward the kitchen. “Pancakes are on the table. You and the kids go eat while I repair the damage.”

  Lauren was stretched out on the sofa when I got home around lunchtime, a mug of coffee resting on her stomach. “I saw you in line at Safeway this morning,” she said.

  “I didn’t go to Safeway this morning.”

  “No, I mean in a magazine.” She handed me a copy of In Touch that was sitting on the coffee table. “It’s dog-eared.”

  I sat down in the armchair and stroked the cat that had just crawled into my lap. “‘Famous Siblings,’ you mean? This article?”

  “Yeah, bottom left corner. Right under Britney Spears and her sister.”

  I scanned the page. Sure enough, there was a photo of Madison sitting on the sofa in Belle of Georgia, beside a photo of me that had been taken at Christmas three years ago at my father’s house.

  “Oh my gosh,” I said angrily. “One of my relatives must have sent that in.”

  “Did you read the caption?”

  “‘Dixie vixen Grace Kassner, 24, is little sis to Phoebe, 29.’ Oh my—Lauren, she’s older than me. She’s four minutes older!”

  “Not anymore. Now she’s five years younger.”

  “Who sent that in? Oooh, that makes me so mad! I bet it was my cousin Janet. She’s the type who would do something like that. Ugh.”

  “You should be happy. You’re in In Touch magazine, for God’s sake. You’re on the same page with Britney Spears. I’d love to be that close to fame.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. You can’t stand Britney Spears.”

  “Well, no, but it would be cool to get my picture in a national magazine, anyway.”

  I set the magazine back down on the coffee table. “You know, I’m getting tired of this. It might be kind of neat if Mad-die were a real actress, but she’s famous because people hate her. They’re laughing at her. And that’s not even her. She’s really a sweet person. She catches bugs under a cup and takes them outside so she doesn’t have to kill them. She watched the end of Titanic through her fingers and then cried all night anyway. And she was in that movie. She saw it behind the scenes. She’s only evil on TV. It’s just how they’re editing it.”

  Lauren laughed. “That sounds like my old boyfriend telling me he only reads Penthouse for the articles.”

  “No, I’m serious. And everybody I know is following the show because they know she’s my sister, even if they don’t normally watch those things, just because they think it’s fun that they’re like two degrees of separation from her. So then I’m famous for being the sister of that…bitch. Who wants to be known for that?”

  “That’s kind of like the women who get famous for being groupies who slept with famous guys.”

  “Yeah. Kind of like that, I guess. At least they wanted to be famous. You know what the death knell is for a teacher?”

  “Getting pregnant by one of your students?”

  “Basically, yeah. When the parents start thinking you’re of questionable moral virtue. Nobody wants you to teach their kid if they think you’re a bad influence. It doesn’t even matter what a crummy influence they are at home. They could be living with two men at once, and they’d still pull their kid out of your class. I already have one parent who thinks I’m a Satan worshiper. And all the fifth-graders watch the show. It’s going to be total guilt by association. They’ll hang me at the next PTA meeting.”

  “I think you’re being too pessimistic. Have you talked to your English teacher boyfriend about this?”

  “Sort of. It’s a little different for him because he teaches high school, and the parents aren’t micromanaging their kids’ lives the way my kids’ parents are. He’s actually been using the show to teach historical revisionism. He’s comparing it with Across Five Aprils.”

  “But do you really think he’d still be dating you if he thought the county was about to fire you in disgrace?”

  “Oh, probably. We’re getting pretty serious.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. Do I need to find a new roommate? Tell me honestly. I just want to know in advance.”

  I laughed. “I’m not going anywhere. I made an appointment with the gynecologist next week, though. I think at this point it might be prudent to go on the Pill, just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

  “You know. In case it gets that serious.”

  She looked at me blankly. “But you just spent the entire weekend at his house.”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t, you know.”

  “You didn’t? Why not?”

  “We just didn’t.”

  “But you slept in the same bed? All three nights?”

  “Yeah.”

  She rolled her eyes and put her forearm over them. “I’m not even going to pretend to understand your relationship.”

  “Speaking of relationships.” I sat down on the ottoman. “How’d it go on Friday? You never told me.”

  “Oh—really well. Really well. He’s smart and good-looking, and he’s got a great sense of humor. Did I mention that he’s a resident at Holy Cross?”

  “You said he was in med school.”

  “Yeah. Perfect. His car’s clean, he’s got nice teeth. No tattoos.”

  “Are you sure? Jerry has some, bu
t you can’t see any of them when he’s got his clothes on.”

  Lauren grinned. “I’m sure.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’re going out again next Saturday. It’s so going to happen, Fee. I can see the stars just lining up for it.”

  I patted her knee. “Well, I’m happy for you.”

  “Thank you. I’m just waiting for it to be ten o’clock in Arizona so I can try to call my sister again. She’s going to be so excited.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I sat in the waiting room of the gynecologist’s office, twirling my ankle in a slow circle and turning the pages of a battered copy of Redbook magazine without really looking at them. Two small, messy-haired children were sitting about a foot away from the screen of the giant TV in the corner, watching The Lion King with the volume turned up several notches too loud for the small room. Their mother, I assumed, was back with the doctor. In the row of chairs perpendicular to me were a tired, heavy-looking new mother with a receiving-blanket-covered portable car seat on the floor beside her, and a tiny woman with a Jheri curl, black stockings, and a gold ankle bracelet. Mystified, I wondered why you’d wear things that complicated for a visit to the gynecologist.

  “Miss Kassner?”

  I set the magazine down on the coffee table and followed the nurse back to the examining room. She was short and chubby, her pink-and-white scrubs printed with cartoon clipboards and syringes. No wedding ring. When she popped the thermometer into my mouth, I smelled a hint of cigarette smoke in her gold-highlighted brown curls.

  “Get on the scale,” she said. She moved the markers around sloppily. “Five-five. One-forty-three. Sound right to you?”

  “I hope not.”

  She smiled wryly. “Everybody says that. Reason for your visit?”

  “I want to talk to the doctor about birth control.”

  She scribbled something on my chart. “What are you currently using?”

  “Nothing.”

  Her curls shifted a bit as she stared at me for a moment, then clicked her pen and reached with a pair of tongs into a metal container beside the sink, pulling out a speculum and setting it on the tray beside the examining table. “You can leave your socks and shirt on if you want. Everything else off. The coverings are down there.” Nodding to a shelf in the corner, she plunked my chart into the holder on the door and closed it firmly behind her.