by Susan Fodor
“What are you shopping for?” Tammy tried.
“John needs a few items of clothing,” I told her.
“My foster parents have been kind,” John added, begrudgingly, “but I wanted stuff that I picked myself.”
“Target’s having a menswear sale,” Tammy volunteered.
“You’ve been to Target.” I laughed, turning to look at Tammy.
“My Dad says you don’t have money if you spend it all,” she shrugged. “I know all the bargain stores, including the op-shops; just gotta hit them at the right time.”
Tammy was full of surprises; I was starting to really like her.
Tammy reluctantly left us at Target to find Miranda, while John and I picked out some clothes for him to try on. I stood in the men’s change room outside the flimsy curtain that doubled as a door, waiting for John to show me his ensemble.
We heard Miranda before we saw her. “You’re sure they were shopping here?” she asked, disgust tempering her sentence.
“Yes...” Tammy agreed.
“Get in here,” John said, pulling me into the change room and whisking the curtain closed behind me. The cubicle had a large mirror and John’s borrowed clothes lay in a heap on the bench. The area was surprisingly large. I gently leaned against a wall with three hooks above me that stated, “Yes,” “Maybe,” “Next time.”
I examined John’s jeans and surf t-shirt and gave him a silent thumbs-up as Miranda called into the change room. “John? John Smith, are you in here?”
John pressed his finger to his lips, begging me to be silent. I shook my head with an exasperated smile, while obeying his request.
“John?” Miranda called, stopping outside our cubicle. “I can see your sneakers.”
“I’m naked.” He smiled.
“I don’t think so,” Miranda said, sounding less impressed with each sentence. “I can see Mya’s cheap bargain basement shoes too.”
“We’re having sex,” he replied.
My slap bounced off his rock-hard chest, hurting me more than him. He feigned offense, and I giggled.
“I doubt it,” Miranda disagreed. “She’s on the other side of the cubicle.”
“I just have a really big...” John began, as I whipped the curtain open.
“Capacity for joking,” I finished.
Miranda smiled as she came face-to-face with her prey.
“Hey, Miranda, Tammy, Tamara, Julia,” I greeted, sweetly.
“So there’s a party tomorrow night,” Miranda told John, ignoring me. “It’s at my place. I’m having a bachelorette party. I dumped Dylan’s sorry butt.”
“I thought he...” Tammy began before Miranda elbowed her silent.
“I’d love you to be there,” she purred, leaning into John’s broad chest.
“Do you want to go?” he asked me, ignoring Miranda.
I shrugged, about to decline, when Miranda fixed me with a look that left no room for retreat.
“Sure,” I agreed.
“Really?” he fished for a no. “Didn’t we have that thing ..”
“The thing?” Tammy asked.
Miranda glared at me.
“That’s next week.” I shook my head.
“Fine,” John sighed, moving Miranda firmly out of the cubicle, “we’ll be there. Now let us finish.” John pulled the curtain closed without a farewell.
“Do we have to go?” he asked loudly, as Miranda and her posse giggled out of the change rooms.
“We can put in an appearance.” I laughed at his childish pout.
“Why are you nice to her?” he asked. “She would step over your injured body to get to me.”
“I feel sorry for her.” I shrugged. I grabbed John’s rumpled shirt off the bench and folded it.
“What? You feel sorry for all the money, the fancy clothes, the mansion...” he asked.
I laughed. “No, I just think it’s sad that these are the best days she has. She’ll wake up in twenty years and be a mean desperate housewife and be confused how she got there.”
John laughed. “You think way too much...”
“I love the outfit,” I said, changing the subject.
“I’ll wear it tonight to dinner with your parents.” He smiled.
“You’re supposed to wash the clothes before you wear them,” I informed, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I like to live on the edge,” he said, squinting his eyes and sounding like James Bond.
“Come on Evel Knievel, let’s pay,” I laughed. “You’re about to have dinner with my parents; that should be extreme enough.”
Fish heads
“John, my friend!” Dad greeted, excited.
The lights were on throughout the house as we walked through the living room into the dining room. The table was still unset, but the warmth of cooking was emanating from the kitchen. The smell was pungent causing me to feel nauseated.
“You’re happy,” I observed, pleased to see Dad smiling again.
“I got a second interview today.” He smiled. “So I made a victory dinner.”
We all left unspoken the thought that he still might not get the job.
I sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?” I asked, swallowing the bile rising into my throat.
“Fish soup.” Mum shook her head. “I tried to talk him out of it.”
“Ukha … It’s a Russian delicacy.” Dad beamed.
“Please tell me you made it without the heads?” I pleaded, my hands in prayer pose.
“The head is the tastiest part,” Dad enthused.
“Fish head soup.” John smiled with anticipation. “Sounds delicious.”
“You’re a mad man,” I said, playfully pushing him.
“You love it,” he replied, bumping his hip against mine in response.
John and I set the table informally and sat down opposite my parents. Mum made everyone tell her the best part of our day, before she said grace. She was a big stickler for praying before meals; John was fortuitously unfazed by my weird family. The soup wasn’t as bad as it smelled, though the vacant eyes of the fish staring up from the pot almost made me hurl.
“Miranda invited us to a party tomorrow night,” I told my parents, gingerly sipping the hot soup. “Can I go?”
“Say no,” John encouraged, playfully.
“Why?” Mum asked, concerned. “Will they be doing drugs?”
“No doubt,” John replied, matching her concern. “We should really stay home and avoid the whole thing.”
“It’ll be a chance for you to both practice saying no.” Mum smiled, messing with John’s head. “Have fun.”
“What drugs?” Dad asked, missing the joke.
“If you don’t want to go, don’t!” Mum answered, rolling her eyes as though it was obvious, taking another tentative mouthful of soup. She hated Ukha; with each spoonful she would curl up her lips so that they wouldn’t touch the soup. I followed her example, till I’d consumed enough to save Dad’s feelings.
“Jaimie’s been trying to convince me to go all week.” I sighed. “And Miranda was keen for John to attend today.”
“I don’t like that girl,” Dad mumbled. “She has no hips; how will she have babies?”
Mum, John, and I laughed.
“It’s just one of those unsolved mysteries in the universe,” I joked.
“So, John, you like the fish head?” Dad asked, proud as a peacock. “You need to suck out the eyes like this,” he demonstrated.
I shuddered. I was not a big fan of fish, but their heads were the most repulsive part.
“Mmmmmm,” John replied, mimicking Dad, “delicious!”
“There’s a pupil on your tooth,” I pointed out, almost dry-retching.
“Give me a kiss,” John joked, puckering up.
“Ewwwwwww.” I pulled away, grossed out.
Dad laughed with reckless abandon. “Ha, ha, ha, give me a kiss...”
“Hilarious.” I rolled my eyes.
John and I did the dishes t
o give my parents some time to themselves. As we dried the dishes, a tea towel war broke out. We left red zebra stripes up and down each other’s legs. It was an enjoyable night despite the odd menu.
After John left, Dad commented, “If you like John, he is good enough for you.”
“So, you don’t think he’s right for Nadia?” I teased.
“What you talk?” Dad asked, obviously lying.
I laughed. Dad rarely admitted he was wrong; instead he feigned amnesia.
The fish head soup was a right of passage that had initiated John into our family. But with all the female attention John was receiving I didn’t know how long he’d be ours. Especially with the scheming that Miranda was orchestrating for the impending party.
Party primping
I regretted agreeing to attend the party the minute I opened my closet. I had piles of clothes but absolutely nothing to wear, the same kind of tragedy as having hundreds of channels on TV but nothing worth watching. In my moment of meltdown I did the only thing I knew how to do—I called Jaimie.
“I’m having a fashion freak-out,” I told Jaimie over the phone.
“Come over,” Tammy yelled in the background.
“You heard her.” Jaimie laughed. “Ask your parents to sleep over at Tammy’s house tonight, and we’ll go to the party together.”
“Is this going to be like another teen makeover?” I asked skeptically.
“Absolutely.” Jaimie laughed, before hanging up.
Mum dropped me off at Tammy’s beachside mansion a couple of hours later. Tammy was poured into daisy duke shorts and a top that make her breasts look like mountainous peaks. Her strawberry blonde-colored hair was pulled into two Princess Leia buns, and her hazel eyes danced with mischief. “You made it,” she buzzed, hugging me.
“Hey, girl,” Jaimie greeted, bumping my hip with hers. She was wearing tracksuit pants and a fitted tee. Her tiny frame looked gorgeous in it. Jaimie’s blond hair was tied in a high ponytail, and her blue eyes were rimmed with way too much eyeliner, like they’d been practicing makeup for the party.
“You’re looking smoky-eyed,” I commented, feeling the waters for the correct observation.
“Sexy or raccoon?” she asked seriously. “It’s a fine line; what do you think?”
“With the right outfit, sexy,” I declared.
“Yay!” Tammy giggled, clapping.
“Now it’s your turn,” Jaimie announced, dragging me up the wide staircase. Tammy’s bathroom was as big as half our house. I’d never noticed at the previous parties because of the wall-to-wall girls doing their makeup.
I sat down in the chair as Jaimie and Tammy set to work straightening my hair so they could curl it into elegant frizz-free curls. They played with my makeup like children transforming a doll. I remembered the times Jaimie had scribbled makeup on her Barbie with permanent marker and cut her hair into a punk rocker’s dream; I was sincerely hoping they didn’t do the same to me.
“What do you think?” Tammy asked, excited.
“You’ve outdone yourselves.” I smiled, turning my face from left to right to examine the earth-tone eyes and model’s cheeks that made my face look like a foundation commercial in a magazine.
“Now my surprise,” Tammy squealed, running out of the room and returning with a black dress on a hanger.
“It’s a vintage Sass and Bide.” She smiled.
“Vintage as in we found it in St Vinnie’s.” Jaimie smiled. “Five bucks.”
“Bargain!” we sang, giving each other a high fives.
“So put it on,” Tammy encouraged.
I carefully pulled the dress over my hair and makeup, adjusting the skirt over my hips. It looked like it had been sewn for my body.
"You're so hot I almost squeed," Tammy announced seriously.
"Thanks," I replied, weirded out by the compliment, but grateful for the sentiment.
"So, do you think you and John will do it tonight?" Tammy asked.
"Do what?" I asked, absently twirling so the skirt would swish.
"Get together," Tammy replied, exasperated.
"We're just friends." I looked up, surprised.
"I told you," Jaimie clucked. "She wouldn’t believe me."
"We're just friends," I assured Tammy again.
"I just assumed." Tammy sighed. "Kinda hoped too."
"That's nice." I smiled.
"I just don't want Miranda to get her claws into him," Tammy said in uncharacteristic disloyalty.
"I guess that's his choice." I shrugged, a tremor of pain piercing my chest.
"I think he's totally into you," she declared, confidently.
"Me too," Jaimie agreed.
"Whatever." I shook my head laughing. "Get dressed or we'll be late."
I tried not to think about John falling in love with someone else; it was too painful. Even with my party makeover I wasn't on John’s level. He was a devastating 10 out of 10, while I was merely a rumble of a 4 on the Richter scale. I treasured our time together because I knew that all too soon it would come to an end.
fight
People were slowly flowing through Miranda’s resplendent white double doors as we arrived. Tammy, Jaimie, and I strutted into Miranda’s house, turning heads. Tammy was wearing a tiny white dress that made her look like Pamela Anderson, while Jaimie was looking fit for a fashion runway in her little red dress. I felt like the chew toy between two show dogs, but boys were leering at me as much as them, so they must have done a decent job of my makeover. Since John had come into my life, I’d been dusted with his popularity—I was cool by association.
We entered the hall. People were dancing in the living room to our right and others cued for the toilets on the staircase to our left. In front of us the kitchen stretched out with drinks and snacks. It was a typical Miranda Steven’s party.
"Where's John?" Miranda demanded the minute we were in the door.
"Hi, Miranda," I greeted. "So good to see you. You look nice."
She glared at me as Tammy giggled. People around us noticed my entrance flanked by my own posse. I suddenly realized that our arrival looked like a challenge to Miranda's reign.
"You got some style." Miranda shrugged, looking at my dress. "But after tonight John will be mine and you will disappear back to wherever you came from."
"Can't we all just get along," I said, trying to create peace, but aggravating Miranda further.
Jaimie interjected to avoid a scene. "We're all just here to celebrate you becoming a single lady; just chill."
Miranda composed herself as she noticed the growing attention around us. "Get yourself some drinks; the party's just getting started." The tone she used suggested that she meant the contest for John’s affection was on.
Miranda's mansion sat on a cliff overlooking the sea, with a pool that looked like the edge dropped straight off the cliff. It was a white marble palace, one that my family couldn't afford in fifty lifetimes. Jaimie and Tammy grabbed drinks while I stayed sober to drive.
Tim flew down the stairs and wrapped himself around Jaimie immediately; they disappeared shortly after. Tammy and I joined some dancers in the living room, until a preppy private school guy claimed her on the dance floor, leaving me alone. I began to move toward the kitchen to get a juice when a hand grabbed mine. I smiled assuming if would be John. Turning, I found myself face to face with Dylan Sands, Miranda's ex.
"Hi." He smiled, his fringe flopping into his eyes. "I'm Dylan."
"I'm leaving," I replied, emotionless.
"I just want to dance," he said, pulling me closer.
Alcohol stained his breath, and his eyes told me he was after more than a dance. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. I looked around for help but Tammy had disappeared. The other couples around me were in drunken dancing mode.
I reigned in my panicked thoughts. ‘I’m over-reacting,’ I told myself, ‘there is no need to make a scene.’ If Miranda saw me with Dylan she would drag me out by the hair and have a screamin
g fit in her driveway. That was something I wanted to avoid.
"I'm Miranda's friend," I told him resolutely. "I'm not going to hurt her."
"You're Mya Belan, the girl who saved 'aquatic hottie'—that's what she calls him. And Miranda's not your friend; she hates you. So why not give her something to really hate you for?" Dylan said, putting his hands around my waist and trying to kiss me.
I pulled away planting my hands firmly on his chest, pushing him back, but he was drunk and strong and I was losing ground fast. His bin breath was on my face, my stomach heaved and my arms shook with the exertion of keeping him away. This was not the way I imagined my first kiss.
"Get off her!" John ordered, anger flashing in his eyes.
"Sorry, man," Dylan slurred, stepping back and putting his hands up in surrender. “I didn't know she was taken."
"She is," John shouted, his fists clenched.
"No, I'm not," I disagreed hotly. "I'm not a toilet that's engaged. I'm a person."
John looked at me, anger and amusement playing across his face.
In one fluid motion he stepped forward and threw me over his shoulder and began carrying me toward the stairs. Classmates and strangers alike ogled us amused or jealous. My face burned with shame as he carried me out of the living room.
John stopped at the foot of the stairs, I couldn’t see who he was talking to.
"Do you have a spare room?"
"Upstairs," Miranda replied, too surprised to deny John his request. Of all the people for John to ask, it had to be her---I was dead at school. I hid my face but I could feel Miranda’s eyes glaring daggers at me.
As John carefully navigated the stairs, the shock of the situation wore off. I began to beat on his muscled back. "Put me down!"
He ignored me, entering one of the bedrooms with an open door. He tossed me onto a queen-size bed in a room that overlooked the ocean. It was fancier than any of the hotels I’d ever stayed in, but I was so angry that there was no time to be impressed. John deliberately walked to the door and locked it, blocking my exit. He was ready for a showdown.
"What was that?" I demanded angrily, crawling off the bed while trying to keep my skirt down.
