“For the tutoring session. They pay in cash, so if they let you stay once you tell them you’re not me or part of the program, you’ll make money at least. Make sure you tell them that this time slot won’t work for me going forward, so they can request a replacement.”
“Wait, Fred, seriously?”
“Please! I can’t tell you how much I’d appreciate it.”
“What about the apartment?”
“You can move in whenever. Just call me and we’ll work out the details. My ma says you’re kinda broke, so I can help you move with my band’s van.” She paused. “Oh, I mean, assuming you want to move in.”
Marjorie hadn’t even seen the room, but what choice did she have? “I’m in. In, in, in.”
“Great, great, great!” Fred bounded back over to Marjorie, crammed a set of keys into her hand, and surprised her with a hearty hug. “This is going to be amazing!”
“But Fred! I don’t even know how to get to Park Slope.”
“Follow the quinoa crumbs!” Fred slammed the door behind her.
Marjorie stood shocked for a moment, then trotted up the steps to see the extra room. Judging by the absence of Fred’s clothing heaps, hers would be the one at the end of the corridor. It was small but clean, and had a window overlooking the garden. Marjorie felt mildly relieved. It would do just fine.
She walked back down the stairs, grabbed her own bag, and headed out to cover this strange girl’s tutoring session.
Maybe this would work out after all? Marjorie had her doubts.
10
A text from Fred—a mess of undecipherable typos and fragments—listed where and whom to meet but ignored the purpose of the tutoring session, which was likely to go poorly regardless since Marjorie couldn’t stand kids.
Precious shops lined 5th Avenue; up side streets sat idyllic brownstones, inside of which Marjorie assumed residents were home brewing beer and pickling vegetables for wild composting sessions.
As instructed, she waited outside a vegetarian café. Gatherers, watching thirty-something women push enormous strollers past, trailed by pasty men with offspring strapped to their fronts like kangaroo pouches. Telltale dead eyes—puffy with sleep deprivation—confirmed that the babies had finally won.
Their uniform attire suggested limited primping time: Women marched in Crocs (a feat never before realized) toward yoga classes to fight emergent hips. Men wore “Brooklyn” T-shirts, alerting themselves to their current location.
On the corner, a woman huddled over her screaming infant in his stroller, repeating, “C’mon, Davis, C’mon, Davis!” as if he might listen to reason. Engrossed, Marjorie did not notice an eleven-year-old girl and her mother sitting inside by Gatherers’ window, staking out the entrance, until the elder—a stocky woman with a chest like a shelf in her sports bra—walked outside and tapped Marjorie on the shoulder. “Excuse me! Are you the tutor?”
It would occur to Marjorie later that the mother, Harriet, never asked her name, a surprising oversight by someone so protective of her only daughter. For now, Marjorie sized the woman up, as she began rattling off instructions. Harriet was an older parent—early fifties. Wiry gray hair bordered her makeup-free face in haphazard squiggles.
“Let me introduce you,” she was saying, “so you can get started and I can get to my chiropractor appointment. We live around the corner, so Belinda can walk back alone. Just please remind her to look both ways before crossing the street!”
Marjorie shook hands with Belinda, hovering tableside. The girl’s long dark hair was pulled back in a flowered headband, and her big green eyes peered suspiciously from behind tortoiseshell glasses. She wore a nonsensical T-shirt that read HAPPY DANCE! above a smattering of rainbows and stars and bootleg jeans, baggy on her prepubescent chicken legs. Her sneakers looked far too big for her frame, belying—like a puppy’s enormous paws—a taller adulthood than her mother enjoyed.
“… So that’s the gist,” Harriet finished. Marjorie hadn’t been listening. Maybe this was why most of her friend’s tutors growing up had proved inept?
“Okay. You guys have fun!” Harriet smiled and frowned, smiled and frowned.
“Well, I don’t know about fun,” joked Marjorie. Harriet squinted at her. Apparently this was a humor-free zone. “Because, we’re doing homework.” Nothing. “Which isn’t—you know what? Have a great chiropractor appointment. I’ve got it from here.”
Harriet nodded curtly. “Oh! One last thing.” She dug inside her canvas Whole Foods tote, pulled out some folded sheets of paper, and stuffed them into Marjorie’s hand. “You have my number in case of emergency, right, Belinda?”
“Yes, Mom.” These were the first words from the girl’s lips. Harriet didn’t leave a lot of dead air.
“Don’t forget to look both ways on your way home!”
“Mom!” Belinda flushed, out of either embarrassment or frustration. “I don’t even have to cross a street.”
“Well, be careful anyway!” With that, Harriet left, peeking back through the window only twice for consolation.
Marjorie felt relieved, until she sat down and realized she was stuck with this child for the next … wait, how long was this? And what the hell were they supposed to do? If it was math, they were both in trouble.
“Hi,” she tried.
“Hello.” Belinda stared her down.
“So…”
The kid rolled her eyes. “So, what?”
“So, is she always like that?”
“Who? Mom H.?”
“Mom H.?”
“Yeah. That’s what I call her.”
“That’s weird. Why?”
“Belinda has two mommies.”
Marjorie studied the girl for a beat. “Are you being funny or are you … special?”
“Did you really just ask me that?”
“So you don’t normally talk about yourself in the third person?”
“Do you?”
What was with the attitude? Marjorie watched Belinda toy with the ripped corner of a paperback copy of Go Ask Alice, the diary of a teenage drug addict. It seemed advanced for an eleven-year-old.
“Are you reading that for school?”
“No. For life.”
“Okay, then.” Out of ideas, Marjorie unfolded the papers from Harriet and found a typed list, long enough to overwhelm Santa Claus:
ALLERGIES
Tomatoes: Tongue swelling, rash, upset stomach, sneezing.
Bee Stings: Swelling, itching, anaphylactic shock.
Peanuts (Nuts in General): Tongue swelling, anaphylactic shock. (CALL 911!)
Soy: Upset stomach, bloating, flatulence.
Gluten: Upset stomach, bloating, flatulence, diarrhea.
Dairy: Upset stomach, bloating, flatulence, diarrhea, vomiting.
Nitrates: Migraine headaches, searing pain at the jawline, stomach pain.
Cats/Dogs: Sneezing, congestion, swelling of the tongue and throat.
Nightshades: Abdominal pain, asthmatic episodes, congestion.
Chocolate: Hyperactivity, abdominal cramping, rash, vomiting.
Berries: Rash, itching, swollen throat, asthmatic response.
That was page one.
Alarmed, Marjorie looked up at Belinda, who sat with her arms crossed, unconcerned.
“You have all of these allergies? Shouldn’t you be living in a bubble or something?”
“No. I’m not allergic to anything. Except spicy food makes my head itch.”
“Wait. Then why do you have this?”
“It’s a list of possible allergies. My mom says they can develop overnight.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
“Wow. Belinda, your mother is a little nuts.”
To Marjorie’s relief, Belinda giggled. “She’s totally crazy.” For a moment, the girl dropped her cool façade, as she couldn’t help adding: “Have you heard of helicopter parents? This is their landing pad. You think my mom’s bad? One girl in my class isn’t
allowed on playdates because she once scraped her knee during one. Three years ago.”
“That’s just distressing.” Marjorie refolded the list. “Let’s put this aside for now. I’m hungry. You?”
“Kind of, yeah.” Belinda began rummaging through her purple canvas backpack, then placed a minicontainer of Sabra hummus and a bag of carrots in front of her.
“That’s what the kids are eating these days?” Marjorie eyed the snack.
“That’s what my mother gave me.”
“You know it’s weird to eat your own food in a restaurant, right?”
“I’m a child. I do what I’m told.”
“Okay. Well, I’m going to have iced tea and one of those massive cookies on the counter. You’re sure you don’t want that instead?”
Belinda examined her hummus, weighing whether to remain aloof or go for the sweets. She confessed, “I’m not allowed to have iced tea because of caffeine—Mom H. says it stunts your growth—and no sweets before dinner. Or processed sugar ever.”
“I appreciate your candor. Let’s just make it a treat for today. We’re living on the edge!”
“What about stunting my growth?”
“Your mother is under five feet. What does she know?” Marjorie stood to place their order at the counter. “Chocolate chip or peanut butter?”
“Can I have the one with the M&Ms?” Belinda asked shyly.
A college kid in a patterned bandana took their order. When Marjorie returned, Belinda’s reserve was back in place.
“So, what do people call you?”
“Belinda, remember?” She shot Marjorie an impatient look.
“No nickname? Belle? Lindy?”
“My mother doesn’t believe in them.”
“Seriously? No one ever shortens your name?”
“Some boys at school call me ‘Blender,’ as in ‘face caught in a,’ but I don’t think they mean it as a compliment.” They sat in silence for a beat. “Aren’t you going to tell me that boys only say that because they like me?”
“No. Do you want boys to like you?”
“I guess so.”
“Then lose the headband. It’s cute, but it screams little girl. Girl, girl, girl.”
“Really?” Belinda’s hand flew up to her head.
“Get out a pen and paper,” said Marjorie, suddenly inspired. It was too late to save herself, but maybe she could help Belinda. “I’m going to give you your first assignment.”
The girl pulled out a spiral notebook, covered with doodles of stars, and opened it to a fresh page. “Ready.”
“Go to your school library and take out a book called He’s Just Not That Into You. Only read half. It’s repetitive.”
“And that’s going to help me?”
“One day.”
“It’s fiction?”
“No. It’s more like … a reference book.”
Belinda scribbled down the instructions.
“Also, download a Liz Phair—that’s with a ‘ph’—song called ‘Girls’ Room.’ Listen to the lyrics. Everyone has to cope with girls named Tiffany someday … or, for your generation, Madison maybe. Now, wanna tell me what we’re supposed to be working on?”
“You don’t know?” Belinda narrowed her eyes. “So, technically, I could lie? And avoid working on the thing I hate most in the world?”
“You could, but something tells me you won’t.”
The Kid shrugged. “I can’t do it, so we might as well give up now.”
“What are we giving up on?”
“Creative writing.” Thank God. It had been Marjorie’s best subject. Maybe she could help this kid. “We had this assignment at the end of last year to write a short story based on themes from books we’d read like The Catcher in the Rye, Frankenstein, and To Kill a Mockingbird, you know? About growing up and transforming and stuff.”
“And?”
“And I couldn’t do it.” Belinda seemed to deflate, a popped balloon.
“Why? You seem like a smart kid.”
“It’s the glasses. They make me look smarter than I am.”
Marjorie snorted. “I think it may be more than the glasses.”
“You want the truth?” Belinda stared hard at the table. “I have no imagination.”
“What? That’s crazy!”
“No one believes me, but it’s true! One girl in my class, Estella, wrote a story about baby dragons. This boy Waldo wrote about zombies. But I literally couldn’t make anything up.”
“And your teacher wasn’t sympathetic?”
“No. So now I have to write the story over the summer…” Panic filled Belinda’s eyes. “Otherwise, they’ll hold me back a grade.”
“They’re not going to hold you back.”
“They said they might!”
“You’re way too advanced. But we do need to get you writing. Here’s what I think—”
The barista arrived with their cookies and iced teas. “Marjorie?”
Marjorie nodded, as the waitress set the snacks down.
Belinda frowned. “I thought your name was Fredericka?”
Only then did Marjorie realize that—in the chaos of meeting Harriet—she had neglected to explain the switch and Fred’s future scheduling conflict. “Oh, no. Fred was supposed to be your tutor, but she couldn’t come. So I did. Marjorie. Madge, actually.”
“Can I call you that?” Belinda bit into a cookie the size of her head, leaving a trail of chocolate on her upper lip.
“You can.”
“Cool. I don’t know anyone with that name.”
“It’s after Marjorie Morningstar, my mother’s favorite book. Your name is unusual too.”
“I was named after Belinda Carlisle, the singer. She’s Mom H.’s favorite.”
Neither girl knew the full backstories that had compelled their respective mothers to choose their names: Barbara Plum (née Schwartz) had fallen in love with Herman Wouk’s novel because she aspired to the main character’s life—a Jewish girl, far away from Queens on the sophisticated Upper West Side, experiencing adolescent adventures instead of helping out at the family’s dry cleaning store.
Meanwhile, Harriet had grown up with a passive mother and an emotionally abusive father. Only when periodically whisked to her grandmother’s house as a teenager was she permitted to close herself off in a room and blast music, to let noise overwhelm thought. Granny Gloria had taken a surprising liking to the Belinda Carlisle songs, so Harriet played them often to please her. And, when Granny died, Harriet made sure to play “Heaven Is a Place on Earth” at the funeral. Thus, her daughter became Belinda, and no nickname would suffice.
Marjorie took a long sip of iced tea. “You know, I could have told you my name was Fred and that would have been fiction.”
“Um, no. That’s a lie.”
“Same thing.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to teach me to lie.”
“How much time do we have?” Marjorie glanced at her cell phone: 4:45. The kid was a decent distraction, but she needed to coordinate her move. Her stomach flipped just thinking about it.
“We have five minutes left.”
“Okay. I’m going to ask you some questions about yourself and you answer. Ready? Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“No.”
“Do you wish you did?”
“Sometimes.”
“What would they be like?”
“Actually, I have half siblings somewhere because my sperm donor was also used by other women besides my moms. But they don’t want me to meet them … yet.”
What a strange new world. “See? There’s a lot of interesting things about you. Go home and make a list of five experiences you’ve had. They don’t have to be major. We’ll find the basis for your story in no time.”
Belinda looked doubtful, as she licked the last cookie crumbs from her palms. “Isn’t that cheating?”
“Absolutely not. Write what you know. Ready to go?” Marjorie handed Belinda half
of her own cookie, wrapped in a napkin. “Why don’t you have the rest?”
“Really? Thanks!” Belinda stuffed the treat into her backpack for later, then handed an envelope to Marjorie. “My mom said to give you this.”
“More allergies?”
“I think it’s money.”
Marjorie was grateful for the cash.
Outside, it was early evening, but still bright and warm.
“So, I’ll see you next week?” said Belinda.
“Oh.” Marjorie absorbed Belinda’s hopeful expression, felt the heat of the envelope in her hand. “I’ll be here!” she said before she could think better of it.
“Bye, Madge!” chirped Belinda, as she disappeared around the corner.
“Look both ways before you don’t cross the street!” Marjorie called back.
When Belinda got home, she opened her spiral notebook and reviewed her to-do list:
Belinda’s Tutoring Assignments
1. Lose the headband. Figure out how to do hair like Madge’s.
2. Convince Mom H. to stop giving people that dumb allergy list.
3. Download Liz Phair “Girls’ Room” song.
4. Write list of 5 things that have happened to me.
5. Borrow “He’s Just Not That Into You” from the library.
6. Get a nickname.
Bolstered, she decided to try, one last time, to write her own short story:
Belinda’s Attempt #6,002
Once upon a time, there was a girl boy dog cat
Once upon a time
Long ago … in hell … In a land far
In Park Slope, Brooklyn
BLEH!
Once upon a time, a girl had no imagination. She never went anywhere or became anyone. She got kicked out of school before she was 12 and spent eternity in a pink headband, begging people to stop calling her “Blender.”
THE END
11
Leaving Belinda, Marjorie realized that she was not in the midst of an anxiety attack about her future. That seemed like a feat.
True, she was moving to a galaxy far, far away (from anyone she knew, anyway) to live with an alien hippie and had just impersonated a tutor, offering advice despite being bad at life. She would have to rely on her half of the returned security deposit from her old place to pay rent. Pathetic. Plus, she would probably never see her favorite pair of neon yellow underwear again.
Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel Page 7
