Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

by Nora Zelevansky

  10. Mitch’s favorite color is blue, I think. He wears it all the time.

  11. (I know we said 10 facts, but this is more of a confession.) When school starts, I’m worried he’ll meet the more girly girls and stop liking me.

  Number eleven cracked Marjorie’s heart in two. How was it possible to be so young and so grown up at the same time? Some of the hardest lessons are learned early.

  The crown of Belinda’s head bobbed, as she picked the remaining cookie crumbs from her napkin. A sugar-starved kid with sweets is like a lion devouring raw meat—graphic.

  “Perfect,” said Marjorie. “This gives us physical and emotional cues, and a sense of place, even some supporting characters.”

  Belinda looked doubtful. “Where’s your list?”

  “I brought a short story I wrote when I was a little younger than you instead. You can read it when we’re done.” Marjorie pulled a photocopy of her flip book story from her bag. “Yours will be much better.”

  Belinda took the page and began to read.

  “Hey, put that away! We need to get cracking. It’s mid-July and we don’t have a first draft!”

  Belinda tucked the paper away in her backpack. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “No. Stop stalling! I’m on to you.” Marjorie performed her best no-nonsense look. “Okay. We’re going to take four of these facts and turn them into fiction.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Let’s figure that out.” Marjorie scanned the page. “First, you might want to change his name … to protect the innocent.”

  “Definitely. Let’s call him Henry!”

  “Perfect. Henry goes to your school, lives in your hood, is athletic, from Seattle. Hmm. What if he moved from somewhere more exotic?”

  “How about Bath?”

  “Bath, like in England?”

  “I like Jane Austen and she’s from there. Mom H. read Pride and Prejudice with me.”

  “Exotic Bath, it is! Three more facts to go. He’s funny. Well, we don’t want him to be dull. Taco Day and overprotective parents are things you have in common.” Marjorie tapped her pen against the table. “Do you want to write a happy or sad ending?”

  “Maybe somewhere in between? The best books have both.”

  “What if you weren’t going to school together next year? And he had to go back to Bath instead?”

  “How tragic!” said Belinda.

  “Exactly. One last detail to be fictionalized. Let’s see, let’s see, let’s see.”

  Belinda eyes popped open like an anime character. “I know! What if Snarls is a dog instead of a person?”

  “Belly! You’re a genius. That’s brilliant.”

  “Did I tell you he snatched my glasses during tennis yesterday? I almost got smacked in the head with a flying ball. It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.”

  “He needs a new name.”

  “How about Trash Bag McGee?” Belinda giggled. Suddenly, she was a child again, back from the brink of teenage cynicism. Was this the age when Marjorie had gone wrong?

  Marjorie shook her head clear. “Done. For next week, you’ll write a plot outline.”

  “But I don’t know what the story should be!”

  “Just tell the truth about meeting Mitch, ahem, Henry. Then think about what it would be like if he left. Good?”

  Belinda scowled; the adolescent had returned. “I guess.”

  Marjorie took a sip of her iced tea. “You may ask your personal question now.”

  Belinda perked up. She pulled her hair into a ponytail, then let it fall back down her back (a Marjorie mannerism). She had fought with Harriet for forty-five minutes that morning about wearing it loose. “So, do you, like, have a boyfriend?”

  “Good question,” grunted Marjorie.

  “You don’t know?” The kid looked disappointed.

  Marjorie folded, unfolded, and refolded her straw’s paper wrapping. “Well, it’s complicated. He’s an old friend and I’m giving him a shot.”

  Belinda scrutinized Marjorie’s face. “How come you don’t seem excited?”

  “You sound like my roommate, Fred.”

  “The one who was supposed to be my tutor!”

  Panic caught in Marjorie’s throat before she realized she hadn’t been caught in a lie. “Yes. That Fred. Anyway, I am excited. It’s just that after years of dating different guys—”

  “How many different guys?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just say I’m cautiously optimistic.”

  Belinda turned that over in her mind. “Makes sense, I guess. But if Mitch was my boyfriend, I’d be psyched.”

  “If Mitch was your boyfriend, he’d be the lucky one.” Marjorie glanced at her cell phone. “Time to go. We don’t want Mom H. to worry.”

  Marjorie and Belinda gathered their belongings.

  “Actually, Mom H. hasn’t been home much lately. I didn’t think it was possible, but I’m getting sick of pizza.”

  “Where’s she been?”

  “Pottery class, a lecture series on chia seeds, candlelight yoga class.” They wove, like a caterpillar, around tables toward the exit. “She says Mom D. has work and I have school and camp and she needs something for herself. Really she just wants time away from Mom D., I think. Normally, they try to hide their fights with these loud whispers they think I can’t hear, but lately they’ve been outright yelling.” She paused. “Hey, what are ‘intimacy issues’?”

  As they stood outside the air-conditioned restaurant in the heat, Marjorie neither wanted to cause alarm nor lie. “I think Mom H. would probably like more attention from Mom D. Life can get busy and stressful; it’s not always easy to find time to make the people we love feel important.”

  “Does your boyfriend make you feel important?”

  “Mac? Sure. But he could make a rock garden feel special.”

  “Hey, BTW, I’ve decided you’re not a loser.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you. I did get a new job, actually.”

  Belinda looked stricken. “Does that mean no more tutoring?”

  “No, no, no. It’s temporary and part-time. I need you around to tell me I’m a winner!”

  The preteen didn’t crack a smile. “I’m serious. I asked Mom D. what makes someone a ‘loser.’ First she said I shouldn’t call people losers.” Belinda rolled her eyes. “Then she said that losers are selfish people, who are too busy blaming others for their problems to get their lives together. So you’re not one because, for one thing, you’re helping me.”

  “That’s not exactly charity,” said Marjorie. “I hear you, though: I’m not a loser. But maybe I used to be.”

  21

  Monday’s forecast was hot and disgusting with a humidity index of a billion percent and winds from the east carrying the stench of rotting half-eaten hot dogs, urine, and ten thousand yellowed armpits of five thousand commuting executives.

  Against all odds, Marjorie awoke feeling hopeful, the first indicator that her mood could only plummet.

  Unrest came in the form of an early phone call. Marjorie had made the rookie mistake of calling to share career news with her parents, forgetting her mother’s propensity for the buzzkill. Barbara Plum was too embroiled in a client’s Sunday night crisis to chat and hung up abruptly, as if the interruption had been audacious. Now she called and demanded an update.

  “My new job starts today,” said Marjorie, sorting through her closet.

  “Today? Are you late? It’s nine thirty!”

  “I know what time it is, Mom. I start in the afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess Michael’s partner needs to get me up to speed but has morning meetings. This is when you say, ‘A job? That’s great!’”

  “That is great. This is doing what?”

  “It’s an assistant job for a film distribution company.”

  “Oh! A big one?”

  “A tiny boutique one, I think.”

  “Oh. Does it pay well?”r />
  “I don’t know. I needed a job; they offered one; I took it.”

  “You didn’t ask about salary?”

  “Mom, I’m desperate. Michael is a lovely guy. He wouldn’t take advantage of me.”

  “Okay. I’m sure the stability is comforting.”

  “Yes, for now.” The cordless phone almost slipped from between Marjorie’s shoulder and chin, as she pulled a dress off a black velour hanger. “It’s only for a few weeks. Temp, temp, temp.”

  “I see.” Barbara paused, loudly. “Are you doing ‘morning pages’ as I suggested? Writing down your thoughts first thing can clear your head and help you find direction.”

  “Sometimes, Mom. Not every day.” By that she meant no.

  There was silence on the line, as each woman waited for the other to speak. Marjorie got distracted by a toothpaste smudge on her garment’s collar, Barbara by Mina the Cat crying for fresh dry food—as if that wasn’t an oxymoron.

  “I should have seen this coming.” The elder sighed.

  “Seen what coming?”

  “You. This. I tried to steer you in the right direction as a child, but you spoiled easily. You expect opportunities to come to you.”

  “I spoiled easily?” Marjorie threw her poor innocent frock onto the bed. “Like a tangerine?”

  “I guess they do rot quickly.”

  Marjorie fell silent. She crossed to the mirror and examined her skin for imperfections.

  Barbara Plum sensed the error in her approach, though she could not understand how she’d stepped in it once again. Had a life-coaching client relayed the same conversation verbatim—set in a different household, delivered by another mother—she would have seen that the child’s unrealistic expectations resulted directly from the mother’s being set too high. But so goes the blindness of parenting. She could so clearly see the future that Marjorie deserved but was letting slip away. Perhaps if she reminded her daughter of her flaws, she might avoid having them.

  “Marjorie? Are you still there?”

  Marjorie pulled a tweezer from her makeup bag and began plucking stray blond hairs from below her brow line. “Yes. How convenient that the problem was not with your parenting, but with my character.”

  “I’ve offended you.”

  Marjorie took a deep breath. “I don’t care about being offended.” Her mother often made these damning pronouncements, then appeared genuinely surprised by the negative response. Barbara Plum had thick skin; she assumed everyone else did too. “I just want to be in the right mind-set for my first day at a new job. This isn’t helping.”

  “Right. Good thinking.” Barbara grimaced. “Well, good luck!”

  Marjorie gritted her teeth. “Thanks. Wait, Mom. Did Mac O’Shea ask you for my address?”

  “Oh, yes, he did.”

  “You didn’t think to give me a heads-up?”

  “Why would I? I assumed he was inviting you to one of his mother’s charity galas or whatever.” Fair enough. “I better go. I’m teaching an Owning Your Passion seminar at the college. Your father would like to say a quick hello. Bye, honey.”

  Barbara Plum shrugged at her husband, a gesture that said, I guess I said the wrong thing … again, and handed him the phone.

  “Hey, Bozo!” said Chipper, cheerleading. “I heard you got a job.”

  “Just for a week or so,” Marjorie grunted. “But they may eventually hire someone full-time.” Shit! Never pluck angry. In her suppressed rage, she’d created a tiny bald spot toward the tail of her left brow, a symbol of her absent sense.

  “To prepare, may I suggest watching Working Girl?”

  Marjorie had to smile. “Dad. It’s not 1988. I’ll try to fit in a rerun of The Office before I leave, though.”

  “Touché, dear daughter! I’ve taught you well.” Chipper’s attempt to repair the damage from Hurricane Barbara was valiant, but Marjorie needed to get off the phone and refocus. “I’ll let you go. But have a great day.”

  “Thanks, Dad. You too.”

  Doubt took root and became a stubborn splinter. And that cast a pall over the the rest of the morning. From the front desk at the wellness clinic, Fred texted, “Break a leg!” and, as Marjorie left their brownstone, she almost did. Roberta had accidentally—or perhaps as vengeance for the stolen tomato—trailed gardening topsoil on the front steps. Unstable in her platform heels, Marjorie slipped and caught herself inches before landing in a pile of manure. She carefully righted herself and went on her way.

  The heat was the epic kind that erases all memories of showers. Instantly, the strands of Marjorie’s hair experienced a collective schizophrenic break triggered by the humidity and turned so puffy that a passing old man was reminded of fond trips to the groomer with his deceased poodle, Muffin.

  Marjorie’s dress stuck to her back and her sandal strap rubbed her heel in an ominous way that spelled blister. She couldn’t drown out her mother’s voice no matter how loud she turned the volume on her iPod. The songs seemed cloying anyway.

  The old Marjorie would have jumped in an air-conditioned cab, saved herself the literal sweat, blood, and tears of the subway trip, so she could arrive looking professional and long-term hirable. But she was dead broke and unsure that a taxi ride would give her the desired sense of personal satisfaction. (She had indeed watched Working Girl the night before despite her denial and was now determined to break the glass ceiling on foot!) After all, this felt like her first real job, one that she hadn’t been offered only because she was cute and knew Justin Timberlake a little.

  As she neared the subway, her phone rang. She pulled it from her bag, ready to ignore her mother’s call back. Instead VERA flashed on the screen, an Amber Alert for lost friendship.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi.” Her old pal’s voice was clipped. “I’m calling because Victor contacted me about the security deposit check. I didn’t know where you wanted it sent, so I gave him your parents’ address.”

  Great. Marjorie would have to endure another family dinner. “That’s fine. Thanks.” Silence. “So, how are you?”

  “I’m great. Not that you care, but Brian and I love our new place. I’m headed to ABC Carpet right now to look at end tables. My lunch meeting canceled, so…”

  “That’s nice, Vera.”

  “I think so. But I’m sure you don’t.”

  “Jesus! I don’t understand why you’re so angry. You left me high and dry.”

  “Oh, please,” huffed Vera. Hers was a rage born of late-night stewing, things left unsaid. “I know you told Brian to ‘Get the fuck out!’ of the apartment.”

  “Want to know what he said to provoke that?”

  “Not really.”

  Perhaps the heat accelerated her temper, but Marjorie hit her boiling point fast. “Your loser frat boy appendage told me he’d hit on me a year too early because I’m an easier target now.”

  Seconds passed, during which, Marjorie assumed, Vera ingested this information, decided it didn’t suit her taste, and spit it back out.

  “Well, aren’t you? Easy these days?” said her once best friend. “Everyone knows you’re Mac O’Shea’s latest piece of trash.”

  “Trash?” Marjorie felt actual pain in her chest.

  “You’re such an idiot. You think you’re the exception? That he actually likes you?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s my boyfriend, Vera. It’s not a fling.”

  She cackled. “You’re even sadder than I thought.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re horrible. I spent years defending and protecting you. Now I finally see why people called you ‘bitter’ and worse. Some advice: If you’re jealous and feel overshadowed, don’t wait twenty years to say something. It makes you ugly—uglier.”

  Marjorie hung up. Dizzy with adrenaline, she leaned against the subway’s exterior. A grandmotherly woman stopped and approached. “Are you feeling faint, dear?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.” She willed herself not to cry under the lady�
�s kind gaze, even as her chin wobbled.

  “It’s hot today. Make sure you hydrate.” She continued on her way.

  Marjorie couldn’t afford—practically or emotionally—to show up weepy to work. Anger was another story.

  She stomped down the stairs, swiped her MetroCard, and almost kicked the turnstile when an error message—PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN—flashed. Cursing, she reswiped and entered. Rats frolicked in and around the third rail.

  Marjorie was trying to start from scratch. How dare Vera invade and squash her newfound hope with pettiness! What did she know about Mac, or even Marjorie, except that she represented all things unequal? How could she just shake off Brian’s betrayal? Did she have no self-respect?

  Marjorie thought about that photograph of them as kids, their arms wrapped around each other, their only worry the next day’s algebra quiz. How long had Vera hated her? One year? Six? Had she only pretended to be a sister from day one, commiserating about unfair parental rules and making inside jokes, while harboring secret scorn? Once, they had complemented each other: Marjorie a relaxed, outgoing foil to Vera’s organized, controlled being.

  Grief hit like a punch to the gut. Overcome, Marjorie slumped onto a nearby bench. How could she feel both betrayed and mournful? Her breath came short and labored. Panic. This is a subway station. This is sweat down my back, a McDonald’s bag in the tracks, a friendship ending.

  The F train pulled up and Marjorie climbed on board. The car was air-conditioned, but there were no free seats. She propped herself against a pole by a set of doors and stared out the window into blackness. Based on her reflection, looking back with tired eyes, her makeup had not worn well in the heat.

  The jostling had a calming effect. Six stops later, at 2nd Avenue in Manhattan, Marjorie was starting to breathe evenly when a drunk man boarded and started mumbling, then ranting about the mayor. More alert passengers hopped off and onto the next car, sensing unpleasantness. Others watched the doors close with regret. Readers concentrated more closely on books, iPod listeners studied their fingers hoping to turn invisible. Some sturdy older women, longtime veterans of the New York City transit system, looked on with unflinching disinterest.