More Than One Way to Be a Girl

by Dyan Sheldon

  “Dillon,” Mr Chelusky repeated. “Is that his given name or his last name?”

  They eased up some once they had a name. Now and then, I’d get a wink and a “How’s Dillon?” or a “Seeing Dillon tonight?” But that aside, I tried to forget the whole thing.

  And then, a couple of days after I left the voicemail for Gabe, I looked out the front window and saw Gabriel Schwartz walking across the car park to the store. It couldn’t be. What was Gabriel Schwartz doing at Chelusky’s? To my shame – and horror – I actually turned around to check my reflection in the glass of one of the display cabinets behind me. Was my hair okay? Was my eyeliner smudged? I smoothed down my dress. I heard the door open and someone come in. I checked my face one last time.

  “Loretta?”

  I turned around.

  Gabriel was standing at the counter smiling. He was smiling because this time he knew that it was me, and he wanted me to know he was glad it was. I smiled back; I was glad to see him, too. Very glad.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “I got your message. I thought… You know…” He shifted from one foot to the other. He cleared his throat. “ZiZi said you’re working here. How’s it going?”

  “Good,” I said. “And you? You surviving the Inn all right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay.” I don’t know why lopsided smiles are so attractive but they really do tug at your heart. “Working under the great Schonblatt’s good for learning humility, as well as Zen patience.”

  “ZiZi says she’s developing nerves of steel.”

  He smiled.

  I smiled.

  He smiled some more.

  “What’s up?” I asked finally. “You building an observatory and need screws?”

  Gabe laughed. “No. I–I—”

  I’m painting my room? I’m looking for a special kind of light bulb? I took a wrong turn on Saskimaw and wound up here?

  I was never to know what he was going to say because Vinnie suddenly came out from the back. “Hey, Loretta. You—” He didn’t finish his sentence, either. He stopped beside the display of doorknobs, looking from me to Gabe and back again. Grinning like he’d just won the five-billion-dollar lottery. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He held out his hand. “I’m Vinnie. You must be Dillo—”

  “Gabriel!” I shouted, possibly half a nanosecond too late; possibly not. “This is Gabriel Schwartz.”

  “Oh. Sorry, I…” mumbled Vinnie. “Gabriel. Nice to meet you.”

  “Yeah. Nice to meet you.”

  There were a few seconds of the kind of silence you’d expect if you’d just watched an asteroid hit the moon.

  “Well, I better get going or I’ll be late for work.” Gabe started walking backwards. “See you around, Loretta.”

  “So I’m guessing that wasn’t him,” said Vinnie as Gabriel disappeared out of the door.

  Yes and no.

  ZiZi

  I stage my first strike but (as I’m sure Emma Goldman could’ve told me) they don’t always work

  As the days went by, I was having more and more Loretta moments. Maybe it was all the free time I had now, or maybe it was because I was in the middle of the second book she’d loaned me (that also had sat on a shelf in my room for months), but I kept hearing myself say things Loretta might say. Thinking things she might think. Noticing things I never noticed before. Loretta always droned on about the double standards, that there was one set of rules for guys and another for women, but “double standards” (like gender stereotypes and gender parity) was one of those phrases that instantly made me start thinking of something else. Until now.

  Because one of the things I was noticing for the first time was that (unless you counted eating and making a mess) boys do zilch. At least the Abruzzio boys do zilch. When I was little, I had a miniature kitchen, a toy hoover, a toy washing machine, a toy iron and a baby doll, who came with her own cot and pushchair. As soon as I was old enough, I moved up to the real things (except for the baby!). I never thought about it; I just started doing things around the house. Setting and clearing the table. Learning how to wield a vacuum and a mop. Doing my own laundry and ironing my own clothes (the results are better and more predictable). I became my mom’s sous chef as soon as I could use a knife without losing a finger, and quickly learned basic cooking skills. None of those abilities apply to Nate and Obi (nobody ever gave either of them a play oven, that’s for sure).

  Since I’d started eating breakfast with my brothers, I’d realized that if no one else cleared up, everything would be left where it was. I figured this must be pretty normal because I’d never seen any of their friends walk a plate to the sink or offer to do the dishes, either. (Unlike my friends.) They both get leaf-raking and lawn-mowing duty (if you can catch them), but indoor chores are out. They don’t know where anything is in the kitchen and need help finding the peanut butter (even though it’s always in the same place). The only time Nate ironed anything (because Gina had the flu), he ironed a sock (there’s no knowing why) and it melted on the iron and wouldn’t come off. The only time Obi used the vacuum cleaner (because he didn’t want Mom to see the mess he made in the living room), he set it on fire (another of the great unsolved mysteries of Chez Abruzzio). Sometimes they manage to leave dirty socks and stuff so near the laundry basket (on the bathroom floor) it almost counts as in, but usually my mother has to shovel it out of their room. Obi once woke me up on a Saturday morning because everyone else was out, and although he knew how to make toast he didn’t know how to boil an egg.

  Now that I understood a lot more about how things work between men and women than I used to, I mentioned this double standard to my mother.

  “So why is it,” I asked her, woman to woman, “that you don’t make Nate and Obi do things around the house?”

  My mother stopped chopping carrots to look over at me. “Like what?”

  “Like anything. They don’t cook. They don’t clean. They don’t iron their own clothes. Pete’s sake, they don’t even load the dishwasher. If they manage to get a glass or a plate in the sink it’s a major achievement.”

  “You have met your brothers, haven’t you? They have no interest in cooking or housework.”

  Unlike me. What were my first words, Pass me the frying pan? Where’s the broom?

  I pointed out that they were pretty interested in eating and wearing clean clothes. “Doesn’t that count?”

  Cue maternal sigh. “You know what they’re like, ZiZi. You’ve seen what happens if you make them do something they don’t want to do.” She waved her knife at me. “It’s a lot easier to do everything myself than to have to clear up the mess and redo it after they’ve done it wrong.”

  “There is such a thing as a learning curve,” I argued. “They’d be bound to get better eventually.”

  “There’s also such a thing as life is too short,” said my mother. “By then, I’d be too old to enjoy it.”

  “Well, what about Dad? He doesn’t do much around the house, either.”

  “Your father has a job.”

  So does my mother. “Seriously, Mom. Dad could at least cook supper now and then.”

  “He does.”

  “He grills hamburgers on the barbecue in the Summer.”

  “That’s the only thing he knows how to cook.”

  “But he could learn,” I argued. “They all could.”

  “So you teach them.” She started chopping again. “And good luck.”

  My mother’s system worked okay normally (things got done because she made sure they did), but it fell apart the week the parents went away together to be with my aunt who just got out of hospital.

  The theory was that, because he’s the oldest, Nathan was in charge while they were gone.

  Seriously? I know he’s not technically a teenager, and he’s training to be an electrician so you would kind of assume he has to be pretty intelligent and responsible and everything (or he could black-out the whole East C
oast) but you’d be assuming a lot. It would’ve made more sense to borrow Loretta’s cats Alice and Gertie and leave them in charge (they’re very organized and know how to bend others to their will).

  The first morning we were parentless, I automatically put the milk, the juice and the butter in the fridge after breakfast, and stacked the dishes in the machine after Nate and Obi (and the walking stomach that is Parker) left me alone with the dirty plates and debris. It wasn’t until I was shutting the dishwasher that I had one of my Loretta moments. Why? I thought. Why am I doing this? Because I had a play kitchen when I was five?

  That night, Nate made supper (bag of pasta, jar of sauce). I promised Gina they’d eat vegetables, so I made a salad to go with it. When I was finished eating, I brought my stuff to the sink, and when I turned around the boys had disappeared as if they’d been beamed back up into their spaceship. I looked at the mess on the counter, the mess on the stove and the mess on the table. And had Loretta Moment Number Two for the day. Why am I the one supposed to do this? Because I got the toy tea set for Christmas not the toy machine gun?

  On the second morning, even before they could push back their chairs, I said, “Don’t you dare leave this house before you clear the table.” My voice was raised and hard as granite. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the maid.”

  Nate stood up. “We don’t have time.” If we were in a cowboy movie, you’d’ve said he was drawling. (Everybody thinks he’s so easygoing and mellow, but, if you ask me, he does it on purpose to disguise how self-centred and annoying he is.) “I’ll be late for work and the boys’ll be late for camp.”

  And that would bring the civilized world to its knees.

  “What about me? What if I’m late for work?”

  But I was talking to myself. The three of them had already left the room.

  That night, Nate texted he had to stay late so I should start supper. I texted, And cook what? Like I thought he’d planned it, the way Gina would’ve. Nate came right back with detailed instructions: Whatever. He hadn’t thought about it at all. There were burgers in the freezer. I got Obi to peel the potatoes by threatening to tell Mom what happened to her favourite yellow scarf (he buried a bird in it). Obi cut himself on his first potato, went to get a plaster and never came back. Nate and Obi both materialized at the table when everything was ready, like they’d been waiting behind the door for the all-clear. And when we were done eating they dematerialized quicker than you can say “do the dishes”. My magic brothers.

  The third day would have been exactly the same if I hadn’t talked to Loretta the night before. I told her how I was fed up with doing almost everything in the house. And I was fed up with always finding the toilet seat up and with all the things that were piling up on tables, chairs and floors because my brothers think that wherever you put something is where it stays. Loretta said my brothers were pretty typical. It’s a known fact that, even in the twenty-first century, and even when she has a full-time job outside the house, it’s the woman who does most (if not all!) of the cooking and cleaning and everything. According to Loretta, Emma Goldman said a woman should refuse to be a servant to her family. So that’s why, as I was sitting there by myself in the breakfast debris, staring at the toast crumbs on the butter and the puddle of milk on the table, I decided that Emma Goldman was right and I wasn’t going to be a servant to my family. Not any more. I was officially on strike. I left everything where it was and walked out of the house. We had a free meal at work, and I ate it. When I got home, I went to my room and I stayed there.

  Day Four dawned on a scene of chaos and horror. There were two meals’ worth of dishes and milk, bread and butter that hadn’t been put away in the kitchen. The living room looked like it had been overturned by the cops looking for drugs. From the jars and wrappers left around, I guessed that the boys were now living mainly on snack foods and that they’d miraculously managed to find the peanut butter. I decided to abandon them completely and spend the night at Loretta’s.

  The Inn had a big (and awesomely expensive) wedding reception scheduled in August. Mr Schonblatt never stopped talking about it. You’d think it was Hollywood royalty (or even royal royalty), he was so wound up. To be honest, I was pretty excited about it, too. In many ways this had been a Summer of disappointment (too much Old Clipper Inn and no Dillon Blackstock), so, besides being a huge fan of weddings to begin with, I figured I could use a little glamour and romance – even if it wasn’t mine. It was bound to cheer me up.

  But the closer we got to the day, the more Mr Schonblatt resembled a stress-machine in overdrive. And the more panicky Mr Schonblatt became, the more crises happened. The more crises happened, the more staff came down with near-fatal illnesses or sprained an ankle or were suddenly offered a week in the mountains that they couldn’t refuse. The more staff came and went, the more panicky Mr Schonblatt got (and the uglier). Quel vicious cycle!

  I didn’t let all the trauma and hysteria get to me. I kept my head. I was resourceful, I was calm, I treated every crisis as a problem to be solved. Efficiently.

  On the day that I decided to jump the good ship Abruzzio, something else had gone horribly wrong at the Inn that sent the Schonblatt blood pressure soaring. Even though he didn’t like me any more, I was winning my war with Mr Schonblatt and was so professional and conscientious that I was now his best waitress (if not his prettiest). So that morning he called me in earlier than usual to help him out, and I was done at Gulag Old Clipper Inn with plenty of time to walk over to meet Loretta at Chelusky’s. I was really looking forward to hanging out with her. Plus, it was going to be really cool to sit down without having to remove trainers and dirty socks from my chair first. And nice to have a civilized meal with people who don’t think dinner conversation is pretty much limited to “Pass the ketchup” and “Is there any more?”

  Since I had some time to kill before meeting Loretta at Chelusky’s, I took a meditative stroll through town. It was already the beginning of August but neither of us was acting like she was going to give up any time soon. We didn’t even joke about it any more. Plus, I no longer thought much about looking so different. I’m not saying I wasn’t going to be glad to hit the make-up bag again (and I knew exactly which dress I was going to wear to welcome back the old me), but I wasn’t desperate or anything. I was used to it. When I glanced in the window of the gift shop and saw my reflection kind of hovering over the display of papier-mâché boxes, I didn’t think, OMG, I have to find a cave to hide in ASAP! I thought, Does my hair already need a trim? When some guy didn’t hold a door open, or walked into me because I looked like background, it didn’t ruin my day. I didn’t even miss the looks or smiles or winks. I figured if a guy pays attention to one pretty girl, he probably pays attention to every pretty girl he sees. How meaningless is that? Plus, it was kind of nice not to always be wondering if I was being noticed, and if I wasn’t, why. (I guess sometimes you don’t even know you’re under pressure until you aren’t!) And when I was waiting for the light to change so I could cross and saw Lissa Jamison and a bunch of her friends on the other side, I didn’t silently beg every god there had ever been to open the ground under my feet and pull me in. I just sashayed past them as if they weren’t there (the way they sashayed past me!).

  I had to go up Cortlandt to get to Chelusky’s, which took me right past everybody’s favourite diner (best burgers, awesome fries and a really good salad bowl). I hadn’t been there since before school ended, and because there was still plenty of time before Loretta got off work I decided to go in for a coffee. I grabbed the booth at the back so I could read in peace, ordered a filter and a chocolate muffin (food being so scarce at my house since my mom left, and anyway, I’d been less careful lately and hadn’t put on any weight so I figured I could risk it) and took out my book.

  I was vaguely aware that a few people sat down in the booth behind me. Noisily. Boys, by the sound of them. They ordered burgers and Cokes and double orders of fries. Someone ordered a diet soda. Boy
s and a girl. The boys were loud and laughing and fooling around. (The girl kind of murmured now and then.) So, even though I wasn’t listening (and was trying to concentrate on my novel), I started catching parts of their conversation. I stopped reading when I heard the words women drivers, followed by a lot of hooting and guffawing. And some lilting laughter from the lone girl. Not so long ago, if I’d been sitting with them, I’d’ve been laughing, too. Liltingly. Women drivers should have roads of their own. They can’t park. They never signal. They drive too slow. But I wasn’t laughing now. I put down my book. It’s Nate who gets tickets, and it’s my dad who always dents the rubbish bins pulling into the driveway. Women drivers only stop when they hit something. They back up in traffic. They get stuck at junctions. The hilarity behind me got pretty massive. And then, in a second of silence while they caught their breath, one of them said, “Oh, dude, you know what’s even worse than a woman driver? A woman mechanic!”

  I recognized that voice. I don’t know why I hadn’t recognized it before (probably because they were talking over each other, and it was muffled by food). The world stopped turning and the day went black as the inside of a pot of kohl. Birds screamed and the wind howled. I could see my whole life flash past me, and it didn’t take long, because it was really short and not exactly riveting viewing. Sitting behind me with a bunch of his friends making fun of women drivers was one of the worst drivers I’ve ever known (ever!). Duane Tolvar. What was he doing here? Of all the diners in all the towns in all the world, right? Seriously. This wasn’t the only place around to get a burger. Plus, he was supposed to be working as a lifeguard (the only thing guaranteed to keep more people out of the water than jellyfish). Had they put a beach in the village or was he lost as usual? I hadn’t seen Duane all Summer. Even before that, except from afar or passing in some corridor. Not since I told him I wished he’d move to Siberia (he wanted to know if that was upstate). Anyway, I didn’t really want to see him now. He was bound to recognize me (eventually), and he’d have a lot to say about the change in me (all of it on the intellectual level of fart jokes). I told myself I was being really dumb. So who cared what Duane Tolvar thought? Seriously. Loretta was right about Duane. If thinking was money, he’d be begging on the streets.