Fresh Off the Boat

by Melissa de la Cruz

“What are you doing?” she asked, watching me stuff a makeup bag into my backpack.

  “None of your business, butt face.”

  “I’m telling Mom!”

  “If you tell Mom, I’ll tell her you’re still drinking powdered milk!” I threatened. Brittany had yet to get used to the taste of fresh American milk. “Icky” she called it. My parents were forever trying to get her to change her milk-drinking habits, especially since fresh milk was so much cheaper than powdered (it was the opposite in Manila). And so much better for you, hello. I couldn’t imagine that I had lived so long on Tang. As far as I was concerned, fresh orange juice and fresh milk were two of the best benefits of living in America.

  She stuck her tongue out at me and ran out of the room, slamming the door.

  I took a quick shower, brushed and pulled back my hair into a ponytail, and threw on a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Freddie arrived promptly at six-thirty, and I could hear him making small talk with Mom in the living room. I rushed down the stairs, watching Mom’s face slightly glower at my unladylike movements.

  “Slowly! Slowly!” she ordered. “You move like a herd of hippos!”

  I took a breath and measured my steps, trying to hide my irritation. “Hi, Freddie.”

  “Hi, V.”

  I pecked Mom on the cheek. “Bye.”

  “Eleven o’clock!” Mom said. “Have fun!”

  Freddie kissed her on the cheek good-bye, too. Like I said, he was practically family. Mom watched us from the front porch as we walked to his little Honda. “Hurry up, I want to practice my scales before tryouts,” he said as I climbed into the car.

  “Oh, don’t worry. We’re not going to the band auditions.”

  “We’re not?”

  “Nope. We’re going to Claude Caligari’s party! He invited me. But first we have to pick up my friend Isobel. She lives in Saint Francis Woods, near his house. We can hang out there till it’s time to go.”

  Freddie pulled out of the driveway in silence. “Does your mom know?”

  “Of course not! What do you think? She’d never let me go.”

  “I don’t know about this,” Freddie said, shaking his head.

  “C’mon! We won’t stay that long! I really want to go. You know what Filipino parents are like! They never let us do anything.”

  He didn’t answer for a while, but he drove the car toward the freeway ramp, in the right direction headed for the city. “All right. But just this once.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s another audition for singers next month,” I assured him, happy that he was going to play along.

  It took us an hour fighting traffic to get to the city from South San Francisco. I gnawed on my fingernails anxiously. I was so giddy I couldn’t even sit still. I wondered if I would get a chance to be alone with Claude. Maybe Whitney wouldn’t even be there. Maybe it would happen just like in the movies, and he would suddenly realize where I’d been all his life. And we would run to each other from a great distance, with our arms outstretched, calling each other’s name.

  “CLAUUUUDE!”

  “VEEEEEEEEEE!”

  Right.

  Isobel was in a bathrobe when we arrived at her house. Her parents were away in Cambridge for an academic conference. I wondered briefly why Isobel didn’t throw her own parties since her parents were always away and pretty cool about things—she’d told me she’d been allowed to have wine with dinner since she was ten years old.

  “Bonsoir!” she said, kissing me on both cheeks. “Are you Fred? I’m Isobel!” she said, giving him the double-cheek air-kiss treatment as well. Freddie looked a bit overwhelmed, but it could just have been her perfume.

  “Are you wearing that?” she asked, looking critically at my outfit.

  “Duh, I brought clothes to change into!” I said, holding up my bag.

  “There’s digital cable and HBO on demand, and a DVD player,” she told Freddie, leading him into the living room. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Why? What time are we going?” he asked.

  “It starts at eight, so I thought we could get there at eight-thirty. We can’t get there early—that’s so lame!” I told him. I knew all about this stuff from reading teen novels and watching movies like She’s All That. Plus, we’d need the whole hour to get ready. I was counting on Isobel to give me one of those awesome makeovers, so I could walk into the party dressed in a stunningly gorgeous outfit and Claude would drool all over me and dump Whitney on the spot.

  “Is there anything to eat?” Freddie yelled from the couch.

  “There’s leftover pâté and some cornichons,” Isobel said helpfully.

  I noticed Freddie hesitate, but I pleaded with my eyes for him to be cool about it. I really wanted everything to go smoothly, and I was so thrilled to actually be out of the house on a Friday night, I was light-headed with the prospect of what was in store. So what if I had to get home by eleven?

  Freddie opened the refrigerator door, and Isobel and I disappeared into her bedroom.

  I unzipped my backpack and pulled out a red dress with crisscross straps and flouncy hem that I had bought at a deep discount from a store at the mall. “Is it okay?” I asked her.

  “Très chic! Parfait!” she gushed.

  “What do you think of mine?” she asked, holding up a hanger that contained an electric fuchsia dress with a deep V-necked halter top and purple snakeskin accents. No marabou, thank God.

  I spoke too soon. Just as I was telling her how much I liked her dress, she pulled a fluffy feather boa out of her closet. “I got one for you, too!” she said, handing me its twin. “Aren’t they fabulous?”

  She threw it over my neck and we looked at our reflections in the mirror. The feathers—both a vibrant, blinding white, had a kooky charm.

  We changed into our party clothes and strutted around the room throwing our feather boas over our shoulders. I let Isobel paint my face with what felt like ten pounds of makeup. I winced as she curled my eyelashes.

  “Ouch! Do you have to pull so hard?”

  “One must suffer to be beautiful,” she said, moving on to my other eye. “Just think of Marilyn Monroe.”

  I looked at myself in her full-length mirror and smiled. Isobel was better than one of those pushy ladies at the Bloomingdale’s cosmetic counter. I barely even recognized myself. I plugged in Isobel’s flatiron and we took turns helping each other with our hair.

  “Ready?” she asked, smoothing down her spiky hair and putting on her eyeglasses.

  “As I’ll ever be.” I sighed, wondering if this was a good idea. I hated the fact that I’d had to lie to my parents for this to happen, and I had begun to feel guilty about the whole thing. What if something bad happened? What if we got in an accident? What if they found out I was going to a party? I would be in so much trouble.

  When we left the room, Freddie was comfortably laid out on the couch, chatting on his cell phone and munching on the tiny green pickles. “Yeah, it’s the coffee shop on Presidio.” He looked up when we entered. Isobel and I struck poses.

  “What do you know—still ugly,” he said.

  “Ignore him,” I told Isobel.

  “I will.” She laughed.

  I looked at my watch. It was eight-twenty. Party time.

  St. Francis Woods was by far my favorite part of the city. It has the feeling of a secluded, leafy suburb—but it’s right in the middle of the metropolis. We drove off Isobel’s street to turn to Claude’s and found the little cul-de-sac fully clogged with so many cars, I didn’t think we would ever find a parking spot.

  Freddie insisted on driving all the way up to the house to drop us off before he parked, but I wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. “No, let’s just park over there,” I said, pointing to the next block over.

  “There’s no space. You guys just get out and I’ll meet you inside,” he said, zooming up the private driveway. “I’ve got to make a few calls anyway.”

  Part of me was glad we wouldn’t have to walk in w
ith Freddie, who was wearing an ugly purple rugby shirt and had belted his pleated khaki pants in the middle of his stomach, but another part of me was worried about just the two of us walking in. I suddenly felt we needed strength in numbers.

  Isobel shrugged and slicked back her hair. “C’mon, V,” she said. I swiveled out of the car, carefully balancing on a borrowed pair of Isobel’s spike heels. (Mom never let me wear anything that high.) Isobel joined me and we linked arms and walked up the porch steps. She pressed the doorbell.

  “It’s open!” someone yelled.

  We looked at each other in fright.

  I pushed the door open with a tiny shove, and the two of us walked inside. We stood in the middle of an empty hallway decorated with duck prints and a brass umbrella stand. Loud rap music boomed from a back room, so we walked in, fully expecting to find a huge crowd.

  But the only person inside was Claude, who was crouched in front of a complicated stereo system. He looked up from the console and turned the volume up a notch. “That’s better. Hey, guys. Glad you could make it.”

  “Pas problème,” Isobel said. “We were in the area.”

  “Yeah, it was like, no big deal…”

  “There’s a bar in the back and food in the kitchen. Help yourselves.” He smiled, standing up. He was wearing a blue cashmere sweater that brought out the blue in his eyes. I swooned.

  “Um, where is everybody?” I asked. “There are so many cars out front…”

  “Oh.” Claude shrugged. “I think my neighbor’s having some kind of black-tie shindig. Actually, you guys are the first to arrive.”

  I felt my stomach sink.

  “Claude, there’s no ice!” We heard a familiar voice complain from the foyer.

  Whitney walked in carrying two cocktail glasses. She was wearing a pair of faded cargo pants, a simple tank top and flip-flops. I suddenly felt ridiculous in my three-inch heels and white feather boa. She smirked. “What is it, Mardi Gras or something? You two look like a drag show.

  “Here,” she said, handing Claude his drink and deliberately turning away from us.

  Isobel and I moved to the kitchen to strategize. It was agonizing being the only two people at the party aside from the host and his girlfriend. Our whole casual “drop-by” lost all its insouciance.

  “Drink?” Isobel asked, appraising the stocked bar.

  I shook my head. “I’m too nervous,” I said, not wanting to admit that I’d never taken a drink in my life. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself any more than I already was.

  “There’s no wine or champagne,” she said grumpily. “And I hate beer.”

  She poured us both a tall glass of ice water. We tiptoed out to the garden to look at the landscaping around the kidney-shaped pool, which boasted an adjoining Jacuzzi.

  “Well, we’re here,” I said, looking around helplessly. I had never been to a party. I didn’t know what to do.

  “Oui,” Isobel said disconsolately. I think she had been hoping we would blend in with the crowd. But, unfortunately, we had arrived too early for that. I think her French ego was bruised by our faux pas. We sat by the pool for a few minutes, sipping our water and watching the steam rise from the hot tub. Suddenly, the pleasant atmosphere was broken by a braying yodel.

  “PAARRRTAYYYY!!!!”

  We looked up to see one of Claude’s lacrosse teammates wearing a Burger King crown askew on his head. He was hoisting a case of beer in his arms. Following him were all the coolest people from Monty and Gros.

  The party had finally begun.

  You know how, in movies, parties are always filled with what looks like hundreds and hundreds of people (otherwise known as extras)? And everyone is dancing crazily and grinding in three-person lambada (the “forbidden” dance) sandwiches and hitting on each other? Well, this party was nothing like that. I didn’t know what to expect—maybe I’d seen too many American Pie movies and MTV Spring Break specials. I mean, I guess it was fun and all, but it was also—I don’t know, just not what I expected. There couldn’t have been more than forty people there. Mostly it was just a bunch of people sitting around, drinking. For hours, Isobel and I flitted around aimlessly watching some Monty and Gros juniors flip quarters into shot glasses. One girl devised a drinking game wherein each person had to see who could hold a beer cap between their butt cheeks the longest, which was more entertaining than it sounds. And we had totally lost track of Freddie, whom we didn’t see all evening once he dropped us off.

  Isobel and I were sitting by the side near the Jacuzzi watching people push each other into the pool (finally some action!) when I looked at my watch and couldn’t believe it was already a few minutes past eleven. Time flies when you’re watching Georgia Wilson pinch a Heineken bottle cap between her butt cheeks.

  “I have to get home!” I told her. “You find Freddie, I just need to use the bathroom. Where do you think it is?”

  I was a little worried about breaking my first-ever curfew, then remembered I was with Freddie, whom my parents utterly worshipped. I asked a couple of girls who were funneling beers in the kitchen where the bathroom was and they pointed upward. “Third door on the right. The ones on the first floor are all being used.” One of them cackled knowingly.

  I had to fight through the entire Monty lacrosse team to get upstairs. Claude’s house was gargantuan. I was a little intimidated about being on the second floor, which was quiet and empty.

  Following the girls’ directions, I tapped on the third door and tried the knob. “Is anyone there?” I asked. It was open, so I walked in. I closed the door behind me, making certain the door was locked. Then I heard a strange noise emanating from behind the shower curtain. I pulled it back.

  “Claude!”

  He was slumped into the bathtub, legs dangling over the side. “Ehhh?” he asked, opening one eye. I had to admit, even in that state, he was still really cute.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, then felt foolish. It was his house—he could pass out anywhere he felt like.

  “Hey, it’s V. Hi, Veeeeee,” he said, grinning.

  “Hi,” I said, sitting on the edge of the tub. I’d hardly seen him the whole evening after Isobel and I arrived. He and Whitney disappeared for a while, then he was busy circulating. It was too hard to capture his attention.

  I was kind of thrilled to finally be alone with him, even if he was barely conscious and smelled like a keg.

  “Are you having fun?” he drawled.

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s a great party,” I told him, even if I’d been pretty bored the whole time.

  “That’s great—that’s what I like to hear.” He sighed, nodding vigorously. His head snapped back suddenly and hit the faucet. “Ow! That hurt!”

  “Ooops!” I said, and almost laughed. “Here, let me help,” I said, pulling his hand.

  “Yeah, I should probably try to get out of here,” he said. “Good idea.”

  I put an arm around his waist and felt his hot breath on my cheek. I’d dreamed about this moment many times, but never like this.

  He leaned on my shoulder and rested his head in the crook of my neck. I led him to the door, but when I tried to open it, I found I had locked us in when I was being ultravigilant about privacy. The doorknob wouldn’t budge.

  “Shit!” I said, rattling the door. “It’s stuck!” I told Claude.

  “Thuck?” he repeated. “How can it be thuck?” He began to hiccup.

  I began to pound on it. “Help! Help! Anyone! The door’s stuck!”

  No one answered. My cell phone! I thought. I’ll just call Isobel. I fumbled in my bag to get it, but couldn’t find it. I must have left it at Isobel’s when I dumped out my makeover supplies. I was so impatient to get ready for the party, I hadn’t even noticed I’d left without it.

  Claude crumpled against me, and I helped him sit on the closed toilet. He couldn’t hold himself upright, and he slid to the floor and dropped his head against the porcelain. Okay. Not a great visual. But, believe me, he wa
s still cute.

  “Vicenza…I need you…” he gurgled.

  “Yes?” My heart began to beat faster.

  “To hand me that wastebasket.”

  I pushed it over to his side and he retched violently into it.

  Ew.

  When he threw up again, I felt guilty enough to try to hold his head up so he wouldn’t puke on himself. Kind of gross, but I felt bad for the guy.

  The minutes ticked by. A couple of times, I got up and rapped on the door and bellowed, but the party was so loud no one heard me.

  “I’m hot!” he suddenly announced. “God, I’m really hot! Isn’t it really hot in here!—” hic “Hey! I gotta—” hic “—take my clothes off!” He began to unbutton his shirt, bellowing that Nelly song.

  “Uh—Claude—I don’t know if that’s such a…” I said, but it was too late. Somehow he’d found the energy to strip off his shirt and jeans, and had hopped back in the bathtub wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.

  He reeled from side to side, fumbled with the faucet, and sent a blast of water from the shower head, with the curtain open. It was the kind of nozzle that you could take off the hook and spritz your body with, and he began to do just that, except he was spritzing water everywhere. The mirror. The sink. The Japanese prints on the wall.

  I was suddenly anxious that he might cause some real damage or else slip, hit his head, and pass out.

  “Turn it off! Turn it off!” I said, scrambling to switch off the water.

  “Hee-hee, hee-hee,” he snickered, like a little boy. “This is fun!”

  Just then, I heard Isobel’s voice from the hallway. “VICENZA??? ARE YOU IN THERE???”

  “VICENZA, what’s going on?” That was Freddie.

  “IZ! FREDDIE! HELP! I’M LOCKED IN!!!” I yelled, laughing, as Claude and I fought over the shower controls. “Stop it! You’re going to make me wet, too! Stop!” I grabbed the shower head away from him and mercifully switched off the water.

  “What’s going on?” Isobel asked.

  “The door—it’s locked somehow. We can’t get it open!” I yelled.

  “We?”

  I heard Freddie and Isobel arguing about the best course of action. Isobel wanted to kick down the door, but Freddie wanted to try and open it with a credit card. They finally stopped bickering and managed to jigger the door open from the other side. They burst in, just as Claude wrestled the shower head away from me, and we both fell backward in the tub.