Love and Other Four-Letter Words (12 page)

“How?”

“I've read tons of books on human sexuality and my sister, Charlotte, is my direct pipeline to the practical side.”

“The hands-on,” I cut in.

“Good one,” Phoebe giggled, and then began describing an online sex advice column she wants to write someday. She'd call it “Frank Talk,” since her last name is Frank.

I was about to tell her that I hadn't known her last name was Frank, that it was perfectly suited to her, when she gripped my wrist, this time with both her hands.

“Sammie?” she asked, a grin creeping over her face.

“Yeah?”

“Will you tell me about the Big Slobbery Makeout one more time?”

Maybe it was all the sex talk, but good karma descended around noon, as I was on my way home. I almost missed it altogether because as I rounded our corner, I'd been trying to decide whether to make a grilled cheese sandwich or a tuna melt for lunch.

It took me a minute to realize someone was honking their horn, trying to get my attention. I glanced over just in time to catch J.D. saluting as he revved up a silver Honda and peeled down the block.

Maybe we'll drive off like that together someday, on our way to a weekend retreat in the Hamptons. I'll buckle my seat belt as the tires screech when the car whips around the corner.

Sammie, you know you're safe with me,
he'll murmur, squeezing my leg right above the knee.

Let's say I don't want to be safe anymore,
I'll giggle as his hand wanders up my thigh.

Once we get to the ocean, we'll find a small deserted
beach shaded by trees. I'll wear a two-piece bathing suit, and I won't obsess about the stretch marks on my thighs or my Grand Tetons. And as we slip into the warm, salty water, my mind will not be on Mom, Dad or alternate-side parking. No, all I'll think about will be the sun on my shoulders, the sand between my toes and J.D.'s fingers untying my bikini top.

T
he heat wave started on the last Tuesday of July. By eight in the morning, the sun was piercing the windows and radio broadcasters were warning that physical activity should be limited due to poor air quality. Phoebe and I had only been in the dog run for twenty minutes when Dogma flopped onto his side with his eyes drooping. She scooped him up and carried him home, exaggerating her limp as she turned onto Columbus. And as I headed in the other direction, the sun charring my shoulders, Moxie was panting so badly that a waiter at an outdoor café poured her a bowl of water.

The worst thing of all was our apartment. Mom had given me her credit card to buy another fan the week
before, when the temperature hit ninety. But by noon, as the radio reported the heat index in the three-digit range, the fans were providing as much relief as a parakeet fluttering its wings in the Sahara Desert. As Mom stepped into her second cool shower, I collapsed on the futon, fully sympathizing with the cry of a lobster when chucked into a pot of boiling water. By late afternoon, Mom agreed to check with the super about an air conditioner. But I was running out the door to pick up Becca from gymnastics, so I didn't stick around to see if she'd follow through.

I've been watching Becca for the past three Tuesdays. Shira always insists I stay for dinner, which is fine. And she's never again pulled me aside to query my emotional state. Though last week, as I was scraping plates while she stacked them in the dishwasher, I considered saying something about feeling overwhelmed by Mom, by tending to our lives. I never even told anyone about my first-ever outbreak of hives. I'd just borrowed some of Mom's lotion and kept my mouth shut. But just as I was gearing up to talk to Shira, Becca teetered into the kitchen with an armload of dishes and the moment was gone.

Anyway, I have a hunch Shira already knows Mom's not doing that well. She calls every evening to check up on her and they meet for coffee at least once a week.
Whenever Mom returns from spending time with Shira, she always seems a little less blue. Which is why I was surprised two nights ago when she set the receiver in its cradle and buried her head in her hands.

“What's wrong?” I asked warily.

“I just said yes when I should have said no.” Mom was staring at the phone like she wished it would disappear.

“Huh?”

“A few days ago, Shira was telling me how the only way to get a job in Manhattan is by knowing someone.”

“Because there are so many people, right?”

Mom nodded. “So Shira just called with good news. A friend of a friend is the vice principal of a junior high that's hiring an art teacher, and she can get me an interview.”

“That's great!” I exclaimed, so enthusiastically that my voice cracked.

“I don't know.” Mom shook her head. “Maybe I should call Shira back. I'm just not up for more rejection right now.”

“But how will you know unless you try?” I asked.

“Easier said than done,” Mom said as she began filling up a jug for the plants.

I guess she hadn't noticed that I'd already watered them that morning.

Eli has been eating dinner with people from the gardens every Tuesday, so I've only seen him once, in passing. Becca and I were stepping into the lobby, and there he was, head to toe in dirt, mumbling something about having forgotten his heavy-duty gardening gloves. As Becca explained that his responsibilities include digging and weeding, I couldn't stop thinking about the look of surprise on his face when he saw us. Or how blue his eyes appeared when surrounded by the smudges of soil on his cheeks and forehead.

A few minutes later, as Becca and I scooped vanilla ice cream onto chocolate chip cookies, I caught sight of a note thumbtacked to the corkboard next to the phone. I moved closer, pretending to be rinsing my fingers.
E—Jenna called about tomorrow night.
My fires of curiosity were stoked yet again. Who is this Jenna character? Eli's girlfriend? When Becca appeared next to me, I jumped guiltily, though I'm not quite sure why. I mean, should
she
care that I saw the message? And, while we're at it, should
I
care?

The Jenna mystery was finally solved on the first day of the heat wave. Becca and I had taken the crosstown bus home instead of walking across the park as usual.
Mistake #1.
We wound up waiting at the bus stop for
twenty sweltering minutes before packing into a vehicle that crept so slowly I wouldn't have been surprised if the driver powered it with his feet, like on
The Flintstones.
By the time we hit the West Side, I was coated with sweat, especially my underarms, which were soaking through to my tank top.

It took a half hour of recuperating in their airconditioned living room before either of us could muster the energy to fetch lemonade from the refrigerator. But after we'd downed two glasses each, Becca disappeared in search of a deck of cards to play spit.

Kitty and I were obsessed with spit in junior high, so much so that Dad jokingly warned us about carpal tunnel syndrome, like you can get from working long hours at a computer. Spit is this addictive game where you race to get rid of your cards before the other person. It never fails to get me completely wired. One time, I actually bit Kitty's queen of diamonds after I'd lost a round, leaving a full imprint of my teeth across the golden crown.

It's been a while since the spit years, so I was rusty at first, missing obvious plays. But after a few minutes I caught up to speed, walloping Becca in four consecutive rounds. Midway through a heated hand, I was slamming down cards while Becca howled because her ace was stuck to the hardwood floor, when I suddenly
got this feeling that we weren't alone. I glanced up, only to see Eli, two other guys and a girl standing in the doorway of the living room, watching us.

“Spit!”
Becca slapped the smaller pile.

I sat up, tucking strands of hair behind my ears. Eli was to the far left. Next to him was a stocky guy whose sandy hair hung shaggily over his eyes. The other guy, much taller with broad shoulders and orange-tinted sunglasses, had his arm slung around the neck of a girl who I knew, by some kind of instinct, was Jenna.

Jenna was skinny, with boy-short dark hair, winecolored lipstick and clunky black sandals. She reminded me of a coyote. I wondered if Phoebe would agree.

“What are you doing home so early?” Becca asked, dealing her hand for the next round. I still hadn't collected my cards from the last one.

“They canceled gardening because of the heat,” Eli mumbled, fidgeting with his bead-and-hemp necklace.

Eli remained in the doorway as the two guys, who introduced themselves as Shay and Alex, flopped onto the couch. Shay grabbed the remote control and switched on MTV. Alex grabbed Jenna, pulling her toward him.

“Wheeeeew!” she shrieked, tumbling onto his lap, knocking off his sunglasses.

“How 'bout it, Rosenthal,” Alex hollered as he secured his shades, “aren't you gonna get us some grub?”

Eli started toward the kitchen. Jenna leaped off Alex's lap and chirped, “I'll help!”

As Jenna trotted after him, Alex cracked up. Shay, who'd just explained that heat triggers his asthma, began puffing at his inhaler.

Becca and I resumed playing, but I felt self-conscious with the guys sitting right there on the couch.

“Are you playing spit?” Shay asked.

I nodded.

Becca flung down a succession of nine, ten, jack, queen, jack, even though I had a jack waiting in my hand the whole time.

“You just moved here, right?”

I glanced up at Shay. He blew his bangs off his forehead, but they landed right back where they'd been. How did he know I wasn't from the city? All I'd told him was my first name.

“Spit!”
Becca cried, slapping the pile with a single card.

Eli and Jenna returned with a six-pack of Coke, a bag of pretzel sticks and the rest of the chocolate chip
cookies from last week. Eli plopped the snacks on the coffee table while Jenna made a big production of delivering the Cokes to each person individually. She didn't look me in the eye when she gave me mine. Though a few minutes later, I noticed her checking me out, in that scrutinizing way that girls tend to do to each other.
Up, down, over, back. Pause at the boobs. Pause at the thighs.

“Spit! I won!”
Becca screamed after slaughtering me in the next two rounds.

Jenna pumped the volume on the television.
The Real World
was just beginning.

“Do you want to keep playing in my room?” Becca asked me, scooping up her cards.

I don't know what came over me as I said, “No, thanks.”

Mistake #2.

As soon as Becca was gone, I regretted it immediately. Surveying the room, I was transported back to 1492, the lone native standing on a beach as the
Nina,
the
Pinta
and the
Santa Maria
docked at the Canary Islands. I grabbed a handful of pretzels.

Meanwhile, Jenna and Alex chattered away as if I weren't even there. A few times, Shay tried to bring me into the conversation, but I didn't really know what to say to them.

I started to worry that I smelled bad. Luckily, the sweat on my tank top had dried already. When no one was looking, I swiped my hand under my armpit and brought it up to my nose.
Not bad. At least I can rule that out.

“How do I look?” Jenna asked. Some guys on
The Real World
were discussing pot, so she was pinching a pretzel stick between her thumb and pointer finger and sucking in rapidly, as if it was a joint.

“I know something you'd look even better sucking,” Alex said, grinning.

“Yeah,” Jenna retorted, “except the pretzel would fill up more of my mouth!”

Alex pinned Jenna against a couch cushion and began tickling her. As Jenna squealed, I groaned inwardly. I've seen her type before, the kind of girl whose impertinence to guys results in their lusting after her. Except for Eli. I mean, he'd barely spoken, so I couldn't get a sense of his feelings for her. But she definitely wasn't teasing him. And from the way she kept glancing at him, making references to prior conversations they'd had, it was obvious there was
something
going on.

Two people on
The Real World
were getting in an argument. The guy, a premed student by day and a cross-dresser by night, had apparently borrowed his
housemate's fishnet stockings, torn a hole in them and slipped them back in her drawer.

“Remember the last time we watched this, Eli?” Jenna asked. “Didn't they get in a fight then too?”

“I don't remember.”

Eli shrugged. “What do you think it takes to get on a show like that?” Shay asked, fiddling with his inhaler.

“You have to have something quirky about you,” Alex said, “something cool and unusual.”

“I bet you think you'd be perfect for it!” Jenna swatted at his sunglasses.

As Alex dodged Jenna, I glanced over at Eli, just in time to catch him looking at me. He turned away quickly, grabbed a chocolate chip cookie and gobbled it in one bite.

“Of all of us,” Shay said, “who would be most likely to get on
The Real World
?”

“You couldn't pay me a million dollars to do it.” Jenna swigged her Coke. “No way is someone filming the inside of my bedroom.”

“I don't think they allow X-rated content on MTV.” Alex chuckled.

“Screw you!” Jenna shrieked.

“Sure.” Alex dove at her waist, tickling her again. “Then I could join every other guy in this city!”

As Jenna writhed next to him on the couch, Shay ignored her and asked, “What about Sammie? I think she could do it.”

I froze. Eli shoved another cookie in his mouth, this time with the voracity of Cookie Monster.

“I don't think so.” Jenna wriggled away from Alex, addressing me directly for the first time. “You're too—”

“Absolutely, completely average,” I cut in.
Mistake #3.
I'd meant to finish her sentence before she said something like
pathetic and ugly,
but it wound up sounding stupid.

“If you insist,” Jenna said, smacking her burgundy lips together. “I was just going to say ‘fresh-faced,' like Eli.”