Love and Other Four-Letter Words (6 page)

As the elevator opened, Mom turned and said, “By the way, I'm Roz and this is Sammie.”

“Sammie.” J.D. grinned. “Nice.”

Nice what? Nice name? Nice boobs? Sneaking one last look as the doors were closing, I could have sworn he winked at me.
Omigodgodgod!

“Nice guy,” Mom murmured, unlocking the door.

“He looks like that movie star. I can't place him, though.”

I made sure to keep my mouth shut. Next thing I know she'd probably go and tell him that as well.

Seconds after we entered the apartment, disaster struck. Moxie, who still isn't accustomed to being holed up in two rooms, stampeded out to greet us. As she lunged forward, I attempted to sidestep her, stumbled and spilled one of my bags. And guess what should fly out and hurtle to the floor, smashing into pieces—the liter of olive oil, of course.

“Shit!” Mom and I shouted at the same time.

Moxie careened under the futon, tail between her legs.

As a yellow pool of oil spread over the hardwood
floor, I dashed into the kitchen in search of paper towels. We hadn't gotten any yet, so I grabbed a dish towel and threw it over the spill, which nearly sent Mom into a tailspin.

“What was I supposed to use, toilet paper?” I snapped.

After twenty minutes of scrubbing and sopping and gingerly picking up splinters of glass, I decided to take a shower. I felt disgustingly greasy. I never wanted to see another bottle of olive oil as long as I lived.

I started up the water as soon as I was in the bathroom. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I frowned. My hair looked so stringy. I hope it was from the oil. I hope it didn't look like that in the elevator. I hope J.D. didn't notice.

J.D.
My stomach flipped over as I began to undress, stuffing my dirty clothes into the laundry bag.

Maybe we'll run into each other on the roof one day, start talking, really hit it off. And I don't just mean small talk … we'll go below the surface. He'll listen to what I have to say and then he'll tell me about his work, but not as if I'm a kid. It will be adult to adult.

You don't seem sixteen.
He'll shake his head.

Age is just numbers,
I'll say.
It's the person inside that counts.

That's deep, Sammie,
he'll say, gazing into my eyes.

J.D. won't notice the “untouchable” sign on my forehead. No, he'll find me sexy. Sexy and irresistible. He'll be my first lover, gently nibbling my neck, whispering in my ear. Afterward, as I snuggle in his sinewy arms, he'll think how lucky he is to have met someone like me. How most women out there are so jaded.

The bathroom was getting steamy. Bare naked, I swiped my hand across the foggy mirror and studied my reflection.

“Hi, J.D.,” I said huskily.

Pushing my breasts together, I tilted my head to one side and puffed up my lips, like those Victoria's Secret models always do.

“How do you like these, J.D.?”

Not so bad,
I thought, pulling aside the curtain and stepping into the shower.
Not so bad after all.

A
re you almost ready?” Mom hollered from the bathroom, where she was drenching herself with a vanilla spray that she'd picked up at some boutique yesterday.

I didn't answer. I was crouched next to the stereo, blasting “Both Sides Now.” That's this amazing Joni Mitchell song—just voice and acoustic guitar—about coming to terms with growth and change. I've never listened to her music much before, but I stumbled across this CD during the move. It must have been Dad's. He's crazy about Joni, from back when he was in college. Supposedly, he wanted to name me Chelsea, after her song “Chelsea Morning.”

I wouldn't mind being a Chelsea.
Chelsea Leigh Davis.
Chelsea Leigh Davis would be equal parts poise and intrigue. Chelsea Leigh Davis would swivel her hips, toss her tendrils of hair and look a guy in the eye when talking to him. Chelsea Leigh Davis would flash her captivating smile upon entering a room, making people lust for her story, not to mention her body.

“I didn't hear you.” Mom's voice was louder this time. “Are you almost ready?”

“Yessss!”
I shouted back.

Joni was singing about looking at clouds from both sides now.

“I can leave anytime,” I added.

We're going to the Rosenthals' for dinner. Shira Rosenthal was Mom's college roommate, back when she was Shira Krantz. But ten years ago, Shira's husband died suddenly of a brain aneurysm, leaving her with two small children: Eli, around my age, and Becca, then a baby.

Shira is a social worker at a home for delinquent teenagers. You'd think a profession like that would drain someone, but whenever she calls she's always upbeat, often talking so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear. I should know. We spoke several times this spring, when Mom was trying to place me in a good public school. Shira knew an
administrator at Beacon—Eli's artsy high school—who pulled some strings to get me in at the last minute.

“Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels,” sang Joni, “that dizzy dancing way you feel …”

I rewound the CD a few bars.
What amazing imagery!
I understand exactly what Joni is referring to, like she's talking directly to me. I'd love to know “Both Sides Now” by heart. It sounds like it would be a cinch to learn on guitar, but it's actually rhythmically complicated, the sort of song where I used to ask for Dad's help. He would set down his book, grumbling something about how Bob Dylan didn't tear
his
father from Melville. But after a few minutes, Dad would be so engrossed I'd have to pry my guitar from his grasp, teasing him that
Dylan
became the folk music legend, not Herman Melville.

Mom appeared in the doorway, wearing only a magenta bra and bikini underwear set, a towel turbanwrapped about her hair. Her stomach swells out a little and her hips are the birthing variety, like mine, but for someone who's going to turn forty-three in a few weeks, Mom's got a fairly decent body. Sometimes it seems like she gets more visual ravishings from guys in the street than I do. Which is depressing, seeing that I'm supposed to be at the prime of something in my
life, I just haven't figured out what yet. As Mom began rummaging through our shared closet, I looked away. We didn't used to strip in front of each other.

“It's a fifteen-minute walk up there,” Mom said, “and I told Shira we'd arrive at six-thirty.”

I glanced at the clock on the VCR:
6:10
P
.
M
. No problemo. We'll leave in five minutes.

Mom pulled a black linen sundress over her head. I slipped my feet into my Birkenstocks, careful not to disturb the blister lurking on my pinkie toe.

Joni was recalling how she really didn't know life at all, when Mom turned and gave me an elongated onceover, like I was a side of beef she was considering buying at a farm auction. If she weren't a vegetarian, of course.

“Is that what you're going to wear?” she asked, scrunching her nose disapprovingly.

“Yeah.” I glanced down at my khaki shorts and pale blue T-shirt. “Do you have a problem with it?”

“It looks like you just dug that shirt from the bottom of a pile.”

I swiped my hand across my chest, smoothing out the cotton. “And you think Becca and Eli will notice a few wrinkles?” I asked. My stomach flip-flopped when I said their names.

“I don't like that tone of voice, Sammie.” Mom was
jerking a comb through her wet hair, spraying pellets of water against the full-length mirror. “You haven't seen them in years. I told you how much they've grown up … maybe you can give them the illusion that you have too.”

As soon as Mom said that, I instantly regressed to twelve. I scowled. I stalked over to the closet. I flung aside hangers as loudly as possible.

Mom had crashed at Shira's while she was apartment-hunting, but I haven't seen the Rosenthals since this long weekend four summers ago when our families rented a cottage together in the Adirondacks. It had rained for three straight days so we'd holed up indoors, playing a marathon Monopoly game. Until Becca landed on Eli's Boardwalk and, in a flurry of tears, cards and little plastic houses, flung the board into the air. As Shira steered her into the stairwell for a talking-to, I was stranded alone with Eli, who still hadn't enhanced his two-word vocabulary of
hey
(meaning everything from
hello
to
I-want-more-cookie-dough-ice-cream
) and
naw
(meaning
not-on-your-life, leave-me-alone
).

That is, until the last morning, when the sun finally broke through the clouds and we rented a motorboat to go waterskiing on a nearby lake. After failing miserably at getting up, I swam over to the boat and unbuckled my life vest. To my horror, my bathing suit top had
come undone. I dove underwater to fasten it again but it was too late. When I came up, Eli, sputtering like a locomotive, crooned
LifeSavers, LifeSavers, LifeSavers.
Of course, no one else caught on, and Mom even had the audacity to offer him some TicTacs from her bag, which plunged him into further gales of laughter.

I finally decided on my slinky black tank top. It's a slippery material, some kind of cotton-spandex blend, so it can pass for dressy or casual. And it never, ever wrinkles. I stomped over to the mirror, where Mom was working a palmful of gel into her hair. As I approached, I noticed that she reeked of vanilla musk.

“Satisfied?” I asked, draping the tank top in front of my T-shirt.

Mom quickly darted her head sideways. “Can't you do better than that? Maybe a nice skirt …a little jewelry at your neck—”

“At least I don't smell like cake batter,” I said. I couldn't help it. It just slipped out.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

I took a step backward. “Are you saying I've sprayed on too much?” Mom sniffed down the front of her dress.

“All I was saying”—I spoke slowly, careful to select the right words—“is that you smell very vanilla.”

“It
is
too strong.” Mom yanked her dress over her
head, flung it on the bed and dashed into the bathroom, mumbling something about never making it by six-thirty now.

As I heard the shower start up again, I tugged on the tank top, which felt tighter than usual around my chest. I studied my reflection in the mirror and attempted a deep breath, but my throat felt tight. Chelsea Leigh Davis wouldn't be nervous about going to the Rosenthals' tonight. Chelsea Leigh Davis wouldn't worry about Eli dredging up the LifeSavers incident. But then again, Chelsea Leigh Davis's LifeSavers wouldn't have morphed into Grand Tetons, on display for the whole world to see.

S
ammie! You look so grown up! Roz! What a great dress!” Shira was waiting outside the elevator when the doors opened to their floor. She looked exactly the same as four years ago. Medium-length curly hair that bounced when she spoke, tortoiseshell glasses, sturdy frame draped with loose cotton clothing.

As she ushered us into the apartment, she slid her arms around Mom and me and breathed in deeply.

“Mmmm … vanilla!”

“Oh, God.” Mom's voice tensed. “Is it obvious?”

Shira smiled. “Not at all. It's perfect.”

I sniffed, but all I could smell was lasagna and something else, maybe garlic bread. Mom apologized for arriving late, but Shira dismissed it with a snap of her wrist.

“Eli and Becca have been
soooo
excited to see you!” Shira exclaimed as she steered us down the hallway.

I glanced into the living room, where Eli and Becca were slumped on the sofa watching MTV, looking anything but
soooo
excited to see us. Eli flicked off the power with the remote control.

“Becca
Rose
,” Becca sang as she flipped her kinky red hair off her shoulders. The last time I'd seen her it had been chopped short, making her look like Orphan Annie.

Shira rolled her eyes. “All week it's Becca Rose
this
and Becca Rose
that.
…”

“That's going to be my stage name”—Becca grinned, exposing a mouthful of braces—“when I'm a famous gymnast!”

“Becca, Eli.” Mom tucked her hair behind her ear and for a second I saw her mouth twitch nervously. “You remember Samantha?”

Samantha?!?
Is this my punishment for refusing to change into a
nice skirt
? I'd conceded with the jewelry, borrowing Mom's black coral necklace, but had put my foot down when it came to an article of clothing that evoked daisies, pleats and my first-grade class picture.

Becca made a face.
“Samantha?”

I thought about saying
That's her obedient daughter, the one who wears nice skirts,
but instead I half-waved
and stared down at my Birkenstocks. A flap of skin had rubbed off my colossal blister on the way here, leaving me to limp the final half dozen blocks.

“Isn't it Sammie?” Becca pressed.

I nodded.

“To quote Eli”—Becca leaped onto the cushions and waggled her small fist in the air— ‘You must fight the establishment!' I refuse to call you anything but Sammie!”

“Off the couch.” Shira failed to disguise her smile. “Your feet are filthy.”

“Isn't that right?” Becca settled back down again, needling Eli's arm.

Eli grunted as he fiddled with the remote control.

I glanced at Eli out of the corner of my eye. He was what Kitty would have deemed
crunchy granola
. His dark hair was bobbed, in a tangly sort of way, and he was wearing a raggedy T-shirt with green lettering that said REDUCE REUSE RECYCLE in a triangle with arrows connecting them. Ithaca was full of granolas: girls who didn't shave their legs; guys who espoused veganism. When I told Kitty that I thought one of them was cute—a banjo-playing loner with a mop of blond white-boy dreads—she teased me that she was going to have to start patrolling my locker for brewer's yeast.

“What can I get you to drink?” Shira asked. “Juice? Soda?”

I shifted my weight off the blistered foot. “Soda's fine with me.”

“We have ginger ale, Coke, Diet Sprite …”

“I'll just have ginger ale.”

“Me too,” said Eli.

“Me three,” Becca chimed in.

“Since when are you two guests around here?” Shira shrugged. “Roz?”

“I'll come in and help.”

As they disappeared down the hall, I sat on the edge of a plush chair, slipping my feet in and out of my sandals. I swear, I must have been absent the day they taught small talk. Kitty would know exactly what to say at a time like this. She'd have everyone wrapped around her finger, begging for more.

I picked up the Impressionist art book from the side table and began perusing the pages.

After a minute, Becca asked if I liked being here so far.

I glanced up. I wasn't sure if she meant New York City or their apartment. “I guess,” I said, taking refuge in the vague.

Eli grabbed a handful of crackers from the platter on the coffee table. I could hear him crunching away.
Becca flung a cheddar-cheese goldfish in the air and caught it in her mouth. Mom and Shira arrived with a tray of drinks. Mom handed us our ginger ales, and Shira wedged herself between Becca and Eli on the sofa. As Mom settled into the other chair, across the room from me, I noticed her eyes were reddish and watery.

“Dig in!” Shira gestured to the coffee table.

I leaned over and cut myself a slice of Brie, balancing it on a whole-wheat cracker.

Mom began describing her job search. How since we didn't have a phone yet she'd had to include in her cover letters something to the effect of don't-call-meI'll-call-you.

Shira laughed as she sipped at her glass of wine. “Any interviews set up yet?”

Mom held up three fingers. “They're all later this week.”

I was just reaching for another cracker when I noticed Eli watching me. He quickly looked away.

A few minutes later, as Mom and Shira were discussing employment prospects, I peeked at Eli. His face looked about the same as last time, maybe a little older, and he actually had really nice eyes. Blue with long, dark lashes. But then he glanced over, catching me in the act. I feigned fascination with the cover of the art book.

“Sammie.” Shira slipped off her glasses, allowing them to dangle from a beaded chain around her neck. “I can't believe how much you've grown. The last time I saw you, you were…”

My face heated up as her voice trailed off. I know she's talking about my chest.
Grown
is such an adult way of saying
you've been through puberty.

If I had any prayer of Eli forgetting about LifeSavers, I'm sure it's front and center now. Why hadn't I stayed in my T-shirt rather than this slinky black tank top that reveals every curve? I set my ginger ale on its coaster and crossed my arms in front of me.

“When was that, Roz?” Shira was shaking her head. “Was that the trip to Raquette Lake?”

A buzzer went off in the kitchen.

“Lasagna's done.” Shira hopped up, securing her glasses back on her face. “Let's eat while it's hot!”

Saved by the bell.

Becca flew off the sofa and bolted after her. Mom followed, asking if there was anything she could do to help.

My arms were still locked in front of me when Eli stood up. That's when I noticed how much taller he'd gotten, at least five or six inches, but he looked like he hadn't gained a pound. He wasn't emaciated exactly, but he was pretty skinny.

“You'll meet a lot of nice people at Beacon.” Eli slurred all his words together, so it took me a second to realize that he was talking about his school.
Ah-hem.
Our school.

“Thanks,” I said, picking some crumbs off my napkin and putting them in my mouth.

Eli smiled shyly as he scooped up a few more crackers. I noticed he had a dimple in his right cheek.

We were almost done with dinner when Mom started asking Eli about his interest in saving the planet.

“Eli's a tree hugger,” Becca cried out, wrapping her arms around her body. There was a piece of lettuce stuck in her braces, but no one else seemed to notice.

“Becca.”
Shira shot her a stern look as she handed me the garlic bread.

“Becca
Rose.
”

Shira ignored Becca this time. “Tell them about it, Eli.”

Eli wrung his cloth napkin in his hands as he muttered, “What's there to tell?”

“You just went to the Clearwater Revival,” Shira prompted.

“Only for a weekend.” “And you're volunteering at the Central Park gardens this summer.”

“Only a few afternoons a week.”

I broke off a piece of bread and passed the basket to Mom. I felt sorry for Eli. I'd hate to be on the spot like that.

“And you're camping at Bear Mountain with Max and Ellen for a weekend in August,” Shira said, more to Mom than to Eli.

Eli stared down at his lap.

“He did it last summer too. Max is my brother Jerry's son. You remember Jerry, Roz?”

Mom nodded.

“Max and his girlfriend took Eli and a couple friends up there last summer, to hike on some trails. They had a blast!”

I took a bite of my salad and listened quietly.

Just then, Mom blurted out, “That sounds like the kind of thing Sammie would like to do.”

I froze midchew. “Oh, Sammie,” Shira gasped, “you should go with them! You'd love it! Max and Ellen are wonderful! They'll both be seniors at Rutgers and they've been together for over two years!”

Mom was nodding enthusiastically. My cheeks were heating up again as I attempted to gauge Eli's reaction, but he was consuming his lasagna as if he were going into hibernation for the winter. Who do they think I am? A charity case? A loser who can't make friends for
herself'll show them who needs handouts! Just like that old Simon and Garfunkel song:
I have no need for friendship … friendship causes pain
….

The phone started ringing.

Shira sprang up and bounded toward the kitchen.
Saved by the bell, part two.

I finally swallowed my salad.

When Shira returned, she was toting a tray with five bowls of chocolate mousse. My stomach felt so bloated I slipped my hands under the table and unsnapped my shorts.

“Who called?” Becca asked a few minutes later. Her braces were coated in chocolate.

“It was Grandpa. I said we'd call back at nine so you could wish him happy Father's Day.” Shira pushed a napkin at Becca. “And swallow before you talk next time.”

My heart dropped to my stomach.
Today was Father's Day?
That had completely passed me by, partially because our calendar was still in some crate. But also, what did I have to thank my father for this year? Messing up my life and betraying my trust? I'm sure they have tons of cards for
that
one.

Shira must have read something on my face because she reached across the table and patted my arm. “We don't pay much attention to Father's Day around here,” she said.

“It's all about making money anyway,” Eli said quickly, without looking up, “so damn Hallmarky.”

I felt the chocolate mousse working its way up my throat.

Mom's spoon clanked loudly as she dropped it into her porcelain bowl.

Becca giggled and sang, “When you care enough to send the very best!”

Mom and I didn't say a word to each other as we walked home along Central Park West. I kept thinking about Father's Day last year. Kitty had slept over the night before because she was joining us on a day hike at Watkins Glen. On the drive home, we had devoured an entire bag of Doritos as we sang along with the soundtrack from
Grease.
I'd teased Dad because he couldn't stay on key.

Jimmy D.,
I'd drawled, imitating my Texan chorus instructor,
may I suggest you just mouth the words?

Dad had belly-laughed, which made the car veer over the white line.

Watch out, Jimmy D.!
Kitty and I had shrieked from the backseat, clutching each other's hands.

Dad's name is James Davis, so I used to call him
Jimmy D. as a joke. Especially since Dad, while not the antithesis of James Dean, is definitely pretty academic. Rebel without an
Oxford English Dictionary.

Just as we entered the lobby, Mom finally spoke.

“I can give you my credit card number if you want to call him from a pay phone,” she said.

So she'd been thinking about it too. I shook my head. “No thanks.”

The elevator arrived in the lobby. There was an older man inside, coming up from the basement with his laundry bag. After he stepped off at the third floor, Mom began massaging her temples.

“I really miss Dad,” she said softly.

I didn't respond. Mom and I hadn't discussed Dad much since we'd been in New York City. When we did, it was ancient history stuff, like:
Remember that time Dad's students showed up to rake our leaves when he broke his ankle?
But neither of us seemed willing to broach the trial separation, almost like if we didn't talk about it, it hadn't happened. So when Mom said she missed him, it caught me off guard. As I studied her face, it struck me how painful this was for her too. How, in some ways, Mom and I are marooned on the same deserted island. Together, yet so alone.