Love and Other Four-Letter Words (8 page)

“No.” Dad's voice cracked. “I just wanted to make sure you're—”

“Fine,” I cut him off.

“Right … fine.”

Still more silence.

The water was running in the bathroom.

“Well, I'm going to go now,” I said.

“Okay … fine,” he said.

“Fine.”

By the time I hung up, my underarms were soaking through my T-shirt. It must have been a hundred degrees in the apartment.

“Was it Kitty?” Mom asked as she dried her hands on a paper towel.

“Huh?”

“Was it Kitty … calling you back?”

“No.” I paused. My throat was so tight it felt like I'd swallowed a whole bagel. “Wrong number.”

Mom gave me a long stare. But then she flopped back in her chair, shuffled the cards and dealt herself a hand of solitaire.

I
have a new job. It's called Elevator Duty. Here's the description: I jump on every opportunity to ride our elevator in the hopes that the automated doors will open to reveal Johnny Depp, hunk of the fifteenth floor.

I know you,
he'll say, luscious lips producing a seductive half smile.

Not in the biblical sense
, I'll giggle coquettishly, remembering a line I once heard on a late-night talk show.

Not yet, anyway.
J.D. will wink, tickling me in that special spot above the waist, below the boobs. Kitty always says that as soon as a guy reaches for her T-spot, she knows she's got 'im, putty in her palm.

But after nearly two weeks of dressing sexy every time Moxie needed to pee, I began to worry. Maybe J.D. doesn't live in the building. Maybe meeting him was a one-time thing. Maybe he took one look at me and called his realtor, begging to move somewhere, anywhere. But then I'd remind myself how he asked if we'd “just moved in.” That means he's familiar with the residents. That means he lives here. And on would go my slinky black tank top, Mom's lacy camisole, a tad of lip gloss, a spritz of vanilla musk, et cetera, et cetera.

Early Saturday morning, Moxie began circling the apartment, her nails clicking against the hardwood floor.

“Shush,” I moaned, covering my eyes with one arm.

The sun was flooding through the windows, which meant that it was a little before eight, a half hour before I usually wake up. Armed with a pocketful of Baggies, I've been walking Moxie in Central Park every morning, where a beagle owner tipped me off to the policy that dogs can be off their leashes before nine A.M.

I wouldn't typically rise at the crack of dawn during summer vacation, but I've taken pity on the old girl, having to adjust from a house with a yard to two cramped rooms and millions of strange snouts sniffing every imaginable inch of her. Also, when Mom was still in her “doing NYC” phase, if I skipped out in the morning, she'd often depart without insisting I join her. Which
would then grant me a few peaceful hours around the ranch, reading, playing guitar, surfing the Web. Even though Mom has now scaled back on the programming front, walking Moxie has evolved into a routine for me.

The next thing I knew, Moxie, with her
oh-so-stinky
dog breath, was panting in my face. I pushed her away. She slobbered back. We went on like that for about five minutes
(pant-pant-push-push-slobber-slobber
) until I finally lugged my tired legs onto the floor and maneuvered a bra under the T-shirt I've been sleeping in for the past several nights.

So that's how, five minutes later, I found myself trapped in the elevator with J.D., a Yankees cap on his head, baseball bat and glove in hand, grinning and asking me, “Hey, what's up?”

I began shaking like an earthquake. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, not after I've spent weeks rummaging through the apartment for any and every article of clothing with a thread of lace! And I was so busy holding my breath because I hadn't brushed my teeth that all I could do was mutely nod. I was petrified that if I cracked my lips, J.D. would:

1. Clamp his mitt over his mouth, like an oxygen mask.
   

2. Clobber me with his bat on grounds of stench pollution.
   

As soon as the door reopened, we piled out of the elevator. Me to exhale before I fainted. Moxie to gobble a biscuit from the super, who had just finished spraying down the sidewalk. J.D. to saunter toward Central Park, probably for an early game. I remained in front of the building, mesmerized by the way his butt fit into his shorts, not too snug, not too baggy, swaying as he walked.

“¿Te gusta?”
the super asked me.
Do you like it?
in Spanish.

I forced my eyes away from the object of my carnal desire. The super was gesturing to the air, warm but not humid, promising a beautiful day.

“Sí.”
I nodded.
“Me gusta.”
“Perfect for Fourth of July.”

I'd forgotten it was July fourth! The day that Eli Rosenthal and his friends were blading in Central Park. The day I told him I'd be out of town. I'm not so paranoid as to think they'd hit the park this early. But if you lie to someone about going away, you'd better make a damn good effort not to cross their path.

“Is there another place to bring dogs besides the park?”

As the super told me how to get to a dog run about
fifteen minutes away, I made a mental note to add Scope to my roster of Elevator Duty preparations.

The dog run turned out to be right behind the Museum of Natural History, which is in this enormous castlelike structure that stretches along a few blocks of Central Park West. I've only been there once, when I was eight and Dad took me to see the dinosaur skeletons while Mom attended the gallery opening of a friend from art school.

As I unlatched the metal gate and started across the dog run, Moxie hung close by my side, even though I'd already taken off her leash. There were three dogs frolicking in the dirt, nipping at each other's scruff. Moxie gets intimidated in canine social situations, and I have to say, who am I to blame her? I sat down on one of the benches lining the perimeter. Moxie crouched under it, resting her head on my foot.

“Scaredy-dog?” A middle-aged man with bloodshot, droopy eyes and several chins guffawed as he pointed to Moxie, pleased as Punch about his play on words.

He was a few benches away, so I pretended I hadn't heard him as I scratched Moxie's ears.

“Dogs these days are so antisocial,” Scaredy-Dog
murmured to the woman next to him, who was intently reading
The New York Times.

Without glancing up, the woman nodded as she sipped from her tall white coffee cup. I couldn't believe Moxie was being picked on like this! Just as I was considering whether I should tell him that, a stubby little terrier, white with caramel-colored patches, tugged a girl through the gate. The girl, barely five feet tall and wearing a knee brace, attempted to restrain him. But as soon as she removed his leash, he made a beeline for Moxie, wagging his truncated tail like a hummingbird. As Moxie drew back her ears and raised the fur on her neck, I gripped her collar.

“Don't worry about him.” The girl flounced down next to me. “He defies all small-dog stereotypes. He's as mellow as …”

As she trailed off, I quickly studied her. She was about my age, maybe a year or two younger. She was wearing a Gap T-shirt with a jog bra underneath, running shorts and sneakers. Her sandy-colored hair was pulled back from her tanned face, which was pretty, in spite of a medium case of acne.

“I can't think of anything that's mellow,” she said as she reached into her backpack for a water bottle, took a swig and turned to me. “What's mellow?”

I stared at her for a second. Maybe she was thinking
of “Mellow Yellow,” that old Donovan song that Dad used to listen to. I didn't say anything.

“Maybe Jell-O?” She scrunched up her nose. “No … Jell-O always seems so nervous, all cold and wiggly.”

As her dog began rolling in the wood chips, I released my grip on Moxie's collar. That's when I noticed that the girl was hurriedly glancing back and forth between Moxie and me, shaking her head.

“I don't believe it,” she gasped. Her eyes were as round as quarters. “I just don't believe it!”

“What?” I asked warily. Who was this girl, some kind of nutcase disguised as an ordinary teenager? I surveyed the dog run. Coffee Lady was fastening a harness onto her poodle, but Scaredy-Dog looked like he was settled in for the long haul.
Great.
Just the person to save my life. I can see him now, cluck-clucking his tongue, murmuring how
dogs these days
don't protect their owners.

“You are the exact same dog as your dog!”

“Huh?” I asked. Coffee Lady was opening the gate.
Now's my chance for a quick getaway.

“You are the exact same dog as your dog,” she repeated, breaking into a huge smile. “And so am I! That's very rare.”

I must have given her a funny look because she quickly continued.

“I possess a sixth sense for determining what kind of
dog a person would be if they were a dog.” She gulped her water, leaned toward me and whispered, “Like that man over there.”

I glanced covertly at Scaredy-Dog.

“He's a basset hound.”

I had to smile. Scaredy-Dog
was
the spitting image of a basset hound.

“And you're a chocolate Lab, just like your dog.”

I wasn't sure whether to be offended by a complete stranger telling me I looked like my dog.

She must have read my mind because she quickly added, “It's a good thing. I'd much rather be a chocolate Lab than a Jack Russell terrier. But such are the hands we're dealt.”

The girl reached into her backpack again, this time to fish out a gnarled old tennis ball. As she tossed it, her terrier scrambled away, depositing it at her feet an instant later. After a few rounds of this, Moxie lumbered over, shyly wagging her tail.

“Do you want to throw it for her?”

“No thanks. I'd probably just fling it backward.”

“Not big into sports?”

“Not ones with balls,” I said.

“Me neither.” She giggled, throwing it all cockeyed this time, as if to exaggerate her incompetency.

When Moxie retrieved the ball, she slobbered all
over it. The girl recoiled, stretching her hand as far from her body as possible.

“Ich!”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I forgot to warn you that she's a goobermeister.”

“A goobermeister!” The girl was practically in hysterics. “I'll have to remember that!”

Then she reached down and wiped her slimed hand on Moxie's shiny brown coat, adding that goobermeisters should get a taste of their own goober every now and then.

I smiled again.

“I'm Phoebe, by the way.”

“And I'm Sammie.”

“As in Sosa?”

“No.” I paused, wrapping Moxie's leash around my hand. I hate having to explain the story behind my name, especially since the extent of the story is that my parents were spacing out. “As in Davis.”

But all she said was: “Cool name! I love old Rat Pack movies.”

We ended up chatting for a few more minutes as Phoebe continued throwing the ball out to the dogs. But after a while, my stomach began to rumble. I hadn't had a bite to eat yet, and I'm one of those people who wakes up with an appetite.

“I'm going to head out,” I said, standing up. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too.” Phoebe reached over and scratched Moxie's ears. “Just so you know, I come here every morning at nine.”

“Oh.”

“What's the goobermeister's name, by the way?”

“Moxie.”

Phoebe grinned. “As in bold and sassy?”

“I guess.” I had no clue what she was talking about, so I asked her, “What's your dog's name?”

“Dogma.”

“As in principles?” We actually learned about dogma in global studies last year, one of those things that you tuck away in the back of your head, like geometry, assuming you'll never have to use it again. Dogma seems like a strange name for a terrier, but who am I to talk? My dog is named after a prescription drug.

“Bingo.” Phoebe laughed. “But not as in the dog the farmer had.”

This time I laughed too.

Mom was still in bed when I got home. She wasn't sleeping, but she was propped against some pillows reading
Ten Days to Self-Esteem
. Not a good sign. I have
this new theory that I can judge Mom's emotional state by what book she's reading. Ever since her interviews a few days ago she's been devouring the amoebas of selfhelp. The ones that promise insta-healing. Hundredand-eighty-degree transformations.
Feelin' blue? Step right up 'cuz we've got the remedy!

It's all starting to sink in,
I overheard her telling Shira on the phone. After Mom announced that she'd bombed the interviews, three in a row.

When I asked Mom to clarify
bombed,
she began to cry. Something about Manhattan not being the same place she'd left fourteen years ago.

I thought about saying
Maybe you're the one who has changed, not the city.
But judging from the way her chin was quivering, I had a feeling she was thinking the same thing.