Authors: Sarah Mlynowski
Friday, February 13, 5:37 p.m.
N
ormally I do either the step class or Pilates class. Today I do both.
“Lift that leg,” Gossip, the Pilates instructor, tells me. So I lift.
“Who wants strong legs?” he calls out to the class. I do! I do! In case I have to kick Sharon's ass.
The nerve of her invading my turf. So what that she doesn't know I exist? Not true. She must know that I exist, just not that I'm sleeping with her boyfriend. She must have asked him about his learning group. Surely he mentioned me. How does she picture me in her head? I wonder if he described me.
“Hold it, baby, hold it.” The instructor is the most stereotypical gay man I've ever seen. He's wearing pink leggings and a tight purple tank top. He goes by the name, Gossip. Yes, Gossip. It says that on the class schedule.
Maybe Russ told Sharon I was gay. Maybe he told her that Lauren and I are partners. Either that, or he told her I'm ugly. Or stupid.
When Gossip finally tells us to have a fabulous weekend
and make sure to make a lot of love, I hit the gym showers. I stuffed my knapsack with all my shower stuff, hair dryer, change of clothes and makeup. I don't normally bring all that paraphernalia to the gym, but I don't know what time
she's
coming in today. And I can't have
her
walking in all dressed up and crossing my path while I look like a shlump. No, way. Russ will obviously be comparing us, the way men must compare their equipment standing at the urinal.
After showering, I blow-dry my hair straight. Then do my best makeup application. I skip the eyeliner, since it scares me despite Layla's lesson. Sweet Layla. She tried to convince me to come with her to New York.
“No way,” I told her. “I have to check out the competition.” I was lying on her bed watching her pack, drinking tea.
She folded a green shirt into a perfect square and carefully placed it into her suitcase. “You're being morbid. You're going to be alone here, miserable. Why do you want to put yourself through that?”
“I'm not running away. Besides, you have a date.”
“I'll cancel.”
I threw a pillow at her. “Cancel? After we pulled off the best advertising campaign ever? Are you on crack?” I still couldn't believe we did it. I come up with the best strategies! I must be a strategy whiz. Martin seems to think so, tooâhe gave me an A on my last assignment. Yes, an A. I almost asked him if he was sure it was my paper.
My strategy for this weekend is to look superhot. I finish blow-drying and admire the effect in the mirror. Beat that, Sharon. As the final touch, I apply my new lipstick. It's red and called Irresistible. I spent twenty-six dollars on this tube, more than I've ever spent on any piece of makeup, so it had better work. I'm wearing my good jeans, and a tight sweater that shows a little cleavage but not enough to make me look slutty. I'm a ten out of ten, if I must say so myself.
I wrap my red puffy jacket tightly around me and head
back to the dorm. Not that I have anything to do. Or anyone to do. Layla left me the key to her room. Maybe I'll borrow her Magic Banana.
I can just imagine telling my germ-phobic friend that I borrowed her most personal of items.
Ew. No, if I were going to use one, I would buy my own. If I were going to use one. Which I'm not. But maybe I should. Maybe it'll bring on my period, which I haven't gotten in forever. I stopped taking the pills continuously earlier this week so that I would get itânow that Sharon is here for a few days and I have a sex break, it's a good time to get it over withâbut it didn't come. What I don't understand is how Russ hasn't noticed that I haven't had it in months. I'm probably just infertile.
Maybe Russ secretly hopes that I'm pregnant?
My running shoes have lost most of their traction and I nearly slip on the ice. I need to buy new shoes. As if I have the money for that.
Almost there. As I'm about to open the door, a cab pulls up in front of the dorm.
There's a woman in the back seat. My heart stops. Sharon.
7:30 p.m.
O
h, man. She's late. Why is she late? Better question, why is she still coming? My television is on channel 2, the door channel. I'm watching for her arrival. I can't believe I didn't tell her not to come. I should have insisted on buying a plane ticket and going home for the weekend, instead of putting Kimmy through this.
Nick hurries into the foyer. Then he searches his pocket for the key, drops it, picks it up and goes inside. Bastard is still tanned from Australia. Maybe he's fake tanning.
On Monday I thought I was getting out of it. Sharon called me with the flu. I recommended she stay home and get better. I'd even come to see her. She said, no way. She'd get better.
She got better.
I open my food drawer to see if there's anything worth eating. I've already finished a bag of chips and a liter of warm Pepsi that was stashed under my bed.
I was hoping that Kimmy would take off for the weekend. Meeting up in the bathroom might be mildly uncom
fortable. Though meeting up in my room could be fun, the three of us rolling around on my skinny bed.
Yeah, right.
Maybe I should break up with Sharon. Maybe I should break up with Kimmy.
Maybe I should make a goddamn decision.
I pace the length of my room. It's not long enough for a good pace. I'd like to pace the hallway, but Sharon needs to buzz from downstairs to get in. I've been stuck in this room for an hour. I have to take a piss.
Kimmy is in the foyer. Her hair is shining, and she's about to unlock the door, when someone enters, rolling a suitcase.
Sharon.
Shit.
Kimmy turns around and stares. Does she know? Sharon's lips are moving. She seems to be asking Kimmy a question. Kimmy nods and says something back. I think I'm going to hurl. What are they saying? It's V-Day, not D-Day!
Kimmy unlocks the door, and Sharon follows her inside.
What do I do?
I pick at my face.
Knock, knock.
I am not opening that door. What if Kimmy spilled the beans? And now they're both standing there waiting to roast me?
“One sec,” I say, and I open it.
It's Sharon. Just Sharon. No one else in sight. She's smiling, her hair moist from melting snowflakes, and she looks beautiful. I wrap my arms around her and pull her to me. She smells like home. Actually she smells like airplane. In mid-hug I twirl her around to scan the room to insure that everything is presentable. Bed made. Drawers closed. No boxers on the floor. No condoms, God forbid. I kick the door closed. We're kissing, more kissing, it's her, here, she tastes perfect, her shirt is off, my shirt is off, our pants are off.
Now the floor is a mess.
And we're on the bed, me on top, and then I'm inside her and we're making love, fast, it's been over a month. For her, anyway.
“Do you want to come now?” I ask.
“Later. Don't worry. Go ahead, come now, it's okay, I figured we should get the first time out of the way, since it's been so long for you.”
Probably not the best time to tell her I had sex less than twenty-four hours ago with the woman she just met downstairs. Now that was wild sex. Kimmy was on top but facing my feet. I came in about five seconds. Stop imagining sex with Kimmy. Stop. Can't. I come, and hold Sharon tightly. “Well,” I say. I run my fingers over her earlobe. “Nice to see you.”
She wiggles to get comfortable beside me. “Not much room in here, is there?”
“Oh, it's fine.” I'm about to add, you get used to it, but I catch myself in time.
“I can't believe I almost didn't make it because of the flu. It was so gross. I was puking all over the place.”
Now there's an image I'd rather forget. “But you're here,” I say. “You made it.”
“Made it.”
“Made it straight to my room. Umâ¦how did you find my room, anyway?”
She runs her fingers through my hair. “A girl in the foyer offered to show me the way. She knew you, actually. When I told her who I was looking for, she said that I must be Sharon. You must talk about me a lot, huh?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
D-Day diverted.
7:45 p.m.
“Y
ou look marvelous, darling,” Ronnie, my little sister, says, patting down my hair.
I'm sitting at my vanity table in my room in Manhattan, enjoying the space, lining my eyes. “Thanks.”
In the mirror she looks like a miniature version of me. A few years younger, her facial structure is daintier, her eyes smaller, her hair shorter. She graduated from Brown last May and is now at Teacher's College. I tried to talk her out of it. With so many options available to her, why does she want to be just a teacher? But she ignored me. She sets her glass of champagne on my night table.
“That better be on a coaster,” I say. The apartment is not quite in the condition I left it in. I've noticed numerous scratches on the coffee table.
“We're going to head over to Mack's tonight,” she says. “So you can be aloooooone with Bradley.”
Mack is Ronnie's long-haired boyfriend who isn't good enough for her.
“Have you spoken to Mom?” I ask. “Is she in the city?”
Ronnie rolls her eyes. “Who knows? I haven't heard from her in months.”
“Don't be rude,” I say, and pick up the phone. “Let's call her now.”
Her voice mail picks up. I leave a message.
“I'm shocked,” Ronnie mutters, and walks away.
“She'll call us back later,” I call after her.
“Whatever.”
At five to eight, the doorman calls up. “Bradley is here.”
“Thank you, send him up.”
When the buzzer sounds, I'm balancing myself on the arm of the couch, holding a glass of champagne. I can't believe this is happening. Bradley Green is picking me up on the eve of Valentine's Day. The hockey game is blaring in the background from the flat-screen TV. Ronnie opens the door.
Bradley is wearing a black suit, and is holding a bouquet of roses. A dozen long-stemmed red roses. How perfect! He tugs one out of the bouquet and hands it to Ronnie. “It's a pleasure to meet you,” he says.
“How sweet!” my sister shrieks.
I approach the door, and he plants a kiss on my cheek. My entire face tingles.
“For you,” he says, handing me the bouquet.
Aw. “Thank you.”
As I find a vase to put the roses in, I hear him discussing the hockey game with Mack. Seems like he knows just what to say to everyone.
By the time we leave, both Mack and Ronnie are swooning. When Brad's not looking, Ronnie mouths, “Wow.” I believe they are impressed.
In the elevator, I wonder if we're going to walk to the restaurant or flag a cab. But a black sedan outside the door answers the question. Is that his car? Did he hire it for the night? I'm feeling mildly light-headed. I'm unclear if it's from the champagne or the roses/suit/car combination.
He takes me to La Grenouille, and does everything right. He knows his wines, listens while I talk, asks all kinds of questions. After dinner, he drops a platinum American Express card on the table, and asks, “Would you like to go to Plush?”
Plush is the new VIP hot spot on Forty-second Street. This is turning into the best Valentine's weekend ever.
Saturday, February 14, 9:00 a.m.
T
his is officially the worst Valentine's Day ever.
I lift the phone in the ICU waiting room and wait for the nurse to answer.
“ICU?” the nurse says.
“Hi, Donna, it's Jamie. Can I come in?”
“Of course. Your mom is here.”
“I know. Thanks.” I rub the antibacterial cream into my hands and open the door. I wave to the nurses.
My mother is sitting on the wooden chair in my bubbe's room, staring vacantly out the window. Her eyes are heavily shadowed, as though she hasn't slept in months.
I sit on the metal stool beside her. “How is she?”
“The same,” she answers, her voice shaking. “Terrible.”
My grandmother is lying on the bed, eyes closed, too thin, too pale. Her heart is too weak. Her almost transparent skin sags around the thin bones of her face. There is nothing the doctors can do.
“What did the nurse say?” I ask softly.
“Any time now.”
I'm not shocked. You always expect your grandparents to die. My other grandparents are already gone. But they'd always been old. But not my bubbe. I thought she'd be around forever.
Okay, I can deal with her leaving, but I can't deal with it if she can't. I want her to call me over and tell me it's okay. That she's okay about dying. That she's looking forward to the next step. Looking forward to being with Zadie. That she's not scared. I can deal with no longer seeing her anymore, but I can't deal with her fear. After going through the Holocaust, and burying her husband, I can't bear to have her go through any more pain. How horribly unfair.
I'm exhausted. I've been making jokes for days, trying to keep my bubbe going, trying to make her laugh. Yesterday, I even juggled bananas for her. She tried to smile.
I hate being here.
I hand my mother a heart-shaped chocolate. She doesn't smile.
Valentine's Day has always been disastrous. At ten, Maddy Weiner, the tiny brunette who sat in front of me in the fourth grade, ripped my homemade Valentine's Day card in quarters and tossed it like confetti around the schoolyard. I went to the nurse and told her I had to go home, because my heart was broken.
In high school, I sent a dozen red roses and a singing telegram to my girlfriend of two weeks, right in the middle of biology. She broke up with me at lunch.
And then there was the bike accident. Which happened to be on February 14.
All in all, never a successful holiday for me. But I've never felt more alone.
I wonder if Layla misses me.
I take my mother's hand and squeeze. And we wait.