My First Love and Other Disasters (2 page)

Naturally she still hassles me to do things her way, but now she's starting to listen to my side a lot more and even tries to let me make more decisions on my own. Even so, she has a long way to go—a lot farther than my father, who's pretty okay except when it comes to boys. It's like he thinks they're all out to steal his precious baby. When it comes to his darling daughters, he's just like Norman with his food. You should see the looks he gives them—the boys, I mean. Nickie Rostivo says it feels like my father's looking right through him. And Dad's definitely outrageous when it comes to any boy I show just the teensiest romantic interest in. Still, mostly he's pretty fabulous.

Anyway, back to sensational Jimmy. I think I'll start calling him Jim just to be different. I'm only just starting, so if I want him to notice me I've got to be special, which is a horrendous problem when you are as ordinary average as me. I'm sure just calling him Jim isn't going to make him stop dead and say, “Who is that mysterious average-looking girl who is courageous enough to call me Jim when the rest of the world calls me Jimmy?” Still, it's a start, and I need all the starts I can get.

Naturally I've been doing some dumb things like calling him on the phone and giggling. It's okay because I never say my name. I'd die if he ever found out.

Anyway, like I said, Steffi and I have a plan of attack that's really far out. We're going to go into the store where Jim works part-time and pretend I need a pair of shoes. You should see the shoes. They're great looking if you happen to have hooves. Luckily I've saved enough baby-sitting money so I could buy a cheap pair if I absolutely had to. I don't expect him to fall over dead at the sight of me; but at least I'll get to meet him.

I've created the scene in my mind a hundred times, and it always comes out beautiful. I go in there and there's nobody around but him, and he comes out and it's one of those things like in the movies, where his eyes and my eyes meet and we
stand there held to each other while the electricity crackles around us. Then finally he pulls himself away and I sit down (I'm wearing my new Victoria's Secret nightgown) and he starts to take off my shoes and the touch of his hand on my bare foot stuns us both. (In dreams you don't have to wear peds to try on shoes.) So then he asks me what shoes I want and I tell him and he can't stop looking at me. Then there's a whole boring part where he brings out the shoes and tries them on me and that whole thing, and then finally when I'm about to leave (in this one I get stuck buying a really horrendous pair of espadrilles, but I figure I can always sell them to Nina), he says he has to see me, and he's shocked when I tell him that I go to school with him, and we plan to go out that Saturday night, and I can tell he's got to break a date with Gloria. Anyway, that's the dream.

Today is real life, and it's that Tuesday afternoon I told you about and I'm waiting for Steffi to buzz me from the lobby, and then we're going over to Howell's shoe store because this is the day that Jim works there.

My complexion looks sort of okay today. There are a lot of under-the-skin bumps that nobody else ever seems to see, but I do. Still, if nobody else can, I guess he won't, so it doesn't matter. I'm wearing Steffi's new French jeans, my cousin Liz's suede
clogs (we traded—I gave her my old Adidas sneakers which always killed my little toe anyway), and this fabulous Indian shirt I gave my mother for her last birthday.

My hair is only so-so because I didn't have time to wash it, and it's been almost two days since my last shampoo so it's really disgusting. I washed my feet anyway.

It must be three thirty because jerk-face just got home. That's Nina.

“You walk Norman!” I tell her first thing.

“Is Mommy home?” she answers.

“Walk him now!”

“Is Mommy home?” she keeps insisting.

“No.”

“Up yours. I'll walk him when I feel like it.” She's a monster when my mother is out. If my mother ever heard the language her darling twelve-year-old uses, she'd have a fit. I'm starting to tell her a few things when the downstairs buzzer rings. That has to be Steffi. I do a last check in the mirror, grab my father's velour jacket that fits me perfectly since my mother accidentally put it in the dryer, and race out.

Steffi is waiting in the front of the building. For some strange reason she's wearing her new jeans that she said she was saving for Myrl Weingard's birthday party next week. She's really
got a fabulous figure. A lot of people can't wear tight jeans, but she looks great in them. She even combed her hair a little different. I have to tell her how terrific it looks with a side parting. And, my God, she's wearing eye shadow! And now that I come closer, at least half a bottle of my tea rose perfume that I left at her house last week.

Right at this second my feelings toward my very best friend in the whole world are very confused. I'm absolutely torn between hate and loathing. I can't believe Steffi would try to steal my boyfriend even before he's really my boyfriend. I'm probably jumping to conclusions and I really should be ashamed of myself. Steffi Klinger has been my dearest friend since we met in fifth grade. (It was really hysterical how we were both crazy about this jerky guy. . . .)

Oh, damn! How could she! Well, I'm certainly not about to blow my cool over a little competition. I've always heard that competition is healthy—for potato-sack racing. Not boys. I smile sweetly at her and decide to play it tricky. “Listen,” I say to her, “if you're too busy to come with me today I can do it alone or we can make it for another day.”

“That's okay,” she says brightly. “I can come today.”

“Or better yet, I can meet you later.”

“Anything you like.”

“Or you could wait outside.”

“Sure thing.”

“You mean you don't mind not coming?”

“I swear it's okay with me. Actually, then I can go home and change. I feel so jerky all dressed up like this, but my mother wanted to take some pictures for some special album she's doing and then I didn't have time to change. I'll probably get it all grimed up, and I wanted to save it for Myrl's party.”

Suddenly I love her again.

“Don't change,” I say.

“You don't think it looks gross in the middle of the afternoon? And I'm wearing eye makeup, too.”

“You look beautiful.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“By the way, I owe you a new tea rose. I spilled the whole bottle on my foot. Gross, huh?”

Did I mention Steffi's the greatest friend in the world?

“You'll really knock them out in the shoe store,” I say.

“I thought you wanted me to wait outside.”

“Not a chance. I'd the if I had to go through it alone. You just have to be there.”

“Great. I've been looking forward to this all day. I just know he's going to have heart failure when he meets you.”

“You think so?”

“I know it. You look absolutely spectacular today.”

“Quick. Let's go before I start to fade.”

So we start to walk toward Broadway. Howell's is only about three blocks from my house. We're not even walking fast, but I'm starting to sweat just from excitement. Luckily this blouse isn't clingy so you can't see that I'm dripping wet. Damn Secret.

Oh, God, I just remembered I'm going to get my period practically any minute! Now even my face is sweaty. Well, maybe the store will be air conditioned and then I can sort of hang out near the front windows until I dry off. Unless of course I really do get my period, and then standing with my back to him would be a mistake.

Mostly when people think of Broadway they think it's all theaters and hookers, but around my way, up in the Fifties, it's really okay. And when you go farther uptown it gets great. At least I love it. You find all kinds of stores—great little clothes shops and markets—and it's always busy and noisy with a million things happening. And the people are outrageous. Not scary outrageous, just crazy and exciting. My father says there are more nuts per square inch on Broadway than on any other street in the world. Like the Lysol lady. She's some kook who runs around with a mask over her nose and
mouth spraying Lysol all around her. Nothing else nutty about her. I mean she wouldn't bother anyone. She just likes things clean.

Anyway, in no time at all we're outside Howell's, and Steffi pokes me to look in the window. There he is. My Jim. He
is
gorgeous.

“Wait!” I grab Steffi just as she's about to open the door. “Let's say again what we're going to do.”

“Relax,” she purrs, “it's easy. All we do is go in and sit down, and when Jimmy sees you he'll come over, and from there on it's practically a snap. I mean, one look at those jeans and he'll be off the wall.”

“You're the best friend I ever had, but what if he doesn't fall over dead for me?”

“He has to. I just feel it. I mean, you look totally perfect.”

“Definitely.”

“Should I have a shoe number to give him?”

“Ugh. They're all so ugly. Maybe those espadrilles aren't too disgusting.”

“Okay, just remember 703.”

“I got it.”

“So come on. Let's go.”

“Wait a sec.”

“What now?”

“Maybe I should get the sneakers. At least they're not completely gross.”

“Ugh, no. Sneakers are so unsexy. Stick with the espadrilles. At least they make you look taller, and he's probably six feet. Come on. They're beginning to look funny at us.”

“No, wait . . .”

“Whaa . . . t!”

“I forgot the number.”

“703. Now let's go.” And she opens the door and shoves me in. Oh, God!

We're in the store and it's a lot smaller than I thought. There's no room to just stand there and dry off. There's also no Jim. Now Steffi jabs me in the arm and nods with her head toward the back room. And there he is standing in the stockroom talking on the telephone. We're just standing there staring at him when Mr. Howell, the owner of the store, comes waddling over.

“Can I help you girls?” he says, leaning over and trying to catch what we're staring at.

“We—I mean, my friend . . . ,” Steffi begins, still concentrating on Jim in the back. “Victoria, tell him about the shoes.”

“Yeah . . .” This is going very badly. I certainly don't want Old Man Howell to take my order. But I'm trapped. I can't just stand here like a jerk and not say anything.

“Well, girls?” he says.

“703,” I say.

“Hey, Jimmy,” he calls to Jim. “Enough with the girlfriend already. Get off the phone. I need you.”

Jim looks really embarrassed and he quickly hangs up. Steffi pokes me again and says in a stage whisper you could hear four blocks away, “He's coming.”

“About time,” says Mr. Howell, and before Jim can even get into the front of the store he tells him to go down to the basement and get 703. “What size, honey?” Mr. Howell asks me.

“Six medium.” I'm really more like six and a half or even seven, but I hate big feet, and besides, I plan to sell them to Nina anyway.

“In six medium.” You can practically hear Jim moan as he heads for the basement to get my shoes. I don't even know him and he hates me already. I'm the jerk who made him drag all the way down to the crummy old cellar to get shoes. And I'm also responsible for making him hang up in the middle of a gorgeous conversation with his grungy girlfriend. Well, I'm not sorry about that.

Steffi and I sit down to wait. I'm beginning to think this was a dumb thing to do. I mean, the whole setting is so unromantic with Mr. Howell and this tiny store with all the ugly shoes and Jim having to disappear downstairs. It's all getting very messy. I wish we could get out of here, but we can't with Mr. Howell standing there and just staring at us.

We wait at least a hundred years. Still no Jim. Now Mr. Howell goes to the back steps and calls down. “So Jimmy, huh? Did you fall asleep down there?”

“I can't find any 703s, Mr. Howell,” he calls back.

“Open your eyes and look near the boiler.” This is mortifying.

Silence from the basement.

“So?” says Mr. Howell.

“I don't see them. I'm sorry, Mr. Howell.”

“They're right in front of your nose on the side of the boiler.”

More silence. I think I want to die. None of this was in my daydreams.

“Aiii, kids. You have to supervise everything. They wouldn't find their head if it wasn't attached.” And with a lot of grumbling he goes to the top of the basement steps and shouts down, “Are you at the boiler?”

“Right,” Jim shouts up. His voice is beginning to sound not so terrific.

“Now look on the right. You see those stacks of boxes near the window?”

“Yeah.”

“So look.”

“You want me to go through all the stacks?”

“You got something better to do?”

I hear what is definitely a moan from the basement, and give Steffi a shove with my elbow and whisper that this is the worst idea in the whole world. “I've ruined everything. How am I ever going to face him again? It's over . . . finished. There's no hope.” I'm moaning even worse than he is.

“You're right,” Steffi says. She's the most honest friend I've ever had. That's the one thing I hate about her. “Keep your eyes on Mr. Howell,” she says. “The minute he turns his head, we disappear.”

I give her the gotcha sign and wiggle into my shoes. We get our bags in our laps and slide to the edge of our seats. But Mr. Howell's not letting go. He keeps us nailed there with his eyes.

There's a lot of noisy shuffling around coming from the basement but still no size sixes.

“You sure you take a size six? Let me measure your foot.” And quick as anything he grabs one of those foot measures and advances on us. We both jump up, clutching our bags, and like we were attached start squiggling away from him toward the door. He sort of slides around us and grabs a chair and shoves it into us from behind, pushing us down together on the same seat. Now he whips my shoe off and jams my foot down on the cold metal ruler thing. I guess maybe when you have such ugly shoes in your store you've got to work hard to make
a sale. Of course it registers almost seven, but I don't care anymore. As far as I'm concerned my life is over anyway.