Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  “Daddy, it’s freezing in here, don’t you think?”

  He looks at my grandfather. “Max, if you’re cold, why don’t you say something?”

  “I just did.”

  My grandfather follows me into the kitchen, his cane clomping like a horse. He sits while I rummage through the refrigerator. “Why hasn’t Shelly been here to see me?” he asks.

  “She just got back in town, you know that. She’ll be here in a few days for dinner.” I hate lying, but I’m trying to stay on the Cheerfuls’ good side so they’ll give me a loan toward my new apartment. My grandfather stares into space. “Did you eat?” I ask him.

  “Franks and beans. Boy, I love franks and beans. That guy Kamps made a fortune with franks and beans. If we had stock with Kamps, we’d be millionaires by now, kiddo. Franks and beans is where the money is.”

  I spy an empty can on top of the garbage. “From a can?” I march into the den. “Daddy, what the hell did you feed Grandpa?”

  “Van Kamps. He loved it.” He clicks the channels anxiously.

  “Why didn’t you cook something?”

  “If someone was around, I would.”

  “Grandpa’s someone, you know.” I block the TV, but he waves me away. I stalk out, muttering “Asshole, asshole, asshole” under my breath.

  My grandfather has fallen asleep. I shake him slightly and whisper, “Grandpa, why don’t you go upstairs? Come on, I’ll help you.”

  “Frannie,” he yawns. “Let’s run away together. Just you and me.”

  “What will we do for money?” Sometimes I think I could kill my father, I really do. I could shove his head into the fucking TV.

  Grandpa Max pats my cheek. “We’ll live on love, kiddo.”

  “Someone named Vicky Tayborn called you,” my dad says a few days later.

  “Who’s she?” I put a Pop-Tart in the toaster.

  “I don’t know. She wanted to talk to you about a job, I guess. I have her number.”

  “I’ll get it later.” I put my Pop-Tart on a paper towel. “Where’s Mommy?”

  “She took your grandfather to the mall. She wanted you to go, but I told her not to wake you.” He looks up expectantly, as if I should thank him.

  I break the Pop-Tart in half. They have 220 calories, and with milk, I’m up to 320. If I get the Avalon job, I have to fit into my suits and frankly, I foresee a problem.

  “Did they ever call you from that ad agency?” my father asks.

  “Not yet.” I say this absently, but I’ve analyzed the interview for days, trying find signs in Miranda Billings’s every gesture, every inflection. She did say she had a good feeling, but I don’t let myself focus on that. I focus on not getting the job, on having to call this Tayborn woman whom I don’t know and could care less about.

  “Daddy, if you’re in an interview, and someone tells you they have a good feeling, do you think it means they’re going to offer you the job? I mean, if they say it in a happy way, really gleeful like, ‘I have a good feeling and here’s your office,’ can you think positively about it?”

  “You should always think positively. You and your mother focus too much on the negative. I always focus on the positive, on getting the sale.”

  I try to think positively, but it doesn’t get me anywhere. I should have called Shelly. She’s great at interviews. I bet she would have gotten this job wearing the vomit-stained JUST DO IT sweatshirt, with her hair all stringy, weighing eighty pounds. It’s times like these that I wish I were her.

  I spend hours writing down the things Billings and I talked about and the way she responded. I give myself a (+) for every time she laughed and a (-) for every time I fucked up. I count the (+)’s ten times, but I’m afraid to jinx it. Think positively, I tell myself, think happy thoughts. I count the (+)’s again, and with a giant burst of confidence, I tell my father to throw out Vicky Tayborn’s number.

  “I don’t need it,” I say firmly. “I feel good about this.”

  Later, in bed, I try to remember the number of (+)’s. Maybe if I hadn’t asked about the salary, she would have offered me the job (-). She must think I’m greedy (-). How could I jump the gun like that (-)? Jesus, this is worse than waiting for Bryan to call. Did she like my suit? I think so (+). I hated her suit, the boxy thing. Maybe it bothered her I had a nicer suit (-). Maybe she noticed that it didn’t fit (-) and now she thinks I’m a slob (-). But she did call me Frannie at the end (+) and she did say she had a good feeling about me (+++).

  This is a waste of time; I never get what I hope for. I try not to think about wanting the job, but then I wonder if, since I realized the want, it’s already jinxed. Can you discount a want if you’ve already admitted it? Eventually I fall asleep with my fingers crossed under my pillow.

  The next morning I give myself a facial. I have a dark green avocado mask on when the phone rings. My face is really tight and cracks when I say hello.

  “Is Frannie there?”

  “This is Frannie.” It’s difficult to speak, so I open my mouth as wide as I can to loosen the mask.

  “It’s Bryan Thompson.” Whoa! Panicked, my hand flies to my face and I claw at the mask, which flakes off under my nails. “Frannie? You there?”

  “I’m here, here I am. It’s me. Me, Frannie.” I force myself to get a grip. Stop the fucking scratching, I tell myself. He can’t fucking see you.

  “You sound like you’re out of breath.”

  “I just got back from a run.”

  “I didn’t know you ran. How far did you go?”

  It’s two-thirty in the afternoon and I’m still in my nightgown, which is now covered in avocado flakes that look like soot. “Eight miles. I’m in training.”

  “For what?”

  “The Olympics.” The Dysfunctional Olympics for the Highly Neurotic.

  He laughs. “How have you been?”

  “Fine,” I tell him. Then he asks if I want to have a drink with him. “And dinner,” he says, “if you’re not too busy.”

  “No, dinner is fine. Or a drink is fine. They’re both fine.”

  “Good, how about next Friday night? We can meet in front of St. Mary’s, if that’s not inconvenient for you. I know you have to drive in.”

  “No, driving in is fine. Friday night is fine. Everything’s fine. Really.”

  He tells me he’ll meet me at eight and we can go to Amsterdam’s first and then see how we feel. He asks me if that’s okay and before I can stop myself, I tell him that eight is fine and Amsterdam’s is…fine.

  I leave a message on Abby’s machine, then race to the hospital in Shelly’s car. “Hi, Lucy. Is Shelly here?” I ask, gasping.

  Lucy glances up from pasting Christmas decorations on the wall. “Hi, Frannie. I’ll go get her.”

  “No, wait.” I put on a Cinderella mask left over from Halloween. “I’ll go incognito.”

  I walk toward Cynthia in the day room, who is calling out answers to Jeopardy. “It’s photosynthesis, you idiot,” she yells at the set. Her forehead is bandaged. “Hi, Frannie,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” I counter, smiling.

  “I live here.”

  “I thought you were checking out. What happened to your head?”

  Slowly, she peels back the bandage. Underneath is a long red gash that rises from her skin like a bloody worm. “I had a small accident,” she says quietly. “I wasn’t ready to leave.”

  Sobered, I take her hand. “Well, I’m happy you’re still here. Come on, let’s surprise Shelly.” We tiptoe down the hall to Shelly’s room. When I peer in, I see Shelly sitting on her bed, holding court. Keisha and Pia are on the floor, listening.

  “…so I said no. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to law school just because it’s what everyone else wants me to do. I’ll be a therapist. Maybe even a social worker. I’m not making any major plans.”

  “You have come so far,” Pia says reverently. “When I first met you, I was so intimidated, but you’
re so nice. You really are.”

  “Hello, ladies.” I walk in. “I hate to break up the love fest you got going, but I have some news. I also brought these.” I pull five different magazines out of my bag. I even took the time to cut out pictures of food so the magazines won’t be confiscated.

  There’s a chorus of hellos and thank-yous. Shelly hugs me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Get this. Mizz Miranda Billings, a big hoo-hah at Avalon Advertising, called my reference, which is only Lonny but so what, it’s a good sign AND…” I pause. “That doctor guy called me!!!” I dance a jig. “I gotta job, I gotta guy, I’m so happy, I could cry…”

  “That’s so great, Frannie!” Shelly claps and squeals like a ten-year-old.

  Astonished, I look at her. “Shelly,” I say. “Oh my God, you squealed!” She squeals again and I snap on the radio. “So let’s celebrate, girls!” I shimmy to “Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones. In two seconds, the room is alive with activity.

  Singing as loud as she can, Pia jumps up and down, her arms and legs flailing like wings. Keisha writhes on Shelly’s bed, kicking her legs in the air. Her weight makes the bed creak so loud, it sounds like a fart. “Hey, guys,” she bellows. “I FARTED!” and she laughs and laughs and laughs. Cynthia slowly turns in a circle, holding her arms out and singing, “Keisha farted. She’s retarded. I am Cindy. I break windy.” Then she sticks out her ass and farts too, which makes everyone hysterical.

  “Hey, Frannie,” Keisha yells, “let me be Cinderella.” She puts on the mask and stands in the center of the room, jerking her large body back and forth. Her sweatshirt falls to the floor. Completely unaware, she bites her lip and puffs out her cheeks. Then she shakes her boobs and pumps her hips as if she’s having sex. She sings along with the Stones, and I nudge Shelly. Mesmerized, we both watch as Keisha struts her stuff.

  Shelly jumps up. “Come on,” she yells. “THE BAND IS HERE!!” She points. “Back up, please.” While Keisha strums an imaginary guitar, Pia plays the drums, and Cynthia plays the trumpet. Shelly sings lead, using a hairbrush as a microphone. With Mick Jagger howling in the background, Shelly grunts and moans and squeals. And squeals again. I stand on the sidelines, watching my sister sing, and I marvel at how much fun it is, sometimes, just being a girl.

  * * *

  AVALON ADVERTISING

  724 Fifth Avenue, 42nd Floor

  New York, NY 10019

  Telephone 212 334–9994

  Facsimile 212 334–9997

  Ms. Francine Vanessa Hunter

  739 St. James Drive

  Lindsey Point, NY 11223

  Dear Francine:

  While it was a pleasure to meet you, I regret to inform you that we have found a candidate whose experience more closely meets our needs. I wish you the best of luck with your job search. I am confident you will find something more appropriate to your qualifications.

  Sincerely,

  Miranda Billings

  Senior Vice President, Advertising Sales

  P.S. Perhaps you should try the Harvard Alumni Association. I’m sure your mother has contacts from her days as a ’Cliffie. Good luck–MB

  New York • Chicago • San Francisco

  Atlanta • Santa Fe • Miami Beach

  * * *

  I crumple the letter and throw it out. Crying, I call my mother at work. “She rejected me. Avalon rejected me.” I can’t stop sobbing. “I felt like I had that job, too. I really wanted that job.”

  “I’m sorry, Frannie. I guess it wasn’t meant to be. I don’t know what else to say except that I’m sorry. I wish I could make it different.”

  “I’m such a failure. Everything I do turns out wrong.”

  “You are not a failure. But maybe you shouldn’t want things so much. I’ve always felt that you girls want things too much. Honey, this is a terrible time. Can we talk tonight?”

  “I just can’t stand this anymore! I don’t know what to do!”

  “I don’t know how to help you. What do you want me to do?”

  This makes me cry harder. “I want you to know how bad it feels to get rejected. I want someone else to always be the failure. I want you to be me for a change.”

  “I can’t stand to hear you cry, Frannie. Every time I see you and your sister so miserable, it turns me inside out.”

  “Why is everything about how I make you feel?”

  “Frannie, please. I am very sorry, but I have a meeting.”

  Crying makes me feel better. Even when I get a call from Bryan who says that this Friday’s not good, but next Friday, for sure. I sit with my grandfather and watch TV, waiting for my mother to come home. We talk about his bowel movements, his medication, and all his sore body parts. At seven, I’m panting at the window, but she doesn’t show. By eight-thirty, I’m asleep on the couch. She calls around ten to say she got hung up. I tape the rejection letter to the phone, crawl into bed, and cry. When she cracks my door and leans in to talk, I pretend that I’m asleep.

  “My dear, we’ve let ourselves go.” Collette’s hands are in my hair. My mother offered to pay for a trim as compensation for blowing me off. When I said that it wasn’t necessary, that I didn’t get the job so I didn’t need my hair cut, she threw in a manicure. She didn’t even utter a sound when I ate a Big Mac, fries, and a large Coke from my lap in the car.

  “We’ve been neglecting ourselves, haven’t we, Frannie?” Collette shuffles around the beauty parlor in bell-bottom jeans and platform shoes. I lean back while she rinses me. “My assistant has her own studio now so I don’t have anyone to shampoo for me.”

  “It’s hard to find good help these days.” I wonder if she’s telling me this because she knows I need a job. “What are you going to do?”

  “Find someone else, naturally. I can’t do everything myself.”

  What would be so terrible about being a hairdresser? I wouldn’t have to get in until eleven, I could dress in cool clothes and listen to the radio all day. “I could help you out for a while, Collette.”

  She starts laughing. “You are so funny, Frannie.”

  “I’m serious. I could come in, shampoo, maybe give a trim. How hard could it be?”

  “I am an artist, Frannie, not a barber. You go to beautician school, apprentice, sweep the floors while you watch me cut. You can’t just walk in here and do hair.” She sniffs, offended.

  “Sorry,” I say, my voice tight. My mother walks over, her head swathed in a towel.

  “Frannie wants to be a hairstylist.” Collette grabs a towel and massages my head. My mother laughs. “No, really,” Collette continues. “She said she wants to do hair.” That’s not what I said! Collette’s hands rub my head so hard it hurts. She smiles down. I smile up. You are such a fucking freak, I think, still smiling at her. Go find some decent clothes.

  Abby’s more excited about my date with Bryan than I am. “Third date, Frannie,” she whoops into the phone. “You know what that means.”

  “What do you mean ‘third date’? This is only our second.”

  “He called you, right? You talked for a while, right? So it’s a date. A phone date.”

  “I don’t think you can count the phone call.”

  “I can so. I make the rules. And this spells S-E-X to me!!”

  “Calm down, Abby. I’m not having sex with him. I like him. I want to get to know him before we get up in the morning and the switch thing happens where I’m obsessing about him while he’s telling me he can’t be in a relationship, but it has nothing to do with me. I don’t want to go through that. I can’t get too attached.”

  “You’re already obsessed. And we all get too attached, Frannie. You do it, some enzyme kicks in and he falls asleep with his hands covering his thing and you watch the ceiling. SO WHAT? It’s not like you’re going to marry this guy. Enjoy it for what it is. I would.”

  “You’re not one to discriminate, Abby.”

  “If I recall,” she says indignantly, “you were the last one to do the walk of sha
me. With that sleazy waiter Artie, right?”

  The walk of shame is what happens when you stumble home after having sex with a Rat Boy—someone incredibly ugly, incredibly inappropriate, or with an unknown last name. You hang your head and moan, “I am suuuch a slut” while your friends promise that he really liked you and will definitely call.

  “Abby, I’m not having sex. I’m going to maintain my dignity and go home.”

  “Why? Who needs dignity when you can roll around with a guy who’s got a full-time job?”

  “I just don’t want anything to jinx this. What if he’s the one?”

  “Frannie, look at it this way. If you count the phone call, you’ve got two dates down and one date coming. And what’s that expression? Three’s the charm!”

  11

  Wearing the bodysuit was a mistake. The snaps are worn, so whenever I move even the slightest inch, they fly open. Then the whole thing rides up and bunches in my pants. I lean against the bar slowly so everything stays hooked.

  Two hours ago, I had a mad try-on-a-thon in my bedroom. Frustrated, red-faced, and sweating, I settled on a navy bodysuit I filched from Abby, clingy black leggings, and a $45 Dior bra and underwear set bought specifically for tonight.

  I sip my margarita and wait for Bryan to return from the men’s room. I roll the glass between my palms. Who cares what I’m wearing? A few more of these and I’ll be gyrating on the bar in nothing but my Dior ensemble.

  Before I left the house I paraded in front of my mother, who was lying in bed. “You look nice,” she said, her head bent. But then she looked up. “You’re wearing that?”

  I sat on the bed. “I have a date with that Bryan guy, the resident from St. Mary’s.”

  “And then you’ll be driving home? Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Well, hopefully I won’t have to come home. It is our third date.” I snickered wickedly.

  “What’s so special about tonight?”