by Amber Kizer
I can skip working if I make the team? Are they serious? Apparently, by the looks on their faces.
“If I make the team, I don’t have to work and you guys will pay the car stuff?”
“Until you’re done with the season and can get a job, yes, we’ll cover your car expenses.” Mom and Dad both nod like they’ve brokered a cease-fire.
I’m stunned. “Wow. Thanks.” Now I understand why jocks do what they do. There are benefits to this so-called exercise.
Now I have to decide whether or not I can survive running for the next couple of months. Must make list. Pros and cons. I think the cons might be a longer list if I mention every body part that is screaming at me individually. “Okay, thanks. I don’t know if I’ll make the team. There are really good athletes going out for it and I’m not so coordinated.” I try to ease them into the realization that I’m not jock material.
“You’ll make it,” Dad decrees, defying my perspective on reality.
Oscars: Oscars are those kids who have been in every school play, musical and talent show. Students who are never happier than when they get to pretend they are someone else and not have to be themselves. These kids banter the words “stage direction,” “cue me” and “what’s my line?” like the rest of us use swearwords. They can memorize whole books of poetry and Shakespeare without getting nauseated. Some have parents who wanted to be on the stage or screen but mostly they’re kids that came out of the womb like chameleons, searching for the part that will change their lives.
Emmys: Emmys are the kids who work really hard to have life imitate art and want their lives to resemble the fantastical reality shows called soap operas. They think General Hospital and Gossip Girl are docudramas and work to steal boyfriends from their so-called best friends and cry on cue. In the feminine form, they tend to be daddy’s girls and thus control his credit card. In the masculine form, they tend to be extremely popular, suave and sophisticated, frequenting clubs and attending events usually reserved for those actually old enough to drink. There is a brightness to their smiles, like the toothpaste ads, and theme music accompanies any entrance and exit.
Banders: Students who think arriving at school in the dark all year is fun because they get to play jazz, or who carry around instrument cases rather than setting them down and risking said black plastic hulk wandering off. Students who have a nice array of white shirts and black pants/bottoms for each and every special concert event.
I am a pile of goo. I am a husk of my former self. Dehydrated like a raisin. I gasp for breath. “We made the team.”
Maggie groans. Wipes the sweat out of her eyes. “We did.”
She sounds as bad as I feel.
Clarice bends down to untie her shoe. Her mouth emits noises like she’s trying to climb a rock wall with only her fingernails. “How is that possible? I crawled through some of the push-up-crab-walk things,” she moans, trying to sit on the bench. “On my butt.”
I hate to point out that we all crawled on our butts. It seems mean.
“Varsity?”
I try to turn my head to check out the rest of our team but think better of it as an ice pick rips down my back.
“I’m changing my name,” I mention to Mom as she bustles into the kitchen with her arms full of binders.
“Why’s that, dear?”
Because Gertrude is an old lady’s name. I don’t actually say that out loud, though I want to. Think of my maturosity. “Because I’m baking a cake for Dad’s dinner tomorrow and chefs all have fabulous names.”
“Oh.” Mom looks at once impressed and horrified. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
As opposed to letting you make the cake? Hovels in India are more edible than your cakes. “Well—” I put down the Gourmet magazine I picked up on the way home. Perhaps starting with a five-tiered meringue and marzipan concoction is a bit beyond my skill set.
“I see.” She opens a cabinet and pulls out a few big books. “These were your grandmother’s. I’m sure there’s a nice simple cake in one of these that we have the ingredients for.” The unspoken statement is that you can handle making.
“Thanks,” I say.
“And what does your name have to do with this project?”
“I need a sexy name.” Like Jean-George, Colette or Gigi.
“Gert, you don’t need to use language like that.” Mom is shocked.
“What? Sexy?”
“Yes, exactly. You’re not old enough for a sexy name.”
“Mom, it doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“It just means groovy.” She hmphs.
“Seriously, ‘sexy’ has nothing to do with sex.”
She looks up at the clock. “I’m late for my meeting.”
“What’s today’s?” I ask, trying to keep the rancor out of my voice. It’s not her fault she has meetings about her meetings about nothing at all important.
“Bunko tournament for baby seal protection.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll be back for dinner.” She air-kisses my cheek from five yards away.
Whatever. I rummage around in the books until I find a cake that sounds good. “Devil’s food with marshmallow cream frosting,” I say to no one. I really need to get a goldfish to keep me company.
I get out the beaters. It’s harder than you might think inserting the ends into the holes and getting them to stay. I fumble around. I wonder if I can go ask Dad to do it—is it cheating to attach the beaters for your own birthday cake?
I put the butter into a big bowl and turn the beaters on high. Butter splots shoot everywhere, including in my left eye. Just as quickly I turn off the beaters. I glance around the kitchen, hoping no one is secretly Webcasting. I toss another stick of butter into the bowl because it really doesn’t seem like there’s much left. I turn the beaters back on low speed.
Where are the measuring cups? I can’t find anything remotely resembling what I think a measuring cup should look like. What’s the diff between a measuring cup and a drinking cup? I use a water glass to measure out the sugar and flour.
Then I add the eggs. I try to suavely one-hand-crack the eggs like I’ve seen them do on the Food Network. Part of a shell falls in, and just as I’m about to shut off the machine to fish it out, the beaters crunch it up. I’m hoping no one will notice.
Is cocoa powder different than hot cocoa? I think there must be a slight difference, maybe the country of origin, but since we don’t have Dutch-processed cocoa powder, I’m going to use Swiss Miss. I’ll pick out the mini-marshmallows later.
Grease the pans. With what? Oil? Butter? WD-40? Huh. Skip it.
Oops, didn’t preheat. I wonder if I should turn up the oven to compensate? Is there an average oven temperature?
I more or less evenly distribute the batter.
Reread the recipe to make sure I didn’t miss anything important. Baking soda? Buttocks!
I search out the box and sprinkle the top of each batter layer with a small handful of baking soda and use my index finger to mix it together. Close enough.
I squeeze the two pans into the oven and set the timer. I think I set the timer. I’m not sure. Maybe I should just wait here until they’re finished baking. Just in case.
Piece of cake, if I do say so myself.
The phone rings in my bedroom. I race up the stairs. It could be Stephen. I think I’m starting to really like him. My day doesn’t seem complete unless I’ve had a conversation with him. Even just a little one.
It’s him. “Hello, handsome.”
It’s our new thing. I’m gorgeous and he’s handsome. Maybe that’s kinda obvious. “How’s it goin’?”
“Good. I just baked my first cake.”
“Really?”
“Yep, it’s my dad’s birthday, so I made him a cake. It was pretty easy.”
“That’s cool.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m just finishing up a new model of
the Dreamliner.”
“That’s a Boeing plane, right?” I’m catching on to the whole learn-what-the-boyfriend-likes conversation techniques.
“Exactly. It’s going to revolutionize the airline industry.”
I make interested noises.
“So you want to do something tonight?”
“I can’t.” I find myself sorry to be busy.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, see, we’re having this family dinner for my dad’s birthday.” Then all of a sudden I feel a rush of guilt for not inviting him, so I lie. “And I totally asked my mom if you could come too, but she said she didn’t think my dad would like that until we’re um, married or something. Not that I think we’re going to get—”
“It’s cool. No worries. I’ve got stuff to do anyway. Just thought—”
“But I’d love to, if I didn’t have to do the fam thing.”
“Sure. Later.”
“Definitely.” I sigh as I hang up the phone. This just gets more complicated.
“They’re here!” Mom screeches over the television commentator.
I’m putting the final touches on my cake. I had to improvise the shape because the layers stayed in the pan, so I scooped them into a pile and drizzled the icing over the top. I’ve seen more attractive piles of dog doo.
Mom stops by my side and stares at the cake. “It’s a wonderful effort.”
That’s like saying “but she has such a pretty face” when the rest of her is Jabba the Hutt.
“I do have the bakery cake in the car if you’re not happy with the results.” She pats my shoulder.
I only wanted to make a cake, that’s all; just a simple little cake for my dad’s birthday dinner.
I’m about to tell Mom to get the other cake out of the car when Dad walks in, escorting Mike and Heather. “Wow,” Mike says, stopping in his tracks.
There’s still a little butter on the ceiling.
“That’s the best cake I’ve ever seen,” Dad says, ruffling my hair. The guy thinks noogies are synonymous with wonderful you. “Couldn’t have done better myself.”
Heather pokes Mike. “Doesn’t that look like the dessert we got at Michel’s last week?”
Mike looks at her. “Huh?”
“The chocolate soufflé cake you said was worth the fifteen dollars a slice.”
“I said that?” Mike seriously blows the nice thing she’s trying to do.
I smile. “Thanks.”
“We brought takeout.” Heather winks at me.
Thank God, we don’t have to deal with Mom’s massacring of the food pyramid. But then, who am I to talk? I look down at my cake again, feeling tears behind my eyes. Perhaps the apple doesn’t fall far and all that. I must have inherited my mother’s lack of culinary ability along with her ears.
“It’s a great cake. I’m sure it’ll be tasty.” Mike smacks his lips and rubs his already expanding girth.
“Thanks.” I take the plastic wrap off the paper birthday plates with rockets and spacemen on them. “Dad, you want to be an astronaut when you grow up?”
Dad grumbles as only he can.
“They were on sale, Gert.” Mom shoots me an evil-eye thingy.
“Of course they were,” I answer. At least Dad doesn’t have to eat off the leftover Barbie plates from my birthday.
“I did always want to walk on the moon.” Dad rubs my mom’s hand.
“Oh,” she says, rolling her eyes in that I-love-you-you-silly-man way.
I have a feeling I’m missing something.
We eat. I bide my time until I can get Heather alone. I must ask about the nipple quandary. I know of at least four people interested in her answer.
“We’ll do the dishes and get the cake,” I say. “Come on, Heather, you can help me.” I seize my head in the general direction of the kitchen.
“Right,” she says, jumping up.
I love girls. We speak the same language of herd animals. I wonder if sheep react the same way? Or cows? Am I just a heifer on two legs?
Tangent: sorry.
“What’s up?” Heather lowers her voice and looks under her lashes at me.
It’s a little disconcerting that I didn’t have to ease into the question, but then I wasn’t very subtle with the whole needing-to-talk-to-her thing.
“Were you serious that I can ask you anything?”
“Absolutely. I’m happy to help.”
“Well, I don’t know if this, you know, is a weird question or not.” I turn on the water to drown out any still-audible mumblings. I really don’t want my parents hearing.
Heather smiles at me. “My mother told me sperm came out of every orifice on a man just like a common cold, plus his fingers were infected so I could get pregnant if he touched my private parts at all—nose, mouth, hands and penis all off-limits.”
I try not to laugh. “That’s terrible.”
She giggles. “Seriously, I was eighteen when I found out sperm weren’t floating around on escalators or doorknobs.”
Okay, that’s seriously whacked. “Oh.” What else can you say? I feel better.
“Look, I’m telling you that you’re probably ahead of me and I promise not to laugh. My first date sneezed on me and I thought I was going to be pregnant for months.”
I really can’t help the giggle that escapes. “Sneezed?”
“No euphemism. An actual achoo with hanky. He had no idea why I freaked out so badly.”
“What happened?” I giggle.
“When I demanded he marry me to give our child a proper name, he thought I’d lost my mind.”
“I can imagine that.”
“I never heard from him again. And I wasn’t pregnant. So, what’s the question?”
Maybe Heather isn’t the right person to ask. She might not even know men have nipples. My dubiousness must show on my face, because she snaps to attention.
“Oh, wait.” She holds up a hand. “I went a little wild in college, so you’re not going to shock me. I was just illustrating a point.”
“Okay. Are man nipples different than woman nipples?” I blurt out in a furious whisper.
“How so?” Heather doesn’t even blink.
“Sensitivity. Liking the mouth-on-boob thing. Fingers, hands—fondling.” I trip over my words.
“Oh. No. Why? Does Stephen have a nipple fixation?”
Oh my God, I don’t know. “Could he?”
Heather bites back a smile. “You’d have to tell me. But like anything, there’s no sure bet. Different people like different things. There’s a vast range of sensation regardless of gender.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Give me the big picture.”
“A guy dating another guy.” I try to stay all anonymous. So confusing. And when does that ever really work anyway? “Guy thinks he likes it too much and therefore thinks he’s a girl.”
“No, it’s a nerve thing, not a gender thing. My best girlfriend doesn’t like her breasts touched at all—she has, like, no sensation and gets totally bored.”
“Really?” I thought our boobs were our most pleasurable place. At least, that’s what it looks like in movies.
“Men don’t really get it. They think she’s playing hard to get and she’s not, but give her a foot rub and she’s Jell-O. Everybody is different.”
“Foot rub?”
“It’s a continuum.” She shrugs.
“Ah.” This I understand. “It’s a Rock and Barbie thing.”
She gets all confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t worry about it. I get it, though.” I nod and finish drying a cake pan.
“Just tell the guy not to make an issue of the nipple thing and when his partner is ready he’ll tell him.” Heather hands me a plate.
“That’s what I was thinking, but I wasn’t sure.”
Her expression clouds. “I’m sure there are all sorts of worries being gay.”
I hadn’t really thought about it. “What do you mea
n?”
“Well, we’re not really a culture that understands that sexuality and gender are two different things. We don’t separate them—”
“Gals? Cake people?” Mike pokes his head in. “Our blood sugar is dropping in here.”
“Sorry, I got caught up in my whole anthro thesis.”
“Huh.” Mike seems to know what she’s talking about.
“Thesis?” I ask. Man nipples as a thesis topic. Sounds edgy.
My expression must show what I’m thinking. “Gender and sexuality,” Heather clarifies.
“Oh, of course.” Now don’t I feel like an idiot?
“Call me anytime.” Heather picks up the cake and hands it to me. She takes a match and starts lighting the candles.
“Thanks,” I say.
We both begin singing “Happy Birthday” as we walk back into the dining room.
I feel like a reporter for Animal Planet. The butt swish is usually reserved for females but I have seen Adam do it occasionally, so perhaps there are instances of gay men using it. I’m not sure. I couldn’t scientifically say. It’s a technique often seen at the mall, and often utilized during a rousing game of bob and weave.
It’s a graceful, sophisticated ability to swivel the hips at a twenty- to thirty-degree slant. If done right, the butt swish is alluring, attractive and the evolution of man in motion. Done badly, it’s seven kinds of wrong.
So beware, and practice with a rhythm of step, slide, swish, step, slide, reswish. I also suggest using a mirror before attempting a public display, which should only be done by advanced flirters or expert seducers. And if you are advanced or expert, then you probably don’t need the explanation of mall flirting. It’s just a thought, though; good to know.
Clarice is standing three people away at the entrance to the gym. We’re waiting to make a grand entrance along with the rest of the soccer team. I really wanted to be sick today and not be here. “Gert,” she whispers in a loud, un-whisper voice.
“What?” I can’t really hear her over the band’s “Wipe Out” rendition.