Gilbert and Louis Rule the Universe: First Impressions

by Rebecca Heller

  Gilbert and Louis Rule the Universe: First Impressions

  By Rebecca Heller

  Gilbert and Louis Rule the Universe: First Impressions

  Rebecca Heller

  Published by Surf Like a Girl Press

  Copyright 2012 Rebecca Heller

  Cover photograph by Claudia Rehm

  For Gilbert

  I realize that if you are reading this you are already totally smart and have excellent taste. However, in case there are some words you don’t understand, I have provided definitions* for you, because smart is sexy. Am I right?

  *All definitions written by Leah (looked up on: Dictionary.com Unabridged. Random House, Inc. 2010).

  People you should know:

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Monday, November 2

  Chapter 2: Tuesday, November 3

  Chapter 3: Friday, November 6

  Chapter 4: Saturday, November 7

  Chapter 5: Sunday, November 8

  Chapter 6: Monday, November 9

  Chapter 7: Tuesday, November 10

  Chapter 8: Saturday, November 14

  Chapter 9: Monday, November 16

  Chapter 10: Tuesday, November 17

  Chapter 11: Monday, November 30

  Chapter 12: Monday, December 14

  Chapter 13: Friday, December 18

  Chapter 14: Saturday, December 19

  Chapter 15: Christmas Day

  Chapter 16: Saturday, December 26

  Chapter 17: Monday, December 28

  Chapter 18: New Year’s Eve

  Chapter 19: Saturday, January 2

  Chapter 20: Monday, January 4

  Chapter 21: Wednesday, January 13

  Chapter 22: Friday, January 15

  Chapter 23: Sunday, January 17

  Chapter 24: Friday, January 22

  Chapter 25: Saturday, January 23

  Chapter 26: Wednesday, February 3

  Glossary

  Chapter 1

  Monday, November 2

  Today’s Horoscope: Pay attention; someone has exciting news to share.

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: hey

  LeahLouis: hey

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: sup

  LeahLouis: i saw The Hottie again

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: noway

  LeahLouis: yesway

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: was he hot?

  LeahLouis: smokin

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: :-)

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: did you finally

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: meet him?

  LeahLouis: no

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: why?

  LouisLeah: it happened too fast

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: sorry

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: did you see melinda’s outfit today?

  LeahLouis: omg what was that?

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: i have no idea

  Alex_aka_Gilbert: g2g - homework

  LeahLouis: ok, bye!

  Sorry, you probably don’t have a clue what is going on. Gilbert is my best friend. Her name isn’t really Gilbert, it’s Alex (Alexandra to be more precise), but ever since sixth grade science class she has been Gilbert to me. Alex calls me Louis (pronounced “Lewis”) even though my real name is Leah. We named ourselves after the main characters in some classic movie we caught on TNT called Revenge of the Nerds, even though we are, like, way cooler.

  The names Gilbert and Louis came about because we were working on Ms. Elston’s science project about a Mission to Mars. Totally lame, right? So we started to use these dorky names as we were writing up our report. Like, “Gilbert, the weather here on Mars is totally uninhabitable for human life forms,” or “Louis, the iron oxide on Mars gives everything a reddish tint.” You get the idea, but the names stuck. No one else calls us by these nicknames, and we only use them with one another in private. We have even created an adjective out of the names that we use when we are having an incredibly spazzy moment. Like when we were sitting next to the hot choir teacher, and I made Alex laugh so hard that the milk she was drinking came out of her nose, then we’d say, “oh that was so gilbertandlouis.”

  Melinda’s outfit at school that day was truly heinous, trust me. And who is the mysterious “Hottie” you may wonder? Well, you are just going to have to wait to find out.

  * * *

  “Leah!” my mom calls from downstairs. “Have you finished your homework?”

  I push back from the computer where, theoretically, I have been completing my science lab, but really I have been instant messaging with Gilbert, click on “Away,” and head downstairs. Ever since my parents got divorced my mother and I live together in a small two bedroom house. I am an only child so it is just the two of us now. I mean, I see my dad on the typical divorced parents’ schedule, once a week and every other weekend, but mostly it is just my mom and me. She is an “artist”—is that even a real profession? She has a studio that she rents in some guy’s guest house. She works there most days. She says she couldn’t possibly get any work done at home because the

  chi isn’t right. Whatever. She paints these big abstract pieces that she says have significant meaning but look a lot like oversized kindergarten finger painting. I think she has only sold two paintings in her entire life, probably because any five year-old can do it. She is always trying to get me to expose my creative side and gets excited whenever I doodle a flower or something. Between you and me, I have absolutely no talent for drawing.

  I’m hungry so I head downstairs. One thing you should know about me, I am always hungry. One thing you should know about my mom, she is always on a diet.

  Our house has two stories. My mom’s room, my room, and the TV room are upstairs. The kitchen, which is attached to the dining room, and living room, are downstairs. It’s not the biggest house, but it’s just right for the two of us. The only drag is that my mom and I have to share a bathroom. She is always leaving her wrinkle cream on the counter and drying her bras over the shower curtain. Totally TMI.

  The good thing about having an artist mom is that she has given me artistic license when it comes to my room. I did choose pink as the wall color, of course, but the walls are covered with tear-outs from magazines of hot guys and girls in cool outfits. I was once inspired to paint some flowers on the wall, so in one corner there are some sorry looking daisies, but when I realized I couldn’t paint I put the brush down and moved my dresser in front of them.

  The phone rings as I walk into the kitchen. My mom answers. Our kitchen is all retro-cool with a linoleum floor, a vintage stove, and black and white tiling on the walls. There are two stools at the center island and most of the time you can find one of us there. My mother is sitting there now talking on the phone. She always uses this incredibly annoying high-pitched voice when she talks to her friends. It makes me crazy.

  “Really. The Deutchmans? Into the old Bailey house. Are they German? Jewish?” she asks.

  I weed around in the refrigerator. Since my choices are cut carrots or cottage cheese, I decide to pass on both.

  “A son? How old? Fourteen?” My ears perked up. “Well that is interesting...”

  I stick around the kitchen pretending to continue on my quest for something to eat. I open the cabinet doors, find nothing edible, and bang them shut. My mom motions for me to quiet down. I want her to get off the phone and tell me the news, but she is going on and on about her new diet and her amazing Pilates teacher. I need to hear about this new fourteen year-old boy in our neighborhood, pronto. Yes, that is interesting.

  My mom finally hangs up the phone. “Can I fix you a snack, honey?”

  “Mom, there is absolutely nothing to eat in this house.”
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  “Sure there is,” she says as she opens the refrigerator door. “Look, you can have some cottage cheese and carrots.”

  Argh.

  I change the subject. “So, who was that?”

  “Oh, that was Mrs. Welk. She told me that a new family moved into the Baileys' place up the block.”

  “Fascinating,” I say in my most sarcastic manner, trying to hide my sincere interest. The Baileys' house is, like, the nicest on the block. It is a big brick number with a circular drive and one of those pools in the back where the water spills over the edge. The inside is equally exie. It has a huge landing halfway up the staircase, humongous bedrooms, and a swinging door into the kitchen. I know because I used to play with their daughter when I was in kindergarten.

  I stand at the counter playing with the salt and pepper shakers. I am trying to shake the salt into the pepper and the pepper into the salt.

  She goes on, just like I hoped, “seems they have son about your age. He is fourteen.”

  “Great, whatevs. Is he going to go to Piermont?”

  I go to Piermont Middle School. When I was born my parents moved us to the suburb of Piermont because the public school system is rated, like, in the top ten for the country or something. I am not sure what exactly they are talking about since my sixth grade math teacher would regularly fall asleep during class and the cafeteria totally sucks, but I guess the classes are small and the kids seem to follow the rules most of the time. It is not like you see on TV where we have to go through metal detectors or kids are bringing guns to school or anything, so I guess that is good. The kids are okay if you don’t mind being picked on or ignored on a regular basis—after all, it is middle school. It is totally lame, but whatever, having a hot new guy would improve the circumstances.

  “Stop it,” she says, regarding the salt and pepper shakers. “Doesn’t sound like it; I think he goes to boarding school.”

  Really? Some richy-rich boy who goes to a posh boarding school moved in up the street from me? Sweet. Still, I play it cool. “I’m going to go to 7-Eleven to get some real food. Later.”

  “Did you finish your homework?” my mom asks.

  “Sure,” I lie.

  “Don’t spoil your dinner,” my mom says with a sly smile. She knows she has my attention.

  * * *

  As I walk out the door, I immediately call Gilbert. Her phone goes to voicemail. Her mom is so annoying about making her turn it off when she is doing her homework. Gilbert’s parents are really strict. Like her curfew is still nine o'clock at night on weekends and she isn’t allowed to go over to someone else’s house if their parents aren’t there, even though they leave her home alone with her brother all the time in the afternoon. Parents are so weird. Her mom and dad live together but her dad is always out of town on business or something. I think I have met him exactly twice in my whole life. Every time I see him he calls me Lola.

  I send Gilbert a text: 911.

  I walk the four blocks to 7-Eleven to get some nourishment. As I walk, I fantasize about this new kid. Anyone new in Piermont is cause for major excitement. I already know all the boys in my grade and they are so lame. They are a bunch of immature morons who think burping and fart jokes are the height of comedy. Maybe the new guy is different, maybe he is incredibly good looking and mature and likes to read and see movies with subtitles. Maybe he will see me and fall madly in love and come serenade me outside my window. We will spend all our time together looking into each other’s eyes and holding hands.

  I know, I know. I have seen too many romantic movies, but you never know.

  As I push through the outdoor with a protein bar and some red licorice, I run into Mrs. Welk, the neighbor who was just on the phone with my mom. Her daughter Melinda is the one who wore the horrendous outfit to school that day—well, really every day. When we were little Mrs. Welk was always trying to set up play dates with Melinda and me, and I was always trying to weasel out of them as her mom didn’t allow any plastic toys in the house, which meant absolutely no Barbies. When you are eight that is, like, so important.

  “Leah, how are you?” Mrs. Welk says.

  “I’m great, Mrs. Welk. Thanks. How are you?”

  “Oh, fine. Did you hear about the new family that moved in next door to us into the Baileys' old house? I hear they have a son. Ralph.”

  “Ralph?” I repeat.

  Wait, Ralph is a fat boy’s name. Anyone named Ralph cannot be rich, hot, or boyfriend material. I mean, it’s another word for puke.

  “I saw him outside earlier today and he looks like he might be a good catch for one of you girls!”

  I laugh, “I will keep my eye out. Bye.”

  “Bye,” Mrs. Welk says as she walks into the store. To take the opinion of Mrs. Welk? Who knows what her idea of a good catch is? I mean her daughter, Melinda, still wears braces and is on the debate team. Please.

  This changes everything. A fat boy named Ralph who Mrs. Welk thinks is a good catch. There will be no handholding, no foreign-film watching. The bubble burst. I totally lost interest. My phone rings. It is Gilbert.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I answer.

  “What do you mean ‘what’s up?’ You're the one who sent me the 911,” Gilbert says.

  “Oh, no biggie, I heard a boy moved in up the street, but it’s not big deal. I’ll call you later.”

  “Is he cute?” Gilbert asks.

  “According to Mrs. Welk.”

  We both laugh.

  “Later.”

  “Lates.”

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday, November 3

  Today’s horoscope: Spend some quality time with people you love.

  I had almost entirely forgotten about the whole incident by the next day. Gilbert and I were done with school and since both our mothers work we have at least a couple of hours to hang out un-chaperoned and do nothing. Being a latch key kid definitely has certain advantages. Like right now, instead of doing our homework we get to sit on the front step of Gilbert’s house making daisy chains and eating French fries from Giant Burger. Giant Burger fries are totally worth the calories. Trust me.

  Gilbert and I live in the Piermont slums. This is the area of Piermont basically reserved for the single parents or those with less money than the average Piermonter. Our houses are small and quaint, while up the street there are, like, super huge mansions. For the most part, this isn’t a problem, but every now and then you notice something’s different. Like I roll to school in an old VW, while other kids’ parents are dropping them off in Beemers, Mercedes, and Porsches. Or that all the rich kids are carrying around Blackberries and iPhones while Gilbert and I still are practically dialing rotary with our flip phones. You get the idea. But like I said, for the most part it’s not that big a deal, it’s not like some of those movies where we are the kids from the “wrong sides of the tracks.” We blend.

  I pick another daisy from Gilbert’s yard and try to punch a hole in the stem with my thumbnail without breaking it. “Ms. Elston is ruining the seventh grade for me. Science is so lame, I mean why would I possibly ever need to know how to make sulfur? Gross!” I say. Why can’t we just take electives like they do in college? I mean, I am so good at drama.

  “True,” agrees Gilbert. She always agrees with me about important matters. “I mean does pre-algebra really matter in the great scheme of things? I doubt it.”

  I pop another fry in my mouth as we sit quietly thinking on the injustice of it all. Gilbert slips the last daisy on her chain into the first and puts the crown on her head. The white flowers stand out against her brunette hair. She looks really pretty—not that I tell her.

  Gilbert and I have been friends since she moved to Piermont in the third grade. I’ve lived in Piermont since I was born. We bonded over our American Girl dolls; we both thought Emma was the coolest, and have been best friends ever since. Although occasionally we can be a wee bit competitive. Like if she gets an A on a math test, then I better get an A on the math test. The compe
tition works out in school or like in dance, when she can do two pirouettes, then I need to master twirling around twice. It’s not so good when she is having a better hair day. Then I may get a little jealous and can be bitchy with her for no reason.

  “So what are you going to wear to the dance?” I ask. The middle school dance is Friday night and we are so excited. Not that we can let on, we don’t want anyone to think we are, like, geeks.

  “I dunno. Whatever.” Secretly, Gilbert had been planning her outfit for weeks. So, of course, had I.

  “I wish my dad would buy me that cashmere sweater we saw in that magazine.” I knew I didn’t have a chance; my dad would never spend that kind of money on a single item of clothing. “I guess I will wear my jeans and yellow sweater I already have.” I have the cutest Chinese flats to wear with it too, but I don’t want to get too carried away.

  “Really? I was going to wear that mini-skirt with the embroidered pocket and those layered tanks. Do you think that will look cute?” Gilbert asks. Shoot, I did, I really did. I mean, why didn’t I think of that?

  “Yeah, if you want to seem casual, that would be cool.”

  Damn.

  * * *

  Later that night I was out to dinner with my dad. As part of the divorce, I get these thrilling weeknight visits where my dad takes me out to dinner, and I spend every other weekend with him and his vapid girlfriend, Bonnie. Gag. Tonight, thankfully, it is just the two of us at The Olive Garden. My mom and Bonnie hate going there—they think it is low-brow and full of carbs, but my dad and I love it. We find comfort in an all-you-can-eat pasta bowl and endless breadsticks.

  My dad works as an engineer in the city. He’s like really smart in math and stuff and gets frustrated that I am not in any of the advanced math classes. I think he sometimes wishes he'd had a boy that he could play Legos with and talk about cars instead of playing with Barbies. We have a little trouble finding stuff to talk about. Our father-daughter conversations usually consist of subjects about school and the weather so most of our dinner is spent in silence. But he’s alright, I mean, for a dad.