“Helmet?” I pick up the Coke and chug and chug and chug. What else am I supposed to do? I can hardly ask for my shirt back after having pitched it at him so brazenly.
By the time I come up for air, Jack is next to me, fitting this contraption onto my head. “Jack,” I say. “No. This won’t work. Head gear is never cool, and a beginning adventurer is never going to want to start if they have to look like a total dork.”
He stands back from me. “You don’t look like a total dork.”
I think he’s noticing how busty my sports bra makes me look. I gaze up at him. “What’s wrong?” I inquire innocently.
“Nothing. It’s just that you were much more skittish last time you were prancing around my office in your bra.”
“I wasn’t prancing.” I move my hands as if to straighten the stupid helmet. Jack gets closer to me to adjust some of the straps on the helmet. “I was skittish because of the seaweed,” I say. “And I didn’t like that bra. This bra makes my eyes look fantastic.”
“You are so weird.” His T-shirt-clad arms brush my naked shoulders as he works. “And your eyes are brown.” He says this as though I deserve to be held back in kindergarten until I learn my colors.
“They have flecks of greeney-blue.”
Jack gets a strand of my hair caught in one of the buckley straps.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.” He loosens the buckle thing. “My plan,” he tells me, “is to make the rubber straps thin enough that you can wear a knit cap over it.”
“Big deal. Head gear is never cool, Jack. Never. Honestly, what do you think whenever you see someone wearing a Bluetooth? Those things look dumb strapped to a person’s head.”
“True. But they make money and lots of people wear them.”
“Sell-out.”
“Go look in the mirror,” he suggests, sidestepping my unassailable rejoinder. “You look kind of cute.”
“Right.” In order to prove just how wrong he is, I march off to the bathroom mirror.
Hm. It almost looks like a swim cap made of soft tan straps, with wisps of my hair poking out all over the place. My eyes look huge and surprised. And damn near algae-colored thanks to my bra. Okay. I guess I look cute in a cartoonish kind of way, like a Teletubby or one of those aliens who comes down to visit Bert and Ernie. I’m trying to get the quirks and kinks out of my hair when Jack appears in the mirror behind me.
“Here,” he says. “Try this. I shaved off some of the roof plate.”
He reaches around to slip the mouth guard into my mouth, once again brushing my bare shoulder with the cotton of his long-sleeved T. But this time, I’m practically enclosed in his pseudo-embrace.
“How does it feel?” he asks.
Awesome.
“Uh feews…” He is standing so close behind me I can feel his heat on my mostly bare back. I want to press my fingers onto the skin where he touched me, even if it was through his T-shirt, but I’m afraid that if I move, he’ll move. “Beh-orh. A wih-oo beh-ohr.”
He puts his left hand on my left shoulder, then, looking at my mouth in the mirror, reaches around with his right hand. With his thumb and index finger, he adjusts the mouth guard while it’s in my mouth.
We look at each other in the mirror.
He’s still touching me.
But I’m wearing the stupid helmet and mouth guard. Fantastic eyes or not, I look like the Bride of Frankenstein’s mentally handicapped younger sister. I lower my eyes.
Jack brushes a finger along my chin, trying, I think, to make me look back up.
Whap whap.
We both jump. Someone is knocking on the office door.
Jack rushes out without a word. A second later, something soft hits me on the arm. “Get your shirt on,” he calls to me from his office.
But I have to turn the shirt right-side-out first. Then, when I’m putting it on, it gets stuck on one of the straps of the helmet. When I finally untangle it and get myself dressed like a big girl, it’s too late to take off and stash the secret idiot gear. And closing the bathroom door is out of the question. But at least I’m not completely obvious to someone in the office because of the angle of the open bathroom door. I’ll just have to stay still and quiet.
Through the bathroom mirror, I see a woman who must have pushed her way past Jack. She sweeps into the office as though she owns the room, but not the grunge. She looks to be about forty-five, fit to command an Armada, and positively lovely in a thousand dollar business suit set off with a choker of pearls.
“Jack,” she says, hitting her mark in the center of the office. She turns to him on cue. “I thought you could take me for cocktails and an early dinner.”
“I’m in the middle of something.”
I can’t see Jack, but I’m curious. His voice is level, but not as impenetrable as it is with me. There’s something not exactly softer about his voice, but…resigned. That’s it. He sounds resigned. To what, I have no idea.
“Your riff raff told me you were working on some project,” the woman says, looking around the office without taking anything in. “But you can make time for me.”
“If you want to eat with me,” Jack says, shutting the office door, “you could come over when I invite you.”
She looks to where he must be standing. “Our weekends are very busy, Jack.” She gives a tinkly little laugh. “I think our schedules are a little harder to work around. Real business keeps us busy. Not that you would understand, running a rinky dink pipe dream in an old warehouse.”
Sllhuuh.
No! My hand flies to my lips, but it’s too late. Without really meaning to, I sucked in a slurpy sounding gasp of indignation, totally giving myself away.
“What?” The woman turns around, spotting me watching her through the mirror.
It’s not my fault! I couldn’t help it! Just an involuntary reaction of my throat!
“Lisa,” Jack says, striding into view. “Come out and meet my mother.”
I whip around to face the woman. His mother? My eyes dart back and forth between them. What the hell? Was she eight years old when she had him? And how on earth did Jack come from someone like her?
With that poised confection of a diva just staring at me, I have no choice. I walk into the office. No time to take off the helmet. Or to remove the mouth guard. How could I spit it out right in front of Attila the Perfectly Coiffed Queen?
“Hel-lo,” I enunciate very carefully around the mouth guard.
She gets this confused look on her face.
“Mom, this is Lisa. Lisa, this is my mother, Edna Hawkins.”
She flashes me a bright, sweet smile, gently shaking my hand. “Hello, Lisa.” She talks back to me kind of slowly, and I wonder if she’s making fun of me.
I look to Jack, but he’s harder to read than Ulysses. I feel familiar family friction and I know I have to get out of here. Plus, she might be checking out the helmet and getting ready to mock Jack’s design. Bitch.
“Jack,” I say clearly as I can. “I haf to go back to the center.”
“Right,” Jack moves so fast I can tell he wants me gone just as badly. He plucks a blue and green knit cap off his desk and fits it on my head over the helmet. His solicitude in helping me get ready to leave makes me feel like a toddler getting dressed to play in the snow.
“Thank you,” I say, then turn to leave.
“Isn’t someone going to drive her?” Edna asks.
I turn around. Drive me? What… do I look twelve in this get-up?
“Don’t worry,” Jack says, then looks at me. “See ya, Lisa.”
I wave and head out, not looking up or opening my mouth the whole way to the elevator. It’s not until I’m out of the parking garage and on Flower Street that I spit out the mouth guard. Pulling to the curb, I wrap it carefully in a Starbucks napkin sitting on my passenger seat. Next, I yank off the cap, making my hair fly with static. I try to pank it down, then I reach back to unhook the straps to take off the helmet.
Stu
ck.
Great.
* * * * *
I look up from the jeans and shirt I’ve chosen for my first work day at HEYA tomorrow. Someone is banging on the security door. Finally. That better be Jack to get this damn helmet off my head.
“It’s about time.” This is my greeting as I fling open the security door.
“You’re still wearing it?”
Jack is very observant.
“I couldn’t get it off.” I pull on it to show him.
He steps into my apartment, then puts his hands in my hair.
HIS HANDS IN MY HAIR.
“How hard did you try to get it off?”
I’m so lost, though, in the tingly sensation of his hands on my head that it takes me a minute to register the question, then another second to register the annoyance in his tone.
“Dude,” I swat his hands away from my head. “I didn’t want to break the prototype.”
“Uh, thanks,” he says, turning to close the front door. “Let’s go by one of the lamps so I can see enough to get it off.”
“I think we’ve found a design flaw.” I move into the softly lit living room toward one of the big, Victorian-looking floor lamps that remind me of foggy old London.
“Any way to make these things brighter?” Jack asks, joining me in an arc of warm light. He finds the switch, brightens the room. “Turn around.”
When I do, Jack starts to undo the straps running across my head. As his fingers work through my hair, I realize I’m in imminent danger of once again getting all hot and bothered over a guy who thinks of me as a test dummy and finds me about as attractive as a department store mannequin.
“How was lunch with your mom? Or dinner, or whatever?” I ask these questions quickly, just to forestall any lust on my part.
“Same old, same old,” he says. “She gave me a check for two thousand dollars.”
“What?!” I twist around to look at him. “Ow!”
“Hold still and your hair won’t get yanked out.”
“Two thousand bucks?” I squawk. “Did you take it?”
“Sure. Been takin’ it for years. Easier that way.”
“What do you do with it? Put it into Into the Wild?”
“I told you before, Into the Wild doesn’t operate on corporate money.”
“But you do, it seems.”
Silence.
Jack takes off the helmet then moves around to face me. “Her checks go into a scholarship fund.”
“Oh, really? What scholarship? For whom?” I have to be this bitchy to hide my terror that Jack has kids somewhere. Kids he never sees.
He stares at me, and then decides to answer. “Boys of a friend of mine who I used to climb with. He died a few years ago. There was lots of life insurance, but no college funds set up. The kids were just babies, and I guess he thought he had plenty of time. He was the kind of guy who would have set something up eventually.”
“Oh.” I twist my hands together. “Was he killed in a climbing accident?” I’m scared that Jack was there and saw the whole thing.
He shakes his head once. “9/11. Where’s the mouth guard?”
I stare at him with my mouth gaping open.
“Lisa?”
“Uh…” I start massaging my head. “I’m really sorry. Does your mom know what you do with the money?”
“Doubt it.” He examines the helmet. “She sees it as her way of getting me my rightful inheritance so I never have to embarrass her with public penury.” He looks at me. “She hates my truck.”
“Maybe," I say, "the checks are her way of saying ‘I love you.’”
He dents his forehead. “There are more obvious ways.”
“Such as?”
“Just say it.” He looks at me with a steadiness I can’t look away from. “‘I love you.’” He doesn’t even blink. “It’s not that hard. She’s my mother.”
“Right,” I say. “‘I love you.’” I don’t dare look away. “Easy-peasy.” I shake my head. “How many times have you said it, Jack? As an adult, I mean? Since you were… say… twenty-three?” I have to figure college doesn’t count for a guy.
His jaw tightens.
I cock my head just a fraction.
“Look,” he snarls, “don’t you get it? She’s my mom.”
I back off, slowly nodding. But I cannot let it go. Not completely. Not when he looks like he looks. “You guys obviously don’t speak the same language. Giving you a check could be hers.”
“You suck as a shrink.”
“I’m not trying to analyze you.”
“Then what, Miss Know-It-All? Just being nosy?” He waits a second for me to answer.
But I don’t say anything.
“Right.” He turns to leave.
“Jesus, Jack. I’m just trying to wipe that look off your face before it makes me cry.”
He snaps around. “What look?”
“I have parents, too,” I say quietly. “I know what it’s like, that’s all.”
Jack nods, looks down at the helmet. “Thanks for taking such good care of this. The mouth guard?”
I go to the table by the door and hand him the Starbucks napkin bundle.
“Thanks.” He closes his hand around it. “Good-night.” Then he leaves.
This time I let him go.
CHAPTER 11
“So, how ’bout a movie Friday night?”
“No!” I let my feet fall from my desk as I twist into a more upright position. “Definitely not.”
Doleful, hurt, puppy dog eyes stare into mine. “Why not? Why do you always have to be such an ice queen and turn me down?”
“‘Why not’?” I echo. “‘Why not?’ Since when do I have to give a reason for not wanting to spend time you? It’s my time and I said ‘no.’”
“But I’m a good guy. I have a good job, and I’m nice to my mother, and I’d be so good to you.”
“I agree with all that,” I say. “But the answer is still ‘no.’”
“Why?”
“Because you just don’t rev my motor.”
“Aaaah!” Guadalupe cries, covering her mouth with her hand. “I could never say that!”
I lean back, feeling oddly exhausted after our bout of role-playing. “You want him to get off your back, don’t you?” I demand.
Guadalupe and I sit facing one another. This, of course, means we’re touching knees. My office is very small, little more than a corner nook. I’m pretty sure it used to be a closet.
“Lupe,” I insist, “don’t you?”
I’m hoping our little skit will help her believe she can shake her unwanted suitor. My pretending to be her and her pretending to be the guy who won’t stop bugging her was the best idea I could come up with to show her how she could control her own love life.
And I had to come up with something. I mean, she actually came to me, seeking my romantic advice.
Mine.
Even though I got dumped the minute I woke up from a coma. So that just goes to show you how people will listen to anything you say if you’re on the cover of a magazine. It doesn’t even matter that I was comatose and drooling on said cover.
But she really did want my help so I gave it a whack. I imagine all sorts of things about how relationships between men and women should work, but I never really get a chance to put any of my ideas into practice in my own life.
Well, maybe I get the chance, but I’ve never actually taken such a chance, or shown any kind of logical, powerful confidence in a relationship. I mostly just kind of let relationships happen to me.
Like Peter Halloway in twelfth grade. I never meant to go to homecoming with him. But I let him down so easy he thought I meant ‘yes.’ So, we went.
“I want him off my back,” she agrees, “buuut–”
“But what?”
“But I used to be crushin’ on him all the time, okay?” Lupe puffs out a gust of air. “When I was in high school, okay?” She crosses her arms and juts out her bottom lip. “He was f
our years older, and I was crazy about him.”
My eyebrows shoot up and my eyes open wide.
“That was a long time ago,” she insists. “But he won’t believe that he doesn’t rev my motor since all I used to want was for him to jump start me, if you know what I mean.”
“Did he ever?”
“No,” she pouts. “Eric would have killed him if he ever touched me.”
I nod. “Brothers can be such jackasses.”
“No kidding! Now he’s all like, ‘Lupe, why don’t you give Jorge a chance. Stop playing so hard to get. We both remember how much you like him.’”
“But you’re not a kid anymore!” I protest. “You’ve got to set these guys straight.”
She smiles and nods back. “Yeah. I’m not stupid little Lupe anymore.”
“Yeah!”
“And maybe if I can find the cojones to get rid of Jorge, then I’ll be brave enough to go after Jimmy.”
“Jimmy?” I lean so close to her that our foreheads are almost touching. “You like Jimmy? I thought you liked Edgar.”
She sighs. “I do. But Edgar’s gay.”
“He is?” I cannot process this fast enough. “But—but—but—he scowls all the time!”
“That’s because he likes Jimmy, too.”
“Is Jimmy gay?”
“No. That’s why Edgar scowls all the time.”
I lean back in my chair. “Got it. But won’t it be weird if you two—”
“Lisa! Lisa! Lisa! Lisa!”
Gabriel comes tearing into the office, tears streaming down his little face behind his big glasses.
Someone’s made my favorite kid cry!
They’re taking Pacquito!” he screams. “They’re beating him and they put him in a cage!”
I’m out of my chair in a To-the-Batmobile flash. I don’t even pause to ask questions. “Come on!”
Gabriel takes the lead and we charge through the HEYA parking lot and across the street to an abandoned apartment building. “Pacquito!” Gabriel yells.
Two men lift a cage holding the tan mongrel into an Animal Control van. I march up to them, feeling six million dollars brave. “What’s going on here?”
The men ignore me.
Miss Adventure Page 10