Girlfriend Material

by Melissa Kantor

  She stood up as I came in and walked around the table. On her feet was a pair of flip-flops like Tina’s, and she was grinning a huge grin at me.

  “So, what do you think?” “Wow,” I said. “I know!” she said. “Tina convinced me to do it. Is it awful?”

  “No, Mom, it’s … You look great. Really.” This was so weird. Why was my mother so interested in looking like Tina all of a sudden?

  I was insanely relieved when just then the real Tina walked into the kitchen holding a huge paper bag with ears of corn poking over the top. It was way easier to look at her than my mom. “Henry brought the corn.” She put the bag down on the counter. “He’s off to play golf, but he dropped it off. Hi, Kate. Want to shuck?”

  “I’ve never shucked before,” I said, giggling a little at how dirty it sounded. “What’s involved?”

  Giggling too, Tina put her hand on my shoulder. “You always remember your first shuck,” she said. “Let’s make it tonight.”

  Actually, shucking corn isn’t so bad. You rip off the husk and then there are all of these soft, silky threads that you have to peel away, and once you do you’re left with a pristine ear of corn. In a little while, the bag on the floor between my legs was overflowing with strands of corn silk and empty husks, and there was a pile of bald corn on a platter next to me. The whole experience was very satisfying.

  “So,” said Tina, “how’d it go with Natasha?” She had a glass of white wine on the counter in front of her, and she was chopping garlic while my mom read through a cookbook. Apparently tonight was just a dry run for the feast we’d be having tomorrow, when Tina’s brother, Jamie, arrived for the long Fourth of July weekend.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. She’s kind of—”

  “Pissed off?” Tina finished, stopping what she was doing to look in my direction.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Pissed off. At me!” I added. “I mean, okay, her dad is such a jerk. But what did I ever do to her?”

  “What’s this?” asked my mom, looking up from a page that had a line drawing of a fish in a pan.

  Now that I’d had a chance to get a little used to my mom’s haircut, I didn’t mind it so much. I told her about Natasha.

  “What grade did you say she was in? Eighth?” asked my mom.

  “I don’t know,” I said, turning and looking to Tina’s back for an answer.

  “She must be going into ninth,” said Tina after a second. “Because her mom said something about her being at the high school next year.”

  I couldn’t believe a girl who was only two grades behind me in school was supposed to take me seriously as an instructor. Maybe she was just resentful that her dad had hired some kid to teach her.

  My mom shook her head. “Yeah, that’s a tough age,” she said. “When I was teaching, I always struggled with the eighth graders. They’re tricky.”

  “Well, Dad said I don’t have to take responsibility for her anger,” I said. Was it my imagination, or did my mom and Tina exchange a look when I said that?

  “That’s true,” said my mom, and I was relieved she didn’t say something negative about being married to my dad, like she had earlier on the deck with Tina. “You know,” she continued, “you could try talking to her about stuff other than tennis. I remember sometimes I’d have a kid who was bad in history or just resentful about school in general, but once in a while if I got him talking about something else, we could connect over that.”

  “You mean, like, ask her what it’s like to have such a major-league jerk as a father?”

  My mom and Tina both laughed. “Well, I was thinking more along the lines of asking her about something she might enjoy discussing with another teenager. Boys, maybe.”

  In my mind I saw Natasha’s hulking stance, the braces. “I don’t know, Mom,” I said. “I don’t get a sense that there are too many boys in the picture.” Not to mention how little my vast experience with the opposite sex would enable me to contribute to such a conversation.

  “Okay,” said my mom. “So you could ask her about her friends or school or what she likes to do in her free time. Just so she feels she can talk to you. If you two can relate to each other, you can teach her anything.”

  “You think?” I wasn’t exactly convinced.

  “I do,” said my mom. “Anyway, what do you have to lose?”

  “Good point,” I said.

  After that, no one said anything for a while. It wasn’t bad sitting there in the kitchen with my mom and Tina, shucking corn. There was some jazz playing quietly, and Tina had started to cook the garlic, so the room smelled delicious. Maybe my mom was right—maybe it was just a matter of winning Natasha’s trust. Maybe I really could help her, not just with her tennis game but with her confidence in general. Maybe by August she’d be a whole new person, full of life, smiling, joking, standing up tall. I could see her standing midcourt as the judges of the Larkspur Tennis Club handed her a trophy the size of a golden retriever. And the winner of this year’s club championship is none other than … Natasha Davis!

  We’d be like Annie Sullivan and Helen Keller!

  It was cool to have a goal for the summer. And who knew—my giving Natasha lessons could provide an opportunity for Jenna and Lawrence and Adam to find out I like playing tennis, which could be the first step in their asking me to play tennis with them. It might even be an excuse to talk to Adam about teaching. I mean, clearly Natasha was not “at risk,” what with her dad having a big fat wad of cash in his pocket and her going to a snazzy New York City prep school, but did “at risk” have to have only one meaning? Wasn’t Natasha at risk of living a lonely, angry life? Weren’t rich girls people too?

  The phone rang. “Katie, honey, could you grab that? I’m up to my elbows in snapper,” said Tina. “Sure,” I said, peeling strands of corn silk off my hands and shirt and walking over to the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Tina?”

  “No, this is Kate.”

  “Oh hey, Kate, it’s Jenna. We met at the pool.”

  “Right,” I said. “Hey.”

  The excitement I’d been feeling as I thought about changing Natasha’s life (and her changing mine) translated itself into excitement about Jenna’s calling. Maybe she was calling for me. I mean, if she wanted to reach Sarah, wouldn’t she have called Sarah on her cell? In fact, maybe Adam had told Jenna to call me. Jenna, you have got to call Sarah’s hot, hilarious, houseguest and invite her to join us tonight. Maybe he’d said, I think I might be in love with her.

  “Is Sarah there?” asked Jenna. And maybe not. “No,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t convey my disappointment that she wasn’t calling for me—or the humiliating fact that I’d thought she was. “Sorry,” I added.

  “That’s okay,” said Jenna. “When she gets home, can you tell her I have her cell? She left it in my bag. Will you tell her I’ll bring it to Lawrence’s later?”

  So everyone was going to Lawrence’s later. Well, it was always nice to know exactly where the party that you weren’t invited to was. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll tell her.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you soon at the club?”

  My disloyal heart swelled a little at the friendliness in her voice.

  Traitor.

  “Maybe,” I said. I remembered how nice Jenna had been when she’d first sat down, like she was actually glad to meet me. Couldn’t she beg me not to miss a day of sun and fun at the Larkspur country club? Don’t say maybe, Kate! You should totally hang with us tomorrow.

  “Okay,” she said. “Well, thanks for telling Sarah about her phone.”

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

  I gave Tina the message and fled to the guesthouse.

  Maybe Laura had been different the last time we’d talked, but she was my best friend. I hit her number on speed dial.

  She picked up on the first ring. “Hey!”

  “Can I just tell you how much my life sucks?”

 
; “Oh my God, Katie, what happened?”

  I launched right into the whole Sarah story. Laura’s a really good listener. She just said, Oh, wow and Oh, no a few times, but she didn’t interrupt me. I was halfway through the scene at the pool when Laura said something I couldn’t quite hear.

  “What?” I said. “Nothing,” she said. “I was just talking to Brad.” “You were talking to Brad? Brad’s there?” I suddenly felt really self-conscious about how long I’d been complaining. “We’re going to a movie in a minute,” she said. “But finish your story.”

  “Um, okay,” I said. But it felt weird to talk to her knowing she was sitting with Brad. Right when I finished, she said something else that I couldn’t hear. “What?” I said again.

  “I said,‘Stop it,’” she said, louder this time. Then she giggled.

  “Maybe … maybe this isn’t such a good time for us to talk,” I said.

  “No, no,” she said. “It’s a fine time. They sound like a bunch of spoiled brats.”

  That made me feel a little better. I liked the idea of Jenna, Lawrence, and Sarah sounding bratty. But what about Adam? I hadn’t even told Laura about Adam.

  “What?” said Laura.

  “I didn’t say anything,” I said.

  “No, Brad did,” she said. I heard her muffled What did you say? And Brad’s even more muffled response. “Brad says you should tell them to go to hell and come back to Salt Lake City, where people don’t suck.”

  Wow, Brad, that’s such helpful advice. And I think you should let me have a five-second conversation with my best friend without offering up your pithy yet useless solution to my problems.

  “Um, thanks,” I said. “Tell him I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Seriously, Kate, you should just forget about those losers. Summer will be over before you know it. Don’t make a sad face!” she added.

  I was about to tell her that: A) I wasn’t making a sad face, and B) even if I were, she wouldn’t have been able to see it, when I realized she hadn’t been talking to me.

  The sound of a kiss confirmed my theory that it was Brad, not me, who was distressed at the thought that summer’s halcyon days might swiftly come to an end.

  “You know, I should go,” I said.

  “No, don’t go,” she said. “I want to hear more about what’s going on with you. We haven’t talked in days.”

  Even if Laura meant what she said, there was no way I could continue this three-way conversation. “I’ll call you soon,” I said. “I promise.”

  “I miss you,” she said.

  “Miss you too,” I said. But as I hung up the phone, I had the feeling that even if I were in Salt Lake with her, I’d still be missing my best friend.

  WHEN I WOKE UP the next morning, my mom was already up and gone. I forced myself to sit on the deck and write. Ms. Baker had said that real writers write every day, and I hadn’t written in almost a week. I kept thinking about Natasha and how angry she was, but I didn’t want to write a story about an angry teenage girl. I could just see Ms. Baker or someone reading it and assuming I was writing about myself. I decided to write a story about a teenage boy who had some of Natasha’s qualities, only the boy version of them. He’d be really short and skinny. He’d be scared of everything. I decided his family was going on a camping trip and he was supposed to have his own tent, only he was scared to sleep by himself. He thinks he’s going to be eaten by a bear, but the dad just says, There aren’t any bears where we’re going. Maybe at the end the boy would get eaten by a bear. That seemed too obvious, though. Maybe he’d just see a bear and know his dad had been wrong?

  When I finished the first scene, I thought it wasn’t too bad. I wished I had someone to show it to. When I’d told Ms. Baker that I wasn’t going to be in the class anymore, she’d suggested that I find a group of other writers to work with for the rest of the summer. But what was I going to do, ask Sarah if she wanted to critique my prose? I could hear her now. Actually, honey, I’d start with your wardrobe.

  I stretched my arms over my head; my back was really sore from sitting for so long. Plus, I was starving. I wondered what time it was. I decided I’d written enough for one day and headed toward the main house.

  Henry was pulling some tough-looking weeds growing next to the steps. “Morning,” he said, yanking on a huge stalk.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “There’s coffee,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said. I actually don’t drink coffee, but I wondered if I should start. In The Sun Also Rises, Jake is always meeting someone for coffee before he goes to write up a story for the newspaper he works for. Then again, he often met them for several bottles of wine too.

  Maybe it was a slippery slope.

  “Sarah left for work already,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. Were our parents never going to realize that Sarah and I were just not going to be friends? “Okay.”

  “And I think your mom and Tina are in Orleans getting supplies for the big dinner tonight.” He mimed a drumroll … . “Uncle Jamie! But I can give you a ride to the club if you’d like.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I can just bike, though.” “Either way,” he said. Going to Larkspur didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

  I could swim some laps or work out if there was a weight room. For a second I worried about running into Jenna or Lawrence and its being weird, but probably if that happened they’d just say hello and then ditch me. I made myself not think about running into Adam. He’d probably be at work anyway. I grabbed a swig of OJ and a bagel and headed out the door.

  There was a bulletin board on the wall of the Larkspur clubhouse, and tacked to it was an enormous Xerox that read, “Stopping Lyme Disease Starts with You!” A huge drawing of a truly disgusting, engorged tick took up most of the paper, and around it were all of these warnings about not walking in the tall grass that bordered established paths and checking yourself and your pets on a daily basis. I couldn’t believe people chose to vacation in a spot where every time you went for a stroll you were taking your life in your hands.

  Not only was I never going to step off an established path, I didn’t even want to step off the clubhouse porch. I shivered and clutched my bag close to me like there was a blade of grass nearby that it might brush up against and catch a tick from. Crossing the lawn to get to the pool suddenly felt a million times less appealing than it had a minute ago. I looked around at the overstuffed armchairs scattered around the wide porch and decided I’d just sit and read for a while.

  I walked the length of the house, passing at least half a dozen adults reading copies of The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal. I had my eye on a sunny patch of porch at the other end of the building, and I’d almost reached it when a voice said my name.

  I looked toward the railing, and there were Adam and Lawrence sitting on two of the overstuffed armchairs. Adam was looking up at me, and I felt my breath catch a little. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been hoping to see him again.

  “Hey,” I said, glad my voice sounded normal even though my heart was beating really fast.

  “Hey,” he said. He pointed at Lawrence. “You remember Lawrence, right?”

  Just how many people did Adam think I’d been introduced to since my arrival? “Right,” I said.

  “Hey,” said Lawrence.

  Then nobody said anything for a minute.

  In The Sun Also Rises, Lady Brett is always running into guys she doesn’t know all that well. When she sees them, she says, Hello, chaps! and they all go off to drink a Pernod together. But since I’m not exactly British, I couldn’t really see myself addressing Lawrence and Adam as “chaps.”

  Plus, I don’t even know what Pernod is.

  “So how come we haven’t seen you around?” asked Lawrence. He sounded genuinely bewildered, like he’d extended numerous invitations only to have me repeatedly RSVP no.

  “Oh, I …” Well, maybe if you or your friend Sarah ever told me I was welcome, I might h
ave shown up more.

  I was still trying to figure out what to say when a voice behind me said, “Don’t start in on me.”

  I turned around and saw Jenna coming up the stairs.

  “You’re late,” said Adam.

  “I’m ten minutes late,” said Jenna. “Chill.” She had pulled her blond hair back into a high ponytail, and was wearing a white tank top and a short blue skirt. “Hey,” she said, seeing me. “Long time no see.”

  Once again I was at a loss for a truthful but decorous response. I just shrugged and smiled, as if I too was sorry I hadn’t joined them more often but circumstances beyond my control had prevented it. Which, when you thought about it, was kind of true.

  “So, are you guys ready?” asked Jenna. “We’ve been ready for—” Lawrence started, but

  Jenna interrupted him. “Dude, relax. It’s not like you have a job or anything.

  Adam and I are the ones deserving of some R and R.”

  I felt really weird just standing there. “Well, I should probably go,” I said. “Nice seeing you all again.”

  “Do you feel like playing?” asked Jenna.

  Even though she was looking directly at me, I couldn’t believe this was an actual invitation. “Me?” I asked.

  Jenna laughed. “Yes, you,” she said.

  “I think what Jenna means”—Adam leaned forward and looked me up and down in an exaggeratedly lascivious way—“is, would you be interested in a foursome?”

  Because the last time the three of them had discussed a foursome in my presence, their conversation had included the words court and time, despite Jenna’s wearing a blue (not white) skirt, I’d just assumed they were playing tennis again. What I hadn’t realized, what hadn’t even occurred to me, was that today they weren’t talking about tennis.

  They were talking about golf.

  If you’ve never held a golf club in your life, you should know that the experience is totally counterintuitive. Holding a tennis racket feels like shaking hands: you wrap your fingers around the racket, and if it feels comfortable, you’re probably doing it right.

  Holding a golf club is exactly the opposite: you hunch over and grab the club with both hands wrapped around it in opposite directions. If it feels comfortable, you’re definitely doing it wrong. “That’s great,” said Jenna, observing my stance. Adam looked over at us. “Wait,” he said. Then he came over to me. “Hold your right hand a little lower.” He reached down and moved my fingers around, and I could feel myself blushing beet red. “Now, pull the club back and swing all the way through, over the horizon.”