by Laura Ruby
“Of course.”
He’s still grinning.
It must suck to be old.
He takes a sip of lemonade. “Your shirt was on inside out. Now it’s not.”
Oh hell.
“You are being careful, aren’t you?” he says.
“Dad, don’t make me throw myself out the window.”
“We’re on the first floor, Eddy.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Look, son, I have to ask, don’t I? I wouldn’t be a good father if I didn’t make sure.”
“I’m careful, okay?” I say. “Can we stop, please?”
“You don’t want to get that cute girl in trouble.”
“The window, Dad.”
“You have a lot of work ahead of you with your movies. You don’t want anything to get in the way of that, do you?”
“Since when do you want me to make movies?”
He’s genuinely puzzled. “Since when have I not? I want you to take yourself seriously; of course I do. That’s why I’m bringing up the subject. You have to be responsible, for yourself and for that girl too. Plus there are diseases and—”
I bang my head on the table.
“That’s not an answer, you know.”
Bang, bang, bang.
“Okay, Eddy. I can see you don’t want to talk about this. I’ll let you off the hook. For now. Just don’t do anything stupid.”
Sure, he’s one to talk. I follow him up the stairs and say good night. Tippi sings softly at me, so I pull her from her cage and sit at the computer. I’m going to have to come up with something incredible for the Riot Grrl 16 finale. Something so amazing that it will blow people’s minds. But my head is spinning. From Lucinda, for one, but also from all the things Erin and those other guys said at MTV. Should Riot Grrl be a victim of terrorism? A witch? A psychic? A bionic woman? Would that make the sublime ridiculous, or just sublime? I don’t know. And I don’t know why I don’t know.
Even though I shouldn’t, I go to the MTV website and read through the comments. Just a few months ago, reading through the comments made me feel like a genius. It was so easy to ignore anyone who didn’t like the show, skip right over them to the fans, the groupies, the worshippers. But now I find myself scanning for the one-star ratings, torturing myself with the negative comments, looking for the Tin Man, dreading him.
And here he is:
Another piece of stinking, rotten tripe from E. Rochester and his motley crew, this one even worse than all the episodes that came before (if that’s even possible). Maybe Rochester’s distracted, not up to his usual level of idiocy. He’s got a new girlfriend. Big deal, right? He’s got a new friend every week—including, I’ve heard, his leading “lady”—but this time he’s in over his head. Way over his head. He better get used to this.
It’s a link. I click on it. A YouTube video pops up. It’s me at the tall bike shoot, getting hit in the nuts by a runaway bicycle.
Saturday Night Fever
“This guy does know me,” I say.
“Hold on. I got a customer,” Rory says. Muffled: “Your total will be $12.87. Unforgiven, Girlfight, and Blade Runner are due back in five days. Pretty Woman you can just burn in your barbecue. Yeah, I was kidding. No, I wasn’t. Yes, I was.” He gets back on the phone. “Okay, what were you saying?”
“The guy. Tin Man. The one leaving all the comments all over the MTV site. He knows me. He talked about Lucinda.”
“He did? What did he say?”
“That I have to watch out for her. Or something like that.”
“What does that mean? What’s up with Lucinda? What’d she do?”
“Nothing’s up with her. She’s not doing anything.”
“Then what do you care?”
“Because this freak is talking about Lucinda! Because he won’t shut up about the show! Because people listen to him! Because he knows me! He could be anybody!”
“Dude, you need to chill. And stop looking at that website. Listen, I got more customers here. Why don’t you call Joe?”
“I don’t want to call Joe.”
“That’s why you should call Joe. You guys are freaking me out with this Silent Bob crap. And you need to get over this thing with Lucinda.”
“You mean Joe has to get over Lucinda.”
“Whatever. Bros before hos.”
I don’t call Joe. I can’t talk to Joe. But I also can’t stand to be in my house alone, even with Tippi Hedren for company. I decide to go to one of Lucinda’s matches. I try to focus as Lucinda roasts a blonde in a pink head-band, wristbands, socks, and sneakers. They’ve been battling on the court for an hour and forty-five minutes and now, in the last set, Lucinda seems to get sick of all the playing around and is quietly and systematically annihilating her. After a string of humiliating points at the end of which Ms. Pink nearly goes sprawling into the fence, Pink bursts into tears. Lucinda stands on her side of the court, blinding in her tennis whites. She plucks the strings on her racket as Pink wails at the umpire. It’s pretty painful to watch, especially, I’m guessing, for the girl’s parents, two perfectly coordinated, uptight Barbie dolls sitting in the front of the bleachers. I catch all the snickering of the audience on my digital, which I brought to record Lucinda’s serve. I pan over the audience, over a few guys I don’t recognize in the front. I wonder who they are and why they’re here. I wonder if any of them is the Tin Man. Then I pan over the rest of the bleachers. A clot of girls sits in the back. I’m surprised to see Sonya. I put the camera down. Her eyes widen and she waves, waggling her fingers. The other girls nudge her and she shrugs, saying something that I can’t hear.
On the court, Pink tries to get it together, but she can’t. Lucinda finally takes her down with an overhead smash. When they shake hands at the net, Lucinda says something to the girl that just makes her cry harder. I hop off the bleachers to go meet the tiny terminatrix. On the way down, Sonya and her friends pass me.
“Hey,” Sonya says.
“Hey, yourself,” I say. “How are you?”
“Oh, same old,” she says. She doesn’t bother to introduce me to the bored girls standing around her. “I’d stay to chat, but I have to go console the loser.”
Pink’s crumpled next to her parents, sobbing. “You know her?” I say.
“Unfortunately. My cousin.”
If it wasn’t for Ms. Pink’s impressive calves, I’d never believe that she and Sonya the sex goddess are related. “Get out.”
“I know,” she says. “I tried to talk her out of the pink socks; at least she’d have a little dignity left. But no, why would she listen to me? So now she’s not only been annihilated by your, uh, girlfriend, but she looks like an ad for Pepto-Bismol.”
“Heh. I bet she’s feeling a little sick about now.”
“So, she is your girlfriend, then?” Sonya says, jerking her head at Lucinda.
“Yeah,” I say. “She is.”
“Right,” says Sonya. “So, I’ll catch you online sometime, okay?”
“Sure. Whenever.” I watch her go. I’d film her walking, but that wouldn’t be cool. Still, the thighs are killer.
I turn away from Sonya and move toward Lucinda, who not only has killer thighs, but also killer arms, killer eyes, killer hair, killer lips. She’s got a towel around her neck and she’s reading a note.
I grab the towel and flip it at her butt. “Hey, you.”
“Hey,” she says, grinning, and shoves the note into her duffel bag. She doesn’t tell me what the note says or who it’s from. The Tin Man howls in my head. He better get used to this. I shove the thoughts away and stomp on them with my mental boots.
“What did you think of the match?” she says.
“You rocked it like you always do.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“What did you say to her at the end?”
“Oh, that.” She grins. “I told her to take up scrap-booking.”
“You’re kidding.” Seemed a little mean, sinc
e the girl was already toast.
“Don’t feel sorry for her. That was Penelope. You remember, the one I couldn’t beat? The one who used to psych me out so bad until you gave me some advice?”
“I guess the tables have turned.”
“Yes, they have,” she says. She’s glistening with sweat.
I kiss her. “You look tasty.”
“Cut it out. I need a shower.”
I kiss her again. “That sounds good to me.”
“You realize we’re in public, right?”
“What’s your point?” I say.
She rolls her eyes and shoves her racket into her bag.
“Listen,” I say. “I know we haven’t talked about this, but prom’s coming up. I was hoping we could skip the limo. Would you mind? I mean, if you’re totally into limos, that’s okay, but they’re a little expensive, and…what?”
“Eddy, I’m really not the dance type.”
“What do you mean, you’re not the dance type? I’ve seen you dance.”
“I’m not the school dance type. They’re not going to have a salsa band at the prom. Besides, I’ve had enough of all these people. I don’t need to hang around a bunch of stupid teenagers wearing bad bridesmaid dresses, trying to spike the punch.” She sounds so sarcastic when she says this that I’m embarrassed.
She zips up her bag. “You’re okay with that, right?”
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I say. “Most girls…I just thought you might like to go.”
“I’d rather not. But if you want to, I—”
“No, no. We don’t have to. I don’t care.” I do, kind of. Not that I want to get dressed up in a monkey suit, but prom is something everyone does. And I want to show her off. I want everyone to see how beautiful she is. I want everyone to see her with me.
She sighs. “You’re upset.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. But I think I can help with that. Come with me.” She grabs my arm and leads me back to her car.
“Where are we going?”
“My house,” she says.
“Is David cooking?” I say, getting in the passenger side.
“Helping out at his friend’s Cuban place. He won’t be home till after midnight.”
“What about Roberto?”
“Hot date.”
I feel a bloom of heat in my gut as Lucinda guides Snuffleupagus out of the parking lot. “Mom and Dad?”
“Helping Aunt Carmen look for a winter getaway. In Florida. They get back in a couple of days.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. She nods to herself. We’ve been alone lots of times, but something about this seems different. Like she’s got a game plan.
By the time I’m sitting in her bedroom, waiting for her to get out of the shower, my whole body is humming. I get up and pace around. The room has green walls and carpet the color of Granny Smith apples, but there’s a black-and-white comforter that I don’t think should match but kind of does. Even with the tennis plaques and trophies on shelves on one wall, this doesn’t look much like a teenager’s bedroom. Looks more like a model of a room you’d find in a furniture store. Bookcases line one side of the room, and they’re packed neatly with all kinds of books, some for school but mostly not. There’s a desk with silver-framed photographs. Lucinda with Roberto, Lucinda with David, Lucinda and her parents, Lucinda with the dog and the cats, Lucinda with people I don’t know and I absolutely hate because they’re with her and I’m not. In one of them Lucinda is standing with an older guy—older, but not old. Twenty-five? Thirty? His arm is around her. They’re both wearing tennis clothes. Probably just her coach, but…I stare at the hand gripping her shoulder. I know how good that shoulder feels.
I put the photo back on the desk. I sit on the bed, then jump up again, in case she finds me and thinks that I think that we’re going to have sex, and what if that’s not what she’s been planning? What if she thinks I’m just another drooling horndog idiot?
“Hi,” Lucinda says.
She’s framed in the doorway. She’s wearing a tank and a pair of those crazy short shorts girls wear as underwear that I’m sure are illegal in some Southern states. Her hair is still damp and her cheeks are pink. Her red toenails are like jelly beans.
“So,” she says, spreading her arms. “What do you think?”
I can’t say anything.
“Hello?”
I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, my heart will pop out.
Before I can spew my own guts like some strange species of deepwater fish, she saves me. She walks toward me. My brain is so frozen that she’s in slow-mo, planting one foot in front of the other, the muscles of her thighs tensing, then relaxing, tensing and relaxing. She reaches out for me, kisses me. We shuffle over to the bed and topple into it. She’s brushed her teeth and tastes both warm and cold, like a Creamsicle. Have I mentioned how much I love Creamsicles? Then something burbles to the surface of my mind. I’ve never asked her if she’s done this before.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Is this, I mean, have you, uh, you know…?”
She puts her hand on my cheek. “We’re going to do this by the book. You’ll be wearing all the appropriate gear.”
I’ve been carrying something with me for a month, just in case. “Covered,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “Besides that, does it matter?”
Yes. No. Yes. “I just don’t want to…”
“You won’t hurt me if that’s what you’re worried about.”
It is. But that’s not all. What about the guy in the photograph? Who is he? Is he the guy people whispered about last year, the way older one? And what about the other people in the pictures?
“I’m okay, Ed. Really. Unless you don’t want to.”
“Are you kidding? Of course I want to.” And I don’t want to know about that older guy. Or any other guys. Do I? And why am I thinking about this stuff anyway? It’s so stupid. I’m no angel.
I kiss her again. And again. If I keep kissing her, I won’t have to eat, I won’t have to drink, I won’t have to think. She’s running her hands all over me. It feels right, sort of hesitant, not someone with a lot of practice. So maybe she doesn’t want me to know she’s a virgin. That’s it, she doesn’t want me to know.
I kiss her harder. She sits up, pulls off her top, and smiles as she tosses it at my head. At that moment I would do anything for her, jump out of a plane, fight a band of ninjas, wrestle an alligator, swim with sharks, sign away every dollar I will ever make; I don’t care. I want to make her forget about every other guy on the planet. I want to tell her what I’m feeling. There’s a name for it, right?
“I-I-I,” I stutter.
I can’t say it.
But I can prove it.
Lucinda’s worried that one or the other brother will show up early, which, she says, would be Double Plus Ungood. So we get dressed and forage for food. Mogget, attack bunny cat, sprawls in the middle of the table and glares at me. The Lab, Mrs. Havisham, lies across my feet like a seventy-five-pound rug. Lucinda makes me her specialty, peanut butter and jelly with Fritos on the side. I’m absolutely starving, so I wolf the sandwich in three bites. She makes me two more. I feed Puck the Tasmanian devil terrier some of my Fritos—one for me, one for him—while Lucinda scoops some ice cream. Strawberry. Normally I don’t like strawberry ice cream, but tonight it tastes like the ambrosia of the gods.
“You trying to get me fat?”
“I want you to keep your energy up,” she says.
“Don’t even kid.”
“Eat your ice cream,” she says.
I eat my ice cream. I think about her tennis match earlier and wonder how much traveling she’ll have to do when she turns pro. A lot, probably. It will be hard to coordinate schedules, but that’s okay. Anything worth doing is hard.
Speaking of hard…
“Where are the big tennis tournaments played?” I say to distract myself. “Wimbledo
n’s in England, right?”
“Yeah. And there’s the Australian Open, which is in Melbourne, Australia. French Open in Paris. And the U.S. Open in New York. Lots of smaller tournaments all over the place. Why? Do you want to go to a tournament?”
“I guess I’ll be going to a bunch of them,” I say. “To watch you.”
She licks her spoon. She shouldn’t do that if she wants to keep her clothes on. “To watch me? Am I going to the U.S. Open or something?”
“Aren’t you?”
“You’re serious?”
“Yeah,” I say.
She puts the spoon in her bowl. “Well, that would be nice. But it’s never going to happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not good enough,” she says.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, Eddy, I’m not.”
“You got that scholarship,” I say.
“Yeah, but St. Joseph’s is Division III. It’s not one of the top tennis schools. It’s not Stanford. I’m pretty good, but I’ll never be great.”
“You’re wrong,” I say.
“I wish I was,” she says. “But I’m not. It’s okay, though. I figured that out a long time ago.”
I don’t believe her. She can tell.
“Look, I’m going to major in biology and then I’m going to apply to veterinary school,” she says. “That’s the long-term plan. And that will be difficult enough, believe me. Tennis is just a hobby.”
“You play a million hours a week!”
“So?”
“And you love it!”
“So? I don’t have to be a pro to play. Besides, I’m going to be really busy. This summer will probably be the last vacation I’ll have for the next ten years. God, I can’t wait to get out of here.”
I don’t want to talk about her getting out of here. “But what if you win every tennis match?”
“It’s still only Division III.”
Division III, Lord of the Rings III, I don’t care. “Well, what if the number-one tennis player in the world comes to your school for an exhibition match and you beat her?”
“Okay, okay. If I get the chance to play the number-one tennis player in the world and I beat her, maybe I’ll rethink my decision.”