Love, Love, Love

by Deborah Reber

  “That’s disgusting!” I growled. “Mom! Get him out of here!”

  “Henry, please leave your sister alone,” my mom said calmly, peeking into the room.

  “Okay.” Henry leaned in close. “Bye bye, sis.” Toothpaste shot out of his mouth with each drawn-out syllable.

  “Argh!” I grabbed a pillow and took a wild swing, but Henry scooted away before I could connect.

  I sank back into my warm bed and asked God why he had plagued me with a brother who was such a colossal pain in the butt.

  “Honey?” My mom came into my room and slowly pulled up the shades. “I know you find your brother frustrating, and it can’t be easy being a big sister,” she said with exaggerated empathy.

  Here we go again. First she was going to validate my feelings. Next, she’d be giving me choices about how I could deal with my brother, so I’d feel “empowered and in control of my life.”

  “But,” she continued as if on cue, “you can either accept the fact that your brother isn’t as mature as you are and expect him to do annoying things sometimes, or you can choose to let yourself be shocked and upset every time he does something you don’t like. It’s up to you.” She waltzed out the door. Then, as if she’d already moved on, she called back, “Dad’s making pancakes for breakfast. Come down when you’re ready!”

  And just like that she was gone, the credits rolling on another predictable episode of Perfect Parenting with Stella Leavenworth. These routine interactions with my mom always left me even more annoyed. Intellectually, I knew she had the best intentions, and I also knew for a fact that she paid some parenting coach a ton of money for tips on handling sibling conflicts, but sometimes I would’ve appreciated some real emotion instead of her lame Mrs. Brady imitation.

  With a resigned sigh, I shifted my bum over and slid my legs up along the wall next to my bed. Fixating on an old cobweb in the corner, I took five slow, deep breaths—in through the nose, out through the mouth. My yoga instructor swore doing this “legs up the wall” pose for five minutes each morning would start your day on a positive note. Despite the fact that mine had already started out crappy and I had only one minute for the pose, I figured, what the heck? I needed all the help I could get.

  I hurriedly got ready for school but unfortunately miscalculated my exit strategy. With too many minutes to spare, I was forced to suffer through “quality family time” at the breakfast nook (another brilliant idea from my parents’ coach). In attendance this morning? My dad, Troy, a techie who worked at a downtown advertising firm and was frequently MIA due to his regular trips to San Francisco and Los Angeles. I was usually happy to see him at breakfast since it was such a rarity, but I was still feeling prickly from the toothpaste incident. Then there was my mom, Stella, who made an effort to sit with Henry and me every morning, no matter what crisis might be happening at her design studio. And, of course, there was Henry. You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting him.

  But I knew neither QFT nor my brother was solely responsible for my mood today. The real source was the uncomfortable pit in my stomach that had been lingering ever since what I’d already dubbed “the Starbucks incident.” I had hoped a solid night’s sleep would have resulted in an improved outlook on the whole mess, but no such luck. I was still panicked at the jam I’d gotten myself into.

  “Whatcha got going on today, Jan?” my dad asked, flipping a buttermilk pancake off the griddle and onto my plate.

  “Not much. Just suffering through another day of higher education at its finest.”

  “So tell me. What’s happening with that cultural studies grade? Will we be bidding you bon voyage two months from now or not?”

  “I’m working on it, Dad.” I had to figure out some way to get my grade up, although I was still annoyed about my parents’ inflexibility on the matter. I mean, surely traveling to Europe in and of itself was way more educational than anything I could ever learn in a book. But I knew trying to get them to reconsider their terms was a waste of time. Thanks again to their pricey parenting coach, they practiced what’s called “consistent parenting,” which basically meant there was no such thing as wiggle room when it came to my parents’ decrees.

  “All right, well, let me know if I can help with anything,” he said.

  Yeah, maybe you could take my final essay exam in cultural studies.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I silently forced down three bites of pancake before pushing my chair back and grabbing my backpack off the floor. “I’ve gotta go,” I said, taking a big swig of my smoothie. “Thanks for the pancake.”

  “You’re welcome. Bye, pumpkin!”

  “Have a good day, sweetheart!” my mom called.

  “Yeah, have a good day, eat fart!” Henry called.

  Sigh. I could still hear Henry laughing at his stupid rhyme as I bounded down the steps of my front porch. I powered up my iPod and zoned out to vintage Cure for the short walk to Delmar High, looking forward, for once, to the distraction of school.

  My plan of immersing myself in schoolwork as a way to stop fixating on the Starbucks incident actually worked. After a morning of thoughtful note taking and overeager participation, I felt almost back to normal by the time I dropped my books off at my locker and headed to lunch. Maybe Molly forgot about yesterday. I’m probably doing my usual thing of making a big deal out of nothing.

  Feeling lighter than I had all morning, I turned into the caf and immediately spotted Molly just sitting down with Emmett at our usual table against the back wall. I could see Emmett had already scored us my favorite sandwich—a chicken, cheddar, and avocado panini—and neatly split it in half for the two of us to share. He’d even grabbed me an ice cold Diet Coke. That boy knew me all too well.

  To those on the outside, Emmett and Molly probably seemed like unlikely friends. Molly was super-outgoing, flirty, and had a, shall we say, “big” personality, while Emmett’s approach to life would probably fall into the “less is more” category. Too tall for his own good and blessed with thick locks of dark, chocolate hair he was constantly brushing out of his eyes, Emmett was introspective, thoughtful, and a bit reserved. But since Molly and Emmett practically grew up as siblings (their parents were in the same birth class), they had found a way to make it work.

  “Yo, what’s happenin’, hot stuff?” I sat down next to Emmett and reached for my lunch.

  “Not much. What’s new with you, sexy mama?” Emmett replied.

  “I’ll tell you what’s new,” Molly interjected. “Janna’s got herself a new boyfriend. That’s what’s new.”

  I caught Molly smirking at me as she tossed a stack of paper across the table, just missing my lunch.

  “Whoa, what’s this?” I shoved my panini out of the line of fire.

  “What are you talking about?” Emmett asked simultaneously.

  I turned to Emmett. “Nothing,” I said decisively while trying to ignore the monstrous pile before me.

  “There’s a lot more where that came from,” Molly said. “But I thought this would be enough research to get you started.”

  “Get started with what?” Emmett probed, leaning over my shoulder for a closer look. “The CIA World Factbook? Hungary Tourism dot-com?” He looked at me with a blank stare. “What am I missing here?”

  I ignored him and turned to Molly. “Seriously? With all the extra work I’ve got to do to get through the rest of the semester, you actually think I’m going to read all of this?” Clearly my hope that Molly had forgotten about yesterday’s events was misplaced optimism. But I certainly wasn’t prepared for the dissertation on Hungarian norms and cultures she had apparently been up all night pulling together.

  “You have to! Otherwise Julian will know you’re not from Hungary!”

  Emmett jumped in. “But Janna’s not from Hungary.” Then, as if questioning his assumption, “Are you?” Pause. “And who’s Julian?”

  “Well, technically speaking, I am of Hungarian descent. My dad’s mom spent her childhood there before coming to t
he U.S.,” I said defensively, trying to ignore Emmett’s penetrating stare. I sighed and put my head down onto the table in defeat.

  “I honestly don’t get why this is such a big deal, Janna,” Molly continued. “Haven’t you always said you wanted to live in a foreign country? Well, this will be kind of like that, only reversed.” I looked up and gave her my best glare before hiding my head again. “And anyway, we just have to go out with them one time. Twice, tops. By then Julian will already like-like you, Spence will be head over heels in love with me, and you can tell Julian the truth. But you can’t do that just yet. You’ve gotta reel him in first.”

  Side note: Whenever Molly started comparing scoping guys to hunting or fishing, I knew I was in big trouble.

  “Excuse me for interrupting, but what the hell is going on?” Emmett asked, sounding more than a little annoyed.

  I didn’t dare look up, choosing instead to peek through the table cracks and count crumbs on the dingy floor. Anything to avoid the look of disappointment I knew was spreading across Emmett’s face as Molly explained the situation. Emmett might expect this kind of thing from Molly, but I knew he held me to a higher standard.

  “Nice,” Emmett said coldly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or should I say”—he paused, looking over my head to the top of the research pile featuring English to Hungarian translated phrases—“Jó. And for the record, I can’t believe you didn’t say anything about this last night, Janna. You totally broke the ‘no keeping secrets’ rant rule. But maybe deception is your new MO and it’s no biggie—”

  I sat up to defend myself. Emmett may have been right, but I could only take one person beating me up at a time. And today that person was me.

  “Whatever … it’s not that bad. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Picking up girls at Starbucks? They probably don’t even remember our names.” I turned to Molly, my voice picking up steam. “So, we just won’t meet them on Friday night, and—”

  I was cut off midsentence by the vibration of my cell phone. We all whipped our heads around in unison, homing in on the shaking electronic device. Synchronicity happened in my life all the time—I already knew who was texting me before I picked up the phone.

  Hey Janna, it’s Julian. Remember me? C U Friday at Rental in Capitol Hill @ 8.

  I shut off my cell and reached for the pile of research in front of me. It was going to be a long week.

  I successfully avoided Emmett for the rest of the afternoon—I didn’t have the energy to deal with his looks of disapproval. Having your conscience walk around in another person’s body? It’s a tricky thing. I’d never really minded before, since I trusted Emmett and his sense of right and wrong so implicitly. But now I was in uncharted territory. I knew I should feel terrible for what I was doing, and believe me, I did. But I had to admit, I also got a little thrill every time I reread the text message from Julian. Hence, utter and complete avoidance of the person whose very presence reminded me of the unsavory path I was going down.

  Emmett was so annoyed, I wasn’t even sure he’d call for our NR that night, but rant guidelines clearly stated only certain events could preclude our two-minute nightly checkin. Among them: a preapproved excuse for special occasions (sleepovers, late concerts, and vacations), being on one’s deathbed or otherwise unconscious, or the occurrence of a catastrophic natural phenomenon such as a meteor crashing into the earth temporarily shutting down all forms of cellular communication. Most nights, the rant was on.

  But Emmett did call, and so I plowed through my grievances first, mostly avoiding the elephant in the room other than to say I felt I was being judged too harshly by one of my best friends (without naming names, of course). Emmett also stuck to topics outside the realm of duplicitous, Hungarian facades, at least until he got to the last item on his rant list.

  “And lastly, I’m annoyed that one of my best friends is refriending me on Facebook, and as a Hungarian impostor, no less,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me your middle name was Ika Ilka? And here all this time I thought it was Grace.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You tell me. I just got a friend request from Janna Ika Ilka Papp, who’s hometown is Budapest, Hungary, and pathetically only has one Facebook friend named—”

  “Molly Harris,” I answered for him. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “I thought you might. Talk to you later,” Emmett said smugly.

  I’m not what you would call a frequent Facebooker. In fact, it was Molly who had set up my account and gotten me started, which was why she had my password in the first place. It’s not that I was anti-FB or anything—I just didn’t feel like putting my life out there for the rest of the world to see and judge. I’d leave that to people like Molly and my ex-pageant-queen mom, who seemed to thrive on attention and assumed that most people found their everyday lives terribly interesting.

  I flipped on my monitor and tried logging on to my Facebook account. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I went to Google and searched under the name Janna Papp and found what I was looking for. A link to my new profile.

  Molly, what have you done? I hesitantly clicked on the link, almost afraid of what I’d find when I got there. A second later I was staring at the page of someone who looked like me but I didn’t actually know. Despite my ambivalence toward social networking, this little Facebook development made me none too happy. I clicked through the tabs at the top of my profile and started reading about myself:

  Religious Views: Roman Catholic

  Activities: Equestrianism, frequenting bathhouses, bird watching, traveling, hanging out with friends

  Interests: Traveling to the United States, learning about other cultures, foreign languages

  Favorite Music: Béla Bartók, Franz Liszt, Hungarian folk music

  Favorite TV Shows: Barátok közt, Celeb vagyok, ments ki innen!

  Favorite Movies: Van Helsing, Casablanca, Dirty Dancing, Juno, Final Destination

  Favorite Books: The Metamorphosis, anything by Gyula Illyés, Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret.

  About Me: I come from Budapest, Hungary, and am now living in Seattle, Washington, in the United States. I am an exchange student living with a very nice family. I am in eleventh grade.

  Face flushed, I speed-dialed Molly, my heart rate pounding louder with the passing of each unanswered ring. Finally, she picked up.

  “Hey, I was just going to call you!”

  “What did you do to my Facebook account?” I demanded.

  “That’s what I was going to call you about. I had to make a few adjustments to your profile.” Pause. “Well, actually, I had to go ahead and create a new profile for you. We didn’t have a choice.”

  “What do you mean ‘we didn’t have a choice’? And what happened to my old profile?” I asked.

  “I had to delete it,” Molly answered somewhat sheepishly.

  “You deleted my Facebook account!?”

  “I had to! It was only a matter of time until Julian started poking around trying to find you, and if he saw your old profile it would have blown everything! Anyway, it’s not like you’re ever on it. I mean, you only had twenty-seven friends. We can easily re-create your old profile when this is all over.”

  “And so now I have one friend,” I said. “Like that doesn’t make me look like a serious loser.”

  “If he asks, you can tell Julian this is your American account and you just opened it. Besides, I sent out a select few friend requests for you, so you should have a couple more soon.”

  I stewed in silence. This wasn’t the first time Molly had taken my personal life into her own hands, but this particular invasion of privacy felt especially brazen. Yet, as was also often the case, I found myself being swayed by Molly’s logic. Of course Julian would look me up on Facebook—I had been planning to do the same thing myself and check out his profile before Friday night. But, logical or not, I wasn’t about to drop it that easily. I scanned through my fake profile in search of ammunition.


  “And why exactly do I frequent bathhouses?”

  “Bathhouses are extremely popular in Hungary. If you’d read the research I gave you, you would know that already,” Molly said. “Besides, I had to make the profile look real.”

  “And what’s up with these movies? He’s going to think I have multiple personality disorder or something.”

  Molly laughed it off. “It shows you have a broad range of interests, that’s all. Guys like that.”

  “And I supposed the TV show Celeb vagyok, ments ki innen! is something everyone in Hungary watches?”

  “But of course … it’s the Hungarian version of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!” Molly replied matter-of-factly.

  Defeated, I hung up the phone and stared numbly at the screen. This was already getting way more complicated than I’d ever imagined, and our actual date was still three days away. The Starbucks incident was one thing. But seeing my big lie glare back at me from the computer screen was a whole other cup of latte.

  I was just about to shut down my computer when I got an e-mail from Facebook—a friend request notification from none other than Julian Barnes. I clicked on the link and accepted, immediately going to Julian’s page to start reading about him. I double clicked on his profile picture to get a closer look. It was a blurry, artistic shot of Julian behind a deejay booth. He looked cool. And cute. Definitely too cool and cute for me. I went back to his main page and saw he had two hundred forty-seven friends. Popular, too. What am I getting myself into? For the next half hour I poked around his profile, reading up on his favorites and flipping through his photos. I knew he was probably doing the same thing with me, although he clearly wouldn’t gain much insight into who I was. Suddenly I was grateful for Molly’s quick thinking, not to mention nervously excited about the presence of this new guy in my life. And as I got to know Julian better on paper (or on computer, as the case may be), my little complicated situation started to feel like it might be worth it after all.