Shrimp

by Rachel Cohn

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  jealous of Leila and her true love and all the nookie she must be getting now. But I won't miss Leila yelling at me with her Celine Dion accent about how I am spoiled and never helped with the dishes, even though I did but it was like why bother because every time I loaded the dishwasher, Leila would take everything back out and rearrange it like the dishes would somehow get cleaner if they were all aligned in rows of uniform sizes. Psycho. Unfortunately our psycho was also the anointed preparer of family meals, and Nancy can't cook and has no desire to learn, which is fine for Nancy, because she doesn't eat, anyway, but the rest of us do and we can only eat take-out or beg Fernando to cook arroz con polio so many nights.

  My offer to cook got a grateful smile from my mother.

  There is this killer shrimp Creole recipe I am aching to try.

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  *** Chapter 7

  I have a dirty little secret. My fundamental music of choice is punk, but I won't turn down a good symphony. I don't know a concerto from an opus to a C major or whatever, but one thing I know is I love me some thrashin' violins and cellos getting all funky together, with some bangin' drums thrown in and a maestro standing on the podium getting all sweaty flailing his arms around.

  It's a shame I am tone deaf, because I wouldn't mind being some anomaly female conductor. When Shrimp and I used to play Job for a Day, maestro was my number one job choice. Shrimp said he would be the guy standing at the back of the symphony, pounding the giant gong when I pointed my conductor's stick at him at just the right millisecond--timing that means the difference between a world-class maestro and just a good one, according to Sid-dad. Conductor moi and gonger Shrimp would be having a secret affair that nobody in the string or wind sections would know about, but all the percussion players would have long copped to us. They're just not as gossipy.

  We almost didn't make it to the symphony at all because Nancy threw a hissy fit, whining that my short black skirt with an Irish World Cup team football jersey, black leather motorcycle jacket, and combat boots was not appropriate attire for the symphony. Sid-dad took my side, reminding Nancy would she rather I be dressed like a debutante, or

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  would she rather I be exposed to the music? Nancy gave up but she was still sore when we got to Symphony Hall. She was appeased by our balcony box seats above the orchestra, excellent seats for Nancy to inspect the other box seats to see who she knew that might have gotten seats just a little better than ours, and ideal listening perches for Sid-dad and I to shut our eyes and let the music seep through. The Mozart symphony, all lulling and then fierce, inspired a major neon laser show in my shut eyes for a good fifteen minutes. Then the giant gong banged and my eyes sprung wide open. I could feel a set of eyes staring at me from across the hall, and my eyes went from looking at the orchestra below our seats to the box seats directly opposite us.

  SHRIMP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I wanted to jump out of my seat and into the lobby for some slo-mo movielike reunion, but Nancy would have lost her mind if I had gotten up before intermission, and anyway, Shrimp didn't stand up like he was going to run out to meet me. He didn't even wave, but a sly smile spread across his face. Instead of shooting up, his formerly spiked hair was longer and falling down from his head, and the formerly platinum blond spikes at his forehead had grown out to their naturally dirty blond color. His face looked fuller, tanner, and redder, like he'd been baking in the sun since his temporary exile from SF fog shroud. I almost fell out of my chair and over the balcony with wanting to throw my arms out for him to run into.

  Normally I hate intermissions because they seem like a major waste of time and I just want to gag watching Nancy socialize with all her biddy friends about charity galas and Yes, let's do lunch next week, but the minutes before

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  intermission came for this symphony felt like an eternity. The lights weren't up and the applause barely started the moment the music ended when I bolted from my chair. Nancy was all, "Cyd Charisse! Where are you go--," but I was gone--forget about slo-mo reunion; I was sprinting. I slowed down right as I approached the turn to the lobby bar area. I didn't want to appear too enthusiastic, but Shrimp had beaten me. He was standing at the bar already, not out of breath.

  OMG, how much do I love him? He was wearing a canary yellow polyester leisure suit with a white shirt tucked into the pants and a huge collar tucked over the yellow jacket. He looked like some mack daddy disco pimp, bless his hotness. He was taller and heavier than I remembered, by at least two inches and a month's worth of Shrimp's beloved peanut butter milk shakes with ground-up Oreos and brownies, and that's not just because I wasn't wearing platform boots. He came up to my nose instead of my chin as I stood before him.

  Strange that two people who've been as intimate as two people could possibly be couldn't even manage a simple touch at their first meeting after the breakup--no rub on the shoulder, no clasp of hands, no hug, and certainly no kiss. It's like there was this invisible beam between us like in the prison cells on Star Trek that would go bzzz and repel us if Shrimp or I dared to reach over the awkward invisible energy to touch each other.

  "Hey," Shrimp said.

  "Hey," I said. "You look taller."

  "Yeah, Java's now calling me Jumbo Shrimp."

  "So, Jumbo, when did you get back? When are you coming to school again?"

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  "Got back a few days ago, back to school this Monday. Hit the waves today. Ocean Beach seems tame after riding the waves in the South Pacific. Still better than making up three weeks of schoolwork, though."

  In my head I was picturing Nancy having a knee-slappin' hysterical laughing fit at my so much as suggesting that I could miss the first three weeks of school to hang out in Papua New Guinea and surf and build stuff and whatnot. I asked Shrimp, "Was Papua New Guinea awesome?"

  "Yeah, except for the dysentery the first week. How was New York?"

  There was only so much, too much, to say about that!

  Concertgoers had filed out from their seats and were milling around the lobby. The chatter level had picked up considerably, so it was surprising we could distinguish the female voice that screeched, "Shrimp! Why did you run off so fast?" The voice was just that loud.

  Shrimp's eyes closed for a minute and I think he let out a small shudder.

  A heavyset--not fat, just big-boned--late-middle-aged woman with long hair that was equal parts gray and brown and down to her waist came to Shrimp's side. She was Shrimp's height, wearing jeans and an embroidered Central American blouse, and Teva sandals on bare feet that were in emergency need of a pedicure. She was the type of granola lady that Nancy and her committees would like to see sworn in blood to a dress code before being allowed to enter Symphony Hall.

  Shrimp looked like he was about to introduce me when the lady scanned me with her brown eyes and then said, "It's Cyd Charisse, of course!" She wrapped her arms

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  around me in a hug so tight she could have squeezed body parts out of me. "I've seen the artwork!"

  Shrimp mumbled, "Mom, Cyd. Cyd, Mom."

  A short guy, shorter even than pre-Jumbo Shrimp, stood behind Shrimp's mom. He looked like an exact copy of Shrimp, just smaller, quieter, maybe sadder.

  He extended his hand to mine and introduced himself as Shrimp's dad. His mumbling was more indistinguishable than Shrimp's.

  Shrimp-- with parents] This had to be the kinkiest thing ever! Shrimp and Java were like lone cowboy brothers who answered to no one but each other.

  I started to say, "Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. but his mom bellowed, "Please! We're Iris and Billy."

  Shrimp could be a retired Supreme Court judge and he'd still better call Sid and Nancy "Mr." and "Mrs."

  Iris jumped in to give me another hug, she was almost bouncing me up and down. When she let go, I told her, "Congratulations on Wallace's engagement. I know he and Delia will be very happy." Jesus H. Christ, I'm starting to sound like Nancy. I need to go smoke so
me weed or shoplift some Hershey bars, fast.

  Iris said, "Can you believe that? It just makes me so sad. It's bad enough they feel the need to become part of the system like that, but a fancy hotel on Nob Hill? A caterer? Wedding registries? I told them, 'Goddamn, if you need to do this so bad, Billy and I know a spiritual guru who performs ceremonies. Let him do it. We'll have a potluck in the backyard, Billy can play guitar, and we'll throw some Motown on the stereo when folks are ready to dance. Don't waste money like that!' Do you realize how many Third

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  World families could be fed for a year at the same cost of their wedding?"

  Uh, no, Iris, I didn't realize that. I just thought Java and Delia were kinda boring for choosing the cotillion wedding with ten groomsmen and bridesmaids. But Motown! Gimme the expensive swing band any day.

  Shrimp was like, "Mom...," but she interrupted again. "Billy and I didn't feel the need to marry! We know our commitment to one another."

  "MOM!" Shrimp said. I've never heard him yell before. His low voice usually sounds like a deep, sexy whisper. I didn't know a mellow dude like Shrimp was capable of yelling, much less that he was capable of being irritable, like a normal person, the kind of person who lives in my family. "Enough already."

  The lights flickered, signaling the end of intermission. Iris said, "Cyd Charisse, I've heard so much about you. I need you to come over, soon, this week, absolutely, we'll throw a party. I can see your aura even through all that black you're wearing. Billy, this girl's aura, can you see it? The yellow! Yellower than Shrimp's leisure suit! Promise you'll come over this week, Cyd Charisse? Our friend from Humboldt County just came down to visit and left a nice little deposit, so you know what that means. We'll have a great time, really get to know one another."

  I couldn't accept the invitation without Shrimp also extending it so I just smiled a little, polite. Shrimp mumbled, "I'll see you at school."

  That didn't seem very encouraging.

  Iris and Billy said their good-byes and headed back to their seats with their disco king mack daddy son in tow, me

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  standing there confused and wanting to know what's in Humboldt County; maybe if my mother hadn't sent me off to boarding school for so long I'd know what's in my own state. Then just as he was heading up the stairs toward his balcony section, Shrimp turned around and walked back over to where I was still standing in the lobby, watching him, wanting to hyperventilate with happiness--and confusion. Shrimp stood in front of me, and it was like our live awkward slo-mo moment. What were we supposed to do here? Do we really even know each other anymore? Shrimp leaned his face into mine like he was going to kiss me. I mucho wanted those full lips of his but I turned my cheek slightly and offered him my hand instead.

  We have a long way to go, despite my urge to tear that canary yellow leisure suit from his body and have my way with him.

  His face leaned close to my lips again, then diverted to my ear. Shrimp mumbled, "Next Saturday, eightish, party for the parents. Rooftop."

  The feel of his soft lips against my hand, the graze of his chin stubble on my wrist, and his breath whispering into my ear had made my legs all Jell-0 and I was swooning as I turned around to return to my seat. My eyes fell on Nancy, whom all the men were checking out, with her perfect blond hair in a French twist and her model figure wearing a form-fitting couture evening dress, standing in a corner with a Perrier in her manicured hand, where she must have been watching Shrimp and me.

  Nancy had the lemon-sucking face on again, like, Oh, no, here we go again.

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  *** Chapter 8

  I really am so over the Wallace crush, but walking back onto that roof at Java and Shrimp's house, overlooking Ocean Beach with the smell of serious coffee brewing and the view of Java flipping the veggie burgers on the grill while wearing a Java the Hut apron over his wet suit, well, I couldn't help but think, Mmm, break me off a piece of that. Something about the smell of the Ocean Beach salt air and eucalyptus trees seeping through the aroma of Java the Hut coffee beans, something about that particular mixture of scents brought me back instantly to the beginning of summer, when Shrimp and I were still On. The smell sent my hormones into immediate overdrive and almost made me forget how I have decided engaged man Wallace has become slightly a sellout and wouldn't I like to see him naked on a honeymoon, all buff and showering our matrimonial bed with Java beans instead of rose petals.

  I gave myself a mental slap on the wrist and tried to distract myself from further impure thoughts. My eyes searched the rooftop, where a large group of teen to middle-aged people--hippie/surfer/artist types, very grunge, your basic Ocean Beach crowd--were hanging out for Iris and Billy's welcome-home party. I was scanning for Shrimp, whom my eyes spied lying on a hammock and motioning me from where I was standing at the door. I licked the Java-inspired drool from my lips and walked through the crowd toward Shrimp.

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  I couldn't help but remember that the last time I had been on this rooftop I was in a moonlit, whispered convo with Java--nothing romantic, just dishing about life and past loves and your basic deep thoughts, I suppose--while Shrimp and Delia were passed out in their sleeping bags next to us. My welcome home from that party had been a sentence to Alcatraz, courtesy of Sid and Nancy. Now I am not only past imprisonment but I'm completely paroled, although I did have to promise to be waiting downstairs to be picked up by Fernando promptly at eleven o'clock this evening. Most amazingly the evening air was warm enough for me not to be layered in wool and tights. That is one thing I loved about New York: the late-night summer hanging out, when it's so hot you could just stand in your birthday suit with a fire hydrant spraying you with agua and be perfectly content. Danny and his boyfriend have this great blacktop lounge area on the roof of their brownstone building. I guess it's their one consolation for living on a fifth-floor walk-up apartment. They have plastic beach chairs lying around up there with Jackie Collins and Sidney Sheldon books folded inside and card tables for when their buds come over for mah-jongg games, and a karaoke machine that Aaron uses to sing Kylie Minogue songs. From that rooftop you can see the Empire State Building and all of midtown Manhattan looking like a Lite Brite game. From Shrimp and Java's rooftop you can see the Pacific Ocean and Mount Tamalpais in Marin County if it's not too foggy and if you're willing to brave the Ocean Beach chill.

  Hammocks are serious business intimacy-wise, so I was glad Shrimp was sitting up in his by the time I reached him. I could feel the Fatal Attraction instinct to machete

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  down all the party people just to get rid of them so I could have some personal hammock time lying next to Shrimp. I sent a mental memo to my future, dictating, Hammock-- Watch This Space. The desire to lie in the hammock with Shrimp spooning me from behind, maybe nestling his head on my shoulder, running his fingers through my hair and massaging my scalp, just the two of us alone together, breathing in the ocean air and each other, was one that would have to hold out a while longer. My mental memo received an instant reply: CC, play a little hard to get, why don't you? The boy did break up with you and did kinda break your heart.

  I sat down on the hammock next to Shrimp and crossed my arms over my chest. "Hey," I said.

  "Hey," he said back.

  What is with the heys? He's, like, been inside me. You'd think two soul mates would have more to say, but we were both silent after our greetings. Our non-conversation was broken by the sound of the ocean crashing down from across Great Highway. The sound of the ocean breaking our silence was like chocolate syrup poured into a glass of milk, dispersing into awkward dark clumps while waiting to be stirred.

  If Shrimp is my one true love, shouldn't conversation come a little easier?

  I saw Helen sitting on a bench on the other side of the roof, talking to some surfer-rat guy and a dreadlocked girl. Helen waved at me and I waved back. I considered ditching Shrimp and our empty air to go talk with Helen. I barely know her, and I think I could fill hours of convers
ation with her (most of it about Shrimp). No pressure.

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  My wave prompted Shrimp to speak. "You know Helen?" Not the words for which I was waiting: Oh, Cyd Charisse, I've missed you so much, I think of you every waking second, I love, need, and want you, baby, I can't live another moment without you.

  "Yeah, she's my new chum." To Shrimp's surprised look, I added, "Why, is that so weird?"

  Shrimp shrugged. "That's cool. I just never knew you to have girlfriends before."

  "Well, maybe you didn't really know me either."

  "Vice versa." His tone wasn't angry or mean, and mine hadn't been either. We were just stating facts.

  "How do you know Helen?" I asked. "From your art classes?"

  "Kinda," Shrimp said. "But mostly cuz our friend has this mild crush on her."

  Oh, someone with a crush on Helen! Delicious! I pointed to the surfer-rat guy Helen was talking to. "That guy?" I said.

  Shrimp laughed. 'Arran the long boarder? No, I don't think so. He's saving himself for some bimbo Penthouse ideal that will never happen past his nocturnal fantasies." Shrimp cocked his head in the direction of the dreadlocked girl talking with Helen and Arran. "Her. Autumn."

  THAT WAS AUTUMN! My eyes widened as I tried to get a better look at the she-devil who had been haunting my nightmares since Shrimp broke up with me. Autumn was standing beneath a string of red chili pepper lights and appeared to be a light-skinned black girl, but one with the eye shape and facial bone structure similar to the Vietnamese girls at the pho soup shops on Clement Street.