by Rachel Cohn
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"Tell me about Shrimp?" I asked, feeling like my heart was going to combust for wanting to know about him, to hear about him from friends who'd known him much longer than I.
There was a time when being as wild as I wanna be meant popping E numbers with Justin and not bothering to use a condom when we fooled around, or staying over at Shrimp's and not caring if my parents noticed at all. But asking this question of these girls--and finding out its answer--felt much, much wilder and riskier.
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*** Chapter 13
I was sitting in my room quietly on Sunday night, actually doing homework, when I felt this presence behind me. I took off my headphones and spun around from my desk to see my mother standing just inside my door, her eyebrows creased, mouth half open, like she couldn't decide whether or not to say whatever she had to say.
"What?" I asked. Her look indicated I was going to get grief for something I did, or she was going to take another stab at lobbying for us to take a weekend away to look at colleges, or worst of all, shouldn't I consider some decoupage in my room?
Nancy hesitated, and then, as if deciding only at that very moment to go through with what she had to say, replied, "What's the 'status' between you and Shrimp?" She actually used the finger quotes for status.
God, what is her problem? Why does she want to know everything about me?
"Our 'status,'" I answered, also using the finger quotes, "is we're 'just friends'"--again with the finger quotes. 'Are you happy?" Nancy is the one who, for all her taking me to the gyno and seeming to have come around at least to the idea of Shrimp, is also the person who grounded me last summer so I couldn't see him. Sometimes in the new peace I can appreciate my mom in a new way and I know I can trust her, and sometimes old wounds die hard and I can forgive
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but never forget. And the Shrimp subject is still the most vulnerable one in our fragile peace.
Nancy snapped, "What does that mean, Am I happy? I think I've made it quite clear that I am amenable to the two of you having a relationship again, hopefully one that could be less headstrong, maybe a little slower and more cautious. What do you think, that I actually want you to be unhappy?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
She sighed in frustration. 'Are you trying to make me crazy? I wanted to do you a favor, reach out to Shrimp, and you just..."
"What favor?" Whatever her scheme is, it can only be bad, bad, bad.
"I'm organizing a charity art auction for the children's hospital. I thought I would commission Shrimp to create a piece." Charity galas in Nancy's crowd mean an opportunity for rich people to compete for who can look the most anorexic in outfits and jewelry that cost more than it would take to settle a homeless family in an apartment for a year, all under the guise of being "for the kids."
"He won't do it," I informed her. Shrimp's way too cool for that bullshit scene.
"How do you know?"
"I just know."
"Well, Miss Know It All, then why is he downstairs right now in the study with Dad talking about the supplies he'll need and..."
"Nuh-uh!" I threw frickin Moby Dick onto my bed and rushed downstairs while Nancy trailed behind me blabbing something about, "When I called I didn't think he'd come over this minute."
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And for real, Shrimp was sitting at Sid-dad's antique mahogany desk, his dirty blond hair pulled up into a tight ponytail on top of his head, a hairstyle that made him look like a mini sumo wrestler. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt buttoned to the top with a proper necktie hanging from the collar, and board shorts. Fashion icon--NOT. So hot--YES.
He looked up at me. "Hey."
Oh, no, not with the heys again.
Sid-dad said, "May I get you a drink, young man?"
"I make the perfect martini," I pointed out. I do. Sid-dad taught me to make them when I was little, and he still pays me a dollar every time I make him one.
Sid-dad patted my shoulder. "That's a good one, Cyd Charisse."
"I'm going by 'CC now," I corrected him.
Sid-dad nodded seriously. "I'm so sorry, CC. How about I get some Cokes from the fridge? Your mother's culinary skills are expanding and I think she's gone to heat some Trader Joe's vegetarian dumplings in the microwave. Maybe soon she'll graduate to full-fledged stove use." He chuckled as he walked out of the study, but he turned back once, shot a last glance at Shrimp, and I'm fairly sure I heard him mutter under his breath, "Odd duck."
I hadn't seen Shrimp since the Just Friends incident at the party at his house, but I had learned a lot about him in the meantime from Helen and Autumn. I almost felt deceitful, going behind his back to get to know him, but isn't that what girls who are friends are supposed to do--talk about love interests, analyze, dish? If so I am right on track with this chick friendship thing.
I know some interesting things about Shrimp and his
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fam now. For instance, I learned that Iris had another family before Billy, Wallace, and Shrimp. She was like some bored housewife in Florida, married to a cop, and she had a ten-year-old daughter. Then she met Billy, who had sold her some weed, and she left her husband and kid to start another life with Billy. Just up and left, and then was asked to never return, apparently. So there is some motherless older sister of Shrimp and Wallace's wandering around somewhere, probably the same age as lisBETH--go figure. But the whole past, I guess, and the fact that Iris and Billy dumped Shrimp on Wallace's doorstep so they could cavort around in Papua New Guinea supposedly teaching English and building bridges or whatever, has left Shrimp with some serious abandonment issues. I am not the first girlfriend he's broken up with before she could break up with him.
I am the only one who is his true love and who will stay by his side and in his heart for as long as he'll let me-- provided he ever lets me back in.
But yuck, I couldn't forget that crush-on-my-mom comment. I get goose pimples of disgust on my arms just thinking about it. Then again, maybe that's what he gets whenever he thinks of me having a crush on his bro, but maybe his goose pimples are from genuine jealousy and not disgust, because let's be real, Wallace and me are a hookup that actually could happen, though never would.
I stood over Shrimp on the other side of the desk where he was sitting, sketching with charcoal. "Are you doing this to get back at me?" I whispered.
He looked up, his deep blue eyes blazing back into mine. "No," he said. "I'm doing this to get to you." His head cocked back down and he returned to his sketching.
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Hmph, that was a nice thing to say. I think.
'Also," he added, "my parents are driving me crazy at the house. I came over here almost as soon as your mother called."
Ahhhh, my head is just swirling in confusion about where Shrimp and I are. But then I thought, Why not just run with this moment and learn a little more about Shrimp?
I sat down on the leather sofa next to the desk. "I still haven't heard how Papua New Guinea was."
Shrimp didn't look up from his sketching, but he did start talking. "PNG was awesome. It's a really beautiful place, but sad and strange, too. There's a lot of poverty and there's also a problem of corporations doing toxic dumping there because the government is sort of nonexistent. It's, like, as beautiful a place as it is depressing. Fiji had to be my favorite of all the places we visited. I could live and surf in that paradise forever. And the people are so nice, you can't believe it."
"How come your parents decided to come home?"
Shrimp looked up to the door, scanning to see if Sid and Nancy had returned to the room, I suppose. "My dad has a little habit of getting kicked out of various places once his talent for growing and selling weed is discovered. I love the guy, but it's just kinda... skeevy, y'know?" This struck me as a strange comment coming from Shrimp, whom I've always perceived as being the most nonjudgmental person ever. Shrimp looked around the meticulous room with the antiques and ceiling-high shelves filled with books. "You always used to compl
ain about your parents, but I think you're so lucky. They're, like, solid, you know?"
I nodded. I actually do know.
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"So how was New York?" Shrimp asked. "What was your bio-dad like?"
"Disappointment."
"I kinda figured he would be."
"But my brother, Danny, he's so great. I really want you to meet him. And New York! You HAVE to go..."
The little monsters barged into the room, screaming "Shrimp! Shrimp!" They both ran over to him. Ash took up residence on his left knee, while Josh kept a manly distance but he had on the idolize face as he gazed at Shrimp. Sid and Nancy followed behind, carrying drinks and steaming dumplings on a tray.
Clearly the new peace has gone haywire. It will never last.
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*** Chapter 14
Shrimp has taken an artist's residency on the deck outside the kitchen at our house. It's a beautiful deck, perched high on the steep Pacific Heights hill on which our house sits, looking down to San Francisco Bay, Alcatraz, and Tiburon, with a great view of the thick strings of fog that roll through the Golden Gate at dusk. Shrimp's got an easel, paints, brushes, and tarps set up on the deck. He's arranged his working space in the back corner where the view is most choice, but in a position so no one can see what he is painting. Strangely when he is gone, none of us peek under the tarps to see the painting, and we are the family always searching for secret hiding spots to sneak peeks at birthday presents. It's like we have an unspoken pact to respect Shrimp's process, and we all want to be surprised at the end when we see the completed product.
If he's painting some oil pastel of yachts sailing into Sausalito, I will seriously lose all respect for him. My respect for him is already in jeopardy because in the weeks since Nancy first commissioned him to do a painting, Shrimp has become almost a fixture in our house. If Nancy brings him one more lemonade out there I don't know what I'll do. It's really making me sick--worse yet, she thinks Country Time is real lemonade. Shrimp worked so late one night that Sid and Nancy let him spend the night on the couch in the study, and their invitation was all low-key and
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under the radar, too. No drama, no long discussions first, just "Oh, Shrimp, you're still here and it's so late. You've been working so long and your eyes look very tired, why don't you just crash on the couch." !!!!!!!!!!!!! And Shrimp made no attempt to sneak into my room to fool around, though I spent the night sleepless in my room, nearly getting repetitive stress syndrome in my hand from taking care of the business that I wished Shrimp was taking care of for me.
He's actually serious about this "just friends" business. Even Sid and Nancy have bought into the program, and believe me, they are loving it. They get the benefit of saying "Look how we've taken in Shrimp" with none of the disadvantages of worrying about the Little Hellion getting her groove on.
The upside is the anticipation. I am confident that ultimately Shrimp and I will be together again, and I am treating this "just friends" business as an opportunity to become just that--Shrimp's friend, so dragging out the ultimate reconciliation is like extended mental foreplay that will make it just that much more delicious when it happens.
"Hey, pal," I said to Shrimp. I had come home from the restaurant job to find Shrimp out on the deck, painting. His head was thrashing in time to the opera music wafting down from the open window in Sid and Nancy's bedroom upstairs over the deck. Ash and Josh were playing on the deck quietly alongside him, if you can believe that, Ash with her Barbies and Josh on his Game Boy. Having Shrimp and his mellow vibe permeating our house is like having Paxil dosed through the central heating ducts. "Dad wants to know if you're staying for dinner."
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"Who's cooking?" Shrimp asked. The Artist has become enough of a fixture to know that if Nancy is "cooking"--she put frozen tater tots into beef stew last week--it's wise to pass, but if I've come home with entrées from the restaurant, or if Sid-dad is firing up the grill, it's worth staying.
"Dad. Steak."
"Staying!" Shrimp said.
The night before, Iris invited me over to The Shrimps' for dinner. She made tofu lasagna. I don't know if the food was bad or it was just the tension in the house--Iris is trying to take over Wallace and Delia's wedding plans, she's constantly faxing menu ideas over to them at Java the Hut during business hours, or she's chewing out their wedding planner for recommending a reception room at a posh hotel that doesn't have a signed union labor agreement in place with its hotel staff--but I found myself sneaking away from their dinner table to call Sid-dad from my cell phone. I figured Shrimp's family needed a moment of privacy anyway. Iris had looked across the table at Shrimp and said, "Your complexion is awfully rosy." Then she sniffed and declared, "You've been eating meat!" And then Billy, who rarely has anything to say because Iris is always there to say it for him, remembered he had a backbone and mumbled, "So what?" Billy's protest was followed by Shrimp and Wallace, who both snickered, "Yeah, so what?" Yikes! I excused myself from the table, my stomach grumbling hard, and ran to the roof upstairs to call Sid-dad to make him promise to grill steak for dinner the next night. All the carrying on between The Shrimps' over the ethics of eating meat and whose business was it anyway, shouldn't it be about personal choice, had made me crave a New York strip something bad.
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I'm not so sure Iris and Billy coming home was such a good thing. Wallace and Shrimp seemed happier before, without them. Like, they've been fine on their own, and it's too late now for Iris and Billy to be going all parental on them. To say nothing of the fact that Iris and Billy are basically guests. Wallace bought and owns their house, Wallace is the one who built a coffee business from nothing with no help from them, Wallace is the one paying the bills. I can understand why Wallace isn't taking kindly to Iris going all mother-of-the-groom and trying to dictate how to plan his wedding.
Snooty old Pacific Heights never looked so good, may I just say.
Somehow my house has become a sanctuary. I don't know if it's the new peace or Fernando living here because he's like our family and Leila never was, but this peace is starting to seem sustainable. I am trying to figure out what makes a marriage work when I look at Sid and Nancy. They are the oddest-looking couple--short, old, nebbishy bald guy with tall, young, blond glam wife--yet they work, much better than Iris and Billy; I don't understand why. In the twelve years since Nancy married Sid, I have watched them grow from awkward and polite mates--almost like strangers--to now, I wouldn't say there is great passion between them, but they're content, like they're a team or something. Even when they're bickering--and the peace dividend seems to have resulted in them bickering less (what's that about?)--you know with them that they've got each other's backs.
I really still hope they're not having sex anymore.
The peace is feeling so nice, and having Shrimp around
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strange but great, that the A-date anniversary has come and gone and I still haven't told Shrimp. I've told Helen and Autumn, but I didn't know whether he would react as they had--supportive but indifferent too, like it was important that I told them, but what happened was in the past and I had to move on.
Of course Shrimp would take it the same way. I just had to get it over with, tell him so we could move forward, past "just friends" and into true loves--without secrets. Watching Shrimp paint and mock sing the aria coming from Sid and Nancy's bedroom on the second floor over the deck, I knew there would never be a right time, which left only now or never.
I told Ash and Josh, "Mom says it's okay for you guys to watch TV in the family room until she gets home from yoga." They looked up at me, disinterested. Ash said, "No fucking way," and head-banged Barbie into Ken. Josh grinned at me and said, "Nuh-uh." I said, "Go watch TV and I promise to read to you at bedtime?" Josh said, "Harry Potter?" and I rolled my eyes and said, "Yes," dreading another round of that. But Josh still shook his head at me and pronounced, "Nope." I was left with no choice but to exercise my Big Sister
prerogative. "SCRAM!" I yelled, and they were outta there.
I sat down opposite Shrimp. "There's something I have to tell you," I said.
He continued on with his painting. "I'm listening."
How do you start a conversation like this? I didn't know how so I just jumped in, like when Shrimp and I used to go down to Santa Cruz last spring and he would wade slowly into the surf wearing a full-body wet suit but I
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would ignore the icy water and just dive right in wearing only a bikini, not even bothering to get my feet wet first, wanting to get over that initial freeze quick. "You probably don't even care about this and all, but, urn, there's just something I thought I should tell you. Last year at this time I had an abortion. It was right before I got kicked out of boarding school." Phew--there, I said it. Now we could move on.
Shrimp's hand stopped painting and he didn't look up at me. "Justin?" he mumbled, which REALLY pissed me off.
"Of course Justin!" I spewed, loud. For some reason I have a reputation as a wild child, but the truth is, I have only been with two guys in the biblical sense: Justin and Shrimp. "The same Justin who couldn't be bothered to help and who left me to go to the clinic by myself. What the fuck do you think, by some random stranger?"
Shrimp shrugged, still not meeting my eyes. His silence spoke volumes.
I felt my face turning hot with shame and sadness-- but shame and sadness for Shrimp, not for myself, because apparently he was not the cool guy I thought he was, one who could deal with a girl with a past.
Shrimp got up from his chair, placed the tarp over the easel stand, and walked inside the house. Just like that he left, without saying good-bye or We'll talk about this later.