Shrimp

by Rachel Cohn

  "What things?"

  "What you told me. Having Iris and Billy back home. That I've been eating meat just to aggravate my mother, even though being a vegetarian is a core part of who I am-- or who I thought I was. Being back in school when I'm really not feeling it after a few months of getting to do what I wanted to do.- surf and art and travel. The fact that the last girl I was with, after you, decided she was gay after we got together."

  I hadn't thought about it that way. My head might also need a fresh-air breather if that much was swirling around in it at once, but I would never go outdoor camping for head-clearing R&R. I would go to a spa where beautiful bronzed boys wearing togas would bring me poolside fruity drinks with little tiki umbrellas floating inside.

  'And what did you figure out?"

  Shrimp may be small but he is all man. He didn't avoid my eyes, flinch, lower his voice, or do any of those shallow-guy maneuvers when they know they're busted. His deep blue eyes looked right into mine, and because he is all heart

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  I knew he meant what he said. 'About most of that stuff, I still don't know. But when it comes to you...I acted like a jerk when you told me. I was wrong to ask if it was Justin's. The question just came from my mouth and then I couldn't take it back. Then I got embarrassed on top of being really surprised and uncomfortable with what you'd told me. So I just up and left. I choked--I admit it. I'm not proud of it, but that's what I did."

  "Why were you uncomfortable with what I told you?" I needed to know: because it's a reminder that I've been with another guy who's not him? When I know for a fact he's been with more girls than I have guys.

  Shrimp mumbled, "I know I wasn't your first, but it's just weird knowing you were pregnant by your ex."

  I pointed to the shed at the rear of the backyard garden. "I can go pull a shovel out of there in case you want to dig any deeper."

  Shrimp continued his soul-sucking stare into my eyes. "I didn't say it's right, how I feel. It's my issue to get over, not yours."

  That's true.

  "Do I look different to you?" I asked.

  "What do you mean? Since from when you told me about what happened with Justin, or since I first met you?"

  "I don't know. Just generally."

  He looked completely different from when I first met him. Was that because I had changed, or he had changed? Aside from being bigger, his face was broader, hardened, less pretty-boy handsome and a lot more interesting, especially with the two little zits on his chin. I realized that the first time I had seen Shrimp, at the nursing home with

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  Sugar Pie soon after being kicked out of boarding school, I had seen him in a shroud of perfection, wanting to escape the memory of Justin. Now I saw him for who he was: just a guy, albeit a beautiful surfer punk guy.

  Shrimp said, "Honestly the thing I like about you most, is you never stop looking different to me. I never know what to expect from you. It's aggravating sometimes, but more times just...sexy."

  Alright, ya got me.

  I took Shrimp's hand and we both stood up. We had the huge house to ourselves, which rarely happens, considering how many people either live or work here, but I led him away from the house, down the deck stairs leading to the garden. I opened the tool shed and pulled him inside.

  "Your painting is here, whenever you're ready to finish it," I said. I shut the door to the shed. It smelled like rusty tools and oil. The only light in the shed came from a burst of sunlight creeping underneath the shed door. Shrimp pressed me against the shed wall and our lips, already wet from the rain, picked right back up with getting to know each other again. The smell of him, the taste of him--it was like my mouth couldn't get enough of him. His fingers did their familiar dance through my long hair, and he pressed into me at the groin as we kissed, indicating to me the feeling was mutual.

  And yet. I've never been a girl who was a tease--if I want it, I'm going to take it--but as good as the kissing felt physically, my brain separated itself out at the same time, remembering him dumping me, and how he reacted about Justin. My brain asked, Can I trust him not to hurt me again?

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  I pulled back from him, breathing hard. My hormones desperately tried telling my brain to back the fuck off, but in an unprecedented underdog victory, my brain prevailed. "Maybe you were right," I whispered. "Maybe we should just be friends for now."

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  *** Chapter 19

  War has broken out at the house again. Seems like old times!

  Frank Commune Day is ruined. In our family we celebrate the sacred day of December 12, the birthday of Frank Sinatra, Sid and Nancy's mutual hero (aside from the real Cyd Charisse, natch). Nancy was raised Lutheran and Sid-dad Jewish, and neither of them cares about religious education or God holidays, so December 12 is all-important at our house.

  Our ritual begins at breakfast, when Sid-dad translates the newspaper for us as Frank News. For example: "Kids, Frank Weather today is foggy and overcast till late morning, with the sun expected to burn off the fog around noontime, highs expected to be in the midsixties. In Frank Sports, the Niners have blown another shot at the NFC playoffs; no wild card slots for them this year. Frank Traffic--construction on the 101 means longer than usual delays at the Golden Gate Bridge on the Marin side." Round-the-clock Frank tunes play from every stereo in our house--the good stuff, with Count Basie and Nelson Riddle, not that cheesy "Start spreading da news" crap--and at night we exchange gifts after a huge dinner catered by Sid-dad's fave Italian restaurant in North Beach. The Frank celebration usually ends with Frank movie time in the family room. Guys and Bolls and On the Town are Josh and Ash's favorites, but if the day

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  has left them too hyper, then we get to watch my fave, The Manchurian Candidate, because then they'll be so bored they'll fall right asleep and Nancy will be so creeped out she'll fail to notice that I've eaten the whole tray of cannolis myself.

  I was particularly looking forward to this year's Frank Commune Day, because last year I had just come back home after being expelled from boarding school and there was so much tension in the house we barely bothered to celebrate. We ate Frank dinner, and then Nancy and I got into a fight over a certain postexpulsion shoplifting incident, door slams, I HATE YOU, the usual yadda yadda yadda. The two celebrations before that I was exiled to New England and didn't get to partake of the December 12th ritual in Pacific Heights.

  So this December 12th I was fully ready to par-tay. I woke up that morning eager to get downstairs for breakfast to hear Frank News, as Sid-dad had promised he would branch out into Frank Astrology this year. Nancy stood at the doorway to my room as I was getting dressed. She said, "I'm going to Nordstrom this morning while you all are at school. Do you need me to buy you a heavy winter coat? You'll need one for Minnesota. I've booked us to leave Christmas Eve morning and return a couple days after New Year's. Happy Frank Birthday."

  "Happy Frank Birthday to you, too," I said. Some people might celebrate Frank Commune Day by wearing hipster tees picturing fedora-wearing Ol' Blue Eyes, but I chose to celebrate him another way: by dressing like his one true love, Ava Gardner. My Frank tribute ensemble included a tight-waisted, black vintage A-line fifties skirt falling to

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  midcalf length, a blouse with deep décolletage and cinched at the waist, my hair primped in Ava waves, and pedicured, shoeless feet à la The Barefoot Contessa. I'd even splurged on a padded Wonder Bra, for Ava cleavage that this Cyd Charisse lacks. As I applied long, thick fake eyelashes to my lids, I reminded Nancy, "But I can't go to Minnesota. Wallace and Delia's wedding is New Year's Eve." I've only told Nancy a thousand times.

  "That's too bad," Nancy said. "It's our family vacation, and you know my mother is in very bad health. She's not expected to last the winter. This might be the last year you kids get to see her. Cheer up--your airline ticket is first class, and we'll be staying at a suite of rooms in the best hotel in Minneapolis." Like I could care about first-class plane an
d hotel accommodations.

  "No," I said, voice rising.

  "Yes," she said, voice rising higher.

  "NO!"

  "YES!"

  The system of checks and balances on my temper tipped out of my control. "I'M NOT GOING!" I yelled. "YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"

  Aside from no way will I miss Wallace and Delia's wedding, aside from that I am old enough not to have to go somewhere just because my mother has decided for me that I must go, there is the fact that I really, truly hate Nancy's mother. Granny Asshole (as I call her) lives in a gated community in some uptight suburb of Minneapolis, in a house that's situated on a golf course, as if that's not reason enough to hate her. We hardly ever see her. She is not your cute, cuddly Nana either, the Tollhouse cookie-baking, knit-you-some-sweaters

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  kind. She's this stick figure whose diet consists primarily of "soda pop," pâté, and Ritz crackers (Nancy says I get my "miracle metabolism" from her, that's why I can eat anything). Granny Asshole refers to me as "the illegitimate one," Sid-dad as "the Jew," her home health aide is "the colored girl," and she had the gall to call Nancy "porky" when we went to visit after Ash was born and Nancy hadn't yet lost all the pregnancy weight. Spend some time with Granny Asshole and you'll understand why Nancy practically has an eating disorder, or why she ran off with a boy who had a heroin problem as soon as she was of legal age.

  I never knew Granny Asshole's husband, my grandfather. He died when I was a baby, probably to get away from her. And I am not going to pretend I am sad about old Granny Asshole kickin' it when I'm not. The last time I saw Granny A was the summer before my fourteenth b-day. She took me aside at the only family reunion we've ever gone to and she explained to me about how superior my church-going cousins in Minnesota were in comparison to my "San Francisco-style family," while I watched as these same charmer cousins lifted twenties from her wallet for beer money without her seeing it. Then she informed me that I had grown up to be a very pretty young lady, but now that I had hips and boobies I better be careful so I didn't turn out like my mother. I honestly do try to find some good in everybody, even in people I dislike. But Granny Asshole, no, I'm sorry, I can't find anything and I am not going to feel bad about it. Some people might just be assholes, and that's just gonna be that.

  The equivalent of Nancy getting her Irish up is when she gets her Minnesouda up. Her pale face goes all splotchy

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  red and she spews words in this strange vowel-dragging accent that's just like Granny Asshole's. The diction classes Nancy took when we first moved to San Francisco mostly got rid of that prairie accent, but when she's mad the accent and its accompanying expressions come back fast and furious. "Yew are nooot an adult yet, young laaady, yah? And yew are nooot staying in this hawse alooone while's we're aaawaaay and Fernando is in Neecarahgua for Chreestmas. Yew are goooing to Minnesouda whether yew like it or nooot. Yew are nooot eh-teen yet, missy."

  Oh, now I get it. The same woman who took me to the doctor for a birth control prescription back in September is the same woman who's now trying to cock-block me in December. She's worried about what will happen between Shrimp and I, whose "just friends" situation is coming along great. That is, if "just friends" means a guy and a girl who don't have sex but who handhold at lunchtime at school and who share occasional deep French kisses whenever they say good-bye, if "just friends" means two ex-lovers who have taken the time the past several weeks to get to know each other before their inevitable head bangin', boots knockin', bed rattlin', unspoken-but-will-be-fact reunion. Nancy thinks that if Shrimp and I have the hawse to ourselves, it will turn into some unsupervised bang festival.

  No matter that I've been going to school every day this year and the grades aren't half bad, no matter that I haven't jumped back into a sexual relationship with Shrimp or anyone else, no matter that I've made friends and developed a life outside of the all-encompassing boy radar, no matter that I've been damn pleasant in this house, too. The fact is: Nancy still doesn't trust me.

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  "I AM NOT GOING! To Minnesota or to college!" I was so mad I couldn't help but throw that last one in. But merely tossing the word college into the ring didn't seem sufficient, so I added, "You can't make me go to see the mother you yourself hate so you can show off how rich and fine you're doing without her in your life, just like you can't make me go to college just cuz you regret that you yourself didn't go. I'm not here for you to live out your dreams through me."

  "YOU ARE A SPOILED BRAT!"

  "Well, who made me one? You just want me to go away to Minnesota or to college so you can have me gone to a place a spoiled brat doesn't want to be, like you did when you made me go to boarding school!"

  I couldn't follow normal protocol and storm away to my bedroom because I was already in it, so I slammed my bedroom door in Nancy's face instead and locked the door.

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  *** Chapter 20

  The nicest part of "just friends" is I could wait for Shrimp's beat-up, lima bean-colored old Pinto to pull into the school parking lot, and I could go to his driver's-side window and say, "Let's ditch today," with no sexpectations to go along with the ditch day. A "just friend" who is also a soul mate knows without being told and could just acknowledge, "Nice outfit, Ava, but glum face. Fight back home on Frank Day?" as he shifted the car into reverse for us to leave before the school day had even started.

  Shrimp's wet suit was in the trunk and his board on top of the car roof, so he drove us out to Ocean Beach. I needed chill time, so he hit the morning waves near his house on Great Highway while I took a long walk on the beach, my bare Ava feet getting seriously burr-ito burrowing through the cold San Francisco beach sand.

  I let Nancy call my cell phone three separate times before I bothered to answer it. She didn't scream but sounded tired when she said, "Where are you?"

  I couldn't stifle the roar of the ocean behind me so I said, "Where do you think, Sherlock?" I held up the phone to the water crashing on the surf. I put the phone back to my ear and said, "You have to learn to trust me, Mom. I might not be eighteen yet but I will be soon, and if you don't want me to do to you what you did to your mother--run away--you're going to have to let go enough to let me make

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  my own decisions. I'm not missing Wallace and Delia's wedding. They're more like family than your family in Minnesota has ever been, and you know it." I turned off my phone so she could scarf down her usual breakfast roll of Butter Rum LifeSavers and then take a nap while she thought on that.

  I realized she might not be smart enough to figure out the right course on her own, though, so I turned the phone back on to call to Sid-dad's office. I could hear "It Happened in Monterey" playing in the background when he got on the phone. He said, "Cupcake, it's Frank's birthday so you get a special dispensation not to get reamed out for starting a fight with your mother and behaving like a child on this very important day. But if you're looking for me to broker a truce, I'll tell you what I just told your mother. The answer is no. I'm tired of being the intermediary. You two work it out yourselves." And he hung up on me!

  Well, I had no solution to this problem because it's Nancy who caused the fight, she should be the one to fix it, so I continued my beach walk. I saw Shrimp in the distant water, surrounded by a small posse of surfers waiting and waiting for the right wave, then paddling furiously once it beckoned. With their bobbing black wet suits against the blue-gray ocean, they looked like a school of dolphins. Ocean Beach is usually cold and foggy, but perhaps in honor of Frank's birthday the day was unusually bright and sunny, which, if you spend a lot of time in Ocean Beach, you particularly appreciate because it happens so rarely. On the rare sunny days, you can see west across the Pacific all the way to the Farallon Islands, or north to the beautiful green hills and mountains of Marin County, and you might think

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  you'll never again see a sight so beautiful and you probably won't, because the dense fog is guaranteed to return to clou
d over the beauty.

  This was the first time I had Shrimp to myself in the past few weeks and yet I willingly sacrificed him to the sea so I could have time alone. Since getting past the A-date issue, we've been hanging out, but I wouldn't call it dating: a couple Ocean Beach house parties on weekends, some random art adventures like going to the Japanese tea garden in Golden Gate Park and then driving down to Colma, the dead city (literally) where all the graveyards are and where Shrimp likes to go and draw tombstones.

  But it was movie night with his family when I realized I could trust him for sure. It wasn't a specific thing he said or did that indicated we were past the Justin fallout, so much as a series of moments. Shrimp chose Silk Stockings with the real Cyd Charisse for us to watch, and he melted Nestle Crunch bars over the hot microwaved popcorn just the way I love, without being asked. While the movie played he sat next to me on the couch with his arm around me, massaging my shoulders and neck. Midway through the movie Billy passed me a bowl after taking a hit, but Shrimp took it from his dad and bypassed it over to Iris, knowing I was too content to waste the natural high on Billy's bud. When the movie was over everyone talked about how beautiful and elegant the real Cyd Charisse was, her lovely dance with the pair of silk stockings, and how perfectly matched she was in the movie with Fred Astaire. I said I thought the original, nonmusical version of the movie--Ninotchka with Greta Garbo--was superior in my opinion, and everyone looked shocked like I had said something sacrilegious,

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  dissing my namesake. Iris said, "Do you know so much about old movies because you're named for an old movie star?" And I said, "No, I just know as would any reformed social outcast who had spent mucho time alone in her room listening to Muzak and watching old flicks." Iris and Billy and Wallace and Delia laughed like I was uproarious, but I didn't see the joke and neither did Shrimp: SOUL MATE.