by Kym Brunner
“I am, seriously. God, I’m the biggest asshole ever!”
“Maybe not the biggest,” I concede, “but close.” Snickers leaps off my bed and stakes out my laundry basket of dirty clothes. He starts batting at a lacy thong I got from a fancy boutique, poking his paw through one of the leg openings. As adorable as he is, I only own two expensive thongs. I spring into action, swiping it from him. Grabbing my gym shoe, I sit on the floor and dangle the laces in front of him.
Nick jumps in, his voice thick with apprehension. “Look, the only reason I ran was because the judge told me that if I got into any more trouble, he’d send me to jail. I figured punching a guy out counted as ‘trouble.’” He pauses, sighing loudly. “I’m really sorry about running off like that. Can I make it up to you?”
The door to my heart opens a teensy crack. “What do you have in mind?”
“I was hoping we could do another double-date with my brother TJ and his girlfriend Melanie on Friday night. They’re heading to Lake Geneva, and they asked if we wanted to come.”
“I love Lake Geneva!” I picture the little touristy town just over the border in Wisconsin, an hour away. There are only three things to do in Lake Geneva—shop, eat, and swim—and I love them all. But on a Friday night? “Is there a festival or some sort of nighttime event?”
He clears his throat. “Well, Melanie’s parents have a condo up there, and they let her bring friends sometimes. Me and TJ were thinking maybe we’d get some booze, grab a bite to eat, and then hang out by the lake. How ’bout it?”
Booze + Boy + Out of State = Rise in my Bad Decision Barometer.
But I’m not one to run from decision-making. Nor hot boys for that matter. “Sounds great! Oh, wait.” I think of a possible glitch. “My curfew’s midnight. Is that a problem?”
“Midnight?” He sounds horrified, as if I’d offered to amputate his arm.
Quietly, so that the nation’s biggest enquiring mind doesn’t overhear me, I add, “But, hey, I can probably tell my mom we went to a late movie or something and get home at like two or so. Would that be better?”
His voice lowers. “Not as good as staying out all night with me.”
Hello. Stop the traffic. Either Snickers purred or it was me, but either way my brain kicks into overload.
Condo + Wisconsin overnight = Sex for the first time?
I was totally not expecting this! I fling the shoe for Snickers and start pacing. “Um, wow. I don’t know if I can stay overnight. What time would we be back on Saturday?” I ask, stalling to give myself time to think things through.
Should I tell him that I’m a Big V and that he would be my first? I remember Cosmo once had an article that warned that admitting this fact about yourself too soon in the relationship is a huge turnoff for most guys. But if I don’t say anything, I know it’d be more awkward later.
“We could come home whatever time you want. Just tell your mom that you’re staying at a friend’s house. They have a beach and a pontoon boat,” he offers, trying to tempt me. “And I can’t wait to see you in your bikini.” He pauses and adds quietly, “And without it.”
I suck in my breath. I know I should say something sexy back, like, “Oh yeah,” or “You too, big boy,” but I’m starting to freak out. And as much as I want to be the big sex kitten like, say, my mother, I just can’t make such a monumental decision so quickly. “I don’t think I can. My mom always calls my friends when I stay over,” I lie, knowing my mom would never check. I once went to Saugatuck, Michigan, with Teegan’s family for an entire weekend, and when I came home on Sunday afternoon, she asked me how school was.
He laughs. “That won’t be a problem. Melanie will be there. She can talk to your mom.”
Damn him for being so clever! I panic. “Oh, Snickers! Stop that!” I shout, faking an emergency. I look at Snickers lying upside down on my bed, playing with a pink hair ribbon. “Crazy cat! She’s pulling down my drapes! I’ll call you tomorrow!”
“Wait! I need—”
“Can’t talk right now. Bye!” I hit the end button and sprawl out face-down on my bed, exhausted from the whole mental circus. I reach over and grab my Cosmo magazine, thumbing through the issue like I’m possessed. There’s article after article about sex—“Surefire Tips on Keeping Your Man Happy,” “Ten Hottest Hunks Tell All,” “What’s Hot and What’s Not”—showing page after page of happy couples in bed. I skim the entire issue, but there’s no advice I can use. Nothing for a first-timer in the entire two hundred and seventy-eight pages.
Flipping to the “What’s Your Guy-Q?” quiz, I reread my assessment. Could I up my rating from “In Desperate in Need of Help” to “Love Kitten On The Prowl” if I exchanged my old V card for a new version—Vivacious Vixen—this Friday night? If Cosmo assumes everyone’s already having sex, what the hell am I waiting for?
As I ponder whether Nick should be “the one,” my cell phone buzzes. It’s Teegan. If there was ever a time I needed my best friend’s advice, it’s now.
“Teegan! Perfect timing!” I slink to the floor next to my bed, hoping to muffle my voice in case Mom is standing outside my door with an upside-down glass pressed to her ear.
Before I can launch into my dilemma, Teegan’s loud sob blasts my eardrum. “Mike broke up with me.”
I’m sad for her, but also secretly glad. Ever since Mike entered the picture, I’ve barely spent time with her. “Oh no! Did he say why?”
“He said—” she pauses a second before wailing out the rest of her sentence “—he doesn’t want to get serious.”
“For real? You’re better off without him, then,” I reassure her, following best friend protocol. At least I’m sure I’m better off with Teegan not being with him.
“And to make matters worse—” she sniffles loudly, then whispers “—we did it last weekend.” Another long wail.
Wait. Hold the phone. I don’t know whether to say congratulations, sorry, or what the hell?
“You did it, did it?” I’m not sure if I’m more shocked that she’s not a virgin anymore or hurt that she made that decision without talking to me about it first.
“Yeah,” she says, sniffling.
“I can’t believe it.” More like stunned. Was I sending out some sort of SOS brainwaves? “And then he dumped you? What kind of jerk does that?”
“I know, right?” She blows her nose. “It’s all my fault, though.”
“What? No, definitely not. How can you say that?” As I’m saying this, I can’t help thinking that maybe Dola is trying to counsel me through Teegan. Can it be anything else when, here I was, wrestling with the whole virginity question, and then at that exact moment, Teegan calls and says she lost hers? “Tell me everything.”
“To be honest, it sucked and hurt like hell,” she says, sounding sincere. “Oh, Sophie, I was so nervous, and Mike was so awkward. I tried to be all sexy and carefree, but I cried right in the middle and…and it, like, ruined the moment for him. Needless to say, he doesn’t want to try that ever again. At least not with me. And seriously, I’m not so sure I do either.”
We talk another ten minutes, but she makes sex sound so awful that I don’t bother even mentioning my Lake Geneva opportunity, figuring she couldn’t be very objective at the moment. Not sure I want to go through with it now, either—not after hearing that. I swallow hard. Of course, everyone has to have a first time, and I could ask Nick to be extra gentle with me. There’s no way I could fake it being my maiden voyage, not with all the pain and blood that Teegan described.
I have so many questions about the exact hows and whys, but I can’t very well ask her when she’s feeling so down in the being-dumped dumps. She ends with, “So, you want to hang out on Friday night? Maybe go to Arcade World to try and find our double-date dreams?”
Arcade World is this mega-huge video game extravaganza where about ten thousand guys hang out at any given moment. I’m dying to say, “Should’ve thought of that before you ditched me to hang out with your cousin, Fi
ona.” But instead, I say, “I don’t know. Maybe.” I lay the same procrastination phrase on her that I gave to Nick. “How about I’ll call you tomorrow?”
After we hang up, I lay my head back on my pillow and close my eyes. If only I could conjure up my own private conversation with Dola, I’d have a few questions for her. For starters, is she real? Does she really want me to get rehired by my mom, or was Busia using me to get rid of Eliza? Does she want me to date Nick, or should I try to call Giovanni and apologize? And then I think, why can’t I talk to Dola? I’ll do what Busia did and see what happens.
Making circles in the air with my fingers, I use a spooky voice and say, “Do-la, Do-la. Please send me a sign so I’ll know what to do.”
I open my eyes and glance around my room. Snickers is asleep on my bed, the house is quiet, and I don’t hear a peep. Come on, Dola, I plea. Any sign at all. I hop off my bed and push the curtains aside, half-expecting to see a shooting star in the shape of a G or a ghost flying past my window holding the letter N.
Nothing. Dumb Dola. If I wait around for a sign from her, I’ll be older than Busia. I have time to think about what to do with Eliza, but I need to take my love life into my own hands. I’m going to text Giovanni right now. That way, I can take my time and get all the words just right, which I’m sure I’d botch up if I spoke to him in person. I hem and haw, but finally compose the perfect apology.
Hi, Gio—I want to apologize to you
about what happened earlier.
It was all a complete mistake.
Can we talk?
Call me…please? Sophie
My satisfaction in sending him a text lasts all of three minutes. When he doesn’t respond after four minutes, I start to panic. Did I spell apologize wrong? Did he think I meant that the “complete mistake” was me going on a date with him? Should I call him now and explain? I check the time—eleven thirty-four. Too late. I wait another hour before turning off my Dollar Dynamo baseball bat lamp, conceding that he just doesn’t want to talk to me. Looks like Dola gave me a sign after all. I had my chance with Giovanni, and I let it go foul.
But is that enough of a reason to let Nick hit a homerun this weekend?
Chapter 17
AT SOME GODFORSAKEN HOUR, I’m awakened by the sound of my mom and grandma talking. Loudly. Almost like arguing. Despite my need to sleep, my busybody brain wants to find out the juicy details. Unfortunately, the whole conversation’s in Polish, so I only catch bits and pieces. I hear the words piekarnia, the Polish word for bakery, along with my name and Eliza’s.
I check my cell, hopeful that Giovanni answered my text while I slept. Nothing. Not even a Shut up, you dumb skank in reply. So, he’s definitely through with me. I sigh, feeling a huge knot in my chest. Giovanni was a great guy who seemed to really like me, and now I blew it.
Not that Nick doesn’t have some wonderful qualities too, but I seem to have a lot more question marks about him than exclamation points. Perhaps I’m not being fair, though. I only went on one date with Giovanni. He could have an arrest record twice as long and three times as bad as Nick’s.
Somehow I doubt it.
Of course, there is a chance that Giovanni went to bed early last night and hasn’t even seen my text. Or maybe he left his phone at a friend’s house. I’ve done that before. Or his phone is dead, for Pete’s sake. Any of those things could be the reason.
Riiight. And Santa Claus is coming to town any day now.
I force myself to think about what I’ve got planned for today. I quickly discover that, oh wow, besides returning two phone calls, I’ve got a whole lot of nothing going on. This means I can either, one, roll back over and sleep ’til noon, or two, get downstairs to the bakery and beg forgiveness, all for the unlikely miracle of Mom rehiring me and dumping Eliza.
Who am I kidding? Groaning, I toss off my blanket. I have slightly better odds of growing a third eye than I do at getting Mom to dump Eliza. And college fund or not, all the arguing last night about the bakery probably means business isn’t doing well. I shake my head. Stupid International Gourmet. After throwing on some not-too-horribly-dirty clothes from the laundry basket, I head downstairs—an entire sixteen minutes before the bakery opens. If that doesn’t prove to Mom that I’m changing my ways, nothing will.
When I enter the back room, Eliza’s pulling something out of the oven, and Busia’s emptying the dishwasher.
“Good morning, Zosia!” Busia holds up two serving spoons, smiling broadly. She glances from me to the front of the bakery, looking like she’s trying to decide between running to hug me and spreading the news. “Irena! Sophie is here!”
“She is? This early?” Mom flies into the back room, worry etched on her face. “What’s wrong, Sophie?” She wipes her hands on a new blue apron which, I sourly note, is longer than the edges of the black mini-skirt she’s wearing underneath. “Are you sick?” She places her hand on my forehead, and I step backward, pushing her hand down gently.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m here to help out. Free of charge.” I shrug it off, as if volunteering my services in the bakery is as common as dust settling.
Eliza sets a tray of lumpy pink scones onto the counter and says something in Polish. Mom chuckles and says something in reply, and they both laugh. Busia bangs a spoon loudly on the counter twice before putting it back in the drawer. Between snorts, Mom says, “Eliza says you’re only pretending to volunteer but will probably ask me for money later. I told her that you already know I’m a cheapskate, so that’s impossible.”
That bitch! I shoot a nasty look at Eliza, but she’s too busy staring at my mom to notice my icy glare.
“Irena,” Eliza says, “you don’t have to share everything I say. Some things can be our little secret, right?” She gives Mom a condescending smile before scooping the scones onto a wax paper-laden tray.
I suppress a smile. Telling my mother that she acted inappropriately is her number one peeve. I ought to know—she always reacts negatively when I beg her to act more like a mom and less like a floozy. I watch, waiting for her to blast Eliza, telling her that she can share whatever she wants with her daughter and that she should mind her own business.
Mom’s face reddens. “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I thought…never mind.”
What the hell? Where’s Gorilla Mom—the one who goes all ape shit when I tell her not to massage her chest with gardenia lotion when male customers are around?
Eliza flashes Mom a huge fake grin. “Apology accepted. I’m going to put up the last few signs real quick before we open. Okay with you, Irene?” She glances around as if looking for something. I follow her gaze, seeing a cardboard box behind my legs.
Mom nods enthusiastically. “Yes, thank you! I can’t wait for customers to try our new organic foods.”
I scrunch my nose in bewilderment. “Organic foods?”
“Yes, they’re extremely popular these days,” Eliza says matter-of-factly. And without losing a second to, say, breathe, she turns to Busia and says, “Oh, and Busia?”
Busia sets a tray of cookies on the counter, but doesn’t acknowledge that Eliza has spoken. I smile, knowing Busia heard her because Busia has ears like a bat, or whatever that animal is with good hearing.
“Busia!” Eliza says again, louder this time.
“She’s not your grandmother.” I pluck a moist towelette from the container and wipe down the cash register. “Call her Stella.”
“Fine by me.” Eliza looks at me like I’m an unwieldy toddler before shouting, “Stella?”
“She’s not deaf, either,” I say, mentally hoisting the cash register over my head and hurling it at Eliza’s face. Ever since I met her, my violent fantasies have really kicked in.
Busia stops and gives Eliza a frosty glance. “What?”
Eliza crosses her arms over her chest. “Since you’ve decided not to cut your hair, which was in section four of my business plan, could you be a dear and go put on a hairnet? And plastic gloves, too. That goes for everyone,
okay, ladies? Health regulations, remember?” She heads toward me, stopping suddenly. She turns back to Busia. “Oh! I have a surprise for you, Stella! Brand new aprons in royal blue for everyone! Those other things were getting kind of raggedy.”
Unbelievable! She has to know that Busia spent about fifty trillion hours embroidering the designs on our original aprons. Busia’s face crumbles. For a split-second, I can see the little girl that was once hidden in Busia appear in her sad expression. A lump forms in my throat.
Eliza claps her hands. “Okay, then, spieszyc sie!”
If there’s one Polish expression I’ve heard a lot in my life, it’s that one. Spinning on my heels, I snap, “Don’t you tell Busia to hurry up! She works faster than anyone I know.” I grip my waist tightly, worried that, any second, I might wrap my hands around Eliza’s neck.
Eliza shakes her head slowly, her face softening. “I wasn’t talking to your grandmother, specifically. I meant everyone, in general.” She taps her watch. “We open in two minutes.” She walks right up to me and leans over, expecting me to move so she can get to the box of signs, but I don’t budge.
“Excuse me,” she says, frozen in a half-lean.
I so want to say, “Why—did you fart?” but I hold my infantile self back and say, “Do you mean, please excuse you for dissing me in Polish to my mom? And then dissing my grandma?”
Eliza stands up and purses her lips like she’d been taste-testing the lemon filling. She shakes her head and speaks in an annoying, patronizing voice, “First of all, I didn’t, nor would I ever, diss your grandmother. You simply misunderstood. And second, saying that you’re here to suck up to your mom and ask for money isn’t dissing you if it’s the truth.” She narrows her eyes. “So, if you could please move,” she says the last word as if it’s laced with acid, “some of us have work to do.”
She leans forward again, expecting that I’ll move out of her way like I’m the Red Sea and she’s Moses, and all I can think is that this is my bakery and my family, and she’s acting like she owns the fricking place!