Not Okay, Cupid

by Heidi R. Kling

  So.

  The friendliest of the Barbies—well, her real name is Barb, but she’s had everyone call her Barbie forever because she’s tries hard, successfully, to look like the doll—eats lunch off campus and hadn’t heard about the Hazel thing.

  I sort of mumbled, “I’m kinda seeing someone.”

  And she laughed.

  Then when I tried as hard as I could to appear serious (I hadn’t officially asked someone out, like seriously—you-and-I-let’s-be-a-couple type of seriously since Kate Willington dumped me via text in fourth grade. Yeah, that’s right. I had major commitment issues. Being dumped sucked. I cried for two weeks into my stuffed dinosaur’s belly.

  I vowed: never again would I risk being hurt like that by a girl.

  From then on, I only dated girls. As in dated with a little d. No emotional connection. Only fun for all involved.

  So far it was working. And Barbie seemed to know how well it was working.

  “You? Dating someone seriously? What?” Even she didn’t believe it.

  “Yeah. It’s…no big deal.”

  She looked suspicious. “No big deal?”

  “Nope.” I shrugged. Hoped her lie detector wasn’t as sharp as Hazel’s was.

  Lucky for me it wasn’t. “Okay, then. If you say so.” She buttoned back up her shirt, and I couldn’t help but sneak a peek a little forlornly. I was a dude, after all.

  “When you change your mind, Felix,” she said, tracing her long nail from the top of my chest to the waistline of my shorts. “You know where to find me.”

  I swallowed hard, grabbed my stuff, and made a hasty escape before I could change my mind.

  Then I texted Hazel.

  FELIX: Baze?

  A couple of minutes went by. I checked my phone, over and over. Refresh, refresh.

  I stared at the ceiling of my bedroom. Checked again. Nothing.

  I slumped downstairs. Irrational disappointment about Hazel’s lack of texting combined with the nonconclusion of my almost afternoon delight did not make for a happy Felix. So I made a turkey sandwich with farm fresh greens and a fresh slice of summer tomato, and after slathering the whole thing with spicy mustard, and grabbing a sparkling water from the fridge, I headed to the back porch, where I checked my phone again. Good food always helped.

  Still no reply.

  She didn’t have any after-school activities today that I knew of. She wasn’t with my sister. And I extremely doubted she was with Jay. So where was she?

  I texted again.

  (As a boyfriend, even a faux boyfriend, I was embarrassingly needy! See! This was why I didn’t get involved! Gah.)

  FELIX: Hazel? You okay? Maybe you don’t feel like talking. I get it. I have a sister. Maybe you need, like, some time alone? Anyway, text me later if you want to talk.

  I pushed send.

  Then regretted it.

  Can you pull back a text after it’s swooshed into the ether?

  Lame.

  Lame Felix. Lame, lame, lame.

  Hazel would see that, cancel the whole charade. There’d be no revenge.

  I could go back to dating Barbies and feel whole and solid and normal.

  I checked my phone again.

  Still nothing.

  I scarfed down my sandwich, and then without waiting the hour after eating I should’ve to avoid stomach cramps—hey, I listen to my mama!—I grabbed my board from the garage and tossed it into my truck.

  I needed to cool off in a big way.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hazel

  There’s this little spot on my roof I’ve hung out on since I was a young girl.

  It’s technically a roof deck with “ocean peeks,” but it was in such ill-repair—broken posts, missing Spanish tiles, dried seagull-poop smears—that it was deemed unsafe and therefore among the many things on the “No, Hazel!” list, along with nonorganic food, chemicals in grocery store shampoos, and exhaust fumes.

  Lately, Mom’s kick was gluten-free. “Is there gluten in this? We better skip it.” I swear, if she jumps on the irritatingly popular Paleo diet kick of no dairy, no processed sugar, no white flour, I swear I’m moving out. (There’s a reason dinosaurs went extinct and we morphed from Neanderthals into French-fries-craving humans!)

  Anyway, I discovered this spot after my dad died. He died from a rare form of lung cancer. “He wasn’t even a smoker!” my mother declared whenever people flashed her the what-did-you-expect stink eye when you hear someone died of lung cancer. Well-intentioned a-holes, if you ask me.

  Dad died five years ago, and that’s when I first broke one of my mother’s warning rules and started climbing up to this deck. Sitting under the intoxicating moon, or too-bright sun, or cloudy-moody beach sky, I’d write in my journal, mostly poems or songs, sometimes short stories, or what my teacher would call “vignettes” about my day.

  Today I wrote about betrayal.

  But what surprised me after I finished it, when I reread my words, was how the most emotional parts were at the end. The part where I saw Felix leaving with that girl in the parking lot, the heart-pained betrayal I felt when I saw him and that floppy-haired smile and low-slung-shorts swagger, which made exactly zero sense to me.

  When I climbed back through my window and flopped on my bed with my puffy headphones, ready to tune into weepy songs, I picked up my phone to turn on some music and was surprised at both the electric zip in my heart and stewed over how upset I was.

  But why? Felix was pretending to be my boyfriend. He wasn’t my boyfriend. Nor would I even want him to be. Ever. I must have been doing that thing people do when they’re upset. Putting my feelings onto him. Transmitting? What was it called? Oh, transference.

  I was incredibly upset, no, destroyed over Cheater Jay and Betraying Kimmy. Felix was just being himself. His typical manwhore, Player of La Playa self.

  I picked up the phone and texted him back.

  Chapter Twelve

  Felix

  After the surf session, I came home and crashed out on the sofa.

  I was in the middle of a fairly hot dream when I heard the telltale ping of an incoming text message and jumped up like a cartoon cat on a candle.

  (My reaction to Basil’s name appearing on my phone was a little unsettling.)

  When I heard the ping, I dove off my coach to grab the screen off our beat-up coffee table…and consequently proceeded to fall off our mammoth sofa (seriously well-named, the thing is as wide as a double bed) and onto the floor.

  Did the fall detour me from reading her message?

  No chance.

  As I writhed on the wood floor (did Mom have to buy the glass coffee table with the harsh metal legs???), I anxiously read her text.

  BASIL: Hey. I’m here. What’s up?

  I slithered on the ground and finally got into a ridiculous position propped up onto an elbow and texted her back:

  FELIX: Just fell off the coach, because I’m badass like that. You?

  BASIL: :)

  FELIX: Hey now! No laughing at my pain.

  BASIL: :) :) :)

  FELIX: Fine. I probably deserve that. But Mom could seriously buy a softer coffee table for her only son.

  BASIL: I’m sure that’s numero uno on her life’s agenda: MAKE SURE COFFEE TABLE IS SOFT ENOUGH FOR BABY BOY’S ACCIDENTAL LANDINGS.

  FELIX: You’re cruel and unusual, Baze.

  BASIL: Isn’t that why you love me?

  I froze.

  That froze me.

  Popsicle style, all afternoon in the Nor Cal Pacific Ocean frozen.

  BASIL: Felix?

  Even though this was electronic, I could feel the apprehension in her voice.

  The delay.

  She knew I was freaking out.

  Feign something.

  Feign anything!

  FELIX: Sorry. I was trying to get back on the couch.

  BASIL: Ahhhh.

  Good. That worked.

  FELIX: And it didn’t go so well.

&n
bsp; BASIL: lol. So…what are you up to other than falling off the sofa?

  FELIX: Not much.

  BASIL: Nothing?

  FELIX: Why. What do you THINK I’m up to?

  BASIL: Well.

  FELIX: What?

  BASIL: I saw you with that girl after school. Leaving with her.

  FELIX: Oh. Well…

  BASIL: …I mean of course that’s fine—this is only pretend, you can do whatever you want, obvs, but maybe if we’re going to pretend to go out we should have a pretense, like

  BASIL: no dating other people AT SCHOOL.

  BASIL: Or.

  FELIX: Done.

  BASIL: Really?

  FELIX: Totally fine.

  BASIL: Oh. Okay. Good.

  FELIX: So everything is cool now?

  BASIL: Yes. I feel better. Irrationally better, maybe, but definitely better.

  FELIX: Base?

  BASIL: Yeah?

  FELIX: Was the girl the reason why you didn’t text me back earlier?

  BASIL:

  FELIX:

  BASIL:

  FELIX: Base?

  BASIL: Sorry. I fell off my couch and was trying to climb back on.

  FELIX: LMAO. See you tomorrow Hazel Basil.

  BASIL: Backatcha Felix the Cat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hazel

  Six Days Before Valentine’s Day

  “Honey, are you okay? You’re still acting funny.” Mom looked at me the next morning over our breakfast of Irish oatmeal with dark purple, extra plump organic blueberries floating in cold almond-coconut milk. Coconut anything is the new magical, live-forever elixir of Mom’s health world this week. I had to admit, it was tasty. Yet, I digress.

  I’d avoided her last night. I couldn’t talk about it. Not then. Not when it just happened. When it was so fresh. It was all too much. She’d have looked at me, and I’d have busted into a waterfall of tears, and it would’ve gone on all night. It was the same way when my dad died. I just wanted to be alone to process. Later, it would be okay to talk to Mom, to talk to Kimmy, to talk to…Felix even.

  Weird. I just now remembered how sweet Felix had been after my dad died. How I’d crawled up into their tree house and refused to come down until he coaxed me with some freshly baked butterscotch-chip cookies. Everyone else liked chocolate. We liked butterscotch.

  I hadn’t thought about that in years.

  “I’m okay…I guess.”

  “Uh-oh, I know that look. What’s wrong?” Mom set down her soy latte and stared deep into my eyes. Then she grabbed my hand and peered even harder. Soul searching. Waiting for my pain to spill from my heart and onto the table.

  Exactly what I’d tried to avoid last night.

  “You’re squeezing my hand to a pulp,” I tried.

  “You were upset before I started squeezing, my friend.”

  “Valid point.”

  “So?”

  I sighed. I couldn’t keep the sad truth from my mom any longer. Despite the certain repercussions, I spilled my guts.

  She studied me while I spoke, as if gaging me for the reaction she’d expect from herself. When I was sad, her face mirrored that emotion, her eyes welling up, her forehead crinkling. When I was angry, she scowled, too. Anger was easier. I was so glad my story had an element to infuriate her rather than just make her cry.

  Afterward, she was so upset that she hopped up and started pacing in our breakfast nook, her coffee swishing so high in her coffee cup, I thought it would tidal wave over one side.

  “I can’t believe Kimmy would do that to you! That Jay would do that to you! It’s just all so…I want to curse, but you know I don’t believe in that brand of communication.”

  Beside myself, I laughed wryly. Oh, Mom.

  “Yeah, it just plain sucks. You can say sucks. Sucks isn’t officially a curse word, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Mom sat back down, clasped her hands in mine, and dug into my soul again. “This calls for a girls night. The most epic girls night of all time. I’m talking doughnuts…I’m talking soda…I’m talking marathoning all the Classic Sads…” She started listing them off, counting her digits. “Titanic, R+J, You’ve Got Mail, maybe toss in a Brokeback Mountain…”

  “No Brokeback Mountain. I draw the line at Ennis DelMar and Jack Twist.”

  She opened her mouth to offer up some pros (she adored watching a romantic movie; she just couldn’t handle it once the movie was over.)

  I reminded her of how sad they always left her. “Mom, you can’t handle Brokeback. Last time we Brokeback’d, you hung one of Dad’s plaid shirts in your closet and wouldn’t take it down for two years.”

  “Who says I took it down?”

  “See? Ugh.”

  “I’m nothing if not impressionable, honey,” she said lightly but her eyes glazed over like they always did when she spoke of my syrup-and-cedar-smelling dad.

  “So today is…Friday. It’s already Friday! So perfect! Unless you have other plans?” After she asked the question, she slapped her mouth. “Oh gosh, sorry.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Just because I don’t have plans with my boy…ex-boyfriend or best…ex-best friend, doesn’t necessarily make me sans plans.”

  The bravado. Here it was. For her sake. And maybe a little bit for my own.

  “Oh!” She looked surprised, then studied me closer. “Really? I just figured… Okay, I’m making things worse. I’ll be quiet now.”

  Mom was dressed in yoga pants and a flowing white shirt over a tank top.

  She still looked really young; people in public often mistook us for sisters instead of mother and daughter. I didn’t care, because my mom was not only pretty but very cool. My friends all adored her, and even though her constant health-patrol thing annoyed me, I always felt very loved and wanted.

  Sometimes she overdid it, but I knew that was because of my dad, and well, I’d probably do the same thing in her widow/single parent shoes. Not that I’d have kids now, not when Jay was out of the scene. I’d probably end up alone with a dozen felines as my companions. Eventually, without my mom to give me the proper organic fad diet, I’d die of consuming pesticides and grocery-store food, and my cats would feed off my dead, swollen corpse.

  Awesome.

  “It’s okay. Really. I would’ve assumed the same thing. But I may have plans, actually, with…Felix.”

  “Felix?” Now mom’s nose was wrinkling. “Kimmy’s brother?”

  “The very one.”

  “But you strongly dislike Felix.”

  Mom never said hate.

  Hate was a bad word along with fat and stupid, and all the standard curse words.

  But we both knew what she meant by “strongly dislike.”

  I shrugged. “Hmm. Well, it turns out he’s not that bad after all.”

  Mom slowly nodded, like she was remembering him. “He was a very sweet little boy.”

  “No he wasn’t!” I protested.

  “Yes. He was. You just don’t remember.”

  “Well, he was bad then, and he’s…well, he used to be bad. But…you know, people can change.”

  “You call him a Man-Beep!”

  Mom, in all her cursing-free glory, liked to exchange for a nice verbal beep once in a beep.

  “That’s because he is a Man-Beep, Mom.”

  “So…I don’t get it?” She took a long sip of her coffee, as if that would help clarify things.

  I filled her in on that part, too.

  The revenge part.

  The truth.

  I couldn’t help it. I needed someone other than Jay to know, and I was almost honest with my mom. That was our deal. She gave me my much-needed freedom, and I always told her the truth.

  It worked for the both of us.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she said. “Revenge on your ex-boyfriend? I mean…”

  Wasn’t that the question? But how could I answer her without failing in the way she needed me not to fail? I needed to b
e independent. An empowered woman. She needed me to be that person. I couldn’t let her know how low Jay had brought me by cheating on me. Yeah, revenge was a little down and dirty. But it was what I needed to be myself again.

  “Mom,” I said. “You know us high schoolers. Revenge today, worried about homework tomorrow. Besides, it’ll be fun to work on this with Felix.”

  “But that’s just it,” she said. “Felix? He decapitated your Hello Kitty!”

  “Yes, he did. But only after I stuffed green Jell-O in his squirt gun.”

  “Oh. Wow.”

  “Wow weird? Wow funny? Wow, what?”

  “Just wow. You know. I always thought he had a crush on you.”

  “What?” I would’ve spit something out if I’d had something in my mouth to spit.

  “Seriously. He used to follow you around like a lost puppy.”

  “No. I just wasn’t as bad as Kimmy, and he was desperate for someone to play with. Remember? He could never be alone. He’d go crazy if he had, like, one minute of solitude. He’d rather play Barbies with us than be alone. Weird.”

  I stirred my oatmeal around with my spoon. She drank some more coffee, looking off a bit, remembering.

  “Oatmeal sure resembles brains doesn’t it,” I finally said.

  “Brains with twenty eyeballs,” Mom said, gesturing to the blueberries with the other end of her spoon.

  “The thing is, you can’t tell anyone anything, Mom,” I told her, digging deep into her eyes the way she did with mine. The nonblueberry ones, that is.

  “Can I tell people you and Jay broke up? Because honey, as much as it hurts, that’s news. Like news-news. You’ve been together a long time.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  “I’m sorry. Ack. I can’t say the right thing no matter how hard I try.”

  “It’s okay. Really. The situation is so dire and so grotesque, there’s no right thing to say. If I could, I’d never go to school again. If it weren’t for Fe…well, I mean, I’d rather you just don’t say anything at all…let things progress organically, I guess.”

  Organically should do it. Mom was very into things happening organically: grief, relationships, the coming together in and the falling out of.

  “Not unlike Gwyneth and Chris consciously uncoupling?” she asked me with a cock of the eyebrow.