Speed of Life

by Carol Weston

  She especially loved singing in the parent-teacher choir, then going out with everyone afterward. Mom had a beautiful voice. Everyone said so.

  People said I did too—though no one had heard it lately. Not only had I not performed at last year’s Spring Sing, but I’d also dropped out of chorus. In the fall, instead of auditioning for a lead in The Pajama Game, I’d volunteered to paint backdrops. I also hadn’t sung at the Holiday Cabaret or Christmas Chapel, which I’d been doing since lower school.

  Dad’s keys finally jingled outside the door, and Pepper raced to greet him. “How was it?” I asked from the kitchen, trying to sound casual.

  “Excellent.”

  Excellent? “Did you see Kiki’s mom?”

  “She sat next to me.”

  I was tempted to say, Practically in your lap!

  “She wears a lot of perfume,” he said. “And she told me Lan means ‘orchid’ in Vietnamese.”

  “She is pretty,” I said to see what he’d say.

  “That she is,” he agreed. “Hey, I bought you Girls’ Guide. Even got it signed. That’s what took a while. And there was a car with a dead battery, so I stopped to help—”

  I was afraid he might say something else about Lovely Lan, so I interrupted. “I ordered dinner,” I said.

  “Good. What’d you order? I’m starving.”

  “Sushi.”

  “Sushi? On this freezing night, you ordered sushi?”

  “Sorry. I—”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” he said, backing down. I could tell he didn’t want to make me feel bad. We were still being extra gentle with each other, as if we were afraid the other was breakable. “Sushi is fine. And you got gyoza, right? And negimaki?”

  I nodded. “Check, check.”

  “Then we’re good to go.”

  “Except I already ate. Mind if I keep doing my homework?” I wasn’t up for a quiet dad-daughter meal, let alone an “ongoing conversation.” And it would be awkward if he wanted to discuss Dear Kate’s talk, since I’d just heard every word.

  “The speaker was big on family dinner—”

  “Dad, I have a ton of reading.”

  He shrugged, defeated.

  Mom would never have given up so easily. She also would have noticed my guilty expression and grilled me: “Hija, ¿qué te pasa?”

  • • •

  “Deep down, are we shallow?” I asked Kiki as we studied ourselves in her bedroom mirror the following week. I was wearing my new pink sweater and skirt, and Kiki was wearing a purple crochet dress. We were getting ready for the Valentine’s Day dance. The point was to look effortlessly incredible—a challenge that required incredible effort. We’d done our nails, blow-dried our hair, and were applying lip gloss, blush, and eye makeup.

  Kiki laughed. “No. Deep down, we are deep.”

  “I used to love Valentine’s Day,” I said. “Remember my red headband?”

  “How could I forget? You wore it every day in second grade.”

  I considered taking offense but decided not to. “And remember those giant valentines Mrs. Jenkins stapled to the wall, the red hearts on white doilies? She wrote our names with magic marker in her perfect handwriting—”

  “We sat on the floor, ‘crisscross applesauce,’” Kiki said, “and came up with words for each letter of everyone’s names.”

  “My words were sweet, open, fun, interesting, and awesome. The awesome was because hablo español.”

  “Mine were kind, imaginative, knowledgeable, and intelligent. The words barely fit. I was so proud.”

  “Now teachers act like February 14 is just another day. At least there’s the dance tonight.”

  “Exactly! So hurry up. It’s going to be fun!”

  “For you. Every guy you like automatically likes you back.”

  Kiki couldn’t even deny this. But I was hoping that for once, things might work out for me too. In December, I had hung out with a boy named Julian at a party that our girls’ school had with his boys’ school. We’d talked about graphic novels and had even exchanged numbers (his idea), and when I’d texted him afterward, he’d actually texted back. The first three times anyway.

  “Who do you like besides Julian?” Kiki asked offhandedly.

  “Why do I have to like anyone else?” I eyed her, my mouth open as I applied mascara. She didn’t answer, so I capped the mascara. “What? Did you talk to Julian about me?”

  “Derek did.”

  I took a breath. “What’d he say?”

  “Derek said that Julian said that he likes you, but he’s afraid to go out with you.”

  “Because I’m scary?”

  “Because he doesn’t want to ruin your friendship—”

  “Oh, please! I wouldn’t call us friends. And isn’t that usually the girl’s line?”

  “He also said that if you went out, he’d never be able to break up with you because…”

  “Seriously?” My stomach turned. “God, I am so sick of everyone feeling sorry for me! Isn’t it enough that I feel sorry for me?”

  “I thought you should know. So you don’t take it personally.”

  “Great. Thanks. Now I won’t feel bad when he avoids me tonight because, hey, I’ll understand.”

  “C’mon, Sof.”

  “No, Keeks. Why is he thinking about how hard it would be to dump me instead of how great it would be to go out with me?” I threw the mascara on the floor. “You know what? J is for Jerk.”

  “U is for Ugly!” Kiki joined in.

  “L is for Loser!” I felt bad turning on Julian—but he’d turned on me first.

  “I is for Idiot!”

  “A is for A-hole!” I said, surprising myself.

  “And N is for Neanderthal!” Kiki concluded with a smile.

  “It’s not like I wanted to get married,” I said. “Just hang out.”

  “Hang out or hook up?”

  “Maybe both.” I threw a pillow at her.

  • • •

  The dance sucked. Not for beautiful Kiki, Madison, and Natalie but for mediocre me. I danced only with girls, and when it was over, my Jerky Ugly Loser Idiot A-hole Neanderthal of an ex-crush took a taxi back to the Upper West Side with Britt, even though they’d just met.

  On Monday, I saw a valentine peeking out of my locker. Inside the envelope, it said:

  Happy Valentine’s Day to Sofia the Sweet from Kiki the Kind

  That was Sweet. And Kiki was Kind. Yet maybe what S really stood for was Starved for love.

  I never used to feel that way. According to Dad, I was the apple of my mother’s eye. But lately, I felt like moldy applesauce. It still seemed absurd that Dad and I were supposed to just get by without Mom, amble along without her as though her absence hadn’t drained the color out of everything.

  After school, I went online and googled “Dear Kate.” A pale pink website popped up, and I clicked around, watched a Love 101 video, skimmed an interview, and took a quiz. Then I saw: Contact me.

  My heart began pounding. I double clicked and there was a blank email with the address filled in.

  Should I start typing?

  What would I say?

  Maybe that I wished I could be happy again? And that I didn’t like feeling jealous of my friends?

  Everyone else had gotten her first kiss during summer camp or winter break or at last year’s bar and bat mitzvahs or even earlier playing spin the bottle. Kiki had already had three boyfriends. And while I didn’t want to kiss someone random just to get it over with, I also didn’t like feeling behind.

  I clicked on a few more links. There were book reviews, a Facebook fan page, a photo of a white, fluffy cat, and a black-and-white photo of a girl with braces and pigtails. Was that Dear Kate at my age? If so, she was cute.

  Cute? Now that was a word
I could do without. My friends said I was cute—and cute was better than not cute. But cute was not hot or beautiful.

  Pepper leaped onto my desk, stepping around two green ceramic turtles I’d made in third grade. He settled in beside me and revved up his purring motor. “Pepito,” I said, kissing him. “You are such a handsome boy.” Then I turned back to the computer, and my hands started typing.

  Dear Kate,

  My mother died ten months and one week ago, and I’m still not over it. I keep wishing things would go back to normal. I think some people, especially boys, are afraid to get close to me. (When it first happened, I sometimes cried when I shouldn’t have.) I’m still sad, but I don’t cry as much. (Maybe I don’t laugh as much either?) Anyway, I just really miss her. I’m also the only girl in my class who has never kissed a guy. I’m nervous about doing it right. I’m 14, so I’m way too old to be kissing my cat.

  Signed,

  Pathetic

  PS It feels dumb to write you about death and kisses in the same email. Sorry.

  I pressed Send and my insides tightened.

  What had I done? I opened my Sent Mail and read what I’d written. I wanted to gag. “Signed, Pathetic”? I was beyond pathetic! I was an immature idiot. And for Subject, had I really written: “Life, Death, and Kisses”? Ugh! Why hadn’t I pressed Delete?

  Too late.

  At least I hadn’t used my real name or address—just my screen name: Catlover99.

  I got up to make popcorn, and Pepper went with me, leaping onto the kitchen counter and peering at me from the sink. “Here,” I said, adjusting the faucet to a perfect trickle. He drank while the microwave made popping noises.

  I turned off the water, poured the popcorn into a bowl, and was back at my desk and halfway through my math homework when an icon on my screen started jumping, indicating a new message. It was probably spam. An email from a Nigerian widow who wanted to give me a million dollars in exchange for my bank account numbers. Or a drug company asking if I was satisfied with my “manhood.” Or some “friend” demanding I write ten people in five minutes to avoid horrendous luck.

  I read “Re: Life, Death and Kisses” and double clicked. An autoresponse, no doubt.

  I opened it.

  Oh. My. God.

  Dear Not Pathetic,

  I’m very sorry that your mom died and not at all surprised that you haven’t gotten “over” it. Losing your mother when you are young is so sad and so hard. At first, it feels like there’s a big hole in your life. But little by little, you learn how to step around the hole. Things will never go back to how they were, but you are finding a way to live with your loss. Be patient with yourself!

  As for being too old to kiss your cat, I still kiss my cat, and I just turned 46! In fact, my old, white cat is with me now, napping on a pile of letters on my desk.

  Trust me, you are not the only one in your class who has not kissed a guy. Please don’t worry about “doing it right.” You’ll figure it out, and there is no wrong way. Besides, boys don’t like girls who have perfected their technique; boys like girls who like them. What’s important isn’t doing it right anyway. It’s kissing the right boy at the right time.

  Kate

  PS I don’t always answer so fast, but my father died when I was young, so I know how difficult it is. While there is no shortcut through grief, here’s a strange parting thought: a mother dies only once, so you’ve already been through the very worst.

  Wow. It didn’t sound like an autoresponse! I was tempted to call Kiki or Dad, but then they’d ask me what I had written her, so forget it. I stared at the screen and reread the email. My mom had been big on thank-yous, so I pressed Reply and changed the Subject to “Thank You.”

  Dear Kate,

  Thank you for the advice! I will defiantly take it into consideration.

  Happy Valentine’s Day.

  Catlover

  PS Is that your cat on your website? Was that you with braces?

  I pressed Send, then reread my words. “Defiantly”?! I’d meant “definitely”! English teachers were always telling us to proofread, but I had a horrible habit of proofreading when it was too late.

  The icon started bouncing.

  You’re welcome. Happy V. Day to you too. Yes to both your questions.

  I sat back. Cool. I considered sending another thank-you but didn’t want to bug her. Who knew? I might need Dear Kate again someday.

  Dad came home with red tulips from the greengrocer on our corner, and I helped him make dinner. Neither of us was a Top Chef, but I could bake box cakes, and he could make steak and blueberry-banana smoothies. That evening, I boiled water, and Dad dropped in some heart-shaped ravioli he’d bought at Zabar’s.

  It was kind of depressing actually. But we both knew we’d been overdoing it on ordering in. Deliverymen bicycled to our home with everything from moussaka to moo shu pork. And when we called Saigon Sun, Kiki’s mom always tucked in something extra: spring rolls in the summer, curry soup in the winter. Last time, she put in free chicken satay with a note that said, “Enjoy!! Lan.” Under the exclamation marks, instead of dots, she’d drawn little hearts. I was tempted to throw the note away before Dad even saw it.

  After our home-cooked dinner, I read about Mesopotamia and wrote 150 words comparing two Shakespearean love sonnets. At ten, I went into the living room and announced, “I’m going to bed.”

  Dad looked startled and closed his laptop halfway. Weird. That’s what I did when I didn’t want him to know what I was doing.

  “Good night,” I said and looked at Pepper curled on the sofa, his paw over his head as though he’d had a hard day. I picked him up and slung him over my shoulder. “I’m taking my valentine with me.”

  “You do that.” Dad smiled.

  I thought about Kiki and Madison, who both had real valentines. According to Kiki, there were also two girls in our class, Steff and Terra, who were going out with each other and having lots of “sleepovers” while their parents had no clue. Steff told Kiki she was bi but that Terra was “just” gay. How could they even be so sure? And what did they do in the dark? It was more than I could think about.

  I was glad I had Pepper—and that Dad wasn’t out on a hot date with Lan.

  • • •

  “What do you think of this shirt?” Dad asked in the kitchen the next Friday.

  “I like it,” I said.

  “Mom used to shop with me.”

  “I know. You did okay.”

  “Good, because I also bought it in blue.” Dad and I never talked about clothes. He wasn’t exactly a trendsetter, and at work, he wore a doctor’s smock.

  “How’s school?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Who got the lead in Guys and Dolls?”

  “Madison and Natalie both got big parts. You know Madison—she’s the ridiculously pretty blond.” In my mind, Kiki and Madison could both be models. Maybe even Natalie, with her freckles and cinnamon curls.

  “Is that…hard for you?”

  “I didn’t even audition. And I’m okay with being a stagehand.” Was I?

  “Where’s Kiki these days?”

  “She has a boyfriend.” It wasn’t the first time Kiki had been spending a lot of time with a guy—and a lot less with me.

  “Does Natalie have a boyfriend?”

  “Daaad!” I made a face. Why was he asking so many questions all of a sudden? “She has bigger news,” I said. “Remember when her dad lost his job? Well, she applied to public schools—and LaGuardia took her.”

  “Impressive,” Dad said. “So she’s leaving HSG?”

  “No one can believe it.”

  “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Dad, this interview is over!” I went to my room and shut the door. I didn’t want to tell him I’d probably never have a b
oyfriend.

  Alone in my room, I opened my laptop.

  Dear Kate,

  It’s me again, the one who’s never kissed a boy. My BFF has a new BF, and I guess I have a question that is totally confidential. I’ve been noticing how beautiful a lot of my friends are, and since no guys ever like me, I was wondering if there’s a chance I might be bi or lesbian. I know that’s okay and everything, but I don’t think I really want to be.

  Wondering

  I pressed Send—then felt instantly worse. Why in God’s name did I write that? I wasn’t conflicted about this! I just got a tiny bit confused sometimes because my friends always talked about this stuff. But why had I put it into words?

  Maybe because writing Dear Kate was so easy. I could type anything. Dumb stuff. Deep stuff. Whatever was on my mind. It didn’t feel real. I shuddered to think what would happen if my email ever got forwarded or something.

  It was too late to take back what I wrote, but to be safe, I opened the Sent file and pressed Delete, then went into Recently Deleted Mail and pressed Permanently Delete.

  As I was finishing my homework, the icon started jumping.

  Dear Wondering,

  It’s normal to be curious and to notice how pretty your friends are, but don’t be in a hurry to define or label yourself. This is not something you need to struggle to figure out anyway. It’s something to discover naturally over time. It’s not a choice or a decision. It just is. And everyone should love who she is! For now, the fact that you find some of your friends beautiful doesn’t mean you’re gay or bi; it means you have eyes.

  Kate

  PS As for your busy BFF, invite her to do something—just the two of you. And someday when you’re the one with a BF, remember to make time for old friends.

  When I’m the one with the BF? Yeah, right!

  • • •

  “Don’t forget to call Grandma Pat for her birthday,” Dad said. “I’m going out to dinner.” I wondered why he didn’t say more. If it was with Lan, would he say so? I wanted to ask Kiki, but she hadn’t returned my last few texts.

  “I won’t,” I said. Hey, I was grateful for all the family I had left: one father at home, one grandfather in Spain, one grandmother in Florida. Sometimes, I envied Madison—she was always going to family reunions. And because of divorce, instead of four grandparents, she had six.