Laney and Maryann greet Carver with an open spigot of sap-drenched charm. Nigel, Mrs. St. Paul, and Mom remain in the reception area with us. Maryann introduces herself to Mom while I cringe and feign interest in filing folders alphabetically behind the reception desk.
“What are you doing tonight?” Laney asks Carver through a smile that’s supposed to look casual but is clearly fake.
“I’m going to Quimby’s with Natalie.” Score! I think. I realize I’m being petty, but he’s doing something with me. Na, na, na, na, na!
“You girls are welcome to go along,” Mom says. Perhaps she has inhaled too much ether.
Wait, that’s not it. Mom thinks Maryann is an honor student and a responsible treasurer for the Good Samaritan Society (because of the pre-slumber party lie I told). Mom thinks these girls are a good influence, despite their go-go-dancing-length clothing.
Laney faces my mom. “Thank you, Mrs. Kaplan. That’s so thoughtful.” Phony.
Mom turns her attention to Maryann now. “And thank you, Maryann, for inviting Natalie to your slumber party.” What? Am I like six or something? I am now shoving files into the filing cabinet, not even paying attention to alphabetization. This is so unfair. She won’t let me drive even Kirby and Nina around in the car.
“Natalie?” Mom asks.
“Me?” I ask back. For a minute, I thought she was pretending I wasn’t even standing here, so that she could monopolize my social life.
“Drive safely.” Mom gently leads Nigel and Mrs. St. Paul into the exam room and gives me a this-is-so-great-that-I’m-a-cool-enough-mom-to-let-you-drive-with-your-friends-in-the-car look.
I give her a could-you-be-more-blind-to-the-fact-that-I’d-rather-drive-in-the-car-with-a-load-of-dirty-jockstrap-wearing-red-assed-monkeys-than-with-Laney-and-Maryann-in-the-backseat? look.
Now Carver, Laney, and Maryann occupy the reception area. They are waiting for me to happily accompany them to the car.
The legendary German shepherd Rin Tin Tin was able to survive a World War I bombing and then go on to star in twenty-six films; I can certainly try to forge my way through this outing. “I need a few minutes,” I tell them. “I’ll meet you outside by the car.”
In the bathroom, I splash my face with cool water from the tap and look in the mirror. My cheeks could use some blush, my invisible eyelashes could use some mascara, and my pale lips could use some lipstick. At least there’s a flash of blue coming from my hair. And this is no time for self-deprecation.
Laney’s just a person wearing a bitchy mask. Or a bitch wearing a human mask, no offense to the female canines of the world. Either way, I can’t let her get to me.
There’s also the issue of Carver. He’s either going to prove himself to be a jerk or not. It’s worth finding out, because my brain and my body are in an intense wrestling match: my hormones really don’t care that much about the pot smoking; they just want me to get some action. My brain, or the part of my brain that wants my room back, is repelled by the idea that he might be a pothead and is still leery of him.
When I get outside, Carver, Laney, and Maryann are standing around the car. I climb in first and unlock the back doors, watching through the rearview mirror as they load into the backseat, Laney getting in first, Maryann following. Carver goes around to the passenger seat to sit next to me in the front, earning a point for the bodily team. Go h’mones!
Carver and Maryann fasten their seat belts. Laney doesn’t and looks straight ahead. I glance at her in the rearview. “Laney, I could get a ticket if you don’t wear your seat belt.” With a dramatic sigh, Laney fastens up.
We drive out of the lot and onto 101. I’ll bet Mom has a vision of me tootling around with a carload of honor society members, the future Ivy Leaguers of America. She probably thinks we are engrossed in some Mensa-inspired trivia as we drive. I can hear her now: “Natalie, don’t answer the question about the theory of relativity while you’re driving! Wait until you are at a complete stop.” She is so deluded!
Maryann sniffs. “It stinks in here.” Little does she know that she and Laney are sitting on the hair-infested area typically reserved for Pip, Otto, and Southpaw. Vindication at last.
“I wasn’t even sure you had a driver’s license,” says Laney. She knows I drive.
“I like to walk,” I say, leaving out the part about Mom not letting me use the car if I’m not doing her some favor.
We turn toward the train tracks. “Where are we going? Quimby’s is back there,” Laney says.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you.” I peer at her again in the rearview mirror. “We have to pick up my grandma first.” I may not have the strength to scare a flea off a hairy flank, but my grandma can instill fear in anyone. Even these two in the backseat.
A pup prematurely separated from its mother is doomed.
—Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog
Grandma is waiting at the curb when we get to my house. I’m not running too late tonight, but I’m pretty sure the extra passengers in the car will annoy her.
Carver steps out to help Grandma into the car. “I do not need help!” She waves him away, but he stays there until she’s safely inside.
Grandma turns her body to glare into the backseat. “Vhy are they here?” Looking at them in the rearview mirror again, I can see that Laney and Maryann are caught off guard, scared even. Just a minute ago, they were poised, posture perfect. Now they are slumped down a bit; their skin hangs more loosely from their tight faces.
Staying true to character, Grandma highlights each upcoming turn toward our destination with a glass-shattering “Here!” and a firm pointing of her finger.
“Stop!” she shouts when I veer the car into the Elks’ lodge parking lot. Grandma turns to the backseat and says, “Don’t be late.”
Carver ignores Grandma’s insistence that she walk to the entrance alone and follows her through the door of the Elk’s lodge. Chivalry is not dead! The hormones are in the lead! It’s now 2 and 0.
When we pull into the small overloaded parking lot of Quimby’s, Maryann makes an observation which I didn’t think her capable of. “Looks like you have to park on the street.”
Since the car is at a standstill, Laney opens the door. “Why don’t you drop us off?” She and Maryann get out. “C’mon, Carver.”
“I’ll go with Natalie.” He is saving me from humiliation. And although I am no stranger to being humiliated, it sure feels good to have someone on my side. A big pom-pom twirl for the team who scored another point! Yeah, hormones! Win! Win! Win!
Laney shuts the door and stands frozen with Maryann as I step on the gas and drive out of the parking lot. Thoughts of stranding them here come to mind, but instead, I search for a parking place on the street.
“Sorry about last night,” Carver says.
I spot a space along the curb and pull into it. “Why?”
“Because you probably felt uncomfortable,” he answers.
Am I that easy to read? “What makes you say that?” I turn off the engine.
“You ran home, number one. And you didn’t smoke any.”
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“No, but I thought you’d have a problem with me doing it, since you didn’t.”
“I do wonder why you took a puff and then stopped.” My thumbs wrestle each other on the steering wheel.
We both look straight ahead and watch a group of black-clad kids from my high school jaywalk across the street and over to Quimby’s. Carver then turns to me. “So you want to know why I didn’t have more?”
I turn to him now and our eyes meet. He says, “I didn’t want to disappoint you.” That totally sounded like something I would say. Maybe we are more alike than I realize.
“Why do you care if you disappoint me?” I ask.
“Because I like you.” He likes me. The sweat above my upper lip reappears like someone Etch A Sketched it there. “I’ve smoked weed before. It takes me outside of myself.”
I have
no idea what he means. “Why would you want to be outside of yourself?”
“It’s something that frees me, lets my mind relax.” Isn’t that what yoga is for? “I sort of get that feeling with you. The feeling that I can be myself without having to think too hard about it.”
“But I’ve been rude to you. And we haven’t spent that much time together.”
“You forgave me for feeding your dog chocolate. You took care of my finger.” He raises it for me to see. “You stole campfire with me.” He leans in closer to me, the warmth of his breath fogging up any common sense left in my brain. “I’m comfortable with you.”
We’ll be connected if I so much as pucker. And because the hormones are in the lead and I’m relaxed and Pixie has just twisted herself into lotus position for a session of meditation, my eyes close and it happens. Lips touch, a little moist and very soft. The tip of his tongue roves over to mine. We tilt our heads for a better fit. His hand brushes against my cheek and eases down to cradle my chin.
If anyone ever asks me what it’s like to fall in love, I will describe this moment, right now, when I can feel a part of myself letting go, falling, to meet this other person halfway.
There’s a tap on the window. Carver and I pull slowly away from each other.
Laney and Maryann are motioning us to get out of the car. I let out a big and breathy sigh. Lust is very real when you are up close and feeling it.
I lean over and whisper into Carver’s ear. “We’d better get out of the car.”
He whispers back, his lips touching the lobe of my ear. “Okay, but just so you know, I’d rather stay here.”
When we step out onto the sidewalk, Laney stands still, like a statue. She’s probably shocked to see that I’ve kissed someone and maybe even more shocked that the someone I was kissing is someone she likes. Carver makes an effort to walk next to me.
I look at my watch before we go into Quimby’s. “I’m going to the used-album aisle. Let’s meet back at the car at seven-thirty.” I never knew one kiss could arouse so much confidence!
I spend the entire Quimby’s time with Carver, flipping through the comfort of albums. I don’t pay attention to the Queen album or the Janis Joplin album. No, I am wrapped up in this guy who is standing next to me. I don’t even mind that Laney and Maryann keep hovering, popping their heads into the aisle to spy on us. They couldn’t be more obvious if they were holding binoculars and wearing camouflage.
Carver’s flawed, but he’s honest. And I pulsate when I’m next to him.
Maryann and Laney are already waiting for us when Carver and I get to the car. I reach into my backpack for my keys.
“We’re here on time,” Laney snaps, as if I inconvenienced them by making them wait. I shake my bag a few times and listen for the jingle that always helps me find my keys. No jingle.
“Maybe you left them in the car,” says Maryann. She stands on tiptoes with Laney and they look through the passenger window.
Laney releases a hideous witch cackle. “I guess you were too distracted to take them out.”
I peer into the car and see the keys dangling from the ignition. I look at my watch. Five minutes to get Grandma.
“Aggh!” I yell. “I can’t believe this!”
“I can.” Laney crosses her arms over her cantaloupes.
“No big deal,” says Carver. “Just call your mom. She has an extra set, right?”
He doesn’t completely understand my mom just yet.
“No matter what, I’ve got to run over to the lodge so my grandma won’t be wondering where we are.” She is going to go ballistic.
“I’m fast; I’ll do it. We’ll just wait till you get there. In the meantime, you call your mom and get the keys,” Carver says. Without a response from me, he starts running down the sidewalk toward the lodge a few blocks down.
Laney looks at me like I am a pathetic lawn gnome. “C’mon, Maryann. We’ll find a way home.” They swivel around and swing toward Quimby’s.
I reach inside my bag for my cell. It’s likely that I deserve all this. I mean, I lied to Mom, trespassed. I’ve even allowed myself to have feelings for Carver. The universe must be punishing me. Either that or Fu-Fu is not getting her share of rubbing.
I press the silver square buttons on the phone to call Mom at home and prepare for the you’re-so-irresponsible-I-can’t-trust-you-if-you-can’t-even-keep-track-of-keys-you’re-never-driving-the-car-again lecture from Mom. She’ll remind me that Grandpa used to carry a spare set of keys in his pocket. Grandpa’s walk always chimed with the jangle of spare keys.
Thankful for the image of him with his bulked-up trouser pockets, I turn off the phone before Mom has a chance to answer. Maybe remembering is not the solution to forgetfulness, or, as Mom would call it, irresponsibility. Maybe a good backup plan is the key.
A dog can’t achieve biochemical balance without daily exercise.
—Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog
I hardly qualify as Balto running on all fours through the freezing temperatures of Alaska, delivering medicine to diphtheria victims, but the six-minute five-block run to the clinic leaves me panting and feeling victorious.
Vernon unlocks the door, wearing his latex flea-treatment gloves.
“Hey, Nat. What’re you doing here?”
“I forgot something.”
“C’mon in, then.” He lifts his hands in the air. “When I was your age, I never imagined a normal night would involve giving a bearded collie a flea dip.”
“It’s a noble pursuit, Vernon,” I say. “The dogs of the world are lucky to have you.”
“Thanks,” he says with a chuckle.
“I’ll just be a second.” In Mom’s office I open the top drawer for the spare keys. Cornered inside the desk drawer is a picture of me when I was about eight years old. I’m smiling a grin of big pre-orthodontic awkward teeth and holding Troy in my lap while he licks my chin.
The picture makes me want to cry. No matter how much I try to escape her, I still feel trapped inside that little girl.
I grab the keys out of the drawer and run back into the reception area.
“You get what you need?” Vernon asks. If he only knew.
“Yep. Have a good night.”
I’m officially eight minutes late now. Never before have I been so grateful that I wear running shoes. They are the superhero cape of my wardrobe.
I sprint back to the car, kick it into gear, and zoom to the lodge.
A cluster of elderly people stand outside, sipping from Styrofoam cups. Carver is among them, talking. Grandma is listening along with the others. She doesn’t even notice the rumbling of the car as I edge up to the curb.
Carver notices me, though. Grandma allows him to take her cup and her purse and they both walk toward the Land Cruiser. I’ve never seen Grandma surrender anything, especially her purse. One would think it was a bag of diamonds the way she holds on to it.
I’m even more shocked when he opens the door for her and she doesn’t protest.
“You are late,” she says to me.
This may be the very first time in my life that I’ve heard my grandma utter an understatement.
When we get home, I check in with Mom, who turns her light off when I leave the room.
I’m down to my last lie. (Getting the spare keys from the clinic equals one.) Tonight is going to be two for two, because I allow myself to accept the invitation from Carver to go up to the room, his room.
Carrying the turntable, the speakers, and some albums, I quietly make a few trips from my room to the steps outside. Carver meets me at the bottom of the stairs each trip and transports the goods upstairs.
After we set up the turntable and speakers, Carver and I lie on the hard wooden floor, looking up at the shimmering specks on the ceiling created by the disco ball. My thoughts about Laney and pot smoking are on the ceiling, dots I can no longer connect because all I care about right now is being here with Carver. Our shoulders graze and swap messages in bod
y heat.
Listening to a record is much different than hearing a CD or a tape. The needle never leaves the vinyl, so the pause between songs is filled with anticipation.
“This is such a great song. Jethro Tull’s best,” Carver says. Lead singer Ian Anderson, backed by lively acoustic guitar and flute, sings:
One day you’ll wake up in the present day—
A million generations removed from expectations
Of being who you really want to be.
I could request a soundtrack that’s slow, something that would evoke romance and passion, but this is oddly perfect. The music fits the nimble specks of light being projected by the disco ball.
“These are the albums you’d want if you were stranded on a desert island,” Carver says through a sigh.
“Yeah, I guess I’m the island my dad deserted,” I say. “What about your dad?”
“My dad is still having an affair with a boat. He’s a journalist for a travel magazine. But that just gives him an excuse to sail. I don’t see him much, either. At least your dad left you some music.”
Our thumbs rub together. The slow motion of Carver leaning toward me suggests the beginning of a kiss. I close my eyes, allowing his lips to surprise mine. We are connected, nose to nose, chin to chin. I try to memorize the moment, trace the tingle of my fingertips down to my ankles. My bones disappear. There is only tenderness.
One kiss and our heads roll slowly away from each other, our eyes back to the ceiling, but our hands keep holding on.
Grooming a dog for vanity’s sake violates its personal space.
—Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog
Brett Holifax’s coming at me like a fish darting for food does not count as a kiss. It happened during freshman year and it was a one-way kiss that was unlike any fantasy I’d had of what a kiss should be. It was slobbery, reckless, and unwanted.
Now that I’ve had a real kiss, I make a mental note of what qualifies as a good kiss: A good kiss is soft. A good kiss has a soundtrack, a song or a sound that can trigger the memory of the kiss. A good kiss is mutual. A good kiss is pure, performed exclusively as a kiss, without the pressure of being felt up, or down. A good kiss defines itself immediately and requires no debate about whether or not it is or isn’t a good kiss; it simply is, without a doubt, a good kiss.
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