Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love

by Maryrose Wood

  Dmitri

  “It’s over,” Kat moans. “All that work. Wasted! Argosy Records, ruined! Everything’s ruined.”

  She puts her head on the table and pounds her fist. Jess and I each grab our milk shakes before they spill.

  “Why? Why can’t everything happen the way it’s supposed to? Why why why why why?” Kat laments, not caring if the whole Moonbeam hears.

  I have a split-second vision of her dad on his wedding anniversary, wailing and clutching a glass of vodka. It must be something to see.

  “Kat,” says Jess delicately. “It’s really awful. But at least he apologized, isn’t that one positive thing? It was all just a mistake.”

  “Why why why why why?” is what comes out, muffled and damp.

  “Do you HAVE to have an accompanist?” I ask. I know it’s a dumb question, but the scientific method has taught me not to take the obvious for granted. “I mean, I know that’s how it’s usually done, but—do you have to?”

  Kat looks up at me, red eyed, wet cheeked. “What do you mean?” she growls. “A classical recital program, solo? That’s insane! It’s crazy, nobody does that! That’s bleep bleep bleepsky bleeping BLEEP !” She hurls this last stream of profanity at Dmitri’s letter.

  “We’re just trying to HELP, Kat!” chides Jess. “We have like, four whole days to solve this problem. You can’t give up!”

  “So what do you suggest?” Kat asks bitterly.

  Jess smiles her Joan of Arc smile. I hear her mental binder snapping open to a new, freshly tabbed section. “For starters,” she says, sounding unstoppably efficient, “I think I should talk to Dmitri.”

  “We need to talk,” says Randall.

  Uh-oh. This can’t be a good sign.

  Randall and I, on our first maybe-we’re-hooked-up-now excursion, are strolling through the famed arch at Washington Square Park, where Fifth Avenue screeches to a halt and the party called Greenwich Village officially begins.

  “What did you mean by mutual rescue?” asks Randall. “That’s what you said to me, remember? Right before we—before you—you know.”

  Mutual Rescue! I did say that. Is that what’s worrying him?

  “Oh, that’s nothing,” I say. I wonder if we should be holding hands. Isn’t that what girls and their boyfriend-like boyfriends do when they walk in the park? “Mutual Rescue, it has to do with the science fair project I’ve been working on.”

  “With Matthew?” he asks quickly. “That’s the one about your crush, right? The Search for X?”

  Okay, now je comprends tout. He’s worried that I still like Matthew. How cute! How boyfriend-like! “My crush on Matthew is over,” I say, quite convincingly. “We have this science project to finish, but we’re just friends. In fact,” I say, feeling a little gossip-guilt but wanting to offer as much reassurance as I can, “I know who Matthew really likes!”

  “I do, too,” he says. “He’s one of my best friends, remember?”

  Whoops. So all that time I was mooning over Matthew, Randall knew it was hopeless and respected my feelings anyway. Huh. Another mental point awarded to the Randinator.

  Randall stops walking. “I wanted to be sure you meant it,” he says, plain and simple. “When you kissed me. That you weren’t just trying to make Matthew jealous or something.”

  Silly Randall. Silly, silly, silly Randall. As if I would do something like that. As if.

  “I wasn’t,” I say. I take Randall’s hand. It’s smooth and warm. Fingers entwine. He smiles at me and tucks our joined hands into his jacket pocket.

  But was I?

  Matthew&Felicia . . .

  2-gethah . . .

  4-evah . . .

  Shaddup, already! The Love Boat sails tomorrow. The Romantic Setting is on its way. Just gotta hang on till then—

  “Hey, George,” says Randall. “How ya doin’, George?”

  The Washington Arch features not one, but two statues of George Washington. On the east pillar is Washington at war; on the west, Washington at peace. I’m facing the eastern statue, and for a second it looks like the Father of Our Country is heaving a big, exasperated sigh, aimed right at me.

  You think winning independence from the British was hard? I want to say to him. Try overthrowing the tyranny of X!

  King George III was a pussycat compared to this!

  By rights New York City should have at least another week or two of spring, but by the next day, Saturday, the climate has prematurely shifted, in a worrisome, global-warming kind of way into hot and humid no-coat season. At least, on dry land it has.

  “Bring a sweater,” my mom says. “It’s always chilly on the water.” I take this as the best possible sign. It may be no-coat weather in the city, but it’s always jacket season at sea. No wonder the rich buy boats.

  And the et sweatera idea is perfect, because the dress I finally decided on is a groovy retro halter-top number, a satiny green so dark it’s almost black, with a wide pleated sash and full skirt—only eighteen bucks at the vintage clothing store down the street from the Unbound Page. A pair of black kitten heels—that’s what they’re called, really!—a pretty black lambswool sweater and a beaded clutch purse from my mom’s bottomless closet, and I am a vision.

  Mom walks me downstairs and makes the surprising and extravagant gesture of springing for a taxi. “You look much too pretty to take the bus,” she says, sticking her arm in the air. A yellow chariot pulls up almost instantaneously.

  “Bon voyage!” says Mom, tucking the cab fare into my purse and taking one last look at me in my glamour getup. She carefully pinned me in so the halter bra won’t shift around and show straps. She also helped with my hair, which is piled up on my head and sprayed into perfect immobility.

  “Felicia, honey,” Mom says, “you are developing a very nice figure.”

  Furball alert canceled, at least for tonight. “Thank you,” I say, and then whisper in her ear, “I must get it from you, hotsy mama!” She laughs, and I think the old girl even blushes a little. I smooch her on the cheek and climb into the cab.

  “North Cove Yacht Harbor, please,” I say, oh-so-elegant. “By Battery Park. I have a boat to catch.”

  15

  The Fourth Experiment Leaves Us All at Sea, as Kittens and Dawgs Get Shipwrecked by the Most Fearsome X Mojo of All!

  The very first person I run into at the North Cove Yacht Harbor is Matthew. He is gorgeous. Correction: The sky above New York Harbor is a tropical Hawaiian blue, the late-afternoon sun sends long, sparkling tendrils of light stretching across the water like diamond-studded taffy, the pristine gazillion-dollar yachts bob up and down like happy pampered pets, the breeze is cool and smells of salt and men’s cologne. Careful, I tell myself as he approaches, inoculating my heart against the X-forces that eddy around us, invisible and all-powerful. It’s the Romantic Setting that’s heart-stoppingly gorgeous, not Matthew, Matthew is exactly the same as he ever was. . . .

  “Wow, Felicia,” he says, sounding stunned. “You look beautiful!”

  Why why why why why? I lament inwardly. Why am I here to woo Randall, and Matthew to woo Jess, when all along it was supposed to be me and him? Him and me?

  But “play it cool” will be my motto for the evening, because the Romantic Setting has us in its clutches already, and we’ve got a whole island to boogie round before the night is through. I adjust my sunglasses against the glare and nod my thanks, smiling my best Italian-movie-star half-smile.

  “Which one of these rowboats is Trip’s?” I ask wittily.

  “All of them!” proclaims Trip, appearing behind us in a flawless white linen suit. “But I recommend—this one.”

  Trip gestures across the marina, to the prettiest, not to mention biggest, yacht that’s moored in the whole North Cove. “The Betty Johnston!” he says. “She’s the apple of my daddy’s eye. Do I mean my mom, or the boat? I’ll let you decide! Betty, Junior, meet my friends.”

  Alors! The gazillionaire and his wife! Snatches of the Gilligan’s Isl
and theme song play in my head. The Mathises look like people you’d see in a magazine. Fit, tan, with beautiful clothes. Trip’s mom has an actual gauzy kerchief tied around her upswept hair. Talk about Italian movie star! It’s the most glamorous thing I’ve ever seen.

  “My dear!” exclaims Betty to me. “Aren’t you delicious! What a knockout dress. I had one exactly like it when I was your age!” Her laugh tinkles like bells. I could tell her, if I weren’t so star-struck by her fabulous-ness, that if she’s in the habit of donating her old clothes to thrift shops there’s a good chance this IS her dress.

  Junior shakes Matthew’s hand. Trip is shielding his eyes from the sun, scanning the crowds on the marina.

  “Hey!” Trip yells. “Over here!” He’s waving, and after a moment we see at whom. It’s Deej. She’s skittering across the plaza in sky-high lemon-colored heels, looking every which way for Trip’s voice and giving her dress one final, perfecting tug in back before returning his wave. Her outfit is da bomb, her cocoa-cinnamon skin set off by a creamy yellow sheath. Her hair, usually pulled straight back and slicked against her head, is wrapped up high in a boldly patterned scarf, Egyptian goddess–style. Total effect: teen-supermodel love child of Nefertiti and Jackie Onassis. Her smile, when she sees Trip, is dazzling.

  “Harrrrrold,” she purrs, running up and giving him a peck on the cheek. “I got stuck on that downtown train, I was afraid I was gonna miss the boat!” She turns and sees me. “Whooo, F’leesha!” she cries, delighted. “You are looking fine!”

  “Mother, Dad, this is my special friend, Doris Jean,” says Trip. “The young lady I told you about.”

  “The exchange student?” asks Betty, carefully, not revealing for a heartbeat that perhaps she had been expecting a shy Swiss heiress who skis with her father, the ambassador, on school holidays and summers at the family home in Majorca.

  “Visiting student is what they call it. Mr. and Mrs. Mathis, I am so very happy to meet you!” exclaims Deej, with charm to spare. “And please call me Deej. It’s a nickname, but it’s what I go by. My grandma’s name is Doris, like mine, so they gotta call me something or nobody can tell who’s talking to who.”

  “I sympathize completely!” says Harold “Junior” Mathis. “Every man in my family is named Harold. We’ve been through Hal, Harry, Hardy—finally we gave up and started using numbers, so I go by Junior and my son here got stuck with Trip.”

  “It suits him,” says Deej, giving her Special Friend a sweet nudge.

  “Because so often he is one, don’t you find?” laughs Betty.

  Deej giggles and slips her slender arm through Trip’s. “You and Deej will have dinner with us, I hope?” says Betty to her son. “Captain’s table, you can’t refuse!”

  “Of course, Mom. Have I told you lately you’re a peach?” Trip takes his mother’s arm and the three of them, elbows linked, saunter together toward the boat named after Betty, laughing in perfect three-part harmony: tinkling soprano, jazzy alto, and roughened but still boyish tenor.

  The bass of this quartet, Junior, has stopped to light a cigar. He stands on the marina, smoking, and Matthew and I walk past him as we approach the boarding ramp of the Betty Johnston.

  “Thanks so much for having us, Mr. Mathis,” I say. “This is amazing.”

  Trip’s dad exhales a fragrant puff, politely aiming it away from me. “You’re all such nice kids, I can see that already,” he says, his voice sounding strangely gruff. “It makes me gladder than you can possibly know.”

  Matthew and I smile and start to move on, but Mr. Mathis abruptly turns back to us. “Don’t ever think there are no second chances,” he says, hoarse and urgent. “Of course there are. That’s all life is, one second chance after another after another.” He blows out another puff. “Thank God.”

  I hear it now. It’s not the smoke that’s making his voice gruff. He’s actually choked up.

  “Thank you,” I say again. And Matthew and I step on board the Love Boat.

  Randall’s already there, milling about the lower deck near the ramp. It’s sweet that he’s waiting for me, but it also means he sees me arriving with Matthew. And what of it? I can’t help it if we happened to show up at the same time, and it was, honestly, pure coincidence, even though I don’t usually believe in coincidences.

  “Hey,” he says with a nervous smile. I have to say, this Romantic Setting mojo is unbelievable. I’ve never seen Randall looking so swell. In fact, I’ve scarcely noticed how Randall looks before, even when I was kissing him. But tonight he is a handsome, lean, and light-footed Dawg in a chocolate brown suit and colorful striped tie. He’s had a haircut, too, and his thick black hair is kind of spiked and hipster-looking. There may be hair product involved. In sum, Randall is a cupcake.

  “You look fantastic,” he says, taking my hand.

  “You too,” I say, meaning it.

  “Hey, buddy!” says Matthew. “Cool boat, right?”

  “Awesome. You gotta see the upstairs, the whateverit’s-called—”

  “Crow’s nest?”

  “No, that’s only in pirate ships, dude!”

  “Oh man! Think we’ll see any pirates?”

  And so the happy Dawg banter begins. I long to see Jess and Kat and check out their fab outfits, so I excuse myself from inspecting the Betty J with the Dawgs and wander onto the main deck. I spot Kat on the upper level, gazing moodily out to sea. She’s wearing a long-sleeved, high-necked, loose-fitting, black shroud, I guess you could call it, but she looks gorgeous anyway, pale and severe. I see Jacob up there, too, looking right at home on a private yacht, which is not surprising considering his famous Mother Thespian and all.

  Then, on the far side of the main deck, across from where I’m standing, I spot an adorable auburn-haired Kitten who’s wearing, get this, practically the same dress as me. Not exactly the same, because mine is a halter top and Jess’s has cap sleeves with a heart-shaped neckline. And hers is actually a navy blue, so dark it’s almost black, but unless you’re standing in bright light you can hardly tell the difference.

  We hug and squeal about the dresses. I’m about to joke that Trip’s mom must have given away a lot of clothes over the years, but Jess beats me to the conversational punch.

  “I brought a guest!” she says.

  Is her older brother home from the Peace Corps? I can’t imagine who else she’d bring.

  So I start to ask her, “Is your brother home from—” and then I see Jess’s “guest.”

  Her brooding, tormented “guest,” who’s staring gloomily over the water, like Mr. April from the Depressed Russian Pianists pinup calendar.

  “Uh, Jess?” I say, pulling her away to a private spot behind the lifeboats. I try not to sound like I think she’s gone wacko. “What is Dmitri doing here?”

  “Trip said we could bring a guest, so I did!” she says, all blithe and normal-acting. Well, yeah, but since all the Kittens and Dawgs were invited anyway, there was sort of no need to bring anyone. At least, that’s what the rest of us, the NOT CRAZY people, had concluded.

  “Dmitri . . . is . . . your . . . guest?” I want to give her time to really hear how mental this is.

  “I’m trying to help Kat!” she chirps. “I want to show him how important it is that he NOT back out of her recital! She’s SO upset about it!”

  I glance up again at Kat, who does seem to be in mourning. Jess prattles madly, gaining speed as she goes. “Lucky that Trip’s mother is on the board of Carnegie Hall, that’s how I finally convinced him to come. Fee, it’s perfect. We’re on a boat! He HAS to hear me out, where else can he go? And Kat is going to play for everyone after dinner. Once he sees how incredible she is in performance, how AWFUL it would be if she had to cancel her recital . . .”

  I hear Jess’s words. They’re fine words, all in perfect standard English. I just don’t believe them. I say nothing. My dubious look speaks for itself.

  “I was thinking of Kat! Really!”

  My dubiousness is taking on i
ntergalactic proportions. There has never been a more “I don’t THINK so!” expression on anyone’s face than there is on mine at this moment.

  “You invited Dmitri,” I say. She looks at me, the picture of innocence.

  “To the party.” She’s still not cracking.

  “On the BOAT?!!!”

  They say every criminal wants to be caught, and this seems to be true of Jess, whose cheeks suddenly turn as pink as Johnny Depp’s lips. “Ohmigod, Fee!” Jess says, the truth gurgling forth. “I know, I’m INSANE! But have you ever, ever, ever seen anything like him? EVER?”

  “JESS! He’s like, THIRTY!” We are struggling not to shout, since Dmitri is standing on the other side of the lifeboats.

  “I KNOW! I know nothing will happen!” I watch, helpless, as Jess plunges the remaining distance into kookooland. “I just thought it would be amazing to hang out with him! Especially tonight! It’s so—I mean, the water, and the sunset and everything. You know?”

  Of course I know.

  Jess, like the rest of us, is now helpless, captive, a willing victim of (insert Terrifying Horror-Movie Sound Track Music here)—

  The Romantic Setting! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!

  The most fearsome X-mojo of all!

  Dinner on the Betty Johnston makes the multi-ethnic gourmet fare at the Pound look like warmed-over Mickey D’s. Five-star restaurant fare is one thing—what else would the Mathises offer, hardtack and scurvy pills?—but we are a tad surprised when champagne is served, since we know Trip is now a nondrinking kind of dude and the rest of us are, more or less, fourteen. But his parents are here so it must be okay, and we each take a little glass, even Trip. It is ultradelicious, bubbly and subtly flavored, like carbonated almond juice.

  Dmitri doesn’t stop at one glass, and the more he drinks, the more he seems to be pouring his heart out to Jess. The two of them are having a very intense-looking conversation. I send Jess a psychic message not to forget to argue Kat’s case about the recital before her Kittenbrain gets completely boggled by Dmitri-X and champagne.

  Trip and Deej are at one end of the table with Trip’s parents. I’m sitting with Randall, and Kat has become the focal point of Jacob’s gallantry, which she endures. And poor Matthew. The odd man out. Jess having an X-quake over Dmitri is a turn of events no one expected.