Jess, by the way, chatted at great length with Miss Doris, clapped and stomped her feet for all the performers, and paid not one bit of attention to Matthew other than the generic, hey-buddy-see-ya-in-school-tomorrow kind. I offered to try the Switcheroo on her, but Matthew declined. I can see why. He and I could have been making out naked on the stage and Jess wouldn’t have batted an eye; she was too busy being ENTHUSIASTIC about the soirée.
And all afternoon, in between everyone else, Deej sang. She sang everything anybody asked her to sing. She sang gospel songs, Motown songs, Barbra Streisand songs, Aretha and Patti Labelle and Patsy Cline and Judy Garland songs. She crooned and rapped and wailed and danced the Locomotion with Charles, who started calling her Deesha.
“Now I have two sisters,” Charles whooped. “Deesha and Feesha! Deesha and Feesha!”
That, by the way, was the end of being Felicia, to everyone except my mom.
I am now known to one and all as Feesha, 4-evahmore.
17
All votes have been counted and the results are in— faculty, students, parents, and four out of five dentists agree, this is the biggest and brainiest and most bodacious Manhattan Free Children’s School science fair evah!
Go, Free Children! Free Children ROCK!
There are more than fifty projects, each one more edifying than the next. From where I’m sitting onstage I can see the guys in the dark suits from NASA and MIT and Microsoft scampering round like bunnies, taking copious notes and pressing their business cards into the hands of my fellow adolescent researchers.
Everybody, and I mean everybody, is here, except Randall. My mom is here, but no Randall. All the Kittens and Dawgs are here (including Trip, who seems to have whipped together a last-minute science fair project of his own), and Randall is absolutely not among them.
Even Mr. Frasconi is here! He finally made it back to New York, early this morning, just in time to be the Mister Mentor Master of ceremonies of the whole shebang. It’s been so crowded that we’ve only been able to wave across the gymnasium at each other. Now we’re onstage in front of everybody and he’s about to introduce Project Number Forty-two “The Search for X,” so this isn’t a great time to ask him, but I’m betting that the plump and pretty blond lady I saw him strolling around with earlier must be his Foxy Fräulein, the sweeter-than-a-jelly-donut Miss Elke Wolfgram herself.
And still there is no Randall. Attention, science fair passengers! You are now entering a Randall-free zone.
Mr. Frasconi gives me an encouraging wink before turning back to the microphone. “This next project,” he says, completely ignoring the scripted introductions he’s been given, “is of great personal interest to me as a poet, and as a man in love!” He beams at his Fräulein, who beams back at him from the auditorium, her cheeks aglow. “These two young scientists have fearlessly ransacked their own hearts, striving to know the unknowable! What could be truer to the spirit of scientific inquiry? And what topic more timeless and universal than the mysterious workings of human affection?”
Ohmigod. I see Randall, at the far, far end of the gym. He’s slipping in at this very moment through the big double doors, silent and ninja-like, invisible to all eyes except mine. Mere coincidence? I think not!
“Ladies and gentlemen,” roars Mr. Frasconi, “I give you Project Number Forty-two, ‘The Search for X.’ Prepare to learn . . . the Secret of Love!”
Matthew and I approach the podium.
“Before we reveal the Secret of Love,” I say, my voice reverbeverbeverberating over the mike, “I want to point out that it’s okay if you don’t really understand what we’re about to say. Some things you can’t really ‘get’ until you go through them yourself.”
At this, my mom starts cackling from the audience, which is good because it makes my nervousness go p ft! and disappear. I grin and wave in her direction. “Yes, Mom, I know that’s what you always say to me. Gloat in triumph, because I totally admit your rightness on this ONE particular point!”
Now all the parents start laughing. Matthew gives me a sly look and takes over the mike. “The details of our experiments have been fully documented,” he says. “If you stop by our table, you’ll learn all about X, the mysterious factor that makes love work out.”
Randall wanders over to our display, which is near the back of the gym. I mentally will him to stop and pick up one of our handouts (which have little good-luck nibbles around the edges, courtesy of Frosty).
I speak again, as Matthew and I rehearsed. “You’ll see how we conducted primary source interviews to Observe and Describe the workings of X, and used experiments to test our hypotheses.” I have to refer to my notes here. “These included the Romeo/Juliet Thing, Opposites Attract, Mutual Rescue, the Romantic Setting, and the Best-Friend Switcheroo.”
It’s kinda cool how you could hear a pin drop in the gymnasium all of a sudden. Randall is still at our table, reading. It’s now or never.
I keep going, my voice loud and clear. “All the data is presented in detail on our charts and handouts, so I won’t go into it further except to say this:
“Snow melts to reveal
All that was misunderstood.
We need to talk. Please?
“If you have any questions, I’ll be waiting at the back of the gym in fifteen minutes,” I blurt. “And now”— (insert Imaginary Drumroll here!)—“Matthew Dwyer and I are pleased to reveal . . . the Secret of Love!”
I turn the mike over to Matthew. He looks at me strangely and clears his throat. “Ahem. The Secret of Love has two parts,” he says. “An axiom and a corollary. The axiom: Love Happens.”
I step forward. “The corollary: Love Happens to Everyone.” Is Randall still here? I can’t see him anymore; the stage lights are shining right in my eyes.
“Love Happens is a way of saying that love has its own navigational system,” Matthew continues. “It starts, it stops, it takes off, and it lands, but we can’t tell it where to fly. Is this good news or bad news? Look at it this way: our experiments proved that X is real.” He flashes me his half-smile. We both know he sounds a lot like me right now, but that’s mostly because I wrote this part. “It’s like rain—it’s hard to predict exactly when it’s going to fall. But you definitely know when you’re getting wet.”
“The corollary: Love Happens to Everyone.” I had carefully planned how I was going to explain the corollary, but I am so incredibly jazzed about my own fearlessness—go, Feesha!—that I decide to improvise. “This is also known as the Meg Ryan Rule,” I say, abandoning my script, Frasconi style. “See, in a movie, if Meg Ryan’s in it you KNOW she will definitely have X and be madly clinching with whatever guy she wants by the end of the film.”
A murmur of assent ripples through the crowd. Matthew’s looking at me like I just went nuts. “I’d like to thank my mom for pointing this out to me,” I go on. Not to mention the Deck of Hollywood Stars. But a science fair is not the time to start giving credit to esoteric messages from the Great Beyond, and I’ve been way too busy to have even thought of consulting the Oracle in a long time. Besides, Momski deserves the boost.
“Before undertaking this project, I used to think that some people have X—like Meg Ryan, or even Matthew, here,” I say. There are some titters in the audience. “And that other people don’t have X at all. Like me, for instance.”
Matthew puts his hand on my shoulder, buddy-like, as I go on. “But our experiments have proven, beyond a doubt, that we’re all capable of spewing mass quantities of X,” I say. “Every single one of us is the Meg Ryan of our own love movie.”
The crowd is hanging on my every syllable. “It’s just that your X only really activates when it comes into contact with compatible X, at the right time and under the right circumstances, and”—I shield my eyes against the lights as I finish—“you have to make sure you take your blinders off first.”
I give Matthew the wrap-it-up signal, and we end our presentation by inviting members of the audience to come to the
microphone and tell their stories of X. How it happened, how it didn’t happen, how it almost happened and unhappened and happened again. (The audience participation angle was Matthew’s idea, by the way, something about qualitative data versus quantitative, but who cares, I think it’s a snazzy touch!)
A long line forms at the microphone, but I don’t need to listen. There’s only one X-story I’m interested in right now, and I’m going to know the ending in exactly fifteen—make that lucky THIRTEEN—minutes.
Twelve minutes and forty-five seconds later, I’m in the back of the gym, and Randall’s walking right toward me.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say.
“Nice presentation,” he says. “Looks like you’re a hit.”
We look up at the stage, where Mr. Frasconi is hogging the mike, holding hands with his Foxy Fräulein and telling their X-story in Teutonic Technicolor detail. Miss Wolfgram is blushing two little red circles on her cheeks, like a Dresden china doll.
“You guys should definitely win,” Randall says. He’s holding one of our handout sheets. “Your project is awesome. Somebody was chewing on it, though.”
“It was Frosty,” I said. “For luck.” I know I should play it cool, but I can’t bear the suspense. “Did you read that?” I ask. “The Best-Friend Switcheroo part? And the Romantic Setting? They’re all about you.”
“Yup,” he says. He stares at his sneakers.
“I’m sorry for the mix-up, Randall,” I say. “I still want to go out with you. Really.”
“You do?” Randall says. It’s not so much a question as an expression of disbelief.
“Yeah,” I say. “If you want to.”
“I feel bad about getting so upset with you,” he says. “On the boat. That was such a weird night. That Romantic Setting mojo, it’s really something.”
“It is,” I say.
“I apologize for that,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” I say. “But I like that you’re open with your feelings, Randall.” I take his hand, or he takes mine, I can’t tell which. “I like that about you.”
“But I should have trusted you more, too,” he says. “I should have, you know. Listened.”
Now we’re making as much eye contact as four eyes can make. “I wish we could start over,” Randall jokes. “Maybe we could go beat up some bad guys together. That seemed to work last time.”
I know he’s kidding, but boy, have I learned my lesson! When you’re trying too hard to make X happen, the trying only gets in the way.
“Forget that!” I say. “Why don’t we just go out for a burger or something? Hang out? See what happens.”
“Sounds good,” Randall says. “This afternoon I’m training at the dojo. How’s tomorrow? A burger at the Moonbeam after school? Maybe a walk in the park? The farmer’s market is open at Union Square. They sell really good apple cider donuts.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Donuts are perfect.”
I have to admit that Matthew and I did not win anything at the science fair. But guess who took first place?
Harold Johnston Mathis the Third, that’s who! Project Number Seventeen, “A Nonalcoholic Champagne Distillery,” was the surprise hit of the day. Seems that Trip has found a way to brew nonalcoholic champagne that is virtually indistinguishable from Veuve Clicquot.
To demonstrate this, Trip had to bring in a few cases of his dad’s best vintage champagne (marked “For Teachers Only,” of course). The judging faculty tasted Trip’s brew carefully but found it necessary to keep returning to the actual Veuve to maintain a basis of comparison. By the time they had to choose a winner for the science fair, the judges were unanimous in their selection of Project Number Seventeen and very, very happy.
“The worst thing about getting sober is the lack of champagne,” Trip explains, handing out cups of the bogus bubbly as all the Kittens and Dawgs gather round to congratulate him. “So I decided to take matters into my own hands.”
“Is this what you served on the Betty J?” I ask him, guzzling the tasty drink with abandon now that I know it’s only seltzer plus some mystery ingredients, including, apparently, pulverized Almond Joy bars and a sprinkling of burnt toast.
“Of course,” he says, handing cups to Deej and Jess.
“So why did Dmitri get drunk?” I ask. Surely the Romantic Setting couldn’t be THAT powerful.
Trip laughs and pours refills for everyone. “The mind is an amazing thing,” he says. “You just have to believe.”
As the crowd in the gymnasium disperses, my mom makes some lame joke about “staying too long at the fair” and says she’ll see me at home for dinner. But the real reason she’s booking out is that she’s meeting Frank at Starbucks for coffee. I heard her making plans on the phone this morning.
Go forth and X-iply, O blue-toed Cheryl!
Speaking of phone calls, my dad, who missed the science fair completely because he’s on his way to Singapore on one of his ultraglam business trips, actually remembered to call to say good luck even though it’s already tomorrow where he is, or yesterday, I forget which way the time travel works. He hasn’t mentioned Brearley since the salon. Maybe he realized my life is not such a mess after all, once he got a closer look at it. My life, I mean. My room, still a mess.
So Matthew and I, a little disappointed about not winning but superhappy for Trip and proud of our achievements nonetheless, get two take-out chais from the Moonbeam and go for a quiet, celebratory stroll in Madison Square Park.
We take possession of our usual bench, near the playground. Everything’s turning green in the park.
“Cheers,” Matthew says. “We did it.”
We sit and sip our chais. A pair of pigeons is squabbling over some old corn chips. Science is hard work, that’s for sure. I’m looking forward to getting back to my poetry.
A fresh slew of pigeons join the pair in front of us. They peck, strut, take to the air briefly, and settle down again in fresh configurations, black and white and gray and orange and piebald. It’s amazing how they all seem to know what to do and when to do it, without any talking or planning or instruction, without being given any data at all.
I watch the birds, and the new green grass. Nature poems would be fun, I think. Animals, plants. Weather. I’ll have to discuss this with Mr. Frasconi tomorrow.
Tomorrow!
“Hey,” I say. “I’ve got a date with Randall tomorrow.”
“Cool,” says Matthew. “Don’t take any guff from the Randinator! Feesha deserves the best!”
“Thanks,” I giggle. “I’ll remember that.”
I wonder if I should ask him about whether he likes anyone new, now that his crush on Jess is histoire. But he seems to be thinking about something else.
The little kids are starting to arrive at the playground. Matthew and I watch them take over the benches, race to the swings, scramble up the slide. I bet some of them have newly folded cootie catchers in the pockets of their windbreakers, predicting with absolute certainty which ones of them will marry which other ones.
Pick a color! O-R-A-N-G-E, Matthew! You picked Matthew! Ewwwwwwww!
“Paste breath!” a little boy yells, throwing a fistful of grass into a girl’s hair. “You have paste breath!” He runs, and with an expression of ferocious clarity, the girl chases him round and round the playground, getting closer with each lap.
“I think he likes her,” Matthew and I say, at exactly the same time, like we planned it but of course we didn’t.
And we crack up laughing.
Yet another reason why I’m friends with Matthew Dwyer.
Maryrose wood grew up on Long Island and moved to New York City at age seventeen. She currently lives in Manhattan with her two children, who are both remarkable even by New York standards.
This is her first novel, but Maryrose also writes for the theater and film. Her work as a lyricist and librettist has won prestigious awards. These are nice but are often presented at award ceremoni
es, for which it is very, very difficult to choose an outfit.
Maryrose has a cat but secretly prefers dogs, and does not ride her bike as often as she would like. She strives to live with the appropriate mixture of coolness and whimsy and suspects this may in fact be the golden road to happiness. She will let you know how it turns out.
Published by Delacorte Press
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Maryrose Wood
All rights reserved.
DELACORTE PRESS and colophon are registered trademarks of
Random House, Inc.
www.randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wood, Maryrose.
Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs fall in love / Maryrose Wood. —1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: A group of girls calling themselves the Sex Kittens and their male
counterparts, the Horn Dawgs, face love, karate, and science experiments in an
unstructured private school setting in New York City.
Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love Page 19