Wicked Jealous: A Love Story

by Palmer, Robin

  I looked over at Blush, still hanging out on the window seat, and gave him a grateful smile. It was nice to be friends with someone who knew that sometimes the best way of communicating was done without talking.

  Not talking was something that Blush and I did a lot. Although it was very clear on the color-coded Excel chart that Doc had made that all housemates were supposed to take turns doing the grocery shopping (“It’s an excellent way for everyone to deepen their knowledge of food additives,” he explained to the group), whenever it was time to go (which, when you’re living with a bunch of guys, turns out to be pretty much every other day), the job seemed to fall on my shoulders (“You’re just so good at it,” Narc said. “Probably some sort of female intuition thing”). And Blush—because he was a nice guy and could carry at least three grocery bags in each hand in addition to his cart—always offered to accompany me.

  The day after the official house meeting, which was a Sunday, we decided we’d go to the farmers market in Santa Monica on Main Street. I was still feeling kind of blue and would have rather stayed holed up in my room in the attic all day watching The 400 Blows on Netflix. But because I knew that Blush wouldn’t ask me what was wrong every five seconds, when he knocked on my door and asked me if I wanted to go, I said yes.

  “So are you feeling better?” he asked as we walked down Main Street with bags full of peaches, plums, blueberries, and cotton candy (a special request via text from Noob).

  Why couldn’t these guys just be guys and be totally clueless? How come I got stuck with some who were actually thoughtful? I opened my mouth, ready to give my stock “Me? Oh yeah—I’m fine. Everything’s great” answer; the one I used with my dad on the rare occasions when he looked up from his iPhone.

  But that’s not what happened. Maybe because it’s hard to be intimidated by a six-foot-two basketball player who has admitted to you that his dream is to work with puppets, but instead of lying, what came out during our walk back to the house was my life story. About never knowing my mom. About how, up until recently, my main hobby was eating. About Zumba. About how, up until Operation Blackbird, or whatever it was called, I hadn’t worn a dress since I was eight and I was still very much getting used to this whole . . . girly thing.

  “Really?” he asked. “That’s hard to believe. I mean, you’re so . . . I don’t know . . . put together.”

  “Nicola pretty much picks out my outfits,” I admitted. While I had done well on my own at Kmart that one day, Nicola still did most of it for me.

  “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “I mean you seem so sure of yourself.”

  I looked at him. “Me?”

  He nodded in his slow way, which, had someone else done it, would’ve driven me crazy, but because it was Blush it didn’t bother me.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t feel that way,” I admitted. “I feel . . . I don’t know . . . uncooked. Kind of like instead of being medium well, I’m medium raw, and I’m scared that I’m going to get salmonella or one of those other food poisoning thingies now.” As a truck rumbled by, I held down the skirt part of my red-and-blue-striped sundress so it wouldn’t fly up. “And I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to these things.”

  He laughed. “I get you. When I got my scholarship and left South Central and started going to high school with all these rich kids, I kept feeling like they could literally see through me.”

  I turned to him. “You mean, like you were invisible?” That would be too weird.

  He laughed. “No. When you’re this tall and this black at a rich private school, that doesn’t happen. It was more like they could see inside me, and that when they did, they could see that everything inside me was different than their stuff. Like it was the cheap generic version of what they had. And that it was only a matter of time before someone told on me and I got kicked out.”

  I sighed. “I know that feeling.” Maybe that’s part of why losing the weight had freaked me out so much. Because I no longer had something covering the fact that, at the end of the day, I wasn’t like them. I looked at him again. “Can I tell you something really stupid and you’ll promise not to laugh?”

  “Sure.”

  I could tell that Blush was the kind of guy who kept his word. “Okay. Well, see, the reason I’ve been so bummed actually has to do with a dress . . .” God, could I sound any more, I don’t know . . . Hillaryish? I glanced over expecting to see an eyebrow shoot up, but there was none of that. Instead, he was just waiting patiently for me to go on. “It was this dress that I had been stalking for months. And I was afraid to try it on. First, because I was afraid I’d rip it or something when I was zipping it up because it would be too tight. But then, even after I was sure it would fit, I still wouldn’t do it. Because I felt like . . . I don’t know . . . I didn’t deserve something so . . . nice.”

  Someone else may have rolled his eyes or looked at me as if he had no idea what I was talking about, but not Blush. He nodded. “That sounds like me with the Nike Zoom Kobe Fours.” Okay, so maybe Blush was a little more guylike than I had originally thought. Still, the important thing was that not only did he understand what I meant, but he made me feel as if I wasn’t completely stupid for feeling like that. “So have you changed your mind? Are you going to get the dress?”

  “That’s the thing,” I said. “The other day, when I thought that maybe I was finally ready to try it on, it turned out it was gone. Someone else bought it. But when I realized that, I was less upset that the dress was gone and more upset with myself, you know? That I had let being scared get in the way of something I wanted.” What was I doing vomiting my deepest darkest secrets to this guy I barely knew? I was barely able to talk like this with Nicola.

  “I get it. My grandmother used to say, ‘Miles, there are only three things you need to remember in life. And if you remember these things, I promise you you’ll be happy—’”

  “Your name is Miles?” I asked, surprised.

  He nodded. “Yeah. After Miles Davis, he’s—”

  “—like, the best jazz musician ever,” I finished. “Kind of Blue—”

  “—is, like, the best album ever,” he said with a smile.

  I smiled back. “So what are the three things?”

  “Number one is to always bet on yourself. Number two is to constantly ask yourself, ‘What would I do if I weren’t afraid?’ and number three is that when you’re making corn bread, use real butter instead of margarine or else it’ll crumble.”

  My stomach started to rumble. I loved corn bread. I thought about it. The asking myself what I’d do if I weren’t afraid—that seemed doable. And smart. “If I hadn’t been afraid, I would’ve bought that dress even back when it didn’t fit and bet on myself that one day I’d fit into it.” I looked at him. “So did you ever end up getting the sneakers?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. On eBay. Brand new and for half price.”

  I smiled. Sometimes life really had a way of working out.

  “And you know what else his grandmother said?” I told the Zumba Brigade at the Coffee Bean the following Tuesday afternoon post-class. A class where, I was proud to report, I had been singled out by Jorge and asked to demonstrate a particularly difficult move that, after I did it perfectly, earned me a “Who says white girls don’t have rhythm?!” “She said to always use butter instead of margarine when making corn bread.”

  “Ahhhh,” the group said in stereo as they bobbed their heads. “Hold on—let me write that down,” Cookie said, taking out her little notebook. “Oh wait—what am I doing? I don’t eat corn bread.” She looked at the group. “Gluten makes me bloat.”

  Rona cleared her throat. “Forgive me for being so bold,” she said, “but when might you think you and this Blush gentleman might finally go out on a date?”

  “A what?” I asked, confused.

  “A date,” she said. “You know, those out
ings where you don’t feel bad for ordering dessert because it’s a special occasion?”

  My iced coffee almost shot out of my nose. “I can’t date Blush.”

  “How come?” Cookie asked.

  “Because, well, he’s . . . Blush. We’re just friends.”

  “You do realize that your face lights up whenever you talk about him, right?” Marcia asked. She turned to the group. “As a therapist, we learn that the nonverbal reactions are often just as important if not more important than what the patient is saying.”

  I suddenly had a lot of compassion for Sophie Greene, this girl in my grade whose mom was a shrink. Granted, she was a little weird with her obsession with these romance novels about some woman named Devon Devareaux, but still, to grow up under a microscope like that and have to train yourself to keep a straight face all the time must have been exhausting.

  “And friendship is the most important building block for a relationship,” Cheryl said. She sighed. “I keep trying to teach my son that, but I’m not sure he’s listening.”

  I felt myself turn even redder. As if things weren’t bad enough, she had to bring up Jason? “I’ve only known him a week. For all I know, he has a girlfriend,” I said.

  Cheryl shook her head. “I don’t think so. At least not that I can tell from his Facebook page.”

  “I meant Blush,” I said. Or did I? Jason at least wasn’t a friend friend.

  “Has Blush ever mentioned a girl?” Gwen asked.

  “Well, no, but you know, he’s really cute. And you know, nice,” I replied. “Not to mention he’s a puppeteer.”

  As had happened whenever I had brought up that fact in the past, some grimacing went on. But because (a) everyone in the Zumba Brigade was so nice, and (b) there was a substantial amount of Botox in their faces, you’d miss it if you blinked. Personally, I thought the idea that Blush was going for a career in puppetry was awesome. When someone said he was a lawyer, or a doctor, or—in this town—an actor, that was boring. But a puppeteer? That was definitely worth at least a few minutes of conversation, if only to discuss what actually went into puppeteering (I had learned during one of our walks that there was a lot—like set design, costumes, script writing . . .).

  “Yes, but is there a 401(k) in puppetry?” Cheryl asked.

  “Um—” I wasn’t even sure what a 401(k) was. “Or insurance?” Cookie asked.

  “I don’t—”

  Marcia sighed. “With our economy in the toilet, you do not want to be without insurance at this time in history.”

  Okay, fine, so maybe puppeteers weren’t raking in the big bucks, but he was committed to his art.

  “Well, if you’re not going to date Blush, then you should be dating someone,” Rona said.

  “Exactly,” Gwen agreed. “Can’t let your new look go to waste.”

  Why was everyone on my case about dating someone? Not to mention these were adults. Shouldn’t they have been all worried I was going to go out and get myself on Teen Mom or something? “Can we talk about something else?” I pleaded.

  “Sure,” Cheryl said. “So have you heard from your father and Hillary?”

  I cringed. That was only a slightly better topic than the dating one. “Yeah. We Skyped last night,” I replied.

  “Was it a good conversation?” Cookie asked.

  “Sure,” I replied. “I mean, the parts where my dad was listening rather than writing revisions on a script as I told him about the guys at the house and Hillary wasn’t jumping in front of the camera asking whether, now that she had a tan, her lips were as red as mine.”

  This time, the collective cringe wasn’t as fleeting. This time it stayed on their faces, which, because it was filled with compassion and pity and all those other things that made me feel uncomfortable, made me look away and start picking at my cuticles. “But Hillary did send me a gift,” I added.

  “She did? Really?” said Gwen.

  I nodded. “Yeah. Some apple-flavored Italian candy.”

  “But you’re allergic to apples,” Cheryl said.

  I loved how these women knew more about me than the woman who lived in my house. “I know, but she keeps forgetting that.”

  “Not to be a bee-itch or anything, but I get the sense that if something doesn’t have to do with her directly, she forgets it,” Cookie said.

  “It’s bee-atch,” I said.

  “That’s it, Simone!” Marcia cried. “Let it out! Let that anger out that’s been bottled up inside of you because we live in a society where the unconscious message we’re given is that it’s not ladylike for women to do that!”

  “Actually, I was correcting Cookie,” I said. “It’s bee-atch, not bee-itch.”

  Cookie rummaged in her bag (her yellow leather one with tassels and studs, as opposed to her orange or fuchsia one) for her notebook. “I knew that didn’t sound right. I always get that one wrong!”

  Gwen shook her head. “You know, I didn’t say anything about this earlier, but I have to say, I really don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Of what?” I asked.

  “Remember when you told us about that time in the parking lot at Kmart? When she almost ‘accidentally’ ran into you with the car?”

  I nodded.

  “And now the apple candy?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know . . . she’s always offering me apple things.” I hadn’t told them about the boxes of Hostess apple pies.

  “Right. Even though you’ve told her you’re highly allergic to them. To the point where it could cause death.”

  The group gasped.

  “What are you saying? That Hillary is trying to kill me?”

  “Maybe not kill you,” Gwen replied. “Maybe just seriously hurt you and prevent you from breathing, which would result in your heart stopping and/or the flow of oxygen to your brain, which would ultimately result in you dying.”

  “Oh my God,” Cookie moaned. “That’s beyond insane to the noggin.”

  “Insane to the brain,” I corrected.

  She nodded. “Insane to the brain. Got it.”

  “Or,” Gwen—who, pre-twins, had been a criminal attorney in a big Century Century law firm—continued, “if she managed to hit you with the car, shatter your spinal cord, resulting in the loss of your legs and your inability to walk. Perhaps, with enough force, making you into a quadrapalegic rather than just a parapelegic.”

  “In other words, you’re saying she’s trying to kill me.”

  She shrugged. “Well, if you want to get more specific, then yes, that’s pretty much what I’m saying.”

  “Look, I agree that it’s obvious Hillary doesn’t like me, but the only thing she’s killing are the dreams of novelists when she takes their books and changes the endings of them to make them more ‘happily ever after’–like,” I said. “She’s not, you know . . . dangerous.”

  Marcia shook her head. “I don’t know about that, Simone. Did you see last’s week’s episode of CSI: Miami?” She clucked. “That killer, she was just as pretty as Hillary.”

  Cheryl nodded. “There is no place for discrimination when taking crime suspects into consideration.”

  I shook my head. “I appreciate the concern, you guys, but Hillary could never do that. She wouldn’t be able to survive having to wear one of those ugly jumpsuits in jail.”

  That being said—it was a little weird.

  The Zumba ladies weren’t the only ones who were up in my grill about dating.

  “They’re right, you know. I’ve been on you to date for months,” Nicola said that next night as we sat on the floor in the corner while we all watched a horror movie called Sorority Girl Slasher Part 7. Well, while the guys watched it. Seeing that this was the third time that week that they had put it on, I didn’t need to watch it again. They, howeve
r, were mesmerized by it. To the point where a big glob of pizza fell out of Narc’s mouth because his jaw wouldn’t close during the shower scenes. She grimaced. “Do these guys ever actually chew their food, or do they just swallow it whole like that all the time?”

  “They just swallow it whole,” I said. “You should’ve been here the other night when they grilled steaks and sausages. It was like watching one of those documentaries on the Discovery Channel about wild dogs.”

  She shook her head. “I’m so glad your brother isn’t like that. He’s got manners. ‘Cause I would never date a guy without manners.”

  Right then my brother let out a huge burp. Right before he scratched his stomach.

  She shrugged. “On the other hand, I think it’s great that he feels so comfortable around me that he can just relax like that. From the conversation we had in the kitchen earlier, I can tell that our relationship is really moving to the next level.”

  I turned to her, surprised. “Like a conversation conversation? Not just you talking and talking so he can’t get a word in edgewise?”

  She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “How could you not mention that?!”

  She shrugged. “Because it was somewhat personal.”

  Exactly how personal was personal? I wanted to know, but the combination of the words “personal” and “my brother” made me feel a little queasy.

  “Okay, so this is what happened,” she gushed, “While you and Blush were trying to help Noob get off from the top of the slide in the backyard—by the way, first of all, why would someone with a fear of heights get up on top of a slide to begin with, and (b) it’s not even high, so why was he freaking out so much?”

  “Um, I think if we’ve learned anything the last few weeks, it’s that when it comes to Noob, logic kinda-sorta doesn’t apply,” I replied.

  “Good point,” she agreed. “Anyways, so I was in the kitchen getting some water—by the way, the water in the Brita thing is green, so whoever’s chore it is on Doc’s computerized chore list to change the filter better get on that. Anyway, so I was in the kitchen and Max came in and said hey and then I said hey back and then he said would you mind passing me a paper towel and I said no problem and when I did he said I know it’s weird but I’ve always liked using paper towels instead of napkins I think because they’re sturdier and it makes me feel like I’m really getting my mouth clean when I wipe it and I said Omigod—I feel the same way!”