Wicked Jealous: A Love Story

by Palmer, Robin

  Brad rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure what they do for special occasions on your planet, but here on Earth, a first date—especially a first date ever—is a bit of a big deal. Especially if said date is taking place within the context of a party.”

  “It’s not a date,” I corrected. “It’s a . . . gathering . . . that he may or may not show up at.”

  He looked at Nicola. “I don’t envy you.”

  She sighed. “Tell me about it.”

  “Just try it on,” he ordered. “It would be a loaner.”

  Not only did it fit great, but every shopkeeper on Abbot Kinney signed off on its hotness factor when Nicola insisted on parading me around and taking a poll. Which, when you were talking about a group of gay men, carried a lot of weight.

  “So. Any last-minute advice for her?” Nicola asked Brad as I paid for the red dress. There was no way I was going to let Brad loan this to me—I’d pay for it fair and square, with my discount. In Nicola’s ongoing attempt to make me look more normal and less like I was being electrocuted with my new look, she was forcing me to wear the dress for the rest of the day rather than put it on right before the party.

  He thought about it. “Yes. Try and keep your arms down as much as you can. I’m not saying you’re a big sweater or anything, but this kind of poly blend material tends to be very unforgiving when it comes to that stuff.”

  That was just as important as stuff about boys, I decided.

  “Whatever you do, don’t let him know you’re interested,” Kimmy said as she finished blow-drying my bob a little later. Although I had gotten pretty good at blow-drying my hair, Nicola had insisted I get it professionally done for the party. “Guys don’t like girls who are interested in them. It’s the whole hunting-and-gathering thing.”

  “So . . . I should pretend I can’t stand him?” I asked.

  “Right.”

  “However, there’s one loophole to that,” said Lady GaGantuan as he got a manicure next to us.

  “What?”

  “If he either (a) is very insecure and/or neurotic, or (b) has ended a relationship between six and eight weeks earlier, then it’s better to give him the full court press and let him know you’re very available and interested.”

  I turned to Nicola. “Are you taking notes? Because there’s no way I can keep this all straight.”

  “But if it’s only been four or five weeks, definitely act like you’re not interested,” Kimmy added.

  “Oh, and if you’re thinking of trying to gauge what’s going on with him from his Facebook status updates, don’t,” Lady GaGantuan said. “Because people are always fudging those to try and make people think they’re doing better than they are.”

  “Or worse,” Kimmy added.

  Nicola and I looked at each other. Now I was even more confused than before. “Okay, so maybe asking these guys for advice wasn’t the best idea,” she whispered. “We need to go to people with more life experience.”

  Which is how, a few hours later—after a stop at a few makeup counters at the Nordstrom in the Westside Pavilion, done in such a way that it didn’t seem like I was totally trying to get an entire free makeover out of the deal even though that was exactly what I was trying to do—we ended up at the Coffee Bean, post–three P.M. Zumba class.

  “So you’re finally ready to admit your crush on Blush,” Cookie said. “You get, lady!”

  “I think you mean ‘you go, girl,’” I corrected.

  “Ah,” she said, taking out her notebook.

  “But actually, this isn’t about Blush. It’s about another boy,” I said. Lucky for me, Cheryl wasn’t there, because having to lie to her and not let on that the boy I was asking for advice about just happened to be her son would have been impossible.

  “I know you young people go in for that Rules nonsense,” Marcia said, “but as a therapist and a feminist, I’m a big believer in honest, forthright communication. So if you like this boy, tell him!”

  Gwen shook her head. “Sorry, but it’s all about the negotiation. I learned that in law school. You don’t want to show your hand too quickly. So act interested, but not too interested.”

  Cookie leaned in. “Sweetie, before you move forward on this, are you sure you’re even attracted to boys?” she asked. “Or do you think you might end up realizing you like girls? The reason I ask is because my granddaughter just came out, and she’s very happy, but before that she went through a lot of heartbreak and aggravation,” she explained. “All I’m suggesting is that you give it a think.”

  So much for clarity and experience. I was more confused than ever.

  I got home to find the guys in the same position they could usually be found—lounging around watching yet another Sorority House Slasher movie. Except for Blush, who was sketching, and Doc, who was reading.

  “So what time is the party actually at?” I asked as I grabbed a napkin and picked up something peeking out from under the couch that at one point might have been the top of a hamburger bun before it dried into something that now resembled a fossil.

  “I don’t know. Nine?” Max asked, without looking away from the TV.

  Doc looked up from his book. “Oh. I told people eight.”

  “These girls I met over on the boardwalk might come by at seven thirty,” Noob said. “I hope I told him them it was tonight and not tomorrow.”

  I was like Martha Stewart–level organized compared to these guys. Yesterday, I had presented them with a list I had put together for the party—things like “straighten up,” “make a party mix iPod playlist,” “buy hors d’oeuvres”—but everyone other than Doc had looked at me like I was suggesting we all run a marathon before building a house in Haiti through Habitat for Humanity. The only part they got excited about was the hors d’oeuvres part, but even then, they were more interested in Noob’s idea of peanut M&M’s rather than mine about the baby shrimp wrapped with prosciutto that I had seen on the Food Network. (Max—who believed that people could easily survive solely on pizza and sushi—said that he remembered our dad once saying that our mom had been a real foodie, so my newfound interest in food must have come from her.) Because of the lack of enthusiasm about the list, I didn’t even bother bringing up “go to farmers market for flowers.”

  I turned to my brother. “Max, did you go buy the hors d’ouevres?” I asked.

  “You mean the peanut M&M’s and the chips and salsa?”

  “Yes. Those,” I replied. So much for pretending to act as if this was nothing more than a college rager.

  “Um, no,” he said. “I was going to, because, you know, you had assigned me that job on the little graph that you and Doc are always updating. But I forgot.” He cringed. “Actually, that’s a lie. I didn’t forget. What happened was on my way to the mini-mart to get the stuff, I came across this old rusted bathtub in the street? You know, those old-fashioned clawfoot ones? And it was just so cool looking, I stopped and took a bunch of pictures of it with my Hipstamatic and I got so into it that by the time I was done, I had totally forgotten that I was on my way to the store.”

  This wasn’t the first time that my brother had been sidetracked by some impromptu photo shoot. But usually they involved pretty girls whom he then ended up asking out rather than old bathtubs.

  “I love when the artistic impulse overtakes you to the point where you lose track of all space and time!” Thor bellowed. “That’s what it’s about, man—that’s true Art-with-a-capital-A. When you don’t know where the creative process ends and you begin. Plus, it’s a good excuse if you’re the kind of person who tends to be late to things.”

  “Wow. You can actually see the creative process?” Noob asked. “I wonder if I can.” He squinted and stared into space. “Nope. Nothing.”

  I sighed. “I guess I’ll go do it then.”

  “I’ll go with you if you want,�
�� Blush offered.

  “Okay,” I said nervously. But why was I nervous? Blush and I always went to the store together. So what if this time I was all dressed up and my hair was straight and I had makeup on? That didn’t matter.

  With the twenty-five dollars and sixty-eight cents that I collected in my brother’s UCLA Bruins hat—most of it in crumpled-up dollar bills, dimes, and nickels—along with the fifty I had taken from the Emergency House Fund (if snacks for a party wasn’t an emergency, what was?), we set off for the market.

  Because I was dressed up, this time we drove in my Saab. “So you excited for the party?” he asked as we loaded up on all sorts of non-Food-Network-approved hors d’oeuvres like candy and chips at Ralph’s.

  “Oh yeah. Sure. Can’t wait,” I said, in what I hoped was a very chipper-sounding voice. The problem was, because I did chipper about as much as I did giggling (which was to say, nearly never), instead I sounded like I was exhaling helium.

  He glanced away from the M&M’s and over at me. “You sure?”

  That was one of the things I liked best about Blush. Instead of saying something like, “Okay, it’s completely obvious you’re lying,” therefore making you feel even more stupid, he was gentle about that stuff. He didn’t judge; he didn’t tell you how you were feeling—he just put things out there . . . like a question you might want to ponder at some point while lying on a hammock on a perfect spring day as a light breeze went by.

  I picked up a bag of peanut M&M’s and stared at it intently. “Yes,” I said, as all the letters of the ingredients blended together so it looked like one long chemistry compound.

  “Okay,” he shrugged as he began to push the cart.

  That was another thing I liked about him. He didn’t push. And because he didn’t push, it made me want to be honest. “Fine. No. I’m not excited,” I admitted. “In fact, if there was an earthquake right about now and we couldn’t have the party, it wouldn’t suck.”

  “How come?”

  “Because Nicola invited this guy from our school.” The minute the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. It was one thing to feel comfortable talking to a guy, but it was a whole other thing to bring up another guy—and your complete lack of social skills about the matter—to him. My only hope was that because Blush was so tall, the words had disintegrated during their climb up to his ears and he hadn’t heard them. Even though his ears were sort of big and stuck out a little.

  He nodded slowly. “So you got a guy coming to the party, huh?”

  I shrugged. “Well, he’s not really a guy guy,” I said. “He’s just . . . okay, fine. He’s a guy guy.” My face felt like it did the time that Nicola convinced me to put Crisco on because it would make me tan faster. Which, when you’re as pale as I am, is like throwing a lit match on dried leaves. “But I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  We pushed the cart toward the check-out lanes. “But just so you know, I didn’t invite him. Nicola did. Without even discussing it with me first.”

  “Got it.”

  We started unloading the stuff on the belt. “Okay, fine. We can talk about it. But just a little bit.” It was a good thing that, unlike girls, guys didn’t spend their time gossiping. Because if they did, and Blush and Narc compared notes, I’d get a reputation for being one of those people who said “I don’t want to talk about it,” only to then talk about it.

  I took a deep breath and told him about Jason. I explained how he was a twit (“Not a tweeting twit,” I clarified, “but a Testosterone Twit”) but that, based on the few times we had actually spoken, he actually wasn’t twittish at all. And how I wasn’t saying I liked him or anything, because how could you like someone you had only spoken to a few times—especially someone who sat on the Ramp in the cafeteria when you sat in the way corner—but that if he ended up coming to the party that night, which, even though he said he would, probably wasn’t going to happen, especially if the ballerina clown fell on him and severed his spinal cord—I wasn’t completely opposed to maybe getting to know him a little better.

  “Even though, ultimately, that would be a total waste of time,” I said, “because it’s not like he and I could ever really be friends let alone, you know . . .”

  “What?”

  “What what?”

  “You couldn’t really be friends or what?”

  I turned red again. “Okay, now I really don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I said, practically throwing the money at the cashier so I could get out of there.

  He shrugged and started to follow me into the parking lot. “Okay, so we won’t talk about it,” he said over his shoulder. Because of his long legs, within a few strides he had already passed me.

  “Well, maybe we can talk about it a little bit longer,” I said. I had asked all these people for advice, but they were all middle-aged women, drag queens, or gay men. Or Narc, who was his own category. “Like, say, as long as it takes for you to explain what it is a girl should do when talking to a guy who she’s not saying she likes, but definitely does not dislike.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. You just . . . be yourself.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Narc pretty much said the same thing. But what else?”

  He shrugged again. “I have no idea. That’s the only way I’ve ever done it.”

  “Yeah, but in your case, being yourself works. I mean, you’re interesting. You deal with puppets. But what if yourself . . . just isn’t good enough?” I asked softly. “I mean, you know, for someone like this guy.”

  He looked confused. “What if yourself isn’t good enough for a twit?”

  “Like I said, he’s a twit, but not a twit twit. He’s just . . . you know what? Forget it.”

  “But yourself has to be enough,” he said. “It’s not like you have another choice as to who to be.”

  Maybe in a world made up of puppets that was true, but we were talking high school. In Lost Angeles. You couldn’t get more cutthroat than that.

  “Let’s try this another way,” Blush said as we got into the car. “Why don’t you start with ‘hi’ and then go from there?”

  I glanced at him. “Just ‘hi’?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “But what do I do after that? If, you know, he says hi back?”

  “Just start with hi. And then see what happens.”

  I nodded. “Okay. I can do that,” I agreed as I started the ignition. “I think.”

  Not only was it only one word, but it was just one syllable.

  But there was one more thing I couldn’t shake: Why did it feel weird talking to Blush about another boy?

  seven

  “So this is what we’ve been missing all these years?” yelled Nicola later over the thump of reggae music as she munched away on tortilla chips while spilling salsa on her I’M NOT BARBIE—I JUST LOOK LIKE HER T-shirt. In honor of the party, she was wearing her best Doc Marten boots with her shortest denim mini.

  I yawned as I popped open another Red Bull (Did people end up going to rehab for this stuff? Because I had a feeling I was seriously on my way) and looked out at the crowd. The guys were on one side of the room, either playing video games or talking about surfing or skateboarding or photography or video installations, while the girls—a mostly artsy, beachy, boho-looking group (except for one scowling girl with a Mohawk, invited by Thor)—were on the other, chatting about lip gloss and comparing tattoos on their lower backs (“You should have Cookie add ‘tramp stamp’ to her dictionary,” Nicola said). “I guess so,” I yelled back. “It’s just like Staci Kenner’s boy-girl party in sixth grade, but everyone’s taller and has bigger boobs.” Because it was a college party, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Guys drinking beer while upside down in a headstand? Girls having smackdowns like on Jersey Shore? Def
initely something more interesting than this. It was a good thing the music was so loud or else I might have fallen asleep.

  As I looked around the room, I saw Blush sitting alone on the stairs, doing what I was doing—taking in the crowd and not really talking to anyone. Almost as if he knew I was staring at him, he looked up and smiled.

  I waved and motioned him over. Because of the crowd, it took him a while to get there. As I scooted over on the couch to make room for him, there was a tap on my shoulder and I turned to see Jason.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” I said back.

  There was a tap on my other shoulder. I turned to see Blush. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I replied. For someone who planned on majoring in English, I really hoped my vocabulary improved by the time I got to college.

  Now what? “Um, Jason, this is Blush.”

  “Hey,” Jason nodded. Okay, his vocabulary wasn’t any better than mine. That made me feel a little better.

  “What’s up?” Blush replied with a nod.

  Nicola stood up. “And now that everyone knows each other, I’m going to go try to find something to eat other than chips!” She turned to Blush. “Blush, will you come with me? I think I saw some Mallomars on the top shelf in the kitchen, and I can’t reach them.”

  As she dragged him away, Jason pointed at the couch. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  I shrugged. “Sure.” I left out the second half of my answer, which was “. . . but you’re going to have to excuse me because I have this sudden urge to take that bowl of peanut M&M’s away from Noob and go lock myself in the attic and eat myself into a sugar coma because I have no idea how I’m going to get through this conversation.”

  As he settled himself in the couch, which, because it was so old and lumpy and lived in a house with seven guys, had this bad habit of making everything on it kind of fall in toward the middle, the two of us were soon sitting way too close together. Every time I tried to scooch away, I slid back.