by Trish Cook
“A likely story,” Mr. Maldonati said, turning his attention back to his cards.
I gave Brina the evil eye. “I spent the night watching TV while you went to the party with Reece?”
“I’m sorry, Trace,” Brina said, groaning as she rolled over. “That was pretty sucky of me. I was just pissed at you about the slp thing and—”
“Brina, there’s something I have to tell you about that.” I was going to explain about Bebe’s date with Mr. Perry, but just then an explosive fart levitated Uncle Mario off the couch and dropped him back down again. It blew away any thoughts I had of telling Brina about Bebe’s budding romance. Literally.
We nearly died laughing. Her father looked up from the game long enough to ask, “What’s so funny?”
“Uncle Mario . . .” Brina stopped to swipe big tears from her face.
“. . . bad calamari . . .” I added, my shoulders shaking from laughing so hard.
“. . . might need a Depend . . .” Brina and I continued to howl.
“... and someone should check to make sure...”
“. . . except it won’t be me . . .”
“. . . or me . . .”
Brina’s grandfather dismissed us with a wave and a “Bah!” Her father shoveled pretzels in his mouth and continued to survey his cards.
“What did I miss?” asked Brad, walking into the room and noticing our doubled-over bodies. That set us off again.
“Chicks,” said Sully.
“Freaks is more like it,” said Brad.
Brina and I sat up and tried to compose ourselves. “You had to be there,” I told them, wiping away the tears that were streaming down my face. Fart jokes just don’t seem funny in the retelling. Besides, I was trying to protect Brina, who can’t even say that word without blushing and getting all uptight. And God knows she’d certainly never admit to doing such a thing.
“What smells—?” Sully started to ask.
“So good? Must be the stuffing,” finished Brina, thinking she’d bypassed any more gas talk.
“You meant ‘like moldy ass,’ didn’t you, Sully?” Brad said. “If that’s any part of our meal, we might as well hit McDonald’s right now. What do you say?”
“Thanks, but I’ll brave this one out. It looks like fun in here, even if it is a little rank.”
Brina’s mother walked in the room with Bebe trailing behind her like a puppy dog. Mrs. Maldonati had already put Bebe to work, stacking her arms with freshly ironed white linen napkins. Once Mrs. M. caught a whiff of Uncle Mario’s little present, she started yelling at her husband. “For God’s sake, Jerry, open some windows in here. It smells like a stable.”
“OK, dear,” he said, not moving a muscle.
“Can we play, Dad?” asked Brad, fingering the bills stacked in the middle of the table.
“If you’ve got the dinero, we’ve got extra seats.”
Brad and Sully plunked a couple of bucks into the pot and sat down while Grandpa dealt a new hand.
“C’mon up to my room for a second,” Brina said, grabbing on to my hand and pulling me out of the chamber of ass gas. “I want to get your opinion about something. You come, too, Bebe.”
“OK,” Bebe said, handing the napkins to Brina’s mom.
“Don’t you want my opinion?” Mrs. Maldonati asked as we headed upstairs.
“Maybe next time,” Brina called down to her mom. “Or maybe never,” she whispered to me and Bebe.
When we got to her room, Brina pulled out a painted ceramic heart-shaped box from her bureau drawer and took out the five slp letters she’d received to date. She unfolded each one carefully and spread them out on her bed.
“Here, Bebe,” she said. “Take a look and tell me what you think.”
Bebe picked up the notes and read them one by one. When she put down the final piece of paper, Brina jumped all over her. “So how about it? Slp’s a great poet, right?”
“Oh, Brina,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s something else entirely.”
“What do you mean?”
Bebe dropped a bomb. “These aren’t slp originals.”
“Crap. My poet’s a plagiarist,” Brina said, flopping herself down on the bed. “You were right, Trace. The guys I like can’t put two sentences together on their own.”
Bebe bent down and smoothed Brina’s hair from her eyes. “I can’t figure out exactly who wrote this stuff, or where I’ve seen it before,” she said. “But it’s actually unbelievably sweet. Right out of Cyrano de Bergerac .”
Brina and I looked at each other, then back at Bebe for an explanation. Neither of us had a clue what she was talking about.
Bebe threw her hands up in the air in disgust. “What the hell am I paying taxes for in this snotty-ass town, anyway? Don’t they teach fine literature anymore?”
Brina and I shrugged, unsure of how Bebe wanted us to answer. Silence seemed the best plan of attack.
“OK, since you two obviously don’t read, does the movie Roxanne ring any bells? With Steve Martin? And Daryl Hannah?”
I remembered having watched it on the Oxygen channel with Bebe one boring night. I quickly ran through the plot in my head, finally got her point, and gasped. “The one where the dude is so embarrassed about the size of his nose, he has a friend read his poems to the chick he likes?”
Brina’s face fell. “I think I saw that on a Brady Bunch rerun once.”
But Bebe was still grinning like a fool. “That is the most romantic thing I can think of. You should be incredibly flattered, Brina.”
By now, Brina was picking at an invisible pull in her sweater, looking completely down in the dumps. “Flattered some guy with a humongous honker is sending me recycled lines? I don’t think so.”
“I’m surprised you two didn’t pick up on it,” Bebe said, apparently not noticing Brina had traveled far into major bummer-land. “I mean, look at the structure here. The first line of the poem always starts with ‘I like’ plus a verb. The second line starts with ‘always,’ the third with a ‘but,’ and the last one with a ‘maybe.’ ”
“I should have known,” I moaned. “Forgive me for sucking at English AND trig!” I fell to the floor in a dramatic heap.
Brina ignored me, stepping over my body and sitting down next to Bebe. “So what do you think I should do about it?”
This was right up Bebe’s alley—it was totally something that would happen to one of the characters in her books. “That depends. What have you done so far?”
Brina squished her toes into the carpet and avoided eye contact. “Nothing.”
“Jeez, what does it take to impress you, girl?” Bebe asked her.
“Chiseled pecs and shit for brains,” I said.
“No one asked for your opinion,” Brina said, and stopped scrunching her feet into the rug just long enough to kick me.
“I think you should write him back, Brina. Pick an awesome poem, just so he knows you get it,” Bebe said, pacing the room. “In fact, let me just run home to grab my favorite poetry book.”
“There’s no need for that, Bebe,” Brina said, a weird little smile on her face that I realized was actually a grimace.
“No problem at all,” Bebe told her, totally missing the point that Brina had no intention of sending gushy poetry back to Mr. Schnozola. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Take your time,” I called after Bebe as she ran out the door.
“Be polite, Brina,” I told her once Bebe was gone. “Write down the first thing you see and then toss it out when Bebe’s not looking. If you act like you’re not going to write back, she’ll bug you and bug you until you completely break down. Trust me, fake compliance is the only way out.”
“Don’t you worry, Trace,” she said. “I am the queen of deception when it comes to parents.”
“Oh, yeah? I seem to remember you didn’t do it so well after the cotillion.”
“What, are you crazy? I totally convinced my ’rents I was puking that night because I ate bad shrimp.
”
“Like they actually believed that.”
“They did,” she insisted, and flipped open her iBook and logged on. “Still do. Now let’s see if we can figure out who slp is fronting.”
First, we tried Googling a bunch of different lines from the slp notes to see if we could pin down the actual author. No such luck. Then we moved on to keywords. Nothing relevant there, either.
“It doesn’t really matter who wrote those poems, anyway,” Brina said, looking even more miserable now than before we started our research, if that was possible. “My knight in shining armor has a deformed face and not an original thought in his head. So who needs him?”
I knew Brina well enough to know the notes had provided her a much needed thrill this semester, despite her loud protests that they meant nothing to her. “So you’re totally over Mr. Perry, then,” I said, jabbing her in the ribs to let her know I was kidding.
Brina drew in such a deep breath I thought I’d really hurt her. “Wait a minute, Trace,” she said a second later, most definitely OK. “Maybe Mr. Perry had a nose job when he was younger, but he still has an inferiority complex about it. That, plus the age difference, might make him turn to anonymous notes and flowery poetry to get my attention.”
I sighed, shaking my head. “My, my, you have a big imagination.”
We were so involved in our slp discussion that we barely noticed a sweaty Bebe gliding back in the room holding an oversized, ancient-looking hardcover book. “Aha!” she said, finding what she was looking for within seconds. “This was always my favorite.”
“Good one, Bebe,” I said, rolling my eyes at Brina when I had finished reading it.
“What? What is?” Brina wanted to know.
“Emily Dickinson,” Bebe said, shoving the book under Brina’s nose.
Brina read out loud:
Wild Nights—Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
“That’s great, Bebe. I’ll use it for sure.”
Brina caught my eye and winked. I winked back. Everything was going according to plan. Until Brad and Sully burst into the room applauding, that is.
“Bravo!” said Sully, clapping madly. “Author! Author!”
“I think she’s dead,” Brina muttered, blushing madly.
“Wild nights, wild nights,” Brad started screeching in a balls-in-a-vise falsetto. “Come taketh me, between the sheets, between my thighs—”
“Shut up, dweeb,” Brina hissed, whipping at him in retaliation the wooden paddle brush she uses to give her hair one hundred strokes every day. But Brad was so used to Brina throwing things by now, he easily ducked out of the way. So the brush whizzed past him and landed in the middle of Sully’s face with a loud thunk instead.
“I am so sorry, Sully,” Brina said as she rushed to Sully’s side and took his face in her hands to get a better look. “Are you OK?”
“Christ, a person could die around here,” he said. “If the stench doesn’t get you, the wench will.” His nose was swelling up like a balloon and turning eggplant purple.
“Can you ever forgive me?” Brina asked him, looking really worried now.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sully said, smiling and then wincing in pain. “I’m fine. It was an accident.”
“Yeah, it’s all fun and games until someone breaks a nose,” I said, thinking I was pretty funny.
Brina shot me a deadly look and mouthed, “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”
Bebe, who had raced downstairs to rustle up some first aid supplies, came back into Brina’s room carrying ice wrapped in a paper towel. “Believe it or not, it’s safer up here than down there,” she said, handing the ice pack to Sully. “Ina and Rose are about to claw each other’s eyes out, and Mario is still stinking up the den.”
“OK, then, we need to come up with fun things to do while we’re stranded in Brina’s room. Any ideas?” I asked everyone.
“Hunt for snail trails in Brina’s underwear drawer?” Brad suggested.
“Murder my brother before he can touch my panties?” Brina countered, smiling sweetly at him.
Sully came up with the winner. “Draw straws to see who goes downstairs to steal a bottle of wine for us all?”
“Oh, God, this means I’ll have to join the adults,” Bebe groaned. “I can’t be caught drinking with a bunch of minors.”
“See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya,” I told her, waving good-bye as she left.
Brad got four pencils from Brina’s desk and stuck them in his fist. I drew first. Mine was pretty long. Brina went next, pulling out a pencil that was shorter than mine but still respectable. Sully hesitated and then picked a chewed-up nub while Brad unfolded his palm. His pencil was so new it hadn’t even been sharpened yet.
“I guess you’re our sucker, Pete,” Brad told Sully. Brad left the room to get some tunes for us to groove on while we were catching a predinner buzz, and Sully took off on his kitchen mission.
“So that’s his first name,” Brina said to me. “Pete. Peter Sullivan. It has a nice ring to it.”
I scrunched up my face, thinking. “It’s so funny, but I always just thought of him as plain old Sully,” I said. “Like Madonna. Or Cher.”
“Holy Mother of God!” we heard Aunt Rose scream from the kitchen. “What happened to your face?”
Mumble, mumble.
Seconds later, Grandma Ina appeared in the doorway of Brina’s room shaking a flour-caked rolling pin. “Sabrina Maria Maldonati! Come downstairs this instant and explain to me why you almost killed this poor fellow!”
Brina trudged away to meet Grandma Ina’s wrath, knowing there was no escape. Soon after Brina’s verbal lashing began, Sully returned with a couple of bottles of vino, a corkscrew, and a platter of cheese and crackers. “I got everything.” He smiled, waving the booty around.
“Uh, Sully?”
“What, Trace?”
“You actually forgot something.”
He pointed to the wine, opener, and food and shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
“Are we going to slug it straight from the bottle, then?”
“Don’t make me go back down there,” Sully said, shaking his head and looking downtrodden. “It’s getting uglier by the minute.”
“Never fear, bro.” Brad ran to the bathroom, rummaged around, and came back carrying the smallest, flimsiest Dixie cups I’ve ever seen.
“You are the epitome of class, Brad,” I told him, uncorking the bottle and sloshing wine into the four shot-glass-sized paper cups.
Brina slunk back in the room just in time for our party. She had a white handprint on her ass, which set the rest of us off. “What’s so funny?” she asked, looking around the room for clues.
I pointed to the telltale mark on the back of her jeans. “I can’t believe Grandma Ina spanked you.”
Brina just sat there with an uncomfortable look on her face. “She didn’t.”
“What happened, then?” I couldn’t help asking.
“If you must know, Grandma grabbed my butt and told me men don’t like ‘fat in the can,’ ” Brina said, frowning. “Boy, I’m really looking forward to our meal after that comment.”
Sully took the ice pack off his nose and examined Brina’s posterior. “It looks pretty good to me,” he said, absentmindedly thumbing through the slp letters that were still on the bed.
Brina got all red and huffy. “Hey! Paws off my property.” She gathered up the notes and put them all back into the little box quicker than you could say “I sure as hell hope Mr. Perry isn’t slp but I think he used to be an English teacher and those guys always teach poetry so maybe there’s some bizarre possibility he actually is.” Yikes.
“So who’re they from?” Sully asked, leaning back against the wall and putting the ice back on his nose.
“A mystery man,” Brina answered. “A very charming, poetic mystery man.”
“You like this guy?” Sully asked Brina.
“Absolutely,” she said. “There are some complications, though. . . .”
“Like?”
“It’s just that I don’t think I can be seen with him yet,” Brina said. “There’s a total age difference to consider. People would talk.”
“How can you be such a snob?” Sully asked, shaking his head. “I’m sure your mystery man wouldn’t be so quick to pour his heart out if he knew how concerned you were with what everyone else thinks.”
“Kids!” Mrs. Maldonati yelled up the stairs before Brina could rip Sully’s head off like I fully expected her to. “Suppertime!”
Mr. Maldonati stood up at the head of the table and clinked a spoon against his wineglass. “It’s time now for a special Maldonati tradition,” he said, clearing his throat.
Brad and Brina groaned in unison. “Dad, do we have to—” Brina started to say.
“Yes, we do,” Mr. M. said, cutting Brina off before she could even finish the question. “Every Thanksgiving, we go around the table and share something we are especially grateful for this year. Then, we share a special wish we hope to be giving thanks for next year.”
“I’ll go first to give you an example,” Mrs. Maldonati said. “This year, I’m most grateful to have two happy, healthy kids. And next year, I hope to be giving thanks that Brad is on the varsity soccer team and Brina is attending a good college.” Mrs. M. started to sit down and then thought better of it. “Oh, and that she’s quit snacking between meals.”
Brina looked like she’d rather be the turkey at that moment. Being literally carved up had to be better than being verbally ripped to shreds in front of everyone.
“I am grateful to still be alive, period,” Grandma Ina said, moving past the uncomfortable moment. “And next year, I hope to be thankful for more of the same.”
Fair enough, I thought. On to Grandpa. “I am grateful I whipped the stuffing out of my dear son-in-law playing poker today,” he said. “And next year, I’ll hope to see the money he owes me.” Everyone laughed. Mr. Maldonati is a notorious tightwad.
Next, Aunt Rose stood up and almost fell over. Obviously, she and Ina had been doing a lot more drinking than cooking in the kitchen. “I am thankful my boobs look as good as they do,” she said. She turned to Sully and grabbed the bottom of her shirt, making it look like she was about to flash him. Sully stood up and knocked over his water glass—he was so freaked-out.