Four Things My Geeky-Jock-of-a-Best-Friend Must Do in Europe

by Jane Harrington

  Feeling like I would throw up any second, I asked myself (not out loud, thankfully), “What would Delia do?” Naturally, the answer terrified me, so I switched to the question: “What would Georgia do?” To that, I thought-answered, “Well, she would be British, of course, and I know how to do THAT.” And then I thought-added, “But what if he doesn’t speak English? Or British, for that matter?” At which point, I thought-yelled, “DO IT, BRADY!”

  So, armed with this (totally misplaced) sense of confidence, I strolled over to the puffy orange chair and, acting like a cool person (which I’m obviously NOT), picked the cherry out of my glass, popped it into my mouth, and said, “Bazzin’ pahty!” (Which I know is stupid, but it made perfect sense in the completely idiotic fantasy world I had entered by then.)

  He turned, smiling, and said, in a definitely too-loud kind of way, and in a cowboy accent straight out of the Wild West, “Hey! Yer a New Yorker!”

  At which moment I inhaled the maraschino cherry and began to CHOKE. I couldn’t get a sound out at first, and I guess this guy is trained in life-saving or something, because he sprang right up out of his seat and got behind me and squeezed my stomach so hard that the cherry FLEW out of my mouth. At that point I managed to squeak out, “I’m okay!” so he let me go. By then the girls on the dance floor had stopped dancing and were looking at us, as was the rest of the room. (And the rest of the world, I think.)

  “Ma name’s AJ,” he said, smiling (a little too) big. “Ahm from Texas. I lak that flar on yer face.”

  Still feeling somewhat gaggy, I coughed out, “Thanks!” and “Got to go!” and “Bye!” until I backed myself to the lounge door, at which point I bolted for the elevator, which didn’t come fast enough, so I ran down a thousand flights of stairs (at least) and all the way back to our stateroom, where, panting, I jumped into bed.

  I’m so pitiful that I’m clearly a hazard to myself.

  And I’m NEVER going to be British again. Speaking that way is EXHAUSTING, anyway. I don’t know how the Brits do it all day.

  And I also don’t GET how the Queen’s husband can be a prince. Shouldn’t he be the KING? Georgia may be the only thing that makes sense over there, and she’s not even REAL.

  My mother just got back from the show. She’s telling me to get my clothes off the floor. I’m telling her that I’m just trying to make it more like home, so she’ll be cozy and not get homesick. She doesn’t seem to appreciate that, though, because she keeps telling me to get out of bed and pick up my clothes. See if I do anything nice for her again.

  Dov’e la passerella?

  Monday (Finally!)

  * * *

  Dear Delia,

  It is our day at sea. I haven’t seen land since we passed Sicily last night. We cruise very fast—it’s like we’re not even touching the water. No waves chop up the surface, and the only white I can see on the dark blue sea is this foamy trail of a V that the boat leaves behind. It makes me think of UVA basketball camp. (Because all their athletic stuff has a big “V” on it. You know, for Virginia?)

  Mom is very busy this morning reading up on Barcelona and planning some “exciting sightseeing activities” (!) for our day tomorrow. After the Pompeian guide’s overdose of inappropriateness, she made the suggestion that we explore the rest of the cities on our own. I told her I thought that was a fine idea, but she insisted on having a conversation about it anyway. It went like this:

  MOM: We have to be back at the boat by a certain time each day, and if we miss it, it sails without us. Should we worry about that?

  ME: Uh, no.

  MOM: It might be dangerous, too, don’t you think? Two women, alone in strange cities?

  ME: How does that work, exactly? Being alone when you’re two women?

  She tried to hand me a book on Barcelona today, but I refused to read it on the grounds that it is—quite obviously—totally bad luck to study anything when you’re on vacation. (See? I’m not THAT much of a geek.) At this moment she is trying to find a subway map, or something, in the ship’s Internet Café. Which reminds me—I must send an e-mail to my little sister, because I promised I would tell her what it’s like in a different country, since she’s never been, well, anywhere. (I’m not entirely sure she’s ever been away from her computer, actually.) The story of my day in Pompeii would be rated PG-13, though, so she’s too young for that. And the story of the party last night would be rated R (for ridiculous), so I’m NOT writing to her—or ANYONE—about that. (Well, except you, obviously). I guess I’ll have to wait until I have a normal experience, which might take a while, the way things are going.

  Actually, there has been a small improvement in my life this morning. I have almost completely rid my face of the flower. I put a layer of sunscreen on it, let it set for a half hour, then massaged it in for a minute or two, then wiped it off with a tissue. Then, feeling a lot like a person in an infomercial, I scrubbed in a circular motion twenty times with glycerin soap. I think I look pretty good today, and if it weren’t for the fact that I have to stay hidden and in disguise, I would be ready to go out in public again.

  I have found a deck with no (cool) people on it—deck six—and I am hunkered down in a lounge chair. I have a visor and dark sunglasses on and a shirt I had not yet worn on the boat (which was not hard, since it’s only the third day of our cruise). Earlier, I tried running on this deck, but some very tanned, blond-haired, oldish women told me it was a “power-walking only” deck. (Which probably has something to do with there being no cool people anywhere near it.)

  Oh, no! Some girls are approaching. They look vaguely familiar. Must be from the party last night.

  Bye! Gotta pretend I’m dead!

  Monday night

  * * *

  Dear Delia,

  I only have a moment, but thought I’d tell you about the major (and very strange) improvement in my situation aboard the boat. It seems I have somehow achieved celebrity status. Those girls I saw this morning? Well, they were actually LOOKING for me. You see, after the maraschino cherry incident, AJ—according to the girls—was very upset that I’d left. Seems he, uh, FANCIES me. He was asking all the other people in the lounge if they knew my name, and of course, no one did, since I don’t (didn’t) know a single soul on the boat. So, he said he was going to find me, and he asked for help.

  (I feel like Cinderella. Only instead of leaving a shoe at the party, the only thing I left was a masticated cherry. Now, THERE’S an image: Prince AJ knocking on stateroom doors, maraschino cherry in hand, trying to find the girl with the dainty throat that fits the cherry. Okay. I know that’s weird.)

  The girls who informed me of this situation were speaking perfect English and wearing shirts with the words “USA!” and “America Rocks” on the fronts, so I assumed they were fellow Americans. How foolish I am! They are—of course!—Lebanese. (The foreign language programs in Lebanon are obviously far superior to ours in America, judging by the degree of fluency they have in English, which about matches the degree of non-fluency I have in German.) They told me this whole story of what transpired at the party after my getaway. At the end of it, they said, simultaneously, “You are SO lucky! Don’t you think AJ’s HOT?”

  “Uh, NO?” I said. Then noticing their expressions of aghastness (is that a word?), I added, “You see, I’m from Washington, DC, and we, uh, don’t really, uh, GET the Texans—yeah, THAT.”

  “Really?” the girl who had introduced herself as Tatyana asked, smiling.

  “So, you don’t LIKE him?” Noori (the other girl) (duh) asked.

  “Well, I like him in a he’s-pretty-good-at-the-Heimlich-maneuver sort of way,” I said, “But, no, I don’t LIKE him like him.”

  “So, can my best friend, Noori, ask him out?” Tatyana asked.

  “Okaay,” I said, wondering when I’d been appointed Love Czar of the cruise.

  “Oh, THANKS!” Noori said. And she actually HUGGED me.

  (Hormones rage in Lebanon, too, I guess.)

 
; “So, I’m wondering,” I said, “how did you get both of your families to go on the same vacation?”

  “We’re with my parents,” Tatyana said. “Next month we’re doing the eastern Mediterranean with Noori’s parents.”

  “We don’t have any brothers or sisters, so we’ve been going on vacations together for forever,” Noori added.

  “You are really lucky,” I said. “If my best friend were here, I know I’d have SO much more fun.”

  (Which is true, Delia.)

  (Even though you are SUCH a pain.)

  “Do stuff with us!” Noori said.

  “Yeah,” Tatyana said. “Meet us at the party tonight, at the Roman Ruins Pool.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s REALLY nice.”

  “So,” Tatyana said, after a pause, “is it, um, a GOOD thing to be a geeky jock in DC?”

  I realized then that the palm of my hand was openly displayed on the arm of my lounge chair, so, quickly flipping it over, I said, laughing, “Oh, that was written by a person I was visiting in a mental institution.”

  (Well, THAT’S what you get for using a Sharpie and going over the letters so many times. I think I may have this on my hand for LIFE.)

  Then my NEW FRIENDS—who don’t WRITE on me, thank-you-very-much—and I hung out and did some scheming about how to get AJ to shift his amore (that’s LOVE) from me to Noori.

  Speaking of WHICH . . . I’ve gotta go! I’m supposed to meet them early, so I can tell them about Texas.

  Which might be difficult, since I’ve never BEEN there.

  Life is a very bizarre thing, isn’t it?

  Bye, now!

  p.s. I am wearing the bikini!

  p.p.s. But I put a shirt over it again.

  p.p.p.s. SORRY! I’m JUST NOT READY!

  p.p.p.p.s. Anyway, with this Texas guy out looking for me, I don’t think I should wear something that might further attract his attention.

  p.p.p.p.p.s. AND YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT BECAUSE YOU’RE THOUSANDS OF MILES AWAY!

  p.p.p.p.p.p.s. I know, I KNOW. I’m truly sad. (Sigh.)

  Tuesday (or so the mat says)

  * * *

  Dear Delia,

  I woke up to the sight of land out of the porthole (in Earth-speak: window). We are arriving in Barcelona. Mi madre (which looks a lot like Italian, I know, but it is pronounced “mee MAH-dray,” and it is Spanish, since we are in . . . YES! SPAIN!) has informed me that we have to eat a “quick-quick” breakfast, so we can get ashore. We have, she says, exactly six hours to cover “a whole list of must-sees.” Then she read them off to me, but I can’t tell you what they were, because I was thinking about something else at the time. Like how much I like to sleep when I’m tired. Then she ran off and said we would be leaving “the moment” she gets back. I’m sure I have time, though, to squeeze in a teeny-weeny report on . . .

  THE POSEIDON MIXER

  Which is what the party was called last night—at least according to the banner over the entrance to the Roman Ruins Pool. Standing under it, greeting us, was Gilligan, the social director dude.

  (But he’s not the “dude” type, actually. Think the blond guy on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. That’s closer to Gilligan.)

  He pointed to the banner and told us—with oodles of enthusiasm—that he’d made it himself on the computer. We complimented him—what a cool font he’d chosen, what excellent colors, what realistic waves, and what an awesome Poseidon! You know, the usual humoring-of-adults drill.

  “You’re the first ones to greet Poseidon, the god who reigns over the mixer, triton in hand!” he said, pointing then to the middle of the pool, where a large statue of a sea god loomed over the water.

  “But isn’t that three-pronged thing called a trident?” Tatyana asked him.

  “No, no, it’s a triton,” Gilligan said in an aren’t-you-silly-kids sort of way.

  “I thought Triton was the name of his kid,” I said. “The half-fish one.”

  “Yes!” Noori said. “Triton was the king in The Little Mermaid!”

  Gilligan was momentarily flustered, then smiled and proclaimed, “And Poseidon is the king of the mixer!”

  We smiled back and nodded slowly. (In a universal-sign-for-kookoo sort of way.)

  He pulled some wristbands from a bag he was carrying and started to tell us about a “big surprise” he had planned for the evening, when Tatyana said, “Are you really sure that’s even a statue of Poseidon?”

  “Yes! Poseidon’s the god of the sea!” he answered. “You should each take a different color wristband, and be listening for a—”

  “Poseidon’s from Greek mythology, though,” Noori said, interrupting him. “Isn’t this the Roman Ruins Pool?”

  “I think that’s really Neptune,” I threw in.

  “The Roman sea god,” Tatyana added.

  (You know, the informing-adults-of-things-they-should-already-know drill.)

  Some new people arrived just about then, and Gilligan—with an extremely relieved look on his face—began greeting them.

  The wristbands he gave us are like those Livestrong things, only they were in a bunch of different colors, and they said “Poseidon’s Mixer” on them. I took a blue one (of course), Noori got orange, and Tatyana pink.

  We staked out some lounge chairs and listened to the music the DJ was playing, which was mostly rap. Lahn showed up, and I waved him over to a chair by ours. (Lahn is the one from our dinner table, in case you’re having a hard time keeping up with my rapidly increasing social circle). Then AJ appeared, of course, so we put PHASE ONE of our plan into action. It went like this:

  1. AJ makes a beeline to me.

  2. I thank him for being such a cool guy and saving my life.

  3. He asks me if I want to dance.

  4. I say, “No, thank you.”

  5. He asks me if I want to swim.

  6. I say, “No, thank you.”

  7. Noori announces she is going swimming, takes off her batik wrap to display a red, white, and blue string bikini, and dives into the pool. (Which was really smooth, Delia. You would like this girl.)

  8. PHASE ONE ends—and fails—when AJ does not follow her, but remains lodged next to my lounge chair.

  9. There is no PHASE TWO.

  So we just hung out in our lounge chairs—Lahn, Tatyana, Noori (who gave up on the swim pretty quickly), and me, with AJ standing RIGHT next to my chair, like a bodyguard. It was muy (that’s Spanish for “very”) uncomfortable.

  Finally, Noori said, “Anyone thirsty?” and everyone said YES at the exact same time. So she headed off to the poolside bar for drinks.

  Seeing a potential opportunity in this, I said, to no one in particular, “That’s a lot of drinks to carry.”

  And, as I expected (because he’s such a helpful guy—it’s really too bad I find him kind of repulsive), AJ said, “Ahl help,” and he trotted off after Noori.

  “So, do you have a boyfriend in DC?” Tatyana asked, as we watched AJ pulsing off into the now strobe-lit distance.

  “No,” I told her. Then thinking about the gift you gave me for my birthday, I added, “But I grew one once.”

  She gave me an odd look—as you might imagine—then seemed to catch on to what I was saying. “Oh, the ‘Grow-a-Boyfriend’ thing, right? I had one once. They’re fun!”

  “TRULY,” I said. And then I told her about how you and I stuck mine in water but didn’t realize the head wasn’t submerged, and the next day we pulled him out, and he’d grown, like, eight times his original size and was really, really buff, except his head was the size of a pea. And I told her how, after we discovered THAT, we started experimenting with him—only his legs in the water, then only his feet, then one arm.

  As you would guess, Tatyana and I were cracking up at these mental images of the various Grow-a-Boyfriend morphs, and when I got to the description of the HUGE-head version, and how YOU thought he looked like Marvin the Martian, but I thought he looked like Linus
, she TOTALLY lost it and rolled right off her chair and into Lahn (who had been pretty much ignoring us during the whole episode).

  “Oops, sorry!” she said, climbing back up on the chair.

  We both looked over and smiled at him, and he smiled back, but quickly looked away. We couldn’t help but notice that he’d turned COMPLETELY red.

  “Do you think he was offended by the Grow-a-Boyfriend thing?” Tatyana whispered to me.

  “He doesn’t speak English,” I said. “I’m sure he just thinks we’re weird.”

  “Yeah,” Tatyana said, letting out a big sigh. After a couple of seconds she added, “So, what’s California like?”

  (Which was kind of RANDOM, wouldn’t you say?)

  “Well,” I said, “I know about as much about California as I do Texas. I’ve never been there, either.”

  “But I thought all Americans went to Hollywood to, you know, see the movie stars and to surf,” Tatyana said.

  “You don’t have to go to California to surf,” I said. “We have an ocean on the East Coast, too.”

  “Do you have any movie stars?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I said, thinking about it. “Denzel Washington came to town once, when the movie Remember the Titans came out. But I didn’t see him.”

  “You’ve never met Drew Barrymore, or Orlando Bloom, or ANYONE?” she asked.

  “The President came to my school once,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said, clearly disappointed.

  “Tatyana,” I said, “even though California is in the U.S., it’s like three thousand miles away from where I live. Asking me if I’ve been there is like asking you if you’ve been to South Africa.”