One Tough Chick

by Leslie Margolis

  Tiny smile.

  Teensy-tiny smile.

  Toothy smile.

  Super-toothy smile that actually made me look like a scary clown.

  Closemouthed Mona Lisa smile. Weirdness!

  And best of all, a regular casual smile.

  I think I looked good.

  My hair is long and straight and blond. I have dark-brown eyes and teeth that are almost straight but not quite.

  I’m skinny but not scrawny except for my knees, which are a little knobby. I’m also shorter than your average sixth grader. Then again, so is Oliver. He’s taller than me but just barely.

  Looking at myself in the mirror again, I decided to reapply the lip gloss. Now my shiny pale-pink lips looked nice, but were they too shiny? Did I want to draw attention to that part of my body?

  Perhaps I did.

  Kissing Oliver seemed like it would be fun and exciting. Kissing seemed kind of scary, too.

  I locked the bathroom door and looked at myself some more. This time I puckered up my lips. They looked weird and guppylike.

  I wondered if Oliver would be my first kiss. I wondered if it would happen tonight. Did I even want it to happen tonight? Is it okay to kiss on the first date? Is it okay to kiss if you don’t even know if you’re actually having a date?

  I checked my watch. It was still five o’clock. How was it still five o’clock when I got home from the park at five?

  Wait—the second hand on my watch looked frozen. I shook my watch and stared some more. Nothing moved. There were two possibilities.

  1. Time had stopped while I’d kept moving.

  2. My watch was broken.

  “Honey, what time did you say Oliver was picking you up?” my mom asked.

  “Six thirty,” I said. “Why? What time is it?”

  “Six thirty,” she said.

  “What?” I asked. “You’re kidding. Don’t say that.”

  “Please don’t yell at me.”

  “I’m not yelling,” I yelled. Then I added, “Sorry.” I ran out of the bathroom and back into my room, flung open my closet, and tore through it again, making sure I hadn’t overlooked the perfect outfit.

  “You look great, Annabelle. Don’t worry.”

  “Who said I’m worried?” I screamed. “Do I look worried?”

  My mom raised her eyebrows at me, something I found irritating to a crazy degree.

  “Don’t ask any more questions,” I yelled before she even had a chance to speak. Yes, I realized that she hadn’t actually asked me anything. She’d just offered some commentary, but I didn’t want to correct myself. And I blamed her for this mistake, too. My mom, who stood there smiling at me with her mouth closed, doing exactly what I’d asked her to do—nothing. Yet somehow even this annoyed me.

  “And what are you wearing?” I asked.

  “Yoga clothes,” she replied.

  For some reason I didn’t want Oliver seeing my mom in yoga pants. They were just so … tight. And how come her hair looked so messy? Had she even brushed it today?

  “When was the last time you got a haircut?” I asked.

  “Annabelle, please calm down. Everything is going to be fine.”

  “But aren’t you going to change before Oliver comes?” I asked, panicked.

  “Why? I’m not going out with him. Or do you want me to come along, too?” she said, and laughed. “I haven’t been to IHOP in ages.”

  “Not funny!” I said. Then something else occurred to me. “Why are you wearing yoga clothes?”

  “Well, most people who wear yoga clothes do so because they’re about to take a yoga class. And it turns out I’m no exception.” She said it like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to go to yoga on a Saturday night, but I knew better. My mom and yoga were like oil and water. Fire and ice. Peanut butter … and whatever doesn’t go well with peanut butter.

  What doesn’t go with peanut butter?

  Everything tastes better with peanut butter. I quickly ran through some food options: chocolate, bread, celery, apples …

  Cheese! Cheese and peanut butter do not go well together. My mom and yoga were like cheese and peanut butter—a disastrous combination.

  “You always said you hated yoga,” I said. “Something about all those people sweating and grunting in one room seemed … did you call it ‘unsavory’?”

  “I may have, but I recently realized that I’ve never even tried yoga.”

  “Did Ted talk you into this?” I asked.

  My stepdad is a total fitness nut. He’s been training for the LA marathon for months, and the race is only two weeks away.

  “Ted has nothing to do with it,” my mom insisted. “Anyway, I just came in to wish you luck.”

  “Luck? You think I need luck?” For some reason my voice came out in a squeaky shout.

  “No, Annabelle. I shouldn’t have said that. You’ll be fine with or without luck. Just relax and be yourself.”

  My self was a nervous wreck. My hands were sweaty and my pulse raced.

  Mom kissed me on the forehead before she left. “I’ll see you later. Remember—your curfew is nine o’clock, and if you leave the mall, you’ll have to call me.”

  “We’re not even going to the mall!” I reminded her. “We’re going to IHOP. You know that! You just made a bad joke about joining us there.”

  “Was the joke really that bad?” She blinked at me, a little insulted.

  I threw up my hands in an exaggerated shrug. “Do I really need to answer that?”

  “Oh, never mind. I don’t know where my brain has been these days.” My mom left me alone—finally.

  I turned back to the mirror. I could hardly believe that this might very well be my first real date with my soon-to-be first boyfriend.

  It made me feel mature.

  Sophisticated.

  Oh, and scared out of my wits.

  Which is a weird expression. What is a wit, exactly?

  I changed watches. Luckily, my other one—a Mickey Mouse watch my grandma got me at Disneyland—worked great.

  Now that I knew it was six thirty-three and Oliver would be arriving at any moment, I didn’t know what to do with myself.

  Then I noticed my new camera sitting on my bedside table. Ted had given it to me because he’d gotten a newer model. I picked it up and snapped a picture of myself in the mirror, figuring if this does turn out to be my first real date, if Oliver does turn out to be my first real boyfriend, I should document it.

  When the doorbell chimed, my stomach jumped. I put my camera on my desk.

  My hands shook. I clenched my fists so they’d stop, but it didn’t work.

  I sneaked down the hall, all the way to the head of the staircase, with my back flat against the wall, like a spy. Then I peeked around the corner. Oliver stood in the entryway with Ted, who shook his hand.

  Spying on my stepdad from the top of the steps made me cringe. Ted’s voice seemed too loud, his head especially bald and shiny.

  I thought maybe I should remind Oliver that we weren’t related by blood and he didn’t even raise me or anything. I had only met Ted a year and a half ago.

  Then I felt guilty because, as dorky as he is, Ted’s a sweet guy. It’s not his fault he’s dorky. Some people are born that way, I think.

  It just happens, the way some people are blond and some people are brunette. Except that’s not a very good comparison because, as we learned in science, hair color has to do with genetics and dorkiness probably does not. Plus, Ted is bald.

  I took a deep breath, resisted the temptation to look in the mirror again, and walked downstairs, silently reminding myself not to trip.

  I smiled, while at the same time worrying that my smile seemed too big and goofy. But it turns out I didn’t have to worry because Oliver cracked a goofy smile right back at me.

  Also? He wore khakis and a purple shirt with a collar. My point is not that he looked super-cute, although he did. It’s this: Oliver got dressed up, too.

&nb
sp; And his hair seemed shorter. Had he gotten a haircut for our date?

  Did a shirt with a collar and khaki pants and a haircut make this a date? Or simply a Saturday-night dinner between friends?

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “Sure thing,” said Oliver. “Let’s go.”

  “Have fun,” my mom said. She must’ve sneaked in from the kitchen—I hadn’t even seen her coming. And thankfully she’d thrown on jeans and a button-down shirt.

  “Bye,” I said.

  As Oliver and I headed out the door all I could think was this: It’s go time!

  Chapter Three

  the True Picture

  Oliver and I walked out to his mom’s sleek silver sedan. He opened the door for me and I slid right in. The seats were soft and black, and the entire car smelled like new leather.

  “Hi, Mrs. Banks,” I said.

  “Good evening, Annabelle. Normally I go by Clarice, but feel free to call me Jeeves tonight.”

  “Jeeves?” I asked, not getting it at first.

  “Yes, I’m your chauffeur,” she said with a wink. “I knew I should’ve worn a uniform, or at least a driving cap. It would’ve been much funnier that way.”

  Oliver rolled his eyes and groaned. Clearly I’m not the only one with embarrassing parents. This made me feel better.

  “Sorry, sweetie. I should probably stay silent. Right?” asked Mrs. Banks, sneaking a peak at Oliver in the rearview mirror.

  “Yeah—and try not to call me sweetie in front of Annabelle,” Oliver said as he slunk down into his seat.

  “Right,” his mom whispered. “I suppose I should’ve known that.” She turned on the radio, and soon we were listening to Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds.” Oliver asked his mom to turn up the volume. “Of course,” said Mrs. Banks. “You know I saw him play in concert back when I was a teenager in Jamaica.”

  “I know,” Oliver said, like he’d heard her say this a million times. Maybe he had, but it’s the first I’d heard of it and I couldn’t help but be impressed. I don’t think my mom did anything as cool as go to Bob Marley concerts. She did live in England for a while. She went there for graduate school. But it’s not like she hung out with Adele or any other cool musicians.

  Before we made it through the third song, we were there at IHOP.

  “Shall I pick you up in an hour, or will you call me when you’re ready?” Mrs. Banks asked.

  “Um, I’ll call you,” said Oliver. Then he turned to me. “If that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure.” I shrugged. And then I worried that I shrugged too much. That maybe I should’ve worn an actual shrug to hide my shrugging and maybe that’s why those funny shawl things are called shrugs in the first place.

  We climbed out of the car and then Oliver’s mom pulled away. We stood there watching from the sidewalk as the taillights got smaller and then finally disappeared into traffic. Then we walked into the restaurant.

  It was crowded mostly with old people and a few families. I quickly scanned the place and didn’t see anyone I knew or even anyone I recognized from school—and I couldn’t decide if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

  I think I’d be super-self-conscious if someone caught me on the date. But then again, I was pretty excited about being out with Oliver and I felt like a grown-up, so it would’ve been nice for someone to witness that. Not that I wanted to be gossiped about. Or maybe I did, as long as it wasn’t for anything bad or embarrassing …

  “Do you have a reservation?” asked the hostess, smiling down at us.

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes,” Oliver said, clearing his throat. “We do. Two for Banks.” He held two fingers up in a V for victory.

  The hostess checked her reservation book and gave a small nod. “I see—wonderful. Please follow me.”

  Oliver and I did. She led us to a large booth in the corner and we sat down across from each other.

  And here’s what happened.

  I looked at Oliver.

  Oliver looked at me.

  We smiled and then we both looked away.

  The busboy came over and brought us ice water. Oliver took a sip of his.

  Then I took a sip of mine.

  Oliver reached for his glass to take another sip of water but then changed his mind and put his hand back on the table. He gripped the table’s edge with both hands and then he drummed his fingers on it.

  He smiled at me.

  I smiled back and then felt shy and looked around.

  The restaurant was loud with conversations and the clinking of glasses and silverware clanking against plates. Everyone around us seemed to be talking, yet we remained silent.

  Say something, Annabelle!

  I unfolded my gift certificate and put it on the table. “Think we should give this to the waiter now? Or after the check comes?”

  I’m glad I broke the silence, but once my words came out I felt silly. We hadn’t even ordered yet and I already seemed worried about how to pay? Not cool.

  “Probably after,” said Oliver.

  “Right.” I put the certificate away in my purse. It felt weird to carry a purse. I didn’t want to, but my skirt had no pockets and I didn’t want to carry my wallet around. Maybe I should’ve tucked it into the waistband of my leggings, though, because the purse’s strap kept slipping off my shoulder. Finally, I let it rest at my side.

  “Did you do the science homework?” asked Oliver.

  I looked into his eyes. “I didn’t think we had science homework this weekend.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Oliver. “Um, did you do your other homework yet? Or do you wait until Sunday night?”

  “Usually, I wait until Sunday night,” I said.

  “Me, too,” said Oliver.

  Silence.

  It occurred to me that this was one of the first times we’d ever been alone together.

  Maybe we should’ve invited Tobias. Sure, the guy could be annoying, but things were never quiet when he was around.

  Was this what dating was about? If so, I don’t know why I was so anxious to have my first one. It was kind of boring. Which wasn’t fair, because Oliver is anything but boring, and I don’t think I’m boring, either. Still, it was hard to know what to talk about, and both of us seemed too self-conscious to act normal.

  The waiter came and welcomed us to the pancake house. He had spiky dark hair and three small hoops in his left ear and also a hoop in his nose. He seemed uncomfortable in his IHOP uniform of brown trousers with a matching vest and a white shirt underneath. I didn’t blame him. I think it’ll be fun to get a job once I’m a teenager, but I’d never want one that required a uniform. “Can I take your order?” he asked.

  Oliver got the Swedish pancakes with bacon.

  I ordered a short stack of chocolate-chip pancakes, also with a side of bacon. As soon as the waiter walked away, I worried that getting chocolate-chip pancakes might seem babyish. Also that ordering bacon seemed copycatish. Doesn’t everyone like bacon? I hoped Oliver didn’t think I was incapable of original thought.

  “So what did you do today?” asked Oliver.

  “My friends and I had a picnic over at the lake.”

  “Cool,” said Oliver.

  “It was fun,” I said. “Hey, are you entering the talent show?”

  “Of course,” said Oliver.

  “What’s your talent?”

  “I’m going to do some sketches. Portraits of people.”

  “Portraits as in plural?” I asked. “We only have five minutes to perform, I thought.”

  “I know—that’s why I’m doing them fast. My act is called ‘Sixty-Second Sketches.’ I’m planning on doing five of them in a row.”

  “Can you really do a portrait in a minute?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it,” said Oliver. “Here. Let me try you.” He pulled a small notebook and pencil out of his back pocket and narrowed his eyes at me. Then he started drawing.

  With his pencil in his hand, he lo
oked completely comfortable and in control, like he knew exactly what to do. I admired Oliver for having something he loved—art—and for being so good at it. I wished I had that one thing. Dog training is good, but it’s not that good.

  On the other hand, being drawn by Oliver and being scrutinized at IHOP made me feel uncomfortable. I worried about my lip gloss. Maybe it looked silly, and I hoped I didn’t have any food on my face. Then I remembered our food hadn’t even come yet. Except I hadn’t brushed my teeth since this morning and there could’ve been food from lunch. But no—I’d spent too much time staring at myself in the mirror and practicing smiles. I knew there was no food in my teeth, and nothing else that wasn’t supposed to be there. I tried to relax. Then I worried I was slouching, and slouching is a bad habit.

  Turns out posing for a sketch was worse than looking in the mirror for flaws. Posing meant fearing you had flaws but not knowing what or how bad they were.

  The longer Oliver’s sketch took, the stranger this whole thing seemed. I felt sort of embarrassed and sort of like a model.

  I wondered if models got embarrassed.

  I thought about all those old-fashioned portraits I saw at my last visit to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. My mom and Ted and I had all rented headphones for an audio tour. “Did you know that in the olden days, before photography existed, only rich people could afford to have their portraits painted? That’s why, when you look at an old-fashioned portrait, all of the subjects are dressed up in fancy clothes and jewelry, sitting in fancy rooms.”

  “Yeah, I did,” Oliver said with a grin. “And guess what else? If you wanted to be a successful portrait artist, meaning you wanted to get enough work to survive, you had to make people look better than they really were. Like, more attractive.”

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  Oliver nodded. “Yup. Women might be drawn with finer features, and men would look more dignified, braver, stronger, maybe even taller. Children would look cuter, more playful and adorable. If they had snot on their nose, no good portrait artist would draw them with snot on their nose because they could get in big trouble with their parents. This means that all those paintings of people hanging in art galleries from way back when might not represent what people really looked like.”