by Laura Preble
“Okay.” He sounds annoyed. Meanwhile, my little packet experiment is coming along nicely. Up to seven if I only use Splenda and NutraSweet. Those are the yellow and blue ones, respectively, in case you want to re-create my research. “Hey. Don’t I at least deserve as much attention as the condiments?”
“I’m not sure sugar is a condiment,” I answer. He sighs deeply and opens his menu rather violently.
A waitress with that same tri-tone hair comes over to the table. “Welcome to Old Sicily. Can I take your order? Appetizers? Something to drink? Our specials today are Chicken Parmesan and our chef’s prizewinning Fusili Alfredo.”
“Silly Alfredo?” I know it’s a really bad joke, but I cannot resist. “I never thought of Alfredo as silly.” Fletcher rolls his eyes. The waitress just stares at me as if tarantulas are crawling out of my ears.
“Never mind her,” Fletcher says, patting my hand. “It’s her first night away from the asylum. She doesn’t really remember what it’s like out here.”
Now the waitress, whose name is Typhanee (if I am to believe the atrocious spelling on her name tag), is sort of studying me, fascinated with my obvious issues. “I’ll come back,” she says, slowly backing away from the table.
“Why do you have to be so difficult?”
“I’m not being difficult.”
“You just scared the waitress.” He snaps open his napkin and spreads it over his lap.
“I wasn’t the one talking about asylums.”
“Well, I wasn’t the one stacking sugar packets like an obsessive-compulsive diet junkie.”
Grrr. Okay, fine, I guess I have no alternative but to have some sort of conversation with him. “Why are we here?”
He gestures to the table, the menu, the people dining nearby. “To eat?”
“I don’t think so.” How can I explain to him about the thing in the football stands, about how I couldn’t tell our hands apart? How can I tell him what I really think when I don’t even know what that is? I wish we were all dogs, and we just sniffed each other and that was the end of it. But I guess they never get taken out to dinner, really. Unless you count table scraps.
“You want to know why I brought you here.”
He clears his throat, and seems kind of serious, so I have to make a joke. I can’t help it. “To tell me that the butler did it in the ballroom with a lead pipe?”
“Arghghg!” He gurgles in frustration, throwing his napkin on the table. “I’m going to the bathroom. When I get back, I expect to be able to have a conversation with you that doesn’t involve puns, board games, or mental illness.”
“That’s a pretty tall order,” I answer lamely as he walks away. “Crap.”
Typhanee is standing at my elbow, as if she just appeared from the misty steam heat of the kitchen, a serving goddess. “Here’s your bread,” she says, tossing it onto the table. Little butter pats fly out as if trying to escape. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“I’d like a coconut drink with a little umbrella and some rum.”
She arches an eyebrow at me. “Do you have ID?”
I search my nonexistent pockets for it. “Oh, wow, no. I must have left it back at the nuthouse. Never mind. It probably wouldn’t mix well with my medication anyway. Just some ice water. Thanks.”
She’s still hovering, despite my obvious brush-off. “It’s none of my business, but I think you should stop acting so childish. This guy obviously cares about you or he wouldn’t be springing for dinner, you know.” I am speechless. I’ve never been psychoanalyzed by someone whose primary function is grinding pepper and Parmesan onto people’s dinner plates. “I’m just saying. I’ve done what you’re doing. It doesn’t work.”
“What doesn’t work?” I reach for the bread. Might as well eat.
“You’re trying to keep him away, keep it distant. You were probably hurt, and you have abandonment issues.”
As I butter, I try not to stab Typhanee with the knife. “Do I have to pay you extra for this?”
“I’m a psych major.” She gestures awkwardly at the order pad. “I’m just doing this to get through school. Sorry. Can I take your order, or do you want to wait until he gets back?”
“Hmmm. Let me see. I’d like an order of abandonment issues with a side of damaged self-esteem, well done. Oh, and do you think you could bring extra dressing?” I’m a bitter, bitter girl. Typhanee sighs and walks away.
Fletcher has returned, somewhat calmed. “So. Ready to order?”
I laugh in spite of myself. I wish I could share with him the conversation I had with Typhanee, but that would be pressing my luck. “Sure. I think I’ll have that silly Alfredo.”
He smiles at me, then motions toward Typhanee, who studiously ignores us. “Huh. Wonder what’s up with that? She acts like she didn’t even see me.”
“Don’t know,” I mumble as I shove another piece of bread into my mouth.
“Okay. So. Here’s why I wanted to bring you here. I think we’ve been getting along great, and I really like you, and—”
“You going to eat that last piece of bread?”
He stops abruptly. “What?”
“Are you? If you’re not, could I have it?”
He frowns at me, puzzled. He says nothing. I mangle the bread like a hungry piranha. Finally he sighs, frustrated, and says, “I can see that this is going to go nowhere.” Part of me wants to scream, to jump up on the table and say, “Yes! I like you!” but I can’t. So, I guess I win. No deep, meaningful, intimate conversation. Yippee.
Eyes focused on the table and the silver and the water glasses, he says, “It’s not really major, or anything. I just wanted to tell you that I like who you are, and I like that you let me see who you are…. I…just like you.”
Some ice wall inside me melts with a big gush of warm air. This results in major flooding in the region of my eyeballs. I grab for my bread-crumbed napkin and dab carefully at my eyes, hoping not to create graffiti streaks with the centipede mascara.
“Why are you crying?” He shakes his head. “I thought that would make you happy!”
“It does,” I mumble, trying not to sob like a big baby into the bread plate. Typhanee chooses this fantastic moment to reappear.
“Well,” she chirps, “seems like someone had a breakthrough. Free breadsticks.” She scurries away, leaving Fletcher looking after her, baffled.
“What did that mean?”
I continue dabbing. “I didn’t want to say anything, but while you were in the bathroom, she confided in me that she’s actually a real mental patient. She sort of felt like we bonded.”
We both laugh, and it feels good. I feel like I’ve had clenched fists balled up inside my stomach and they’ve finally let go. Even with the Medusa hair, it’s starting to look like it might be a nice evening. When the waitress/ therapist comes back with the breadsticks, we are still laughing and she flashes me a little victory sign, as if she had something to do with our reconciliation other than bringing baked goods.
We order food, and since I’ve stopped feeling tense, I instead feel incredibly hungry. For a vegetarian, Italian restaurants are great, because you can actually get great food with no animal parts (except cheese…I mean, I figure the cows have to get rid of that milk anyway, so what’s the harm?) When my Fusili Alfredo comes, and Fletcher’s Angel Hair Marinara, we both dig in like starving Marines.
Between bites, we talk about stuff. We talk about Becca, about the website, about Amber and Elisa and my dad. Then he says, out of nowhere, “I think we should date each other exclusively.”
Luckily, I had just swallowed. Otherwise, it’s very possible I would have choked, needed resuscitation, and probably died, because if either Fletcher or Typhanee tried to give me mouth-to-mouth, I probably would have resisted. “Huh?” is all I say.
He bites the head off a breadstick. “I said, I think we should date each other exclusively. I mean, we are anyway, right? I just want it to be official.”
“Why?”
/>
He frowns, puzzled. “Because I just want to date you exclusively.”
“Well, if we’re already doing that, then what’s the problem?” The balled fists are regrouping in my stomach. Tears are on red alert and ready to burst forth.
He sighs, exasperated. “I guess I just want to know that you feel the same way I do about it. I don’t want to commit to something if you don’t feel the same way.”
The word “commit” causes me to panic. I consider several options: setting my hair on fire, setting Fletcher’s hair on fire, throwing food, or foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. None of these sound appealing. I opt for my traditional favorite: avoidance.
“This is fantastic Fusili Alfredo,” I say rapturously, rolling my eyes as if it’s the best food I’ve ever eaten. In reality, it tastes like the back of a cereal box with grated cheese and pepper.
He stares at me, crosses his arms, and I half expect him to wag his finger and scold me.
Instead, I say, “Is your pasta good?”
“Fine.” He stabs at the noodles with his fork, punishing them severely for my behavior. Nothing is fair. “You obviously don’t want a serious relationship with me. We can just be friends, I guess.”
Okay, now that was really unfair. He’s giving me what I think I want, which isn’t what I want, and that just sucks. “Wait,” I hear myself saying. “I’m sorry. This is just so sudden.”
He snorts. “I’m not asking you to get married, Shelby. I just want to know that you’re not interested in other guys.”
“I’m not.” There, I said it. Out loud.
“You’re not what?”
“I’m not interested in other guys.” I want to bite my tongue. Traitorous tongue!
My reward is that he relaxes, smiles, and doesn’t seem at all mad. “Great. See, that wasn’t so hard.” He twirls his pasta onto the end of his fork, now more gently. I feel like I am those noodles—wimpy, shapeless, and easily manipulated.
I pretend everything is totally normal for the rest of the meal. Typhanee only comes over one other time, to see how we’re doing, and again she gives me a thumbs up and a wink. As we finish our dinner, I say, “Hey, don’t tip the waitress. She spit in your water when you were gone.”
All the way home I am numb, but pretending to be carefree and witty. When he pulls into my driveway, I bolt from the car before he can kiss me, pretending that I get my shoe caught in the seat belt. “Good night!” I wave frantically as I hop to my door, one shoe askew.
Standing next to the car, he waves, then shuts the door and trots up next to me. “Hey, let’s seal the deal with a kiss.”
Before I can protest, he has gently pulled me toward him, and he’s covering my mouth with his. Immediately I melt inside, and forget everything I was thinking at dinner. Was there a problem? No…all I know is that I feel comfort, warmth, electricity, and some weird buzzy vibration that starts at my feet, shoots out the top of my head, whooshes back in and then settles in my lips. He pulls away, and I’m staring deep into his eyes, diving into an ocean with no life jacket. “Hey. See you soon. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He dances a crazy jig to the car, and as he backs it down the driveway, he honks the horn in a pattern that I think is supposed to be the Beatles’ “She Loves You”. Or it could have been Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. I don’t think Fletcher’s very musical.
3
POST-DATE FALLOUT
(or Nuclear Con-Fusion)
It’s nine o’clock, and just getting dark, so everything has a golden glow about it. The scent of jasmine fills the air, and far away, someone is playing the piano. I ease myself onto my porch swing and rock slowly. I feel like I’ve been jumbled up, a puzzle whose pieces don’t quite fit, and suddenly, with that kiss, all the pieces magically fit together. And I feel happy.
Dad comes out to the porch too. “So, you’re home?”
I just smile. I imagine I look pretty dopey.
He sits next to me and picks up the rhythm of the swing. “Have a nice time?”
Again, the dopey smile.
He laughs and puts his arm around me. “I guess you did.” We just sit like that, together, for a few minutes. Finally, he says, “Want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“Your Big Date.”
I usually do talk to my dad about a lot of stuff. Ever since my mom died, we are sort of each other’s support system. But I still don’t know what the rules are concerning teenage romance and dads. I also don’t want to worry him. Dads worry about their daughters. “We went to Old Sicily and had some good food. I got psychoanalyzed by a waitress. Fletcher said he wants to date me exclusively.”
Dad frowns and stops the swing. “Date you exclusively? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I guess it means that we don’t go out with anybody else.” I try to continue the motion of the swing, but he stops it.
“I don’t want you getting serious, Shelby. You’re only fifteen. You’re much too young to be in any exclusive relationship.”
Great. So now I have to defend a choice I didn’t want to make to my dad, and even though I wanted what he wanted, I got what he didn’t want, so everybody’s going to be mad. There’s no way out of it. “Look, Dad, it’s no big deal. It doesn’t mean we’re getting married or anything—”
“I should hope not!” he says, all flustered. “Maybe you should stop seeing him. He is older than you, you know.”
“It’s not like he’s in a retirement home, Dad. He’s only a year or so older.”
“Well, in high school, that’s a lot. Boys his age…have needs.”
Oh, gross. Now we’re going to have the sex talk. I so do not want to do this. I don’t want to do the talk, and I don’t want to do the sex, and so we really shouldn’t have to discuss it. Of course, I will never be able to convince my dad of this. All dads assume their daughters are wild tiger sluts ready to shinny out the bedroom window on a bedsheet at the first sign of interest from a guy. Even my dad, who’s a pretty intelligent guy, thinks this. But that makes me really mad because it’s like he doesn’t even know me, so I have to torture him a little.
“What does that mean, ‘boys have needs’?” I bat my eyes innocently.
He turns red. “Uh…you know what I mean.”
“No. No, I don’t.”
Dad sighs heavily, looks at his watch, and then stands up. “It’s getting late. I think you should go to bed. Why don’t you talk to Euphoria about this?”
“Ask Euphoria about what?”
“About this Fletcher thing.” He leans over, kisses me on the top of my head. “I’m going to my studio. I’ll be up late, so don’t wait on me for breakfast.”
I walk into the house and go directly to my room. Euphoria is hanging out there, sitting on her charger, listening to Mozart. “Hey, Shelby!” She whirs. “How was the date?”
“Wow, you’d think that I had no life before this dinner happened.” I kick off my shoes and throw them carelessly into a corner. “Why is everybody so concerned about my eating habits?”
Euphoria clicks disapprovingly. “Now, now, sweetie. You know everybody just wants you to be happy. Maybe we should go mow the lawn. That might take your mind off of things.” Euphoria has a crush on Fred, our lawnmower. She’ll use any excuse to do yard work.
“It’s getting too dark to mow the lawn. Besides, didn’t we just mow it Tuesday? The grass doesn’t grow that fast.”
The phone rings, and Euphoria, who is directly tied into our Internet and communications system, answers. “Chapelle residence. Who may I ask is calling?”
“Euphoria! It’s Becca. Put Shelby on and take her off speaker phone!” Euphoria harrumphs and pushes the appropriate button, then hands me the phone. She hates being left out of a conversation.
“Hey.”
“So? How was it? Did he ask you to elope? Get married? Have his baby? Do his homework?”
“Wow. All of the above, and in that order. You are so good.” I throw a shoe at Euph
oria, who keeps turning the lights on and off in protest.
“Well, listen, you can tell me tomorrow. We’re having a meeting with Amber and Elisa to talk about our summer plans.”
“Do we have summer plans?”
“For the club. I’ve got lots of ideas.”
“You? Ideas? Naw.” I yawn and consider how nice it would be to get a shower, wash the makeup off my face, and put on my favorite super-soft cotton jammies. “What time is the meeting?”
“My house, noon tomorrow. That way you can dream about your date for several hours. He’ll be here too, by the way.”
“Who? Fletcher? Why?”
“He’s helping us with our website, remember? Just be here. Amber and Elisa will be here too. Tell Euphoria we just got satellite cable and the dish is really hot.”
“You’re evil.” I switch the phone off and change into my pj’s as Euphoria clucks around me.
“Shelby, you seem preoccupied. Do you need anything? Hot cocoa? Want to watch a science-fiction movie?”
“I really just want to go to bed, to be honest. Let me get washed up and I’ll be right back.”
It doesn’t take me long to get to sleep. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I can feel myself drifting off. And then…
I’m on an island. The water is cool blue-green, and it washes up on a white sand beach where I sit under a swaying coconut palm. In my right hand is a tall glass full of exotic fruit punch; in my left is a penguin. It does not say anything.
Fletcher is suddenly there, leaning against the trunk of the tree. “Nice penguin,” he comments. “Could I have a drink?”
“A drink of my penguin?” I ask.
“No.” He laughs, grabbing my glass. “I want some of your blood.”
I stare, horrified, at the glass. “That’s not blood, is it?”
“Sure.” He gulps down a huge swallow, wipes his lips, and goes for more. “It’s magically delicious.”