Strangely Amazing

by Amiee Smith

“Because I’m white and only have a bachelor’s degree? That’s bullshit. I’m the one who helped them assemble their camping gear for Burning Man three years ago. I helped Claire select the best delivery vans for her store. I found a good handyman for Lynn’s building in San Francisco. I always pick up Brit and Jen when they go to concerts and are too smashed to drive home. I drove out to Beverly Hills on a weeknight to kill a spider on Dana’s terrace. The damn thing wasn’t even in the house! I’ve paid my dues and endured all their scheming. Jen is insanely loyal to them too. We could be in bed… IN BED, dude, and she’ll still respond to a text from one of them. Now there is going to be a new member of the Mafia. Totally messed up,” Jon bellows before chugging his beer.

  “Man, I didn’t realize this was so distressing to you. Maybe you should see someone about it?” Carlos jokes, sinking his next shot.

  I met him and Jon last week at Nick’s dinner party where the Mafia played out some scheme to diffuse the Nick-Lynn-Michael faux love triangle. I too have been on the receiving end of their shenanigans.

  “Give your relationships a year and then you’ll know what I mean. The Smart Girl Mafia is a pack of wolves!” Jon roars.

  The way he’s talking is alarming. Maybe the Mafia is too much for Lilly? What if she’s not having a good time? What if she’s stuck way out in Claremont and wants to leave? What if her phone isn’t charged or she can’t request an Uber?

  There are no direct buses or trains to Beverly Hills from there. And she wouldn’t call me to pick her up just out of pride. I really need to talk to her about all the pride shit. Now!

  I hit the phone button next to her name. Opening the sliding door, I move out to the patio.

  “Hi!”

  Lilly’s tone, airy, excited, and upbeat. (Thank G-d.)

  “How’s everything going?”

  “Great! I’m having so much fun.”

  I’ve never heard my woman so cheerful. She doesn’t do enthusiasm, except when she’s playing GTA and even then, she’s just talking shit and riding the exhilaration of online gaming.

  “Good. Ah… Lilly, if you need anything will you promise to call me?” I ask, pacing around the dark-bottom infinity pool. (Jon owns a luxury pool construction business.)

  “I will. Everything is fine,” Lilly says, her words light and airy.

  “GODDESS LILLY!!!”

  I hear a man call out in the background and then a muffle of voices.

  “Lilly? Where are…”

  “Lilly! Come dance! This song is so dope!” Brit calls out in the background.

  “Babe, I gotta go. See you tomorrow,” Lilly says, ending the call.

  For a moment, I stare at my phone. A prickly feeling runs down my spine.

  My woman never calls me “babe.”

  Ugh. These nutty girls are up to something. And they’ve dragged my rational woman right into it. I return to the rec room.

  “They’re not just drinking and talking,” I share.

  “What do you mean?” Alex asks.

  “I just talked to Lilly and I don’t think they’re at Claire’s house.”

  “See! I told you. They are a pack of wolves. Check my wife’s Instagram. She posts photos of everything. It’s how I’ve been tracking her lately.”

  “Man, it’s fine. Lynn texted me a few hours ago to let me know she and Brit made it to Claremont. She doesn’t lie to me,” Nick states.

  I search “Jen Manning” on Instagram and easily find her page with her 850K followers.

  My heart drops when I see the most recent post. And then I get pissed. If I’m pissed, Nick will be too.

  “Why don’t they have shirts on?” I ask, out loud to no one.

  “Jen is always posing without a shirt on. It’s a part of her ‘I still got it’ campaign. I’ve learned to deal with it,” Jon mutters, taking a swig of his beer.

  “No. None of them have shirts on.”

  I make eye contact with Nick. He stops mid shot and peers at my phone. Alex, Carlos, and Jon all crowd around. Jordan takes a glance too.

  “What the fuck!?” Nick pulls his phone from his pocket and makes a call, “Hey Lynn. It’s Nick. Call. Me. Back.”

  “So, this is the Smart Girl Mafia. All these girls are strangely hot. Which one is Lilly?” Jordan asks.

  “The math formulae,” I grumble.

  “Man, luck rained down on you.”

  “I know.”

  Jordan passes my phone to Alex.

  “Did you see the hashtag?” Alex asks, returning my phone.

  I click #GoddessLilly and scroll through at least twenty more images from a party at a frat house in Claremont. Her back is everywhere. The same back I was all over last night. In each pic, she is with a different one of the girls (with her wide grin and turned up chin) or playing dominoes (with her intense and determined face), which gives me some relief.

  But she is still at a frat party and I know exactly how those go. My woman is in her thirties. A respected scientist. The person who will carry my children. She should not be all over Instagram without a shirt in a room full of college dudes.

  “I gotta go to Claremont,” I state, sliding my phone into my pocket.

  “It’s a college town. We don’t know what house they’re at,” Jon says.

  “Jen hashtagged the house,” Alex explains.

  “Of course, she did,” Jon replies, shaking his head.

  Nick turns to me.

  “From here, we can be in Claremont in twenty-five minutes. Let’s roll.”

  “I’ll go too. I gotta meet these ladies,” Jordan laughs.

  ◆◆◆

  “We can’t storm in there and take them home. They aren’t going to agree. Jen barely listens to me when she’s alone,” Jon bemoans.

  Like a bunch of looky-loos, we peer into a large picture window of a Craftsman house in a residential neighborhood a few blocks from the Claremont Colleges. It’s nerd-guy-palooza. Emphasis on “guy.” Not a single girl in the place. Well, other than the shirtless women dancing on a table to Kelis’s “Milkshake.”

  Despite the fact Lilly is doing her hip-roll-robot-hands dance a few beats behind the music, she’s striking. Dressed in slim red pants, black suede oxford shoes and wearing nothing up top but a black bra and all those black tattoos. My woman is alluring. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. These freakin’ nerd dudes are chanting “Goddess Lilly” like they are at a sporting event. The worst part— she’s loving every minute of it, wide-grinning and high-fiving her fans from the table!

  “This is crazy!” I state.

  “No, this is the Mafia,” Nick says, his phone against his ear.

  Through the window, we watch Lynn retrieve her phone from the back pocket of her dark jeans. She doesn’t answer it. Her brown thumbs and bright pink nails rapidly pound out a message. Returning her phone to her pocket, she continues an on-tempo, hair toss-shoulder-shimmy-hip roll. Lynn can dance. We took a few classes together in college.

  “Got your message. Having fun with the girls. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. xoxo, Lynn,” Nick recites her text. “She didn’t even include an emoji. This is bullshit!”

  “They are definitely having fun,” Jordan laughs.

  The song ends and the women (thankfully) get off the table.

  “I’m going in,” I say.

  “We need a plan,” Alex states.

  “We’ll figure it out as we go along,” Nick says as we approach the door.

  “Hey fellas. Welcome to our fall fund drive. The cover is $30 for guys and all proceeds go to charity. If you were planning to join the dominoes tournament, it’s too late. The finals are set to begin any minute, but it will be quite a show. Goddess Lilly will be playing Andrew’s Algorithm. Another keg is coming for the afterparty,” says the doorman, a short, youthful, blue-eyed dude in a baseball cap.

  And we’ve found our angle.

  “Listen, man. Let’s make a deal. I’ll donate $5,000 to your fund drive if you ask those ladies inside to leave
now,” I say.

  “No can do. Goddess Lilly has made this our best turn out. There are guys here who came as far as UC Riverside to see her play,” Shorty replies.

  I was the Chair of Finance for my fraternity in college, so I understand his resistance. The successful fraternity formula: girls equals guys; guys equals increased membership; increased membership equals more money. Which simplifies to: girls equals more money. Money used for charitable contributions, but also to keep the house running and ensure the legacy of the organization.

  See, Lilly is not the only math head in our “we.”

  “Okay. Same offer, but I get to play Lilly in the finals. If I win, then you will tell these girls to leave.”

  “And if you lose? I mean, she’s really good. So good, she agreed to play The Algorithm for an extra level of difficulty,” Shorty beams.

  “Of course, she did,” I mutter.

  “Man, if you lose they really won’t leave. And then they’ll talk shit about how we crashed their sleepover for the next year,” Jon says.

  “Do we get a receipt for our contribution?” Alex asks.

  “Yes. Absolutely. You will also receive a thank you card from our chapter president by mail,” Shorty informs us.

  “How about this? If he loses, I will donate another $5,000 to your fund drive if you end the party after the tournament. Go talk to whomever you need to talk to. Be discreet,” Alex commands.

  We wait at the door for what seems like forever. Another “Goddess Lilly” chant breaks out. My skin crawls. Worst part— she doesn’t know what this is doing to me. I’ve never been the jealous boyfriend crashing a party. Irrational. Brooding.

  Shorty returns.

  “Okay fellas. You’ve got a deal. It’s for charity, after all.”

  I give the dude my credit card to swipe, and sign the screen. For my donation, we get six red Solo cups and gain entry.

  “Let her win, Michael. They’ll feel hella good about themselves when they leave. I’ll contribute to the party shutdown fund,” Jon says.

  “Yeah, man. Jon is right. I’ll contribute as well,” Nick says.

  “No. That was Alex’s part of the deal. I’m going to win this tournament. Then we will take our women home.”

  CHAPTER 19:

  LILLY SHEPARD

  The girls and I are in the backyard of the frat, standing in a circle, and drinking bottles of water we snagged from the kitchen.

  Lynn scoffs. “I suddenly don’t feel like flirting anymore. After the finals let’s bounce. I need to call Nick before he goes to bed. He’s called me like, twice.”

  She stands next to me, scrolling her huge rose gold phone.

  “Yeah, I should call Jon. He’s probably in bed missing me and re-watching episodes of “Sunset Moon.” I love my man,” Jen says.

  “The bathroom is out of toilet paper, so it’s probably a good time to leave,” Claire shares.

  Brit speaks from across the circle, “Oooh. Let’s go back to the house, smoke a little more herb, and eat those cupcakes Lilly brought.”

  “Yeah, those cupcakes looked amazing. I might eat one too. I haven’t had sugar on a Friday in like, five years,” Dana says, standing next to Brit.

  “Chef made them. It’s going to be awesome having someone to do the cooking. Even more awesome waking up to Michael. He’s so great. Truly great.”

  “Ah…you should probably tell him,” Brit says.

  “He knows. He has to know.”

  “Um, not based on the look on his face,” Dana says.

  “Girls, trouble just arrived,” Jen bemoans, pointing behind me.

  “What look? What trouble?” I ask, turning around.

  Oh, hell. Really? Michael is here right now? And he brought his Hot Men Crew with him. A diverse group of dudes, they are all fine. Like, most-popular-boy-in-school-all-grown-up-and-still-hot.

  I have a tournament to win! I can’t be distracted by all their radiance right now!

  As always, Michael looks incredible, by far the best at the party. Dressed in slim-fitting gray trousers, brown dress shoes, and a tucked in black polo, he’s better looking than when he left the house this afternoon. How is it possible to get more attractive as the day progresses?

  The small guy from the front door approaches with the Hot Men Crew.

  “Goddess Lilly, we’ve had a change in the tournament. For the finals, you will be playing someone else. I hope it’s alright? Please don’t leave or anything. So many people came out to see you play,” he says, shrill and dripping with nerves.

  “What do you mean people came out to see me play?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Your hashtag is a sensation! It’s trending on Twitter too. We never get this many people to attend our parties.”

  “OMG, Lilly. Look,” Jen says, handing me her phone.

  I scroll through at least thirty different pics of #GoddessLilly on Instagram. Some of the posts have comments about my SciTalk, questions about who did my tattoos, guys asking for my phone number, questions about dominoes, and a discussion about black girls into math.

  “This is insane. I’m a professional. I’m in my thirties. I have a boyfriend!”

  “I’m so sorry, Lilly,” Jen whispers. “Who knew Goddess Lilly would be such a hit? But baby, you do look incredible in these pics. All that skin.”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of exposed skin around here,” Jon says.

  “Honey, for once it’s not my fault I’m shirtless. Lilly lost her first round and instead of paying the cover we agreed to remove our shirts. See, I saved money too,” Jen says with a celebrity smile.

  She’s trying to charm and sparkle us out of hot water.

  “Why didn’t you just pay the cover?” Nick asks Lynn.

  “Superstar, it seemed like a really great idea a few hours ago. It still is… we’re hella cute. Don’t you think?” Lynn asks.

  She gives her signature cleavage lean, a feeble attempt at flirting us out of this situation. But it ain’t working. All these guys turn sour faces. Either we are not so cute, or they really don’t like the idea of us without shirts.

  “It’s my fault. I got mouthy before my first round and agreed to the shirtless thing,” I reveal, avoiding Michael’s gaze.

  Brit tries to unruffle the situation. “We all agreed to it. So, Lilly, it’s not your fault. I guess it is… but this was all voluntary. We could’ve left after you lost your first round.”

  TMI, Brit. TMI.

  The men do not receive this information well. Michael looks pissed. Really pissed. I would be too, if the situation was reversed. I mean, if he voluntarily took his pants off at a party and went all Magic Mike on a table for a house full of girls gawking at his junk. My junk. No!

  “Please Goddess Lilly, finish the tournament.”

  “Fine. Who am I playing?”

  “Your boyfriend,” Michael says.

  ◆◆◆

  I’m going to lose.

  It’s crickets quiet in the house. The DJ stopped playing music for the final round. A crowd of people circle the table. We’re more than halfway through the game and I can feel the ache of defeat on the soles of my tired feet. I started strong, only to peter out. I’m tipsy. I’m in my thirties. I was up late last night (and early this morning) having sex with the man sitting across this old wood table and refusing to look at me.

  I hate losing.

  The girls are rooting for me. Jen’s voice plays in my mind, if I lose it means “we will hear about this defeat for decades.” A story the men will share again and again. Being a part of the Mafia fills me with a deep gladness, so I need to turn this game around. For the girls. Please Lord. Darwin. Man of the Mountain. I need a W.

  But Michael is playing to win. He leads by two houses. I’ve never seen him so competitive. I think he’s been letting me win at everything. Ah. He’s so sweet… and fine as fuck.

  Then I hear Lynn in my head, “flirt to distract him.” I sit up straight and soften my gaze. I try to d
o the Lynn-lean over the table, but I tip my seat and almost flail sideways. Behind me, one of the girls catches my chair, helping me upright.

  Michael doesn’t even glance up from his hand of dominoes. Taking a breath, I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap.

  “How was your day?” I ask in Farsi.

  “It was excellent until my girlfriend decided to take her shirt off for Instagram,” Michael replies in English.

  Ugh. He’s not taking the bait. But I’ll keep trying. My hand is shit. I’ve already calculated all the possible ways I could score, and I still won’t overcome my points deficit.

  I speak in Farsi, waiting for him to play.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I forgive you. 10,” Michael says, calling out his points.

  Oh, hell. How did I miss that? Flirting and being competitive at the same time is a challenge. Searching my hand, I find some points.

  “5,” I call out, adding a bone to the white cross of tiles on the table.

  He immediately attacks, but it’s not to score.

  He’s figured out my hand.

  I’ve already pulled from the boneyard so it’s not difficult to deduce what dominoes I have to play.

  My Michael is trying to lock me out of the board.

  I play but can’t score.

  Michael attacks again. “10.”

  He’s definitely figured out my hand. And if he’s figured out my hand, then he knows what’s in the boneyard. I pick up another tile from the cluster of dominoes off to the side. It’s shit. I can’t play. I pull another one. Now, I can play, but can’t score.

  Michael responds right away.

  “5.”

  Of course, he has a strategy. A strategy designed to be a slow, painful defeat for me. I need to plead my case. Beg for mercy. In English. I only know so much Farsi. I understand more than I can speak.

  “Michael?” I say, quietly.

  “Yes, Goddess Lilly.”

  Oh! His response gives me a new sense of hope.

  I play, but still can’t score.

  I continue, “Babe, you don’t want to embarrass me… in front of all these people.”

  His eyes connect with mine for the first time. This man’s face is a natural wonder. Someone gasps.