The Ten Girls to Watch

by Charity Shumway

  I followed Raymond under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, past the twenty-four-hour Quick-E Lube, to a weedy building across the street from an old brick factory, now loft condos—a combination of derelict chic and actual derelict that typified Red Hook. Up two flights, his door swung wide to reveal a studio that was dorm-room-style squalor at its finest: a futon mattress lumped on the floor in the corner, the sheets rumpled, no bedspread in sight; an open pizza box full of crusts beside the bed; a grouping of camp chairs (he’d sprung for the fancy ones with cupholders in the arms) in front of the TV, which itself sat atop two plastic crates; clothes—T-shirts, boxers, jeans, more T-shirts—strewn about the room, some piled on the backs of the chairs, most deposited on the floor; and beneath the clothes, against the background of the flimsy black carpet, I wasn’t surprised to see crumbs, but I was surprised to see coins.

  “Should I be looking out for shards of a piggy bank?” I said. Ha-ha, ho-ho.

  “Oh, yeah, that. I tipped over my change bowl one day and then didn’t clean it up for a while. But then I decided it was kind of awesome to walk around on money, so now I just throw my change on the floor.” To illustrate this point, he jammed his hand into his pocket and fished out some coins, then, grinning, opened his fingers and let the nickels and dimes run through onto the floor, like they were sand and this was the beach.

  He swept some clothes off one of the camp chairs for me. I took a seat, and he pulled another one right up, so close to mine that the arms touched.

  “Yep, so this is the place. Home sweet home.”

  “It must be great to live alone,” I said, searching for a silver lining.

  When he didn’t say anything, I swiveled my head around in search of the model. A few boxes hulked on the kitchen counter, but they were jumbled in with dishes and crinkled paper towels, making it hard to discern their true nature.

  “It is nice to live alone,” he finally said, leaning over. And then, next thing I knew he was tracing his finger around the edge of the red mark one of the electrode patches had left on my chest. This would have been one part sexy, four parts hilarious had he done it with a sense of irony, but I double-checked his face—no irony, in spite of the slightly gummy edges of the mark. I adjusted a little, moving away and trying to laugh off the sexy electrode action. To no avail.

  “There’s just something special about a man and a woman,” he said as he leaned in further to kiss me. It was instant make-out regret. Though it’s hard to say something is regret while it’s still happening. I was kissing a man who had just delivered a horribly embarrassing line, a line that also made no sense unless he meant that he usually made out with other men, thereby making this a special novelty. And yet, there I was, still kissing him. He leaned over even further so that his chest was pressing against mine at a strange angle.

  I hate rejection, whether I am the rejected or the rejector. My strategy is avoid, avoid, avoid. If someone I’m not sure I want to go out with starts getting stammery and mentioning ideas for things to do, I start talking about the weather, check my watch, and then flee the scene. To my cowardly mind, this is somehow preferable to saying the word “no.”

  My weakling’s flight mechanism usually kept me out of situations like the Raymond dilemma at hand. But now that we were already kissing, what was I supposed to say? “Excuse me, I believe I’ve changed my mind”? Probably, but that was hard for me. I started practicing saying something along those lines in my head while he continued his work with his tongue. After another minute, he took my hands, stood up, and started to pull me toward the futon mattress on the floor.

  “No, no no no no no no.” The word just spilled right out as I pulled my hands from his. “I mean, I think we should just be friends. You watch my brain waves. Doesn’t that make this wrong?”

  “How can this be wrong?” he said, his nonironic smile gleaming.

  “Oh my goodness . . . I have to go.” I grabbed my bag and jacket and waved from the door.

  After I crossed back under the BQE, I ran the rest of the way home, my overnight bag banging awkwardly against my side. On my way up the stairs, I fixated on the thought of showering. I wanted another go at the electrode glue cemented in my hair, but I also felt rather biblically unclean. Maybe making out with a hot lab tech in a filthy apartment is part of what you’re supposed to do in your early twenties. Maybe I was supposed to be stocking up on stories like that. But it didn’t feel like awesome fun I’d be dying to recount later. It felt yucky. I felt yucky. I hoped some hot water could steam it all away. I also hoped there were more lab techs in the rotation so we wouldn’t have to talk about—or worse, not talk about—my flight next week while he glued electrodes to my scalp.

  But, as is often the case when you have roommates, the time you most want and need the bathroom is always the time it is unavailable to you. Sylvia had the shower and her shower radio going when I walked through the door. She sang along with Celine Dion, sputtering out here and there, but really holding the long notes with fervor. I might have found it sort of sweet had I not been a millimeter of patience away from pounding on the bathroom door.

  Instead of pounding, I collapsed on the couch and checked my e-mail. And wouldn’t you know it, there he was: Secret Agent Romance. The first time in a week I’d checked my e-mail without thinking of him, and ta-da, he appeared.

  “It’s Fall,” read SAR’s subject line. The entire body of the e-mail was the single word “Hello” visible next to the subject in the preview line. That was it. I didn’t even have to open the message to read it in its entirety. American Express, up next in my inbox, much more dotingly wanted me to know that they valued me, so much so that they wanted to bring my whole family on board—why not earn more SkyMiles by linking additional cards to my account? It was a love fest compared to Elliot’s three-word message.

  That weak little “Hello” certainly didn’t require an immediate response. I waited out Sylvia’s shower and then shook off my clothes and turned the water up as hot as I could take.

  When I got out of the shower, I had a text message from Robert. Really, wasn’t today just the day? “U free tonight?” he’d written.

  “Why?” I replied, feeling both savage and petulant. Not that he would pick up on my mood from that single word.

  “Lily’s in Chicago. I need dinner company.”

  Was this constant mentioning of Lily really necessary? The NYU freshman hadn’t always been mentioned. She’d existed, but during that period Robert and I had had dinner, gone to movies, gone shopping, all sorts of things, and we’d both conspicuously avoided mentioning her. And though we didn’t touch each other during the entirety of her stay in Robert’s life, our silence felt like it signaled her future dismissal. Now, Robert’s Lily dropping felt like a bullhorn announcing her permanent dominion.

  “Fine,” I typed, as if my lack of enthusiasm would crush him. Clearly, it had no impact, since he replied right back with a time and place.

  I spent the rest of the day consciously not e-mailing Elliot.

  When dinnertime finally approached, my feet weren’t dragging; I actually felt feathery with anticipation. Maybe Robert irked me, but there had never been a time I didn’t want to see him.

  Sandra Seru,

  Duke University, 1989

  _________

  THE JOURNALIST

  The Editor in Chief of the Duke Chronicle, Sandra recently accepted the Associated Collegiate Press’s prestigious Newspaper Pacemaker Award honoring the Chronicle’s excellence. “I’ve practically lived in the Chronicle’s offices for the past three years, but it’s been worth it!” Sandra says. Her dream job: reporting for the Washington Post. Other surprising talents: Sandra is fluent in Spanish and plays a mean jazz clarinet.

  Chapter Ten

  As a tribute to the good old days, the Rollands kept Grandpa Rolland’s shop in the Lower East Side up and running. It was right next door to a shop that sold only pickles. Pa Rolland liked to call it the saltiest street in town. The mirth
with which his eyebrows leapt every time he told this joke was responsible for most of the laughs it garnered.

  Robert and I had arranged to meet at a restaurant around the corner from the original Rolland’s shop.

  As soon as we sat down, even before the waiter brought the menus, Robert said, “I’ve been thinking.”

  Here he paused, his face sliding into a mask of restrained distress. My stomach lurched. Like the split seconds when people are falling from a building and seem to have all the time in the world to see scenes from their lives, my body seemed to expand the moment long enough to pound with the feeling of every single reunion Robert and I had ever had. In that fifth of a second, I imagined him saying he loved me in a dozen different ways. Not that my rational mind thought this was what he was going to say, but my every muscle braced in anticipation.

  The pause ended. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” he said.

  What?

  “I’m sorry, what?” I said. “You invited me to dinner to tell me you don’t want to have dinner with me? Also, we’re not seeing each other. You’re seeing Lily.”

  “I don’t mean ‘seeing’ like ‘seeing.’ I mean seeing, at all.”

  How was it possible I’d been looking forward to this dinner? How was it possible that any part of me had imagined he was going to say something the complete opposite of this? If I had been a cool character in a movie, I’d have gotten up and walked away right then and never looked back, except maybe at the end of the movie when I was looking out over a crowd of my adoring fans, all holding up books or photos for my signature, and I’d see Robert among the crowd and look at him for one second before brushing right past him. But I wasn’t a character, or if I was, I was more like a character in a horror movie, sitting inert in a room while the menace nears and the audience screams “Get out of there!” And so instead of making a glorious exit, I sat there and let Robert keep talking while I tore the paper napkin in my lap into tinier and tinier pieces. How did words like that actually come out of Robert’s mouth? A friend breakup on top of all the actual breakups? He had superhuman abilities to offend.

  “Seeing at all . . . uh-huh.” I gulped down a lump in my throat.

  “It’s actually flattering to you that I’m saying this.”

  “Oh, really,” I said limply.

  “It’s not forever. I don’t want us to end our friendship forever. I care about you too much for that. It’s just that I really like Lily. And when I spend time with you I get confused.”

  “I’m flattered,” I answered sarcastically. But the problem was I actually was flattered. Or not exactly flattered. More like illicitly enlivened. The part of me that wanted Robert to be in love with me forever, no matter how profoundly that defied reason and reality, the part of me that had just imagined he was about to declare his love for me again, after all the months apart, despite Lily, despite everything, that part throbbed with excitement when he said those stupid words. It was like my feelings had disconnected from the proper channels, like instead of working properly my heart sprayed a mess of blood with each thump-thump.

  “So I want to take a friend break,” he finished. “Just for a couple of months.”

  “That’s fine,” I said evenly. “Do you want to start the break now, or should we order dinner?” Darkness had fallen, and I was descending into full wallowing mode, the pleasure of misery and martyrdom bubbling their way up to full boil.

  “No, of course I want to have dinner!” Robert’s voice had turned flustered. “I just wanted to say everything now rather than at the end of dinner so you didn’t look back and wonder why I’d waited to say it.”

  “Very considerate of you.”

  The waiter came by. I ordered a rare steak. Robert ordered the “fiesta salad.”

  “That’s great that you like Lily so much. I mean, I like her too. I see why you like her.”

  “Dawn, don’t make this hard,” Robert said.

  So what if there was an edge in my voice? He was the one who was making this hard.

  “Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” I continued. “I met someone.”

  “Really?” he said.

  “You sound so surprised. Is it that shocking?”

  “No, no, you’re supposed to meet someone. I should have said ‘great.’”

  “Well then why didn’t you?”

  He ignored that particularly barbed question and proceeded along with his most jovial tone. “So this new guy. What’s his deal? Did you meet him via TheOne?” Robert’s eyes lit up as he said “TheOne,” like Pa Rolland’s when he said “saltiest street.”

  “He writes for Charm,” I said, leaving out TheOne bit of the story to avoid giving Robert that particular satisfaction.

  “So now you’re dating gay guys?”

  “Oh, I hate you sometimes.” Though I said it a little like I was kidding, it was true, true, true. “Why did I know you were going to say that? No, he’s not gay. He’s Charm’s dating columnist. His name is Elliot. He’s very cute. I kissed him on my doorstep a few weeks ago and that was that.”

  “You kissed him or he kissed you? Remember, there’s nothing worse than coming on too strong.”

  I wadded the whole stupid ripped-up napkin in my lap into a big ball.

  “We kissed each other, okay. Oh, and la-di-da, did I mention that he’s divorced?” I waved the words like a flag, as if Robert should be impressed, like I was now dark and dangerous, dating divorced men. I set my fork down and waited for his response. When it came, it was inadequate.

  “Watch out. Married people get used to regular sex. That’s probably why he’s a dating columnist. So he can make his living while simultaneously satisfying his sexual needs.”

  “What is wrong with you?” I said.

  “Did he try to sleep with you?”

  “No, he did not try to sleep with me.”

  “Two things. One, that probably means he’s at least a little bit gay. Two, as I have often said, novels don’t make babies. So when he does get around to trying to sleep with you, put your laptop down and consider your options.”

  “I can’t believe the things you say.” I glared at him.

  “I was being funny! Funny and true!”

  The enlivened heart that had been spewing hot blood before was now spewing something more like oily black muck. The sludge spread further each minute I stayed there with Robert.

  “Can we not talk about dating, please? Can you please just talk about pretzels or something?”

  “We signed a big deal with a distributor in China this week,” Robert said, apparently not put off by the dismissive tone with which I’d said “pretzels or something.”

  “Seriously, huge,” he went on. “Do you know how many pretzel-deprived people there are in China?”

  He went into a lecture about China and how the real possibilities for growth were not importing from China but manufacturing and selling within China. I wished right then that he’d just go ahead and move to China to exploit that great opportunity.

  When the check arrived, I let Robert take it. If I’d cared, I would have tried to split it, or pay the whole thing myself, laughable though that was. I thought of Elliot’s column about Boots; checks were indeed fraught. I’d always tried to pick up my fair share of bills when Robert and I dated, despite the fact, or really because of the fact, that I didn’t have a pretzel fortune of my own. I never wanted Robert to feel like that made anything different. Like I cared about that, or like I thought it should play into our dynamic in any way whatsoever. Now, whatever. I was poor, and he could pay. I didn’t feel like pretending I was unaware of the difference between us.

  That dispatched, Robert insisted that we stop by the pretzel shop. I glumly let him talk me into it, like a sad, kicked puppy still following the perp in the vain hope of receiving snacks and love. Inside, all the men working away in their white aprons and hats came out from behind the counter and out of the kitchen and peppered Robert with “my mans” and high f
ives that turned into arm grabs and then partial hugs/body checks. Robert was the king of the pretzel world.

  “Two soft Bavarians, Georgie.” Robert beamed. So at least there was a snack.

  “And can we get some extra salt with them?” he said.

  “What, for rubbing in my wounds?” I muttered.

  “Ha-ha,” he said.

  “Ha-ha, indeed.”

  He handed me my pretzel, and we walked out into the warm September night. I said I was heading east, toward the subway, and he moved to hug me.

  “Don’t hug me,” I said, backing away. “You don’t get to hug me.”

  He looked like I’d uttered devastating words, like I was the one who’d hurt him this evening.

  “I guess I’ll see you after you and Lily are married, or something. Or not. Or never. Or whatever.”

  And with that, about ninety minutes too late, I turned and walked away.

  My pretzel was warm, soft and a little tough, just as it should be. I licked up the salt crystals that had fallen into my hand and savored the tang as they dissolved on my tongue.

  _________

  Not that I hadn’t been mad at dinner, but on the subway I got angrier and angrier. And unfortunately for me, anger almost always translates to tears. What hadn’t come out at dinner came out all over the place during the course of the next five subway stops in the form of embarrassing, grimacing, runny-nosed tears and sniffles that I couldn’t wipe away fast enough to fool anyone on the train into thinking I was okay.

  I hadn’t exactly been polite to Robert, but the fact that I’d sat through that whole dinner, that I’d even been in a position to be having dinner with Robert in the first place . . . What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I shake my inordinate need to leave feathers unruffled?