Things I can’t Explain

by Mitchell Kriegman

  The words “I have a girlfriend” keep echoing in my brain. What if he came out with said girlfriend? And what if they were all lovey-dovey and kissing each other? Shit.

  I’ve got to pull myself away and move on.

  Then again, what if he came out alone? What if he appeared, all excited about some new group he just signed, and when he spotted me, his face lit up?

  “Nick! What a surprise,” I’d say. “Is this your place? Who knew? What a small world. I was just down the street interviewing the next great skateboard mogul—my former BF, by the way—for my super-prestigious new job.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Nick would say, with a bit of jealousy in his eyes. “All because you’re a journalistic genius. I know. I’ve read all of your stuff—or at least charmingly pretended to your parents to have read the stuff you admit you haven’t even written. But I know you’re brilliant anyway, and I can’t wait to throw my arms around you and kiss you a thousand times in all the wrong places.…”

  Okay, there are a few things about this standing fantasy racing through my head that suck—number one: Nick still has this mysterious girlfriend. And number two: It’s not going to happen. It’s a daydream, as in fantasy, as in self-inflicted torture.

  I’m so frozen up in my own headspace in front of HeadSpace, picturing Nick, telling myself to move on, literally and figuratively, I haven’t noticed that out of the entrance beneath the welded bicycles a girl has walked out and is standing in front of me.

  From her low-riding, hip-hugging, red plaid pants to her massive black platform lace-up boots that make her eight inches taller than she is in real life, she looks like a total badass.

  As she stops to light a cigarette, I read her black T-shirt. It says, “EAT LSD, PRAY to Satan, LOVE no one.” She wears gobs of eye shadow, dark glistening red lipstick, and tattooed on her chest is something that looks like a demonic gummy bear.

  Her hair is so woven up it looks like crocheted dreadlocks, but underneath it all, I can see that she’s actually kind of pretty. She turns in my direction and I freak. I look down at my feet. When I gaze up again she’s walking around the corner. Could this be the girlfriend? Whoever she is, she’s imposing.

  I pick my jaw up off the sidewalk, breathe for the first time since seeing her, and head the opposite way for the Bedford L.

  When I get home to FiDi, I can’t stop myself from Googling HeadSpace. Nick’s studio website is dazzling: all energy, mood, and alluring music. It includes a variety of photos of alt-rockers of every ilk—trap, folk, dreamy Lana Del Rey pop divas, banger rock, and then one rocker chick in particular—Roxie Buggles. Her smirk says she plans to inflict herself on the world in a very big way, whether the world is ready or not. There’s no mistaking it: She’s the girl I saw standing outside of Nick’s studio. Scanning his website with dread, I look for photos that might show Roxie and Nick together, but I don’t see any. My jealous research is inconclusive. But there is a YouTube video of a live concert where she throws herself around the stage and exposes her boobs. Pure Courtney Love and kind of old hat if you ask me.

  I shudder, then realize it’s just my phone vibrating.

  “Let’s grab a cuppa coffee pretty please? Now? ☺ ☺ ☺ ☺!!”

  Another text from Genelle? What is with her? I note the excessive use of emojis and exclamation points.

  Okay, my curiosity has now officially transcended my good judgment. I text back.

  “Ok. Downtown Manon Café?”

  G-Bomb texts back.

  “On my way!! So excited to see you!! XOXOXXO”

  Oh, fug. The XOXs totally gross me out.

  Here’s hoping I don’t totally regret this.

  CHAPTER 19

  Everyone knows that scene in The Godfather where the Corleones choose Louie’s joint because it’s a nice safe place that isn’t on Sollozzo’s turf. That’s the place where they’ve hidden a revolver above the toilet in the bathroom and Al Pacino comes out of the loo and pumps his enemies with three bullets to the head, starting an all-out gang war. Well, hyperbole aside, that’s exactly why I suggest meeting Genelle at Manon Café in the Financial District. It’s my turf. I know all the exits and I can make a quick dash if things get ugly.

  I realize that by now you probably think I’m a shill for the coffee bean industry or I’m volunteering for the Fair Trade Movement or that I have some misplaced addiction issues—like I should be taking meth and contemplating a career breaking bad. Well, maybe there’s truth in all of that or maybe I have caffeinated karma hopefully good to the last drop, but mostly it’s Hugh’s fault.

  Thankfully, Hugh gave up the booze twenty-five years before I appeared on the scene, otherwise I’d already be in rehab. But coffee? It was coursing like a muddy river through his veins. Morning coffee, afternoon coffee, evening coffee. And let’s face it, when you’re drinking decaf coffee with dinner so you can “sleep” and you’re drinking coffee to cure your morning coffee headache, you’ve got a problem. Needless to say, I wanted to keep up with him and stay in his head as per my job description, so I found myself drinking more and more of the brown stuff. At least I found the good brew. Hugh didn’t care how good it was because he sadly never stopped to actually smell the coffee beans, buds, pods, or whatever. I’m sure it was a replacement for other issues, like his mother’s milk or something. I’ve stopped cold turkey and dealt with those pesky morning headaches several times to keep it under control. I certainly don’t drink the stuff after three p.m. and I plan to stop again sometime soon to do the “Two-Day Look Better Naked Cleanse,” just not right now. Not as I’m about to meet G-Bomb. I need to be alert, my reflexes instant, and prepared to look this girl straight in the eyes.

  Genelle’s already there.

  Don’t you hate people who are always on time? Isn’t it a sign of civility to be a few minutes tardy—just to allow everyone else a minute or two of leeway? I’m sure the French have a rule about this. But there she is, waving excitedly in her fully coordinated powder-blue dress with a big light blue bow and a little blue barrette in her auburn hair. Yuck. Perky as ever.

  “Clarissa! Over here!” she says, which is kind of obvious, since she’s the only one sitting in the place and the café is tiny anyway. Pulling up a chair I notice there’s something different about her, which takes me a few moments to figure out.

  “Hi, I’m so happy to see you,” she gushes. I immediately begin to wonder if the real Genelle Waterman has been abducted by aliens, probed, and—whoa, has she had major breast augmentation? Good work, actually. Who knew aliens were good at breast implants? But it doesn’t stop there. Something about her face has changed. Is it because she’s smiling at me? I’ve never seen her do anything but scowl. This has to be some extraterrestrial life-form inhabiting her much bustier shell.

  “Hey.” I smile warily. “What’s up?”

  “So much, actually.” She gives me a big grin and sits posture erect. “How do you like my new look?”

  “You look … good,” I say, not knowing the exact etiquette when it comes to breast implants.

  “I got my boobs done!” she says proudly, as if it’s not utterly obvious.

  “Well, wow. They’re cute, I mean, they look … awesome.” This conversation is already weirder than I ever expected.

  “And I don’t wear glasses anymore, remember?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I knew there was something different about your face,” I say, wondering if this is why she brought me here.

  “Mommy got me that laser process,” she adds. “But you know, that’s not all.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “I got a new nose!” she says and turns profile. Her nose does seem thin and delicate, but I don’t remember her nose being that big or odd before.

  “What was wrong with your old nose?” I can’t help asking. This is too weird and I have to know more.

  “Well, you see, this is what the doctor showed me.” She takes a napkin and a pen from her pocketbook and draws a nose on it. �
��Okay, this was my old nose, and you’re right, there wasn’t anything really wrong with it. But look at this.…” Genelle takes her pen and draws another nose within the first one. This one is smaller and perkier.

  “And what is that?” I ask, settling into this very strange, intimate conversation with a person I can’t stand. I figure everything is an experience and you have to live life to the fullest, so I might as well find out.

  “That’s the nose within my nose,” she says with total satisfaction, “and it’s perfect, don’t you think?”

  “Wow,” I say, and mean it in many more ways than one, hoping that my utter astonishment at her plastic surgeon’s manipulative chicanery translates into something positive for her sake.

  “Gee, Genelle, this is all great and I’m really glad you invited me to get together,” I say. “I take it that all this—the new you—is the big news you wanted to tell me?”

  “Oh, no! I’m sorry, I have no idea why I went on about all that.” She giggles, suddenly silly. “Look, I know you probably didn’t want to see me, but I’m so glad you did.”

  “Well…” I begin, but she jumps right back in.

  “That’s okay,” she says. “Believe me. I get it. Therapy works wonders, doesn’t it?”

  “Then so, what is the big news?” I ask.

  “Well, the last time I saw you—”

  “Genelle, let’s not talk about that, really. It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay,” Genelle says, adamantly reaching out to touch my hand. I try not to run out of the coffee shop screaming, but if she doesn’t take her hand away soon I will freak. “I apologize for everything I did. Everyone knows Sam loves you.”

  Then why did he disappear? Why did it all fall apart? I wonder painfully.

  “Clarissa, I was just so jealous and angry.…” She closes her eyes and I worry she might have some kind of fit, so I brace myself in case she starts speaking in tongues or spewing forth devil puke. “I behaved so badly, but—it was a turning point! It was. Because of you, I pulled myself together to take that long, arduous path up the gravelly road of life to be a better person!”

  “Wow,” I say again, calculating that my enthusiastic non sequitur will be misconstrued as an expression of support. “The gravelly road of life, huh?” Covertly, I use my peripheral vision to confirm where the exits are.

  “Yes, it’s true. I hoped you would be impressed,” she says, self-satisfied. “In fact, I wrote a book about it! It’s coming out next month.”

  “Really? A book? You’re a writer?” I hope that doesn’t sound competitive or threatened because that is absolutely what it is.

  “Oh! Don’t worry. I didn’t mention you or Sam by name,” she says. “It’s a self-help book!”

  Genelle slides an advance reader’s copy of her tour de force across the table that she had ready sitting under her pocketbook.

  I quickly glance at the title: A Mean Girl’s Guide to Change, Love, and Enlightenment.

  “It’s based on my love life,” she explains. So if Genelle is a love doctor, maybe fucking is her middle name?

  “Oh, really? Amazing,” I say as totally laid-back and blasé as I can, even though I am not. Maybe Shifty Shades of Gray or Just One Shade of Gray would have been better titles. I don’t say that, though. Knowing Genelle, she’d go home, write that as a follow-up, and make a million bucks. For the record, I never ever really considered her formidable enough to be called a “mean girl” because she was so ineffectual, but I guess everyone likes to remember high school his or her own way.

  “Yes, and it’s all because of you, and I wanted you to know,” she says, teary-eyed.

  “Well, thanks.” I have no idea what else to say.

  “And, like I said in my text message, I have big news.”

  “Wait a second,” I say, truly amazed. “There’s more news?” Bigger than the fact that she has new eyes, a new nose, a new bod, and a book deal? I’m starting to feel like I’m a sluggard. I better get out and get a facial at least.

  “There is … this!” She flings her left hand toward me, wrist dipped, fingers splayed.

  Um … you have carpal tunnel syndrome from all that writing? I want to say, but then I see it. Genelle Waterman is wearing the Rock of Gibraltar (but much shinier) on her left ring finger.

  “Wow,” I say. “You’re engaged to a … jeweler?”

  She laughs so loud that the barista looks alarmed.

  “You are a stitch, Clarissa! You’ve always been funny!” she says and gives me a punch in the shoulder. It takes everything I have not to haul off and sock her in the jaw.

  “No, my fiancé is Wendell Fleckerstein, he’s a corporate lawyer. Of the Fleckersteins of Westchester County, which is why we’re getting married out here. I’ve been shopping all week. It’s going to be incredibly posh and exclusive. His parents are friends with the Kennedys; several of the Kennedy cousins will be there.” She turns up her new nose and bats the eyelashes over her newly shaped corneas, stiffening her posture, stretching, and accentuating her new boobs. “But not any of the scandalous ones.”

  “I didn’t know there were any other kind,” I say half under my breath. She cackles again as if I’m Louis CK.

  “You’re so funny.” She laughs. Reminder to self: Stop making jokes, even bad ones, until I’ve exited the premises.

  Meanwhile, the point of this exercise has finally soaked in. Under the guise of a sugary fake apology, G-Bomb wanted me to know about her various surgical improvements, her new career, and her fabulous husband-to-be. Machiavelli would be proud (not to mention Mrs. Machiavelli, who I’m sure had a few tricks up her sleeve to keep the prince under control). There’s nothing more cunning than making sure your old enemy knows how well you’re doing and even giving you credit for their success. Genius. I’ve got to hand it to her: She’s one twisted sister. Message received, and now it’s time for me to say good-bye. I knew this would be a waste of time. I get ready to wish her luck, but before I can say another word …

  “I invited your parents,” Genelle blurts out of nowhere. “I’m sure their separation has been stressful for you.” Okay, now I am going to punch her.

  “Really? That’s great. Well, look, I have to go.…”

  “Jody’s parents, too,” she says. Right, I think the councilman and Jody’s dad are fishing buddies or something. “And Jody, of course.”

  “That’s nice,” I say and then can’t help adding, “I guess the more witnesses who can say they actually saw you become Mrs. Wendell Peckerstein, the less trouble you’ll have enforcing the terms of the prenup when the time comes.” Bad Clarissa. Bad. Don’t drag this out or try to get even. Get up. Get out. Run away! Run away! I pull out my chair to leave.

  “It’s Fleckerstein,” she says, taken aback. I admit I take a tiny bit of satisfaction seeing her annoyed at my snide comment. Oddly enough, she leaves the prenup comment alone. I’ve got to get out of here before I say or do worse.

  “Well, Genelle, this has been an amazing experience.” I stand. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you have done … so much … with … what you have. Really. But I have to go.”

  “Wait!” She stops me, grabbing my arm. God, I want to kill her.

  “I want you and Rick to come, too.” I look at her quizzically. I don’t know anybody named Rick.

  “Rick? Rick who?” I ask. She notices my confusion.

  “Your boyfriend.”

  My what? I don’t have a boyfriend, and even if I did, how would she know?

  Oh no.

  Damn it!

  Could she mean Nick?

  “First of all, it would be a privilege to have you both there,” she continues, “and I have to admit that when I heard you guys were having a little trouble I thought it might be good for you both to come. It might help. You know, Wendell proposed to me after we went to his sister’s wedding. Weddings can be so romantic for unmarried couples. I write about that in my book.”

  Whoa, where the hell would
Genelle find out that I have a hypothetical love interest, let alone that we were having hypothetical problems? And are we? I mean, I guess we are, since we’re not even a hypothetical couple anymore or ever really were, hypothetically speaking, and that’s about as hypothetical as it gets. I’m getting a headache just thinking about it.

  “Genelle, I don’t understand. We’ve been enemies since middle school.”

  “I always thought we were more like frenemies.”

  “Nope. Enemies. No prefix.”

  She sighs. “Okay, fine. But we’re adults now, right?”

  I wonder: Are we? Are any of us? Ever? But I allow it. “Yes, we are.”

  “Well, I really want to put the past behind me. Start my new life with a clean slate, and you’ve done so much for me, showing me what I mess I was,” Genelle offers, and I really, really, really want to kill her.

  “That’s all fine and well,” I say, “but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m gonna need a little more info.” I begrudgingly sit back down.

  “Well.” Genelle takes a moment to exhale, knowing she’s captured my attention. “You know how the Mommy grapevine works back in Springfield. My mom told Janet all about the wedding and your mom told her all about how things were going south with you and Rick, right?”

  Okay. Let’s just freeze everything right here for a moment and think about this before Genelle says another word.

  It was unforeseen by me, but understandable that my parents might have alerted the Springfield Mommy Network that they had met my “boyfriend.” That would indeed pass for news back home. But why would my mom think that Nick and I were having trouble? Our fake dinner date went exceedingly well once we worked the kinks out. If anything, Janet should have been bragging to Mrs. Waterman that I was in a fabulous relationship with a gorgeous coffee-brewing musician who’s allergic to shrimp and gets his hair cut in Riverdale!

  I need to nip this in the bud and put this whole thing away.