A Field Guide for Heartbreakers

by Kristen Tracy

  It was as if she were a mind reader.

  “Okay,” I said.

  She looked at me with genuine concern.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’ve rallied.” And I had. I’d culled over the short stories for Friday’s class very thoroughly. Annie Earl’s and Frank’s were up next. After locating several sexual metaphors in both pieces: a missile silo, hedge clippers, and a partially deflated raft among them, I felt like a much more competent reader.

  We got off the metro and walked a short distance to a steep and enormous set of fast-running escalators.

  “Are they broken?” I asked.

  “No,” Mrs. Knox said. “In this part of town, they’re just aggressive in their ascent and descent.”

  I climbed aboard and felt a light breeze as the metal stairs whooshed me to the street level.

  “Can I pick up a few essentials too?” Veronica asked.

  “Five essentials,” Mrs. Knox said. “And that’s it.”

  Normally, Mrs. Knox wasn’t so firm with Veronica’s shopping habits. Many times in Ohio I’d seen her hand over a credit card and let Veronica do whatever she wanted. But here she was attempting to keep Veronica’s impulsive demands to a minimum. I doubted she’d be able to hold that line.

  Even when the crowded sidewalk began to incline, Mrs. Knox didn’t slow her pace. We rushed past dozens of brightly lit, high-end boutiques and hordes of amazingly slim women wearing designer clothes—skirt suits, zippers the entire length of torsos, asymmetrical collars. I saw more gorgeous people in ten minutes on this boulevard than I’d ever encountered before in my life. These locals looked like they belonged on television.

  “The place we’re going must have awesome crap!” Veronica said.

  “It’s called Tesco,” Mrs. Knox said. “And it’s Prague’s version of a Walmart.”

  Veronica didn’t say anything, but I knew she was disappointed.

  Tesco turned out to be nothing like Walmart. It wasn’t big enough. And the merchandise on the shelves didn’t feel endless or offer an obscene amount of variety. Plus, the shopping carts were way too tiny. Furthermore, unlike the Walmarts in Ohio, which spread out, Tesco had multiple stories.

  Due to the store’s limited selection, Mrs. Knox found a curling iron quickly, in the pea-sized appliances section.

  “I want a fan,” Veronica said. “Can I get five essentials plus a fan?”

  “Are you sure you need a fan?” Mrs. Knox asked.

  “Yes. I’m certain. By dawn I’m sweating like a pig in my bed,” Veronica said. “Dessy too. We wake up glistening in our own perspiration. It’s terrible. I get out of bed practically sticking to myself! It’s not sanitary—”

  “All right. I don’t need you to catalogue your moist parts,” Mrs. Knox said. “You can get a fan.”

  She drifted over toward the audio equipment, while Veronica zeroed in on a fan in a box as tall as a fourth- grader.

  “Is this big enough?” she asked me.

  “I’m not sweating that much,” I said.

  “Sometimes, to really sell my mom on something, I have to exaggerate the state of my suffering.”

  “Whatever,” I said as I followed her to the register.

  “Hey. The cashier is trying to tell me something,” Veronica said. “WHAT–ARE–YOU–TRYING–TO–TELL–ME?”

  “You don’t need to shout,” I said, mortified.

  Mrs. Knox came back looking over the instructions for her curling iron. “They need to assemble it before you can buy it,” she said. “It’s their policy.”

  “Why?” Veronica asked.

  “So they can guarantee that all the parts work.”

  The clerk appeared nonplussed as she dumped the parts onto the counter and commenced assembling our fan. The woman moved slowly and methodically. It took about ten minutes. Then, once it was assembled, she plugged it in.

  “Yay!” Veronica said. “Let’s get out of here and shop on the good floors.”

  “Wait. They need to disassemble it and put it back in its original box,” Mrs. Knox said. She smiled at the clerk. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re joking,” Veronica said. “I’m wasting valuable shopping time here.”

  “At least you know your fan will work,” Mrs. Knox said. “You should be happy for the test run.”

  I was amazed that the clerk was able to fit every single part back inside the box. When she was finished, she handed Mrs. Knox a piece of paper to sign.

  “What’s that?” Veronica asked.

  “I’m agreeing that the fan was assembled and works.”

  “How much does this thing cost, anyway?”

  “Roughly twenty dollars,” Mrs. Knox said.

  “This country is totally prehistoric,” Veronica said.

  I glanced around at the other shoppers, while Mrs. Knox paid. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to us, which relieved me. Maybe they were used to foreigners behaving like this.

  “I’m headed back to the dorms,” Mrs. Knox said, smoothing her hair with one hand. “I need to correct this explosion.”

  “What about my other five things?” Veronica asked.

  Mrs. Knox reached into her purse and handed Veronica a few bills.

  “Will you take my fan back to the dorm for me?” Veronica asked. “Dessy and I want to explore.”

  “You can’t stay out all day,” Mrs. Knox said. “We’re touring the Old Jewish Cemetery this afternoon. And I’m expecting college-level work on your writing assignment. This is not a vacation, Veronica.”

  “Right,” Veronica said.

  “Be back in two hours.”

  “Gotcha.” Veronica saluted her mother, who turned and walked down the stairs.

  “She’s really getting on my last nerve,” Veronica said.

  “She’s having a bad-hair day,” I said.

  “That’s what I like about your mom,” she said.

  “Oh, my mom totally has bad-hair days. I mean, she has bangs.”

  “No, I’m saying that your mother would never act like that. She’d never create a self-indulgent writing assignment which forces us to tour a cemetery and a long list of synagogues.”

  “Are you insulting my mother?” I asked.

  “No.” Veronica tugged on my arm and led me to the stairs.

  “I love your mom. She’s not complicated like my mine. Your mom does mom things. Bakes. Gardens. Power walks at the mall. She’s so reasonable. Loving her must be totally effortless.”

  I followed Veronica down the stairs without commenting on her observations. They seemed slightly offensive. Like somehow her mother was far more interesting than mine. Even if this were true, hearing Veronica say it made me uncomfortable.

  “Your mom is a basic mom,” Veronica said. “You’re so lucky. It’s like you won the mom lottery.”

  “I like your mom,” I said.

  “I like my mom too. I’m not saying that I don’t like my mom. I love her.”

  “Great. Drama over.”

  Veronica paused on the stairs and turned around to glare at me. “Maybe if my dad comes back, then the drama will be over.”

  It stung. I felt like I should apologize, but I wasn’t sure what for.

  “I’m saying you’re lucky. Your mom is always there for you. She thinks about you before she thinks about herself. I’m giving you a compliment.”

  I nodded, and she turned around and started moving again. Soon, we were back at the ground level of Tesco.

  “I saw a ton of cool crap on this floor,” Veronica said.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “Good question. I’m feeling totally greedy,” she said. “I wonder what kind of lotions they have. This climate has thrown my skin for a loop. I think I’m chafing again.”

  I looked at her legs and arms. She was sporting a pair of white shorts and a pale yellow T-shirt. Her skin appeared totally normal.

  “Veronica, you brought an entire vat of lotion,” I said.

  “But
what if Czech lotion is creamier? I’ve got to find out!”

  I watched her uncap and sniff tube after tube. Sometimes it felt like Veronica had a touch of OCD. Cap on. Cap off. Squeeze tube. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. She was drawn to lotion like a mosquito to exposed leg flesh.

  “Another way that you’re lucky is that your mom gave you great skin,” Veronica said. “You don’t have to doctor it with ointments like I do.”

  “You consider glitter lotion an ointment?” I asked.

  “Totally.”

  I wandered behind her, entering into the distinctive stink of perfume.

  “Doesn’t this smell make you gag?” I asked.

  “No. Why? What are you smelling?” She was holding an enormous green container of lotion.

  “Rotting flowers,” I said.

  “I kind of like it,” Veronica said.

  She put the lotion in a basket and continued to shop.

  “But the ingredients aren’t written in English. You don’t even know what’s in that stuff,” I said.

  “Control your level of freak. Lotion is lotion. And it smells great.”

  “What if it’s a depilatory?” I asked.

  “Then why would it be in a green tube with a picture of hands on it?”

  We circled the first floor six times while she continued to add to her haul. Two dozen tea candles. A half dozen greeting cards written in Czech. A hammer. Mascara. Two packages of nylons. Face wash. And gum.

  “Do you want anything?” she asked.

  I wanted a lot of things, but I was too worried about my current financial state to spend any money at the moment.

  “Are you hungry?” Veronica asked.

  “A little,” I admitted.

  “Go pick something out,” she said.

  “I think I saw some granola bars over there.”

  “Get them. My treat. And any other snacks you want. Seriously, why not live a little?”

  I took Veronica at her word and gathered an entire basketful of munchies. I knew she’d eat most of them anyway.

  “Let’s go check out Wenceslas Square,” she said as soon as we got back outside. “I’ve been studying my map and I think we’re really close.”

  “We have to be back to the dorm in less than two hours,” I said. “We promised.”

  “It’s not like we’ll be late for our own weddings.”

  I looked down the busy cobblestone sidewalk. I was craving a little more adventure. “Okay,” I said.

  Waller had mentioned Wenceslas Square during our walking tour, but I wasn’t exactly sure what it was. A park? A shopping center? A farmers’ market? Once Veronica and I were in the crosswalk, it became perfectly clear that the square was one of Prague’s major hubs. Parked cars lined the traffic-crowded boulevard. Multistoried and brightly colored buildings rose up over the wide road, shading half of the bustling crowd. There were restaurants and shops and apartments. We walked alongside the old stone buildings, and every time I had the chance, I reached out and dragged my fingers along their surfaces. They didn’t build things like this in Cleveland.

  At the end of the square stood a bronze statue. An enormous building rose gorgeously behind it. I figured it might be a museum, because the building itself looked like a piece of art.

  “I want to look at that statue,” I said. “Let’s see whose it is.”

  Veronica rolled her eyes. “Why? It’s just going to be some dead guy we’ve never heard of. Probably atop a horse.”

  “Come on,” I said. “I like statues.”

  “Dessy, nobody likes statues except sculptors and pigeons.”

  “What about art history majors?” I asked.

  “Trust me. They just fake it.”

  Veronica reluctantly followed me to the top of the square. She was right. The figure was on a horse.

  “There’s nothing here written in English. For all we know, this statue is the Czech interpretation of Paul the Baptist.”

  “Who’s Paul the Baptist?” I asked.

  “You know. That guy from the Bible who loses his head.”

  I shaded my eyes from the sun. She was talking so loudly that I was worried other people would hear her and think she was a total bonehead.

  “I think you mean John the Baptist,” a man said.

  Fantastic. Now some random person was going to think that Veronica and I were both bonehead tourists. I mean, we were carrying very similar bags. And with her present footwear, we were similar heights. And our clothes weren’t all that dissimilar. I wanted to tell the man immediately that I knew there was no such person as Paul the Baptist. As I turned to look at him, I bit my lip. It was worse than I’d thought it would be. This guy was gorgeous. Great. He looked like a swimsuit model only he was wearing all his clothes.

  “I’m Veronica Knox. This is my friend Dessy. We’re here for the July Prague College Writers’ Conference.”

  I couldn’t help but notice how Veronica included the word “college.”

  “So you’re writers?” he said, extending a hand to shake.

  “Yes,” Veronica said, reaching out to take it. “We’re both English majors. I’m a huge Walt Whitman fan, and Dessy loves Tolstoy.”

  “Really?” the man asked. “Anna Karenina is my favorite novel. I’m Scotty Dee.”

  My eyes must have been huge. Why couldn’t she have made me a John Steinbeck or Sylvia Plath fan? Those were writers I’d actually read. But Tolstoy? I wasn’t even sure of his first name. Theo? Leo? Ron?

  “Where are you from?” Veronica asked.

  His accent was obvious, I thought.

  “Australia,” he said.

  “I LOVE Australia!” Veronica said.

  The man laughed. He looked like he was in his early twenties, possibly older. He was tall and lanky. He could have been Frank’s attractive older brother. They both had corkscrew blond hair. I thought this guy’s jeans were a tad snug. But historically speaking, Veronica thought tight clothing on slim people was a sign of a healthy level of self-esteem. I looked at her face. I could tell she was falling for him. Big time.

  Then I spotted it. The one thing a guy can have that always sent Veronica into head-over-heels obsession mode. The one thing Boz was still too chicken to get. A tattoo. And this Aussie’s tattoo wasn’t a small one. It was, I thought, a real uninspiring clunker. A fat red heart sat squat like an apple on his upper arm.

  “Ooh, does that say MOM?” Veronica asked, touching his skin with her finger.

  “Worse,” Scotty Dee said. “It says Smudge. They’re an Australian band you’ve probably never heard of. I got it after a concert. Never a good idea.”

  “I think tattoos are cool and can really define a person,” Veronica said.

  “Yeah, literally,” Scotty Dee said.

  “So, what are you doing in Prague?” she asked.

  “Just looking around. I came here with my friend Kirk.”

  Veronica peeked over Scotty Dee’s shoulder.

  “He’s not here here,” Scotty Dee said, smiling. “He’s in the country today.”

  “And why aren’t you in the country today?” Veronica asked.

  This was a total flirt fest. I felt like a complete fifth wheel. I wasn’t sure if I should jump into the conversation or stand still and be quiet. Or walk off. Or detach and meditate. Or what.

  “I like the city more than the country. I’m from the country.”

  “We’re from Ohio. Have you ever heard of Ohio?” Veronica asked.

  “Yeah, isn’t Cleveland there?” he asked.

  “Yes. Dessy and I live right outside of Cleveland,” Veronica told him.

  “They have a famous river there, right? It caught on fire?”

  “Oh, that was a long time ago,” Veronica said. “It’s totally fine now.”

  I saw my chance to contribute, so I leapt at it.

  “You’re thinking of the Cuyahoga River Fire. It happened in 1969. And it only lasted thirty minutes. And it wasn’t so much that the river c
aught fire as it was that a concentrated area of industrial pollutants ignited. In a weird way, it was a good thing, because it led to the Clean Water Act,” I said.

  Veronica looked at me and wrinkled her brow. She wasn’t happy with my recitation of gloomy Ohio trivia.

  “Oh,” Scotty Dee said. “I didn’t realize I’d learn so much about Ohio while on holiday in Europe.”

  “Forget everything Dessy just said. Ohio really is fantastic.”

  He nodded.

  “So, whereabouts in the city are you headed?” Veronica asked.

  “The museum,” Scotty Dee said, pointing to the building behind the statue.

  “We’re heading off to the Old Jewish Cemetery today. You know, check out the graves and then tour some synagogues. Well, look at the time. It’s getting late. Nice meeting you,” Veronica said, lifting her hand in a wave. “Catch you later.”

  “Wait,” Scotty Dee said, reaching out and touching Veronica’s arm. “I was going to tell you about this statue. So you wouldn’t go around with the impression that you’d just seen the likeness of Paul the Baptist.”

  Veronica smiled. Sometimes I was surprised at how well she could read guys. She could sense he was losing interest, perhaps I’d spooked him a bit with my Cuyahoga River Fire trivia. And in response to his response, she’d pulled back. She was prepared to bolt. Which was something she’d told me many times about how to keep a guy interested: “Whenever you feel his interest waning, make a bold exit. It works every time. If his gaze wanders, even for a flicker of an instant, you get the hell out of there. Trust me. He’ll watch your butt as you leave.” And even here in Prague, with a fully mature Australian guy, her “bolt strategy” had worked like a charm.

  “All right, Scotty Dee,” Veronica said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Tell us what we need to know.”

  He laughed and pulled out his guidebook.

  “I don’t want to get anything wrong. Wouldn’t want to dispense misinformation to American college students,” he said, thumbing through the book.

  “We wouldn’t want that either,” Veronica said.

  “It says here that Saint Wenceslas is the patron saint of Bohemia. Wenceslas was murdered by his brother. The body, hacked to pieces, was buried at the place of his murder, but three years later his brother ordered its transfer to the Church of Saint Vitus in Prague.”