Beyond Blonde

by Teresa Toten

  I stumbled through the next few weeks, alternating between feeling fiercely righteous and hollowed out. One minute I was proud of myself for stepping away from starring in a soap opera, and the next I was twisting with certainty that no one would ever love me again. One minute I felt sorry for Luke, the next, I felt way, way sorrier for me. I switched back and forth from these extremes on a head-spinning ten-minute cycle. You had to pay attention to the cycle. The Blondes, for instance, never knew which me was going to turn up and say something over coffee at Mike’s.

  Yeah. I told them. All of it.

  No one judged me. They were just there. I should have told all of them all of it right from the beginning. It’s what I push them to do all the time. Secrets blossom with shame. No one knows that better than me. I prayed a lot. I prayed before I went to school and the moment I got back and before I went to bed. Mainly, I prayed for the hurt to stop. It seems that until it did, the Blondes had me under 24-hour surveillance. Either Sarah or Kit drove me home from school, and Madison called every single night. It was embarrassing and claustrophobic and pretty amazing.

  “So, when all is said and done, it was a nothing,” said Sarah, interrupting one of my cycles. “Basically an innocent nothing!” Sarah of all people was undertaking Blonde damage assessment and Sophie guilt management at Mike’s. “It was a couple of kisses goodbye in a public park, right?”

  “Right,” I said. Right?

  Dear Moses, that couldn’t be right. It felt like so much more, all those weeks. It/he was so massive in my head, my heart, the guilt and the shame, but she was right. In terms of actual point-blank sinning, there were my thoughts and not much else. How could that be?

  Wow.

  There was a lot of hand patting and sympathetic nodding over the weeks, but mainly the Blondes were seriously relieved that Luke was gone. And shockingly, day by day, week by week, so was I. Eventually, it just got too hard to stay in that basement with Luke. It got more difficult to feel gutted about my choice to not go back to their apartment. Then I’d get a solid hit of that fierce righteous thing going. The virtuous bits got longer and longer. Still, every so often, out of the blue, I’d get punctured by the image of Luke, hands shoved in his pockets, walking away and not turning around.

  And sweet Jesus that hurt. But less so each time.

  The Blondes couldn’t wait to redirect all their attention away from Luke and onto the party. And so … somewhere in the middle of our costume fittings at Malabar, I actually got it. Somehow it dawned on me that this was my birthday, my party. It happened while we were looking to rent our poodle skirts. Poodle skirts were a fifties fashion staple. Massive fabric tenting and swinging out below the knees and cinched in tight at the waist with a shiny black belt. There is an actual poodle that is either appliquéd or embroidered onto each skirt. Kit was going to wear a powder-blue skirt and silk blouse with a Peter Pan collar, Sarah chose a lemon-yellow ensemble, and Madison picked out a baby-pink outfit. I reached for a pretty purple skirt, but Madison took my arm.

  “No, sweetie, this is your party, and we are your handmaidens.” Madison trotted to the front of the store and re-emerged with a large bundle of tissue paper. “This is your skirt.” She pulled out a shiny black taffeta creation, which was held wide and flouncy by the acres of tulle fabric underneath it. A white silk poodle was embroidered on the front and white silk ruffles peeked out of the bottom of all that taffeta. It was gorgeous. Kit and Sarah beamed. You’d think they’d sewn it themselves.

  “But?”

  “And I took the liberty of buying you this dreamy white cashmere sweater as your birthday present. You can wear it after, for sure. Mummy got it at Creeds. It’s a bit of heaven, if I do say so myself.”

  “Yeah, but, and thanks, but …”

  “And we got the word out,” said Kit. “No other girls can wear black and white, just the birthday girl.”

  “But …” My head was spinning. That the Blondes were bossy wasn’t exactly a headline; that they were willing to fade into the background, at a party no less, was.

  “Feel it,” ordered Madison.

  As soon as I touched the white cashmere, I was gone. It was like diving into the softest down-filled cloud. But way, way sexier.

  “I’m in,” I said and I meant it, not just about the party, but about my life too. I’d kept them all at arm’s length all through the Luke thing. Enough. I had Blonde handmaidens, for God’s sake! I wanted back into my life with my friends, back to us being me and the Blondes.

  I had a party to star in.

  We nixed saddle shoes in favour of black ballet flats and we bought pretty ruffled ankle socks. Mama arranged for Señora McClintock, Auntie Eva’s Spanish-speaking hairdresser-cumdress fitter, to do our hair for the big day. Since Mama had long run through her Mary Kay lipstick samples, she took us all to the Simpson’s makeup department where we bought “big girl” lipsticks in various heart-stopping shades of red. A week before the party and in a moment of stupefying weakness, I agreed to get my ears pierced.

  Kit bullied me into it. I had resisted getting my ears pierced my whole life. Given my colouring and hair, I was convinced earrings would make me look like a dime-store gypsy. Kit knew that.

  “Buttercup, you’re holding my life in your hands. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. You were made for earrings.”

  “Speaking of life in hands …”

  Kit groaned while the technician swabbed my earlobes with alcohol.

  “Do you think you might want to tell them any time soon or …”

  “I’m leaning toward the or,” she said.

  “Oh.” Little dots were marked on my earlobes. Apparently, my earlobes offended the Ukrainian technician. I had chubby earlobes.

  “You okay with that?” Kit asked.

  “Sure,” I nodded, which only aggravated my Ukrainian earlobe person more. “It’s your secret.” What I really wanted was for her to tell so I could gauge everyone’s reaction and sort out how this would come back on me. And, of course, on Kit too, and Lord knows I was burning up with a need to talk about the whole lesbian thing with somebody, anybody— really, absolutely anybody. I looked up at her. She was holding my hand, supposedly giving me courage. “I mean it, Kit. Only when you’re ready.”

  “Thing is,” she grasped on tighter while the Ukrainian loaded up her gun, “remember how Mike told you that lying about your old man in prison was just a ‘place-holder’ lie type of deal, until you, and the people around you, could deal with the truth?”

  Damn. “Yeah, I remember,” I muttered. “It meant a lot to me at the time. That he got it, I mean.”

  “I think I need some more place-holder time.”

  “Honestly, Kit, I get it.” I nodded. And the Ukrainian slapped me. No kidding. She actually slapped my thigh.

  “Don’t move, already, or I vill put an earring in your forehead!”

  I believed her.

  We disinfected my ears every two hours for almost a week and then, on the day of my party, we stuck in sweet little seed pearl earrings. Kit was right—they looked amazing.

  We were pretty giddy prepping at Auntie Eva’s on the day of the party. That’s right day. It took hours. The Señora decided the only way to go was with very high, structured ponytails. The Blondes were pulled and yanked and tied while their ponytails were fashioned into one long sausage curl. It was quite a process trying to tame my hair into smooth slick order, but she did it, and then she let my curls go wild in the tail bit. No pain, no gain was our mantra. All of us got singed at least once by the curling iron, but the Señora was a miracle worker. When I saw them, Kit, Sarah, and Madison all done up, my heart lurched—they were that beautiful. My Blondes. “You all look like Sandra Dee in Gidget. What I wouldn’t give to—”

  Madison grabbed my arms and spun me around to face the full-length mirror. “To look exactly like you do, Sophie. Look! Just look at you!”

  “Wow.” Kit came up and whispered in my ear, “I take back what I said before. I def
y anyone of any inclination not to find you irresistible.”

  “He’ll melt,” said Sarah.

  “Who?” I asked

  But Mama and the Aunties blew in like tornadoes. “Chop, chop, let’s go!” Auntie Radmila teared up when she saw me. “Your Papa iz down the stairs vit za stretchy car. Yoy!” She pinched my cheek. “Even more too beautiful zen your Mama vas on za night she met your Papa!”

  “Qvik, qvik!” Auntie Eva waved at us.

  “Vait, vait, vait!” Mama fumbled around until she retrieved Papa’s old camera.

  All urgency was swept aside. We spent the next twenty minutes in every possible pose and combination until Papa came bounding up the stairs. Mama gasped when she saw him. He wore an old-fashioned black tux, the kind with the shiny stripe down the legs, and a blindingly white accordion-pleated shirt. He looked like he should be on a stage somewhere. Mama floated over to him and carefully pinned a white carnation into his lapel. I knew in my bone marrow that she would have held that moment for many beats longer, but Papa stuck to the task of hustling us along. “Ladies?! Let’s go, ladies!” He clapped his hands until he saw me. Papa strode right over, took my hand, and twirled me around and around. “There will be no one else in the room but you,” he whispered. “Tonight is your night, Sophia. You deserve it.” He kissed the top of my head. Mama clicked.

  And I will keep that photo forever.

  Mike’s was unrecognizable. Hell, Mike was unrecognizable. He wore a white sport coat and powder-blue ruffled shirt that Auntie Luba rented from Mr. Big ’N Tall. He looked almost as handsome as he did on his wedding day. The restaurant was transformed. The whole place was smothered in pink and white carnations, either the actual flowers or the handcrafted tissue paper variety that you see festooned on bridal limousines, thousands and thousands of them. They made the restaurant look silly and pretty and sweet all at once.

  “You like?” asked Auntie Eva.

  “Like? I love!” I hugged her. “Love, love, love! But how did they talk you into this? I know you hate carnations.”

  Auntie Radmila waved her hand. “Pshaw! It vas her idea.”

  “Oooh Lordy, it’s magic!” gushed Sarah.

  Auntie Luba pointed out that even the Hamilton blender was covered in carnations. “Ve made one hundred and fifty-two tousand million.”

  Auntie Radmila pulled Madison and me into her. “I haven’t seen Eva so happy since before za funeral, I tell you true, Sophie.” She patted her chest lovingly. “You are for sure having a Sveet Seventeen for all of us.” Her eyes threatened to well up and my eyes threatened to join them.

  “Oh no you don’t!” Madison fanned her hand in front of my face furiously. “No crying! You have mascara on, Sophie. And no eating either, you’re wearing scarlet-red lipstick that will bleed all over the place. You can’t risk it!”

  Auntie Radmila looked at Madison like she’d never seen her before. She reached up and cupped Madison’s chin in her hand. “Zer must be some Slavic in you, my child!”

  “Attago, Madison,” I said. “There is no greater Auntie compliment.”

  “Oh go on.” She rolled her eyes but still gave Auntie Radmila an extra peck on the cheek before linking her arm through mine. “Let’s check out the dance floor.”

  The back of Mike’s, the dancing area per se, was washed in a cool darkness. The rear of the restaurant had been cleared of tables. While the front was fun and pretty and covered in carnations, back here it was inky and waiting for whispers. A few chairs were placed against the walls in little groupings and the only lighting came off the glow of the jukebox, which flashed different colours and intensity depending on the song. Mike had it restocked with fifties tunes and it would continue to play just with buttons—no quarters necessary. The ceiling was covered with miles of twirling pink and white paper streamers captured by a big pink heart in the centre, making it feel like we were in a private tent.

  “Oh my!” I said to no one.

  “Buboola!” I heard Auntie Eva’s unmistakable bellow. “Come up to za front to greeting your guests.”

  It was 9:05. The invitation said 9 P.M. Platters of munchies covered every surface. Mike and a Macedonian woman who worked as a caterer would be staying the whole time, getting drinks for people who more or less looked the legal age of eighteen and soft drinks for everyone else.

  9:09.

  No one would come. Mama asked whether I was having fun. I looked at her anxious face and swallowed my percolating anxiety. “Are you kidding, Mama? It’s all beyond brilliant. I’m out of my head with happiness.” She took a picture.

  9:14.

  “Okay, well, that’s it, might as well call it a day,” I said. Everybody pretended not to hear me.

  9:19

  “Seriously.

  ” And then they came. They came in groups of six or so. Not only did they come, but they came dressed to perfection, bearing balloons and flowers and gifts.

  For me.

  I was so relieved and stunned that I almost started crying again. Madison pinched the back of my arm and rescued me from mascara destruction. The girls wore various versions of poodle skirts, or jeans rolled up to mid-calf with tucked-in checked shirts, or in form-fitting pencil skirts and skin-tight sweaters with little silk kerchiefs tied around their necks that made them look adult and knowing. I couldn’t help but notice that most of the girls that David had romanced were in the skin-tight category. I felt eleven whenever I looked at them.

  “Who invited them?” I whined to Kit, who looked over and shrugged.

  “Shit happens,” she said helpfully.

  The boys, not to be outdone, were also dressed to kill. No ratty bell-bottoms here. Straight-leg jeans and varsity jackets over snowy-white shirts were the norm. But some of the boys wore beautiful narrow suits and skinny ties. Other boys wore cuffed jeans and skin-tight white T’s. They were Brylcreemed within an inch of their lives. Paul Wexler came in one of those beautiful suits and presented me with a wrist corsage. “A beautiful orchid for a beautiful birthday girl.” He slid it on my wrist. Auntie Eva stepped closer to observe this and examine him.

  “Thank you so much, Paul.” I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s beautiful!” If I put some real effort into it, I bet I could totally warm up to him.

  “You owe me a dance, Sophie, and I intend to claim it this time.”

  “Sure thing,” I said at the same time that Auntie Eva “harrumphed.”

  The jukebox started up. The Blondes were in high flirt mode, with Mike Jr. and George hot on the heels of Madison and Sarah. I know Mike was counting on the cousins to act as bouncers, if need be. Good luck with that. Those boys were not in bouncer mode. I caught Mike Jr. dragging Madison to the back of the restaurant. He actually got her onto the dance floor and kept her there, even though they were the only couple dancing. Unbelievable.

  The place was filling up fast. I was dizzy from being kissed, hugged, passed around, and propelled from person to person. Between the music and the din of people, it was hard to hear, still, I couldn’t help but catch Auntie Eva and Auntie Luba’s simultaneous cry of “Yoy!” when David stepped through the door.

  All by himself.

  Straight black jeans, snug, very snug, faded black T-shirt, and a well-worn, soft, black leather jacket. Jesus. Auntie Eva looked like she was going to faint. “Behave!” I warned through clenched teeth. I don’t know who I was warning. I mean, sweet Moses, it was an extremely flattering, um, look. Every muscle was defined and highlighted on all six-foot-four of him. Like the other boys, David had Brylcreemed his hair; unlike the other boys he knew to use just “a little dab.” David’s thick dark hair still fell into his eyes. He had to keep pushing it back with his hand.

  Danger, Sophie Kandinsky, danger.

  And all this with just one foot into the restaurant!

  When he got to us, David reached for Auntie Luba’s then Auntie Eva’s hands and told them what a pleasure it was to see them again. I felt a powerful breeze from
the massive eyelash fluttering beside me. He must have thought he was standing in a wind tunnel.

  If you tilted your head, just so, you could actually see the outline of his stomach muscles underneath the shirt. Just when he moved in a certain way mind you, like reaching for an Auntie’s hand, and then only if you strained. The Aunties were straining. Hell, I was straining. That was the trouble; he must be so aware of the effect he has on … much older women. I made a concerted attempt at a normal welcoming smile. I was furious with all of them.

  “Happy birthday, Sophie. You look like a dream.” David reached for my hand and brought it near his mouth, held it there for a heartbeat and then gently, tenderly, brushed the front of my fingers with his lips. Then he eyed my wrist corsage and frowned. “Oh no, not tonight. No more.” He slid the corsage off my wrist with one hand before I even knew what was happening. It felt like he was undressing me.

  I came out of my fog long enough to protest. “Now wait a gosh-darned minute, David. Paul Wexler just …” Really, was that the best I could do?! Gosh-darned? I was appalled with myself. Meanwhile, David asked permission to put the orchid on Auntie Eva who had to steady herself on Auntie Radmila. Won’t that just make Paul’s day. When Auntie Radmila stopped giggling, David reached behind Mike’s cash register and opened a little cellophane box. It was another wrist corsage. I had to think hard about my mascara. The corsage was a very sweet, very old-fashioned arrangement of pink and white carnations set in baby’s breath. David slid his corsage on my wrist like he’d been born and raised to do nothing but that. Auntie Eva grabbed my other hand. “There,” he said, smiling at my hand, “much better,” and then at me. “You may be an orchid, Sophie, but I know you love carnations. I remember your Aunt teasing you about it.”

  “Ow!” Auntie Eva dug her nails into my hand like she was searching for an artery. I didn’t think she could take much more of this. “Thank you, David.” I looked around and behind him for his date, his entourage. He never roamed loose. Sure enough, a few girls were waving at him from one of the back booths. “It’s, they’re perfect.”