Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

by Nora Zelevansky

  Marjorie said quietly, “I need to know why you did what you did in high school.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Why did you kiss me, then tell everyone that you didn’t like me?”

  “Oh, that.” They resumed walking. After a silence, he said, “I knew you were into Bryce. I couldn’t handle you picking him; I figured I’d save face. It was stupid.”

  Why had that never occurred to her? They arrived at the bodega, but instead of going in, they settled on a bench outside in unspoken agreement. Mac grunted, as he sat.

  Marjorie smiled. “Was that a creak? Could Mac O’Shea be getting old?”

  “Never! I’m just sad. I still can’t believe old Grinch died.”

  Marjorie laughed and whacked him lightly in the arm.

  “Hey! Don’t hit me. I’m in mourning.”

  She sat back. “You’re an incorrigible person, Mac O’Shea. But I guess I am too.”

  “So, you’ll have dinner with me this week?”

  “Yeah. I guess. But not at DIRT.”

  “Done.” Mac smiled, placing a proprietary hand on Marjorie’s thigh. Feigning nonchalance, he added, “So, who was that guy you were talking to, anyway?”

  Marjorie’s memory of earlier that evening before Mac’s arrival was blurry thanks to the vodka she drank and also the marijuana that Roberta had in fact baked into the brownies. But also because it officially became the night not when Marjorie sobbed into a stranger’s lap but when the wrong guy, who might just be right, fought to win her back, though she wasn’t his in the first place. It was the night she elected to give Mac a chance.

  17

  On Monday, Gatherers was crowded with worker bees, who had rebuffed home offices and taken their laptops, like so many 1950s secretaries, out on the town.

  Belinda walked in wearing a T-shirt that declared I LOVE MUSIC! above a cartoonish electric guitar, shorts, and brand-new Doc Martens. When her eyes rested on Marjorie, a shy smile spread across her face; she waved. How incredible, Marjorie thought, that anyone could be so happy to see her.

  “I’ve decided I want a nickname!” Belinda slung her backpack across the chair’s rungs and flopped into her seat. Apparently, there would be no performance of skepticism this time.

  “You do, do you?”

  “Yes. And not ‘Four Eyes.’”

  “Someone called you ‘Four Eyes’? When? In 1962?”

  “This boy Johnny Snarlson, who the kids at camp call ‘Snarls.’ We don’t usually play coed sports, but they combined us for softball. Lord knows why!”

  “Lord knows indeed.”

  “Anyway, I missed a pop-up fly because, really, I don’t even know what that is! That’s why they put me out in right field in the first place. So he called me names.”

  Marjorie cringed. “Did you cry?”

  “What? No! Are you crazy? Johnny Snarlson is an idiot. I told him to shut up because he’d be working for me one day.”

  “Ha! That’s my girl! Are all eleven-year-olds like you?”

  “Not really. Anyway, our counselor Becky didn’t find it funny. She made us both sit out for the rest of the game. As if skipping sports is a punishment.” Belinda rolled her eyes.

  “Is Johnny cute?”

  “Snarls? Ugh. No.”

  “Like, ugh, no, boys are gross?”

  “Like, ugh, no, Snarls looks like someone squished him.”

  “Got it,” Marjorie laughed. “So, down to business! What are we having for snack?”

  “The usual!”

  Marjorie placed their order at the counter with Bandana Girl. When she returned, Belinda’s spiral notebook was open before her, a pink pen idling beside it.

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you walked here by yourself today,” said Marjorie. “How’d you swing that?”

  “I told Mom H. that I’d text when I got here, which I did. She probably followed me anyway.” Harriet was indeed now clomping toward her chiropractor’s office and away from Gatherers, having confirmed that her daughter arrived without incident.

  “Good. The best way to gain your parents’ trust is to be reliable. I learned that the hard way.”

  “Why hard?”

  “Because I forgot a lot and then my parents would ground me or make the phone off-limits. I messed up so many times that they finally made me wear a reminder bracelet that said CALL.”

  Belinda’s mouth dropped open. “They did not!”

  “They did.”

  She considered the idea. “Was it cute?”

  “Sort of. Like a pink and blue friendship bracelet.”

  “Some girls in my grade wear those—Sabrina Wilkinson, who is, you know, the girl the boys all like.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “I think they’re cute. I like the rubber ones with words even better, but I don’t know where to get them. Also, there are other things I want more.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like books. And these shoes.” She stuck her leg out from under the table to show off her electric blue combat boots.

  “Very cool. I definitely approve.”

  “Oh, good. I was hoping you’d like them.” She blushed, too obvious. “The kids at camp mostly wear Converse and Keds, but the urbs wear these.”

  “‘Urbs’?”

  “The older kids who wear band T-shirts and skinny jeans and tattoos and stuff.”

  “Ah. We called them ‘indie.’ I had a pair just like those in eighth grade, Belly.”

  “Belly? Is that my nickname?”

  “Could be. Let’s see if it sticks. Anyway, it’s good that you do your own thing. Don’t worry about kids who are popular in seventh grade. It’s not an indicator of future success. I know, firsthand. Jimmy Snarlson probably will work for you one day! And so will Sabrina whatever.”

  “Sabrina is actually really really rich. Her dad like owns Staten Island. She probably won’t work for anyone.”

  “Lucky Sabrina. But the point still stands. In fact, here’s another assignment: Watch the movie Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion.” Belinda scribbled dutifully. “Now, let’s really get down to business.”

  “Okay! I’ll review last week’s assignments.” Belinda’s expression grew serious, as if she was addressing a board meeting agenda. “The headband is gone, as you can see. Mom H. wouldn’t budge on the allergy list, but she did agree to add an addendum, explaining that I don’t have allergies. (She also taught me the word ‘addendum.’) And she agreed to strike diarrhea from the list of symptoms, so it’s less humiliating.”

  “No fecal matter. Always a win.”

  “What else? Mom D. downloaded the Liz Phair song for me when she got home from her corporate retreat while Mom H. was at book club. I figured she was the safer bet to ask. She’s kind of clueless about what’s age appropriate, and some of the songs had curses.”

  “Why is Mom D. clueless?”

  “Oh, you know. She works all the time, so she’s home less. And when she is, I guess she’s tired, so she mostly reads the newspaper on her iPad.”

  “Does Harriet, um Mom H., work?”

  “She has hobbies … besides harassing me. I heard them fighting last night, though, about how they don’t have ‘shared interests.’ Mom H. is big on quality time, but sometimes it’s less stressful with Mom D. She even lets me call her ‘Dinah.’ And she doesn’t make me eat bean curd. We order pizza and go out for ice cream. It’s a secret.” The household sounded pretty traditional, not unlike Marjorie’s own. “Now that I’m older I can go to pizza myself with friends for lunch sometimes. But it’s still a special thing.”

  The barista arrived with their iced tea and cookies. “For Belly, right?”

  Belinda giggled.

  “So, did you like the song ‘Girls’ Room’?”

  “It reminded me of our school. We also have a couple girls who wear super tight clothes.” Belinda took a big bite of her M&M cookie, dropping crumbs on the pad. “They didn’t have He’s Just Not T
hat Into You at school and, I gotta say, the librarian looked at me like I was insane. I’ll try the public library. Oh. And I tried to make my hair wavy like yours, but it didn’t work.”

  “That definitely wasn’t an assignment, Belly. Everyone wants shiny straight hair like yours! As we speak, women are shelling out thousands of dollars to poison themselves with keratin treatments for it.”

  “But I want it wavy. And Mom H. won’t get me a curling iron.”

  “Just let your hair dry in a braid.”

  Belinda copied the instructions down. “So, that’s it for last week.”

  “Um. You left one off.”

  “Did I?”

  “Belinda! Tell me you made the list of experiences for the actual writing assignment!”

  “I tried.” She frowned, turning a page and handed the notebook over.

  5 Things I’ve Done in My Life

  By Belinda

  1. Nothing interesting. Ever.

  2. Went to Arizona to visit Nanny and Grandpa. Made a friend at their country club, who was cool and older and swore she’d smoked a cigarette before, but she left the next day.

  3. Met a dog and a chicken who were friends in Mom H.’s friend’s backyard in Greenpoint.

  4. Saw an actress from some TV show in front of Franny’s (favorite pizza place, where you have to wait two years for a table).

  5. Saw a bicyclist get hit by a car.

  “Okay, well, good job. But you need to replace #1 unless you want to write about a boring character.”

  “Too close to home.”

  “Did anything new happen this week?”

  Belinda rested her cheek on her fist, pushing her lips cockeyed. “I did meet a kid at camp, who is going to be new at my school next year.”

  “Perfect! Now, of the five ideas, which would be best to describe?”

  “None of them are going to be War and Peace.”

  “Belinda. Even War and Peace isn’t War and Peace. The battle parts are so dense—everyone skims them! Now, which one?”

  “You pick.”

  “I can’t know what’s most interesting to you.” Belinda didn’t budge, so Marjorie reread the list. “Fine: I say no chickens unless you want to write about farmers. The cigarette thing will probably land you in therapy, as will the bicycle crash. And seeing famous people is fun, but they can be disappointing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It used to be my job to throw fancy parties for celebrities.”

  “That sounds so awesome.”

  “Do not, under any circumstances, even think about wasting your life doing that.”

  Belinda looked surprised. “Why?”

  “I mean, I’m not being fair. PR can be great,” Marjorie admitted, “but you should be an op-ed journalist or a foreign correspondent or a neurosurgeon or something, not checking on the white hydrangeas for J-Lo’s greenroom.”

  “So, if you did that, then why are you a tutor now? No offense, but like why are you free to teach me during the day on Mondays?”

  The too astute question flummoxed Marjorie. The only answer she could muster was the truth. “I’m kind of a loser, Belly. I was one of those popular kids, then I got confused about how to be an adult. I’m here now because I like cookies and writing. You’re okay too.”

  On Saturday, after their talk, Marjorie and Mac had eschewed the bodega’s Rold Gold pretzels for meatballs, roasted vegetable salad, and pork braciola at Frankies 457. Mac had flirted throughout, making lewd remarks while she ate gelato and wondering aloud about the shade of tonight’s neon underwear. It all felt surprisingly normal. And, when they said good night outside her building, Marjorie had to fight the urge to drag him upstairs and show him her new bedroom. She reminded herself to be wary: This was Mac, after all. She pecked him goodbye and sprinted inside before she could change her mind.

  A few remaining guests lounged on the floor. Fred was passed out on the sofa like a rag doll. Marjorie headed upstairs to bed but had trouble falling asleep; the night was too sticky, her air conditioner too weak. Mac was a ticket back to her old life. For the first time, she wondered if that was a good thing.

  The next morning, as she and Fred Swiffered the floor and Method-sprayed the counters, she didn’t mention Mac’s appearance, loath to explain what she did not yet understand. Luckily, Fred’s headache made her less amenable to chitchat, until the afternoon, when Marjorie slipped out to meet Belinda.

  “Where are you going?” asked the subdued pixie.

  “Just running errands.”

  “I’ll come with! I can show you that cool mural I found.”

  Thinking quickly, Marjorie blurted out, “I kind of need alone time.”

  “Oh.” Fred looked injured. “I guess I understand that.”

  Now, Belinda gave her tutor a measured assessment, then announced, “I’m pretty positive that you’re not a loser.” Marjorie wasn’t so sure.

  “Thanks, Belly. But, hey, time is a-wasting and we need to choose your topic. For next week, make a list of what you learned about this new girl at camp.”

  “Boy.”

  “Even better. Brainstorm ten facts—about where you met him, what you know about his past, how you think he’ll fit in at your school. And come prepared to work. We’re going to do a writing exercise.”

  “We? Like you’ll do it too?”

  “Like I’m going to help you with yours.” Marjorie watched Belinda crumple like someone had run over her puppy. “All right, all right, all right. Maybe I’ll do one too.”

  “You always repeat things three times.”

  “I do? That’s funny. I never noticed.”

  “Well you do, do, do.”

  Before packing it away, Belinda scanned her to-do list:

  1. Borrow “He’s Just Not That Into You” from public library.

  2. Make “Belly” stick.

  3. Watch “Romy & Michele’s High School Reunion.”

  4. 10 Facts About Meeting Mitch.

  5. Find out what really makes someone a loser.

  18

  “You’re sure you don’t want to come with me instead?”

  “Thank you, Fred. But I’m good, good, good.”

  “Positive? The art opening is in Chinatown and it’s going to be pretty cool.”

  Marjorie applied makeup at the full-length mirror that hung on the inside of her bedroom door; Fred lay on her floor in a racer-backed, blue-and-yellow leaf-patterned jumpsuit, and enormous round sunglasses. A wide-brimmed felt hat and high platform sandals sat to her left like loyal pups.

  “It’s called ‘Pictures My Camera Took.’ The artist printed photos she accidentally took with her camera phone—like of her feet, her bag’s interior, the inside of her pocket. You know: ART!”

  “It should be called ‘Pictures My Butt Took.’ Sounds cultured, but you know I have plans.”

  Fred propped herself up on her elbows. “So, we’re really doing this? Going out with the stalker?”

  “No. I’m really doing this. I’m going out with the stalker. And I’d love to stop talking about it. Wouldn’t you rather hear about my latest rejection?”

  “Stop changing the subject!”

  Marjorie had begun job hunting online, and the descriptions that most matched her skill set were so ambiguous that she was never quite sure for what she was applying: Executive Associate, Associate Executive, Associate Assistant, Assistant Associate to the Executive, Manager of Associate & Assistant Relations, Assistant Associate Managerial Coordinator for Northeastern Territories …

  Decoding the listings became a game. “Hands-on experience” meant long hours for paltry pay. “Competitive salary” meant comparable to teenage babysitting rates. And, for out-of-touch employers, required skills like “optimization experience” and “social media acumen” seemed satisfied by an active Twitter account and a postmillennial graduation date.

  By and large, the jobs sounded soul-sucking, but Marjorie could not afford to be picky. A recommendation from B
rianne was as likely as a lottery win, and as antithetically toxic. And her experience was rarely applicable: As it turned out, the Newark, New Jersey, bezel manufacturer was not in need of a “celebrity liaison.”

  While eating Union Market’s gourmet samples for lunch to save cash, Marjorie had confessed to Fred about her panic attack at the party, Mac’s arrival, the urge to draw a cat nose and whiskers on a passed-out Fred’s face. Disapproval wasn’t her roommate’s style, but she seemed unimpressed with Mac’s grand gesture. “He sounds like Bruce Wayne.” Fred shrugged. “I’ve always been a Clark Kent girl myself.”

  “Speaking of which, what was with the Abercrombie model?”

  “Who, James?”

  “‘Who, Jaaaames?’” Marjorie teased, grabbing a shameless handful of rice cracker samples and dipping them in hummus marked “vegan” (as if there is any other kind). “Of course, I mean James. He was the only guy at the party who owns a brush.”

  Fred and James had first met a couple years before in Prospect Park. She’d set off on a solo nature hike, only to get caught in a torrential downpour in an open meadow. (The experience later inspired her song “Buckets of Pain.”) Foreshadowing their future dynamic, James appeared—a knight in shining chinos with an umbrella as shield—and escorted Fred home. He wasn’t her type—being employed and groomed—but she deigned to give him a chance. And they were happy until Fred played a disastrous Hoboken show eight months later. Her punk female followers protested the too melodic, cheerful riffs of her new song, “Happy to Be Anywhere.” She almost lost their faith. Fred promptly broke off the relationship, she claimed, without irony, to focus on her music.

  “You couldn’t do that with an adorable boyfriend?” Marjorie speared a chunk of soy cheese with a toothpick, tasted it, then spit it out into a napkin.

  “He was too supportive!” complained Fred. “He paid for everything, bought me presents, forgave my mistakes. How is a girl supposed to channel angst with that? What was I supposed to write about? The 401(k) he set up for me? Really, he set up a 401(k).”

  “He sounds awful. I don’t know why you still speak to him.” Marjorie watched her friend feign interest in a can of organic vegetable soup before taking a Dixie cup sample. “Fred! He’s the goddamn Holy Grail! Why is he still hanging around?”