The Sleeping Beauty Proposal

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  Which is also how I have come to justify my rather impulsive purchase of a Charlotte Tarantola mocha tank with its figure-hugging ribs for a whopping sixty-five dollars from Neiman Marcus. Pair that with a 7 For All Mankind miniskirt and my guess is he won’t stand a chance.

  Not that my goal is to achieve anything more than to throw Nick off guard. Certainly, I am not trying to impress him, much less seduce him, despite the glowing bronzer I applied in places sure to catch his eye and, therefore, initiate the brain-mushing process.

  In my opinion, this is nothing more than war. A war against all egotistical men who are used to having their way (like Hugh) or who assume every woman will fall in love with them (like Nick). In my opinion, if Nick is bound to pick away at my pure-method -house-building story, trying to trip me up, then he will have to defend himself against my newly shaven and baby-oiled legs in Cole Haan slides. (A steal at one hundred dollars.)

  Catching a glimpse of my reflection as I pass by the store windows in Harvard Square on my way to Club Mercury, it strikes me that I have never dressed this way before. Never. My usual summer outfit, even for club hopping, is the typical Bostonian student fare of a T-shirt and shorts with Teva sandals or, for fancy occasions, a gauzy, hippie skirt imported from Tibet.

  I have to admit I feel a bit brazen these days. Confident. Reckless. There’s a new swish to my hips, a smile on my lips. Fake it to make it, Patty says, a phrase that, until now, I’ve considered Amway hoo-ha.

  However, that was before I faked my engagement and began appreciating Amway in a whole new light.

  "Wow. Look at you!” Steve gets up from a table on the dais to plant a friendly kiss on my cheek. “Is this all for me?”

  “Why not?” I say with a laugh, as my gaze sweeps the room searching for any sign of Nick and, of course,Todd.

  “Let me get you a beer.We’re still setting up.” He takes me by the hand and deposits me at a small round table that is way too close to a set of huge amplifiers. “Genie,” he adds, giving me another kiss. “I’m really glad you came.”

  Yet another moment when it seems as if Steve hopes to romanticize our relationship. He’s tried this in the past, mostly when he’s had too much to drink. A confession of attraction here. A declaration of love there. My usual tactic has been to call him up the next day and josh him back to normalcy. His is one friendship I don’t want to lose after seventeen years. It’s a treasure.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  Now, in light of the number Hugh pulled on me, I’m rethinking this. Maybe sexual attraction is merely chemistry like Hugh said. Because I’ve tried to be sexually attracted to Steve, really. I mean, what could be better than falling in love with your best friend?

  Unless you can’t.

  Steve is the guy who taught me how to drive in reverse around the Fresh Pond rotary, who took me out to Howard Johnson’s all-you -can-eat fried clam nights and challenged me to finish more plates than he could. Later, he thoughtfully held my head by the side of the Southeast Expressway as I lost the contest—along with the contents of my stomach.

  And it’s not that he’s unattractive. He’s sort of sexy in a Boston rocker way with his dyed blond hair and tight black leather jeans.When he’s singing onstage and the secretaries are screaming for “North Shore Rendezvous”—the Wily Coyotes’ one hit—and begging to have his children, I have to ask myself, what do they see that I don’t?

  This is all the more odd considering that long ago I let him take my virginity.

  “Look at that,” he says, gesturing toward a group of students in MIT shirts plugging their laptops into the amplifiers. “It’s a Dylan concert and they’re running GarageBand off their iBooks. Sacrilege.”

  “The times, they are a-changin’.”

  Steve hands me my Heineken and frowns.“Don’t ever do that again. I’ll have to kill you.”

  “Get used to it.You’re about to hear forty contestants sing that exact same line.”

  “Forty-five, and the smart ones won’t.They’ll pick something more political like ‘With God on Our Side,’ if they want to win.”

  Ah, yes. “With God on Our Side,” Dylan’s famous antiwar song with Joan Baez. Hugh’s favorite, I remember, before I can stop myself.

  Steve is leaning back in his chair, staring at me with a goofy expression.

  “What?”

  “I dunno.” He shrugs. “I was thinking how good you look. If you weren’t such a feminist and I could be assured you wouldn’t take it the wrong way, I’d call you hot.”

  "Really?” I can’t hide my smile. “Hot?”

  “Don’t get offended.”

  “I’m not offended. To tell you the truth,” I say, brushing back my hair in what I hope is further evidence of my sexiness, “that’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  I hesitate, pondering if I should tell him about Hugh. Then again, next to Patty, he is my best friend. If I can’t trust Steve, who can I trust?

  “Because that’s what Hugh said.That I wasn’t—hot.”

  Steve snaps his chair forward.“You’re kidding me.Why would he say a stupid thing like that?”

  His reaction is perfect, the exact antidote for what ails me.“It’s a mystery. Hugh says I’m his best friend, the one person he can go to in trouble, but I just don’t turn him on.”

  A knowing grin plays on Steve’s lips as if he’s about to ask how it feels to walk a mile in his shoes. Instead he says,“Was this before or after he asked you to marry him?”

  Bam! A drum set falls over, causing me to practically cannon-ball out of my chair.

  How did Steve find out I was getting married?

  “Todd told me,” he explains, seeing my shock,“when he called Sunday night to ask if I would talk you into showing up tonight. Said he felt guilty about some fight you two had and then he dropped the bomb about your engagement.”

  Whoa. Back up. I can’t decide which is more mind-blowing— that Steve thinks I’m actually engaged to Hugh or that my brother actually feels guilty about fighting with me.

  “So, what’s the answer?” Steve asks.“Did Hugh say this before or after you got engaged? Either way, why in the hell would you still be engaged to a man who doesn’t deserve you and doesn’t treat you like you deserve?”

  Steve’s nostrils are flaring, a sure sign he’s getting angry, and I can’t say I blame him. It appears to him like I’m throwing myself at a man who abhors my body when Steve has been waiting in the wings, ready to love me warts and all.

  Unfortunately, the room is getting crowded so it’s difficult to discuss my sex life discreetly. Contestants have arrived in beards and wigs, microphones slung around their necks. We are in a sea of fat and tall, black and Hispanic, and even a few female Dylans. Not the ideal atmosphere for sorting through feelings of intimate inadequacy.

  “Let’s talk later,” I shout, trying to be heard above the “one-two -three” sound check. “Give me some credit, Steve.You might be surprised.”

  “Why should I?” Steve is leaning over half the table, practically in my face.“I’d never say anything like that to you. I just told you you’re hot. But would you ever consider going out with me? Hell, no.”

  “Please, Steve.”

  “Lots of women love me. I’ve got groupies. Seriously, I do. Women who follow the Wily Coyotes from gig to gig. So clearly I’m not some freak.”

  “I never said you were a freak.”

  “Yeah, but you act like I’m a freak.When I kissed you on the cheek, you flinched.”

  That’s a lie. “I did not.”

  “What if I kissed you now? Would you push me away?”

  “Of course not.”What’s gotten into him?

  Before I can figure out the answer, Steve curves his arm around the back of my head and pulls me to him, kissing me not on the cheek, but full on the lips. I don’t dare pull away or, heaven forbid, flinch. I don’t dare give him any indication that he is even the slightest bi
t unappealing. I am so supersensitive to the issue of sexual self-esteem now that I even kiss him back.

  “Hi, kids.”

  Steve lifts his lips off mine and says, “Hi, Todd. Excuse me while I kiss your sister.”

  “By all means.”Todd waves his approval. “Nick and I will step aside until you’re done.”

  Nick?

  I shove Steve so hard he nearly flies backward over his chair, banging his head against a pillar.

  “What did you do that for?” he asks, righting himself.

  “Sorry.” Keeping my eyes focused on the table so I won’t have to see Nick’s reaction, I say,“It was enough.You proved your point.”

  “And I guess you proved yours.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “This is Steve Taylor,”Todd says to Nick. “Genie’s friend from college. Lead singer of the Wily Coyotes, that band we saw on the pier last spring.”

  Nick shakes Steve’s hand and then spins around a chair to straddle it. He’s so close, his thigh brushes mine. “Hi, Genie,” he says.

  “Hi.” I quickly glance at him and then, seeing his dark blue eyes twinkling, look away. Oh, God. He’s in a black T-shirt. I’m a sucker for men in black T-shirts.

  "You look very nice,” he says softly. "That’s a good color on you. Goes very well with your skin.”

  The words are innocent enough, but his tone is not.“Thanks.” I pretend to search the crowded club for a waitress. “The service around here is lousy, isn’t it?”

  “No wonder he made a pass,” Nick adds, nodding good-naturedly at Steve.

  My neck goes hot again.

  “No. You don’t understand Genie and Steve,” Todd shouts. “They have a totally fucked-up relationship. Like When Harry Met Sally only without the imitation orgasm.”

  The word orgasm hangs over our table until Steve says, “You mean you actually watched that movie?”

  “All part of getting laid, buddy, all part of getting laid.You’re right, Genie. The service here sucks,” he says, watching a waitress buzz right past us.

  “Excuse me, miss.” Nick does nothing more than flick his index finger and—presto—the prettiest waitress suddenly appears. “Could we get another round?”

  She takes a moment to wiggle for his benefit. “Four Heinekens?”

  "Three,” I correct, d emurely. "I’m fine.”

  “Four,” Nick says. “Save you the extra trip. If that’s okay with you, Genie?”

  I’m busted. Nick can probably tell I’m the type of girl who can keep up with the boys.

  “Why not? It’s Wednesday night,” I say, thinking that Hugh would have cleared his throat, a nonverbal reminder that I have to watch it because of my alcoholic family. Also, that beer is loaded with carbs and calories—Hugh’s most fearsome enemies.

  “How come I never get that treatment?” Steve asks. “I could lift my fingers all day until I was only left with the middle one and a waitress still wouldn’t show.”

  “Mediterranean magnetism.” Todd rests his arms on the table authoritatively. "It’s a handicap of Nick’s I gotta deal with in the workplace constantly.Yesterday, the meter maid came by to show him that she’d ripped up the ticket he got on Mass Ave. No shit. A twenty-dollar ticket, gone, in return for five minutes of his Mediterranean magnetism.”

  “That’s high treason in Boston, isn’t it?” Steve asks. “Ripping up a ticket.”

  “So, you two have known each other since college?” Nick says, moving the subject off of himself.

  Steve answers, “Met at the college radio station. Been best friends ever since.”

  I tense, hoping we’ll leave it at that. “Are you doing ‘Rainy Day Women’ again, Todd? It cracks me up whenever you whine onstage.”

  “Glad to see we’re back on speaking terms, Eugenia. And no, I’m not doing ‘Rainy Day Women.’ Not number twelve or number thirty-five. My song is a surprise that I can’t reveal, seeing as we have an esteemed judge at the table.”

  Nick says,“You mean you’ve known Genie all this time, Steve, and you’ve never been more than just friends?”

  “Ha!” Todd claps his hands. “Ha! If you only knew. ‘Just friends’ my ass.”

  Oh, please, I pray, as the waitress returns with our beers. Please let it stop here.

  I turn to Steve. “Don’t you have to go? The other judges are already on the panel.”

  He checks his watch. “I got at least ten minutes. Besides, my beer just got here. Priorities, woman.”

  The men go through the pretense of reaching for their wallets. I don’t even bother. Finally, Nick pays and they spend an inordinate amount of time commenting on a slim blonde dressed as “early Bob.” Just when I think she might entertain them for a little longer, Todd does a big brother and asks Steve to tell the story of the time he and I “hooked up.”

  “Ah. I never kiss and tell.” Steve picks at his beer label. “Wouldn’t be gentlemanly.”

  “I’m not interested in an etiquette lesson, I’m interested in having a laugh.”

  I know what Todd’s about to say and I’m pissed. I would slap my hand over his mouth if I thought it would do any good. But once Todd thinks he’s on a roll, there’s no stopping him. My brother craves being the center of attention—even if that means it’s at my expense.

  “Check this out,” he says, nudging Nick. “The whole four years Genie was at Thoreau she never left the library. All she did was study. I partied, she studied.We’re opposites, right?”

  “Sure,” Nick says.

  “Then, the night before graduation, she shows up on Steve’s doorstep with half of Patty’s condom supply and a request that he take her virginity. Honest to God. Like she was selling encyclopedias.”

  “It wasn’t half of Patty’s condom supply—it was more like a quarter, ” I say, trying to be a sport, even though I’d rather die than have him relate this to Nick, a total stranger.“Patty used to buy in bulk. We all know this stupid story,Todd. Can’t we talk about something else?”

  “You told him?” Steve grimaces. “Why did you tell him?”

  I have no idea.Why did I tell him?

  “She was twenty-one!” Todd pounds the table. “Twenty-fucking -one. That’s why I call her Sister Eugenia. And Hugh’s probably Father Spencer because I bet the two of them never do it.They’re all brain, no body.”

  Okay. He has hit way too close to home. I am ready to strangle my brother with my bare hands when I feel someone patting my hand under the table. It’s Nick, who, above the table, is tolerating Todd with a stiff smile.

  “Watch it, Todd,” Steve says protectively. "You might want to get off this subject while you still have your testicles.”

  “Why?” Todd acts baffled that I would find this objectionable. “It’s funny. And it happened fifteen years ago. What’s the big deal?”

  “Hugh’s being a shit to her, that’s the big deal.They’re having problems and they’re not even married.”

  “Enough.” Carefully, I remove my hand from under Nick’s. “So, who’s the best Dylan here, do you think?”

  Too late. Todd’s on his muscle. “What did Hugh say now? I swear, I know he’s my future brother-in-law and all, but that guy has his nerve. He’s always telling Genie to do this or that. He steps over the line.”

  “And you don’t?” I ask, laughing, still trying to keep the night upbeat.

  Todd points his bottle at me. “Listen. If he has problems with our family, I’ll set him straight. Mom and Dad may be a trip, but he has no business ragging on us.”

  “It’s not about your family,” Steve says. “Hugh told Genie she doesn’t turn him on, that’s all.”

  Silence. Dead silence falls over us. It is all I can do not to scream and then burst into tears.

  “You fink!” Getting up, I push back my chair with a loud scrape. “You know, Steve, I know quite a few secrets about you, too, that I could spill here. But I’m not going to because I’m a friend.”

  Steve is truly stunned.“
I was only trying to help. I didn’t want Todd getting mad at Hugh for the wrong thing.”

  I will never be able to comprehend the bizarre logic of men. “Good riddance to the lot of you,” I declare, managing to flash a grateful smile at Nick before plowing toward the door.

  With sheer determination and rudeness, I elbow my way through the throng of stupid college kids until I’m safely outside in the refreshing June evening. My head is spinning from the noise and Todd and utter humiliation from which I’ll never recover. Forget ever talking to Nick again.That’s out of the question.

  The worst of it is that for all of Todd’s teasing, he’s right. I am a frigid, puritanical prude. No wonder I don’t turn Hugh on. I don’t turn any man on. I never have. I never will.

  Like in college, where everyone—even my hulking suite mate, Claudia, the hockey player from Canada—was having sex except me. Whole weekends they’d spend in bed with their boyfriends. Meanwhile, there I was, uptight Genie Michaels, a sexual retard, bent over her books on a Saturday night, going to the campus theater to see Casablanca alone as a reward for an evening’s hard work.

  Tears spring to the corners of my eyes as I lean against the bus stop, hiding my face so no one will see that I’m crying.That’s how pathetic I am, an adult at a bus stop that reeks of urine and smoke, bemoaning her pathetic sex life.

  "Hey.” There is a light touch on my shoulder and I spin around ready to lash out at Steve when I see it’s not Steve, but Nick regarding me sympathetically.A breeze blows back his hair, revealing an alluring five o’clock shadow. He might be one of those men who has to shave twice a day.

  “I’m really sorry Todd got carried away in there. He was completely out of line.”

  Quickly, I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes. “No big deal. I overreacted.”

  “You didn’t overreact.” From nowhere he produces a red handkerchief, a gesture I find heartbreaking. I’ve never known any man outside of my father to carry a handkerchief. “Personally, I think it’s kind of sweet you went to a friend for, um, that. I know plenty of women who’ve done a lot worse. Anyway, if I hadn’t pried, the subject wouldn’t have come up. So, it’s kinda my fault.”