Dixieland Sushi

by Cara Lockwood

  “Riley, I need to tell you something.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, you’re going to tell me that you’re mad for me and all that talk about one-night-stand stuff was just bollocks.”

  My mouth drops open. This is pretty much what I had planned to say.

  “And do you know what I was going to tell you?” he asks me.

  I shake my head.

  “I was going to tell you that you’re the most beautiful, smart, and engaging bird I’ve ever met, and I’m mad about you, too,” Riley says. “Now come here and kiss me, yeah?”

  Our kiss is interrupted by the sounds of Dixie blaring from an RV horn.

  I look up to see Bubba’s parents—my paternal grandparents—waving to us from the front seat of their RV. Grandpa and Grandma Taylor spend their time traveling around the country to watch Brooks & Dunn concerts. They jump from the front cab and I can see they’re wearing matching T-shirts that read, “Idaho: The Potato Lover’s State,” nylon fanny packs, and plastic rainbow visors. These are the same grandparents who disapproved of their son’s marrying a “geisha” all those years ago. Since then they have evolved—a little—in their thinking.

  “There’s our little Jen!” they cry, when they see me. Grandma Taylor puts me in a vicelike grip. She, as usual, smells like stale smoke and Oil of Olay. Grandpa Taylor hikes up his Bermuda shorts (worn with black knee-high socks, complete with the garters) and gives me his patented one-arm side hug that quickly progresses into a headlock.

  “This old man still has the moves!” he shouts, rapping his knuckles along my skull.

  They then present a balloon-themed gift bag to me. “It’s a belated birthday gift,” Grandma Taylor says.

  My birthday gift is a bright pink beer cozy that reads, “I’m always beautiful when I’m drunk” and a key chain that says, “My other car is a piece of sh*t.”

  “We got them in Oklahoma,” Grandpa Taylor says proudly. At one of their favorite gift-buying locations, I’m sure—the roadside truck stop.

  “Uh, thanks,” I say.

  Riley takes them in with interest.

  “So you must be The Boyfriend,” Grandpa Taylor says, shaking Riley’s hand.

  “Would people please quit calling him that?” I ask, but am ignored.

  “We’ve heard a lot about you,” Grandma Taylor says. “Here—we brought you a bumper sticker.”

  It reads “If you’re close enough to read this, back the f*ck up!”

  Riley takes one look and laughs.

  When introduced to Kimberly’s would-be boyfriend, Matt Chang, Grandpa Taylor says, “We have a great respect for your people. We just visited Little Tokyo in San Francisco and it was so neat, wasn’t it, honey?”

  “Actually, grandpa, he’s Chinese,” Kimberly corrects.

  “Oh, well, they’re good people too. They make a great plas-tic,” he says. “And they sure do make some cheap T-shirts. Were you born near Hong Kong?”

  “Pasadena,” Matt Chang says.

  “Why there’s one of those in California!” exclaims Grandma Taylor.

  “What’s that you were saying about family?” I ask Riley. He just smiles.

  Later that afternoon, we head to the church, where the wedding rehearsal takes two hours, largely because Vivien keeps trying to interrupt, and Vivien and Teri both argue incessantly about who should be standing where. Grandma Taylor keeps insisting that Lucy and Kevin wear their matching “groom” and “bride” baseball caps that she bought in Nevada.

  Kevin has changed out of his Miami Vice getup, thank goodness, and is wearing a regular suit. He’s lost the boyish good looks I remember him having, but still has some of his old magnetism. This fact is not lost on the other bridesmaids (Lucy has eighteen total), who seem to pay him more than a little attention. Maybe Maggie was right about Kevin’s needing a short leash.

  I can’t seem to shake what he said the other day. I was the first girl he wanted to kiss! If only I had known then, I think.

  “So that’s my competition,” Riley says to me, as we watch Kevin Peterson entertain three of Lucy’s friends with tales from the day he helped Dixieland High School win the state football championship.

  “Competition?” I echo.

  “He does keep looking over here at you. And it sounds like he was quite the athlete at age fifteen.”

  Kevin’s fixation on the state high school football championship just reminds me how small-minded Dixieland can be. Your greatest accomplishments in life happen between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. I bet Kevin Peterson even gets free coffee at the local doughnut shop on the square just because people remember him from his days as a Dixieland High School quarterback.

  This, I remind myself, is one of many reasons I left Dixieland. I didn’t want to raise kids in a place where high school is your greatest life accomplishment.

  After the rehearsal, we all pack up and head to the Catfish Parlour, Lucy’s restaurant of choice, and the only one in Dixieland that uses linen tablecloths, even if they do have plastic tabletop covers. It’s sandwiched between a Denny’s and an Old Country Buffet out by the interstate, two restaurants that hadn’t been there when I was growing up.

  The Catfish Parlour boasts the “best fried catfish in five states” but doesn’t specify which five states. For instance, it might not even be the best fried catfish in Arkansas; maybe it’s only the best in Montana, Idaho, North Dakota, Utah, and Connecticut.

  The rehearsal dinner takes up almost the entire restaurant. Everyone sits at big round tables with lazy Susans in the middle, upon which heaping plates of fried foods are placed, along with the vegetables of the meal: coleslaw and corn on the cob.

  Kimberly takes one look at the fried chicken and catfish and just shakes her head. “I don’t suppose I could hope for tofu,” she says, sighing.

  My sister, who consumes no animal products, passes on the coleslaw (because of its mayonnaise and therefore egg content), and puts a single ear of corn on her plate.

  “Think of it as the Dixieland diet,” I tell her.

  “Even the beans have meat in them,” Kimberly says, throwing down her fork in disgust. Riley offers her his corn on the cob. She accepts it with a grateful look.

  “Lucy tells us you’re a Vulcan,” says Mrs. Peterson, Kevin’s mother.

  “VEE-gan,” Kimberly corrects. Of course, vegans would be about as exotic as Star Trek aliens in a county known for its annual barbecue cook-off.

  “I just don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t have my beef,” says Mrs. Peterson.

  Riley chokes on his iced tea and starts coughing.

  When all eyes go to him, he looks about and says, “I’m not used to sweetened tea,” and gives me a sly smile.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” Mrs. Peterson asks Riley, who shakes his head. “Well, then, you probably don’t know anything about the Taylor girls.”

  “Would anyone like more tea?” I ask the table. The last thing I want is for Mrs. Peterson to start talking about my family. The whole town considers us a bit odd. Kimberly thinks this is a badge of honor, but I have always felt like I lived in a fishbowl. It’s what happens when you’re the only Asian family in a small town and your dad played on the 1964 Championship Dixieland High football team.

  “Everybody around here has been laying bets about when those Taylor girls are going to finally find themselves good hus-bands,” Mrs. Peterson is saying.

  I want to drop through the floor. This could not get more embarrassing.

  “And just what are the running odds?” Riley asks.

  “When pigs fly,” Kimberly mutters. I can tell from her tone that she’s about to start in on her lecture straight from her women’s studies thesis, when she is thankfully interrupted by Riley.

  “I think the Taylor sisters are doing more than fine without husbands,” Riley remarks. “Men would probably just slow them down. We’re really just a lot of babies, honestly.”

/>   I send Riley an appreciative look. He simultaneously prevented Kimberly from going off on a rant while putting Mrs. Peterson in her place.

  Before Mrs. Peterson can respond, our conversation is interrupted by the plunking sound of plastic silverware on glass.

  “If I could have everyone’s attention,” says Bubba, who is standing in the middle of the restaurant and about to make a toast.

  “I consider Lucy my own daughter, and I couldn’t be prouder or happier for her.” Bubba, who is not normally a man to show his emotions, swallows hard. “And I want Kevin to know that he’d better take good care of our Lucy or there’ll be hell to pay.”

  A murmur of laughs and ooohs goes through the audience.

  “We have a unique family, that’s for sure,” Bubba continues. “It’s not one that just anybody can understand, and I’m glad to welcome into it Kevin, who will come to understand that to us, there isn’t anything more important than family. Let’s raise our glasses to Lucy and Kevin and wish them every happiness.”

  Everyone raises their glasses and some people applaud. It’s a touching moment.

  My mobile phone, in the purse on my lap, chimes in with “Cowboy Take Me Away.” I look at the caller ID: it’s News Four.

  “Excuse me one second,” I say to Riley, push myself away from the table, and answer the phone as I head outside.

  “I’m so glad I finally got through,” says Anne in a semipanicked sounding voice. “I’ve been calling you all day.”

  “The reception is patchy here at best,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “How’s Dixieland? You having a good time?” she asks me, clearly stalling.

  “ANNE. What’s going on?”

  Anne sighs. “Okay, well, it’s totally insane. You know Gary? The head anchor on the ten-o’clock news? Well, he got arrested down on North Avenue by the Edens propositioning a cop who was posing as a prostitute. But that’s not the worst of it. Jen, are you sitting down?”

  “No. But lay it on me.”

  “Ken, the producer of the evening news—he resigned. Well, technically, he had a nervous breakdown and is on some sort of extended medical leave.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Bob is looking for replacements. He’s having everyone submit a proposal, and he wants them on his desk by Monday morning.”

  I’m not scheduled to even be back in the office until Tuesday morning.

  “Bob’s been coming by your desk every five minutes asking where you are.”

  “But I told him I was going on vacation.”

  “I know, but he keeps telling me there’s no such thing as a vacation when you work in news.”

  I can tell Anne is near the breaking point. Having that much interaction with Bob is likely to do that to anyone.

  “I’ll see what I can do about coming back early. Thanks, Anne,” I say.

  “This could be big for you,” Anne says, sounding excited.

  I turn to go back inside the Catfish Parlour but as I do, Kevin comes out.

  “You smoke, too?” Kevin Peterson asks me. He has a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a lighter in the other.

  “Uh … no,” I say, thinking, when did Kevin Peterson start smoking? “Just taking a phone call.”

  “Keep me company?” he asks me.

  I hesitate.

  “Come on, I don’t bite.” He turns on the patented Kevin Peterson charm. I can’t help it. I’m drawn in a little.

  “You’ve gotten even prettier,” Kevin says, without much pretense. “I didn’t think it was possible, but here you are.”

  “I’m sure you say that to all the girls you used to go to school with,” I say.

  “Hardly,” Kevin says.

  We drop into a small silence.

  “So I keep hearing about how you’re going to be the producer of the Today show soon,” Kevin says. “Your mother talks about you all the time.”

  Vivien’s pride in my accomplishments is endearing but also slightly embarrassing. She was the one who took the first taped broadcast of a show I produced and showed it to everyone who would sit still for twenty minutes to watch it, including the mailman.

  “She’s definitely my best publicist,” I say.

  Kevin lights his cigarette, and that’s when I notice that his lighter has Chinese characters on the side.

  “Where’d you get that?” I ask. It’s something an AO (Asian Obsessed) blood type would have.

  “This? I’ve had this forever,” Kevin says. “I’ve always been interested in Asian culture.”

  “You have?” I say, amazed. This from the same kid who ran in the other direction at the very sight of sushi?

  “Oh yeah, I couldn’t get enough of it,” he says. “Largely because of you. I always thought I’d marry into an Asian family. And now I am—sort of.”

  That is the strangest thing I’ve ever heard. How is my blond, blue-eyed cousin Lucy even remotely Asian?

  “I have a confession to make,” he says, blowing smoke up into the air. “I had the biggest crush on you.”

  “You did not,” I squeal, like I’m thirteen again. I clear my throat and try to regain my composure. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I swear,” Kevin declares, putting his hand up like a Boy Scout.

  “Why didn’t you do anything about it?” I ask him, thinking about how I would have reacted if he’d told me this fifteen years ago.

  “Why would someone like you go for someone like me? I was the son of a pig farmer.”

  “You always had girlfriends,” I start. “All the girls loved you.”

  “All the girls except you,” Kevin says. “You barely even spoke to me.”

  I don’t tell him that it was because I was always perpetually tongue-tied whenever he came within ten feet of me.

  “I didn’t even think you knew my name.”

  “Everybody knew who you were. The smartest, prettiest girl in class.”

  I don’t know what to say to this. I’ve never taken compliments well. I look at my shoes.

  “Lucy reminds me of you,” he says.

  “Really? Lucy?” Huh? I think. She’s fair skinned. I’m dark. She’s completely spoiled. I hope I’m not.

  “Well, you do share the Taylor nose,” he says.

  I’m still trying to process this.

  “Well, I had the biggest crush on you in elementary school,” I manage to admit. “Do you remember when you and Christi Collins were an item?”

  Kevin thinks a moment and nods.

  “Well, that bracelet she gave you was one I made. She was supposed to ask you to go with me, but instead stole you for herself. I don’t think I ever forgave her for that.”

  Kevin laughs and taps the ash from his cigarette. “You have got to be pulling my leg,” he says. He shakes his head. “I guess I missed out on the signals.”

  “I guess so.”

  He drops his cigarette butt and then takes a step closer to me. I don’t move. I feel a little hypnotized.

  He’s right in front of me now, and he strokes the side of my face with one of his hands. I’m frozen. Completely frozen. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?

  He’s staring at me intently, gently, and maybe a little sadly. What’s that in his eyes? Regret?

  “It’s not fair,” he says, sounding sad. “For you to get prettier.”

  I can’t seem to move my muscles. I’m shocked he’s touching me at all. And then, almost as an afterthought, he dips his head, and I realize with startling clarity that he plans to kiss me. Right here, in front of the Catfish Parlour, with his fiancée inside, along with everyone he knows. I should stop him somehow, but I can’t seem to move.

  His lips brush mine, softly at first. I’m completely still.

  My inner thirteen-year-old girl is squealing. My twentyeight year-old self can’t help but notice that he tastes like an ashtray. And I realize I don’t feel anything. Songbirds aren’t singing. My heart isn’t even beating fast. In fact, it’s almost like … kissing
a relative. There are absolutely no sparks. I feel like I’ve finally gotten to see a movie everybody raved about for years, only to discover it’s just not that impressive.

  The door to the restaurant starts to open, and Kevin releases me.

  Then I hear a familiar voice.

  “Bollocks,” Riley says, seeing me standing close to Kevin Peterson. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  —Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid

  Wax on. Wax off.

  1988

  Iwent without a first kiss long after most people managed to lose their lip virginity. They lost it on the jungle gym, at summer camp, in the dark rows of the movie theater. Most had done so by age eleven, and here I was at thirteen without even having done plain American kissing, much less the French version. I didn’t even know if I would be capable of kissing. I read the advice columns in Seventeen and YM, but I felt sure I wouldn’t be able to perform.

  Even worse, in the spring of 1988, the second half of eighth grade, I got braces. This greatly diminished my kissing prospects. My full-metal-mouth grin, complete with rubber bands, was only slightly less embarrassing than, say, wearing a T-shirt that read “I AM A BIG FAT NERD.”

  The calamity came one week before the Tulip Festival, which was the code name for a spring dance at Dixieland Middle School. You couldn’t call it a dance outright, because the Fundamentalist Baptists—who had successfully lobbied to have evolution and Huckleberry Finn removed from the Dixieland school curriculum—would call for its boycott. As it was, the FBs could let the dance stand largely because while there was music, few middle schoolers actually danced, and more of them simply waited by the punchbowl looking unsure of themselves. So, as long as it wasn’t called a dance and few people danced, they could be convinced that the festival wasn’t so obviously the Devil’s Work. It was our version of Footloose.

  The Tulip Festival was the first public recognition of the fact that boys and girls should like, not hate, each other—the rite of passage during which all things of elementary school, including cooties and its vaccine, cootie spray, were left behind. It was the most important night of my life (so far, to age twelve), and I looked like James Bond’s nemesis Jaws from The Spy Who Loved Me .