“Well that was interesting,” I say to myself, as I wash my hands in the adjoining bathroom, and wondering where exactly the boyfriend act begins and ends and how the fuck Johnny B. Nerdballs managed to find a whole new way to drive me nuts.
11
John
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
This studio is too warm. The woman in front of me keeps fanning herself with her program and sending her aggressive acutely floral perfume my way, and it’s giving me a headache. Mrs. Montgomery was kind to invite me to Olivia’s recital, but I really should be studying for my World History exam. Of course I want to be here to support the Tiny Dancer, but I doubt that she needs or wants my support. Monty keeps elbowing me every time a pretty girl steps out onto the floor in front of us in a leotard, but these girls are twelve. We’re sixteen. It isn’t right.
Olivia walks out from the back room, with five other girls, in a white leotard that makes me shift in my chair. Monty notices and glances over at me. I look down at the program that I will keep in my lap, just in case. What the fuck. She’s twelve. She shouldn’t be wearing an all-white leotard in broad daylight. She’s getting curves. Little mounds on her chest. Where the fuck did those come from? Shit.
The lady at the piano starts playing a song. It’s not classical. What is it? It’s Can’t Help Falling In Love, the Elvis song. I like this song. I have a memory of driving to my grandparents’ house a few years ago for their big anniversary dinner, one of the few family events my parents actually took time off from work to go to, and when this song came on the radio, my parents held hands in the front seats, and the way my dad looked at my mom…I understood why they were together. I’ve never once heard them say the words “I love you,” but I heard it when I saw the look on his face. I like that memory. It’s one of the few good memories that I have that doesn’t involve anyone in the Montgomery family. Although, I guess now it does.
It’s lovely, this dance. I never would have imagined ballerinas dancing to this song, but it’s dreamy and magical. Olivia is surprisingly pretty when she’s not scowling or laughing maniacally at me. She’s graceful. She’s always been prancing around the house and twirling around and doing the splits, but this is different. She’s actually dancing to music. She is so much more than the sassy brat who teases me just as much as I tease her—she teases me more than I’ve ever teased her, now that I think of it.
Monty looks over at me again, and I realize I’ve just sighed out loud. I pretend to cough, but I don’t want to take my eyes off of Olivia. She’s so at ease up there, but it’s like she’s not really here. She seems distant. She’s probably fantasizing about dancing with a boy. I guess she’s not too young for that.
I’m glad the song’s only about three minutes long. When it’s over, I clap politely and look down at the program that sits in my lap, willing it to stay in place.
When the whole thing’s over, a boy that I recognize from our neighborhood approaches Olivia with roses and gives her an awkward hug. It seems innocent enough, except that the guy keeps whispering in her ear. I see her brother’s hands clench into fists. As soon as the boy walks away from Olivia, towards the exit, with a huge grin on his face, Monty storms over to him and I follow behind. I need to be there in case this kid steps to him.
“Hey. You!” Monty says.
The guy looks back at him.
“You know who I am? I’m Olivia’s brother.”
The boy looks a little worried now. Monty is only a couple of inches taller than him, and skinny, but right now he looks expansive. “What do you think you’re doing, giving my sister red roses? You think I don’t know what that means? You think she’s going to go out with you? She’s twelve years old. You stay away from her, you hear me? You don’t touch her you don’t talk to her you don’t look at her—if I find out you’re even thinking about her I will ruin your life! You understand me?”
The boy nods his head and runs out the door. Monty doesn’t chase after him, he just looks really, really pumped.
I’ve never seen Monty talk to anyone like that before. This may be because I’ve never seen his sister talk to a boy other than me and Monty or their cousins. I could actually see a vein in his neck. He might actually try to physically harm that boy if he sees her with Olivia again.
“Well, that was weird.” Olivia is standing behind me. It sounds like she’s smiling.
“Not as weird as his face will get after I punch it.”
“Jake’s been to all of my recitals since I started dancing, it was cute that he brought flowers. You didn’t bring me anything.”
“I don’t have to bring you anything, I’m your brother.”
“Well Jake was just being nice.”
“That’s not going to stop me from punching him in the face if he tries anything with you.”
I step away. I’ve learned not to get in the middle of their arguments.
“You do realize that if you punch him in the face it will hurt your hand plus also he might punch you back.”
“Of course I realize it. You think I don’t understand the Impulse-Momentum relationship? I got a 4.0 in physics. I read an article about Bruce Lee—I know that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. I will hold my fist one inch from his pointy face without bending my wrist and I will explain to him exactly what will happen when the forward motion of my fist meets his face from a physics and physiology standpoint first and if he doesn’t run away, then he deserves what’s coming to him and I will be able to tell everyone that I punched someone in the face for the rest of my life. Win-win. Right, Johnny?”
“Ahem. Right, Rocky. I’d be happy to explain kinetic energy to him too.” I need to read that article.
“Sounds like you’ll both bore him to death before punching him to death.”
“Either way, we’ve defended your honor.”
“Lucky me.”
I have a whole new level of respect for Monty, and a whole new level of awareness that I will never tug on that Tiny Dancer’s pig tails again, never touch her even to ask her to pass the maple syrup at breakfast when I sleep over, never look at her when Monty’s around.
She looks down at the roses and says, “I don’t even like red roses anyway. Such a cliché. Here,” she holds them out to me, grinning slyly. “You want them? You can give one to each of your imaginary girlfriends.”
“I’d need a lot more than a dozen,” I say, because it seems clever and witty. Apparently I was right, because she laughs so hard she drops the bouquet.
I walk over and pick up the roses, hand them to her. “Here. You shouldn’t be so ungrateful.”
She suddenly goes from laughing to glaring at me as she swipes the flowers from me. “I wasn’t being ungrateful—I dropped them on accident!”
“By accident. How you get such good grades in school is beyond me.”
“Everything about me is beyond you, Nerdballs.”
She may be right.
“You were good,” I say. Monty is busy talking to a thirteen year-old girl with braces and boobs, so it seems safe to talk to Olivia now.
She seems surprised that I’ve offered her a compliment. Have I never done that before? No, I suppose I haven’t.
She shrugs. “Thanks. This was just an informal recital, you know, the big annual event is on stage at the community college next month. You should come.”
“Okay. If Monty wants me to.”
She steps closer to me and lowers her voice, confiding in me. I am careful not to lean in too close, so her brother doesn’t kick me in the head. “It’ll get more interesting when I turn fourteen and I can start the teen/adult level classes. I’m just biding my time at this school.”
“Doesn’t Cleveland have a ballet company? Why don’t you study with them? They’d have better facilities.”
“They do, but they train for their own corps, and I’m not going to stay in Cleveland when I go professional.”
I laugh.
She scowls at me.
&
nbsp; “You seriously want to be a dancer for a living?”
“Yeah I’ve only been talking about it since I was six.”
“Yeah, but that’s just a little girl dream.”
“Well, it’s going to be a reality for me.”
“But it’s not a real job.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Olivia!” Mr. Montgomery scolds her from twenty feet away.
“Don’t bother coming to the next recital, Nerd.”
Monty comes over, smiling. “Now what’d you say?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “Can we go home and study World History now?” Nineteenth Century political reform in Western Europe is so much easier to comprehend than twelve-year-old girls.
12
Olivia
We departed San Francisco in the afternoon and have arrived in Shanghai the night of the next day, after a surprisingly comfortable fourteen-hour flight.
John had texted me one hour before picking me up to alert me that it will be hot and humid in Shanghai, but that it’s important to wear layers because of the air conditioning. If I hadn’t already looked up all that information online I would have been annoyed that he left it until so late to share that with me. But I was looking forward to seeing him again.
When he got to my apartment to pick me up, I was wearing a thin camisole and loose cotton pants for the flight. I was going to layer clothes on top, but I wanted to remind him of what was underneath first. When I opened the door, he did a slow visual sweep of my body, cleared his throat and said: “I hope you’re planning on wearing more than that today. The car is air conditioned, and I don’t want you catching a cold.”
“Thanks. I’ll just go put my layers on now.”
He rubbed his index finger along his lower lip. “Olivia, I’ll remind you that while I did ask you to come as my date, this is a business trip.”
I clenched my teeth and forced a smile. “Got it, John. I’m all business. I’m not a nymphomaniac—I’ve been to a lot of gala benefits and cocktail parties so you don’t have to tell me how to behave around business people or explain how not to catch a cold while traveling. I just haven’t finished dressing yet.”
“Glad to hear it. And thank you for the reminder of what your pretty tits look like, as if I wasn’t already going to have a hard time keeping my mind and hands off of them while sitting next to you on a plane for fourteen hours.”
“Or keeping your mouth off of them,” I said offhandedly.
He inhaled sharply then held his breath before saying: “Behave yourself, young lady.” He took the handle of my suitcase, and told me to be down at the car in less than a minute.
I wondered if I may actually be a nymphomaniac, because I had to change my panties and considered if it would be possible to make myself come in less than a minute before going down to the car, because a fourteen hour flight next to him was going to be unbearable in so many ways.
While we were waiting in the first class departure lounge, I emailed my parents to tell them that I’d be in Cleveland with Johnny in a week and a half, opting to wait to tell them about the Shanghai/New York trip until I could do it in person. Judging by their reply, I’d guess that my brother already told them that Johnny and I are dating, but they felt it would be impolite to call and ask. They were thrilled. More so than I’d expected they would be. So much so that it saddened me. So much so that I regretted telling them. I don’t know how this will end with John, but I know that it will, and I know that my family could very well feel more let down than either of us will be.
But that’s later.
Now we’re in Shangfreakinghai!
Our married hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Chen have picked us up at the airport in their chauffeured Mercedes SUV. They are both exceedingly polite, and exceptionally wealthy. Their English is very good, and the small amount of Mandarin Chinese that John speaks impresses all of us. He is here to meet with a China business consultant and with Mr. Chen, who is an entrepreneur, to discuss partnering on investing in a food tech business. Separate from that, John is here to join forces with a number of Chinese businesswomen as part of his new foundation’s initiative to encourage more women to join the tech industry, by providing scholarships and mentors. I did an actual spit-take when he told me that on the plane, and he seemed genuinely insulted that I found it amusing that he’d be interested in such a thing. I asked him if it was because he wished there were more hot girls at MIT. I regretted it as soon as I’d said it (because I’m sure there were hot girls at MIT and also who cares if they were hot or not and also because it was demeaning to him). He sulked for about half an hour until I got him to laugh by sticking peanuts up my nostrils and shooting them out at him. It wasn’t sexy, but at least I got him to talk to me again.
The airport is in Pudong, directly across the river from Shanghai, and the view across to the cityscape is lovely and odd, despite or perhaps because of the thin haze of air pollution. The strip along the waterfront is called The Bund, as John has informed me, and it looks like a beautiful European city with massive grand old low-rise buildings up front, but behind it are lit-up modern high-rises. John watches me as I take it all in, pleased that I’m so awed by it. I immediately wish we were staying longer.
The air in Shanghai is heavy and very warm, sultry. There are more cars on the road than I have ever seen in my life, more people standing and wandering around outside than I ever dreamed of seeing all at once—much more than in New York City. It’s astounding, a little intimidating, but mostly thrilling.
After being escorted to the lobby of our ritzy luxurious hotel on the Bund, and agreeing to a shopping date with Mrs. Chen for tomorrow after lunch, John and I check into a suite and I fling myself on top of the king-size bed.
John opens the drapes and says, “Look at this view! I always stay in this hotel, because of the view.”
I get up to join him. It is incredible, but I have to pee. I take my suitcase into the bathroom.
I look at myself in the mirror, lean in, and whisper: “I’m in Shanghai with Johnny B. Nerdballs! Whaaaat?!”
When I emerge from the shiny marble bathroom, after taking a damp hand towel to certain areas of my plane-perspired body, I’m wearing the antique silver silk chemise I bought with John’s cash and my discount from the lingerie store that I model for, no underwear, and probably a flashing neon “Horny Devil” sign over my head.
I find John at the desk that faces the window, typing furiously on his laptop, his phone charging nearby. His fingers stop jabbing at the keyboard for two seconds after he looks up and sees my reflection in the window. He makes a barely perceptible grunting sound, then turns his attention back to his document. “Well don’t you look seductive,” he says.
“Well I thought I did until you confirmed that I don’t.”
“I’ve done no such thing,” he says, still not looking at me. “I have every intention of confirming your sexy sexiness as soon as I’m done typing this…”
I sigh and collapse onto the sofa.
“Are you properly hydrated?”
“Yes, the Chens provided us with a bottle of water and I drank all of it, remember?”
“Of course I remember, I just doubt that it’s enough.”
“I drank plenty of water on the plane.”
“Proper hydration is fundamentally necessary to the enjoyment and proper physiological functions of sexual activity, but especially after a long flight and in this weather.”
I jump to my feet. “Stop fucking my ears with big words and start fucking my pussy with your big hard cock.”
“Olivia!” he snaps, reprimanding me like I’m a naughty schoolgirl and he’s my teacher.
Just one word and he makes me want him even more. I should have worn panties to stop the fluid from trickling down my inner thigh. Yup, definitely hydrated. What is wrong with me? “Well?”
“Is that what you’re like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is that the way you us
ually behave with the men you have sex with?”
“I mean…Not usually, but sometimes.”
He shakes his head. “Olivia. You’re a beautiful ballerina who was raised by a loving family in middle America. You don’t have to talk like a crackhead whore to get a man to fuck you.”
“Don’t tell me how to talk. Some guys like it.”
“Is that how they talk to you? Do they refer to your vagina as a pussy?”
Sometimes. Usually.
“Granted, the landscape of the male mind when sexually aroused is dark, filthy and…slippery, but that doesn’t mean we have to verbally articulate our baser fantasies and urges. Does that kind of language turn you on?”
Apparently your kind of language turns me on. “Why are we talking about other guys? I’m here. With you. Wearing this. Do you want to have sex with me right now or not?”
He furrows his brow and adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose as he turns to face me, still sitting in the desk chair. “Olivia, are you familiar with the ancient Taoist techniques of thrusting?”
Gulp.
The way he’s asking, he may as well have said: “Olivia, are you familiar with science and math?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“No. Are you trying to be funny?”
“No. I’m genuinely confused.”
“Yes. I ask, because it occurs to me that, despite your physical appearance and athleticism and willingness, you probably haven’t been fucked to quite the degree of satisfaction that you think you have.”
What?!
“Excuse me?”
“This is in no way a reflection on you, to be clear, but rather, on the boys and men that you have chosen to have sex with. Until now.”
“Uh huh.” I shake my head. “You are…unbelievable.”
He saves the document he’s working on, shuts his laptop, and removes his glasses. “Olivia, I have approximately one hour of free time now, so if you’d like to remove that lovely piece of shimmery fabric and allow me to do things to your body, I think you’ll experience a level of pleasure that will change the way you think about sex. If we start now, I can devote that entire hour to you, although I doubt that your body will be able to handle so much physical pleasure for an entire hour the first time we do this. However, I’d like to do this for you. For as long as you can take it. Would you like that?”
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