Thwonk

by Joan Bauer

  “Jonathan,” I said sweetly, “I’m not angry anymore, little guy. You can come out now. You’ve made your point!”

  I checked Jonathan’s favorite places—the ceiling fan, my bookcase. “Ally, ally oxen free!” I cried.

  No cupid.

  I searched my studio, ransacked my bedroom.

  “Jonathan,” I crooned, “I will be delighted to work with you now. We can be a happy, productive team!”

  I charged outside with Stieglitz. I peered behind trees and whistled. I shook bare winter bushes as Mrs. Borderbuck, our next-door neighbor, watched me suspiciously from her kitchen window.

  “Jonathan,” I chirped, “where are you?”

  My ears strained for the sound of cupid wings.

  I flung the garage door up and jumped into the Volvo. “Okay, Jonathan! Then we start at the beginning!”

  I rammed the Volvo into first gear and sped to the Nickleby Novelty Company, where the nightmare had begun.

  “May I help you, hon?” asked the receptionist at the Nickleby Novelty Company, popping her gum. Behind her desk was a wall display of Nickleby’s products: whoopee cushions, disappearing candles, rubber bugs, all the necessities of the fun life.

  “I’m looking for a cupid,” I said in my best Dragnet voice.

  “Yeah, sweetie”—she rolled her eyes—“aren’t we all?”

  “A used cupid,” I said.

  “Everything’s new here, doll,” she explained, looking behind her. “The only cupid we got’s that one.” She pointed to a pink rubber cupid. “You put water in it,” she explained. “It squirts out there.” She made a face. “Some people, huh?”

  “He was stuffed, ma’am. He rolled out of one of your boxes.”

  She eyed me strangely. “Haven’t ever seen a stuffed one here,” she said, “and I been here thirteen years. We got stuffed angels though.” She held a puffy angel up and pressed its stomach; it burped. “We got stuffed lips and stuffed snakes; that’s it. We’re getting out of stuffed and doing more rubber.”

  “That’s wise,” I said, backing out the door.

  I drove to the Crestport Beach and checked the Snack Shack for arrow pricks; it was clean. I stood on the DONNA IS CONFUSED rock and held up a sign that read CAN WE TALK?

  I crashed to my knees on the cold, icy beach: “Jonathan…,” I cried, “I need you!”

  I checked the answering machine back home; Jonathan hadn’t called.

  I left my parents a note saying that I was grappling with the bleak vicissitudes of life, I would not be home for dinner, and that they shouldn’t worry. I then did the only thing left for a thinking teenager to do: I squared my shoulders and hit the mall.

  I stormed through every store that could carry cupids. Sold out, I was told.

  “They were here last week!” I screeched at a poor salesperson. “Glaring at people with little beady eyes!” The salesperson shrugged and said maybe cupids were becoming a craze.

  “God help us,” I said.

  I bought fifteen Valentines with cupids on them, hid in a stall in the women’s lounge, and attempted contact.

  “All right,” I snarled, glaring at each dumpy illustration, “which one of you guys knows Jonathan?”

  They were silent, but I wasn’t fooled. They were listening.

  I snarled. “Just tell Jonathan that A. J. McCreary’s in town and I’m looking for him!”

  I burst from the stall to find a woman and small child staring at me like I was naked.

  “Don’t look at her, Ashley!” the woman demanded.

  Ashley covered her face and was swept to safety; the woman looked over her shoulder to make sure I hadn’t grown neck hair. I checked myself in the mirror; nothing mangy had happened. Yet.

  I bought a ten-dollar white chocolate cupid at Camille’s Confections: “Talk to me!” I shrieked at it.

  The cupid said nothing. I tried to return it, since ten bucks is ten bucks.

  “He’s not what I expected,” I said to the confection woman.

  Her eyebrows shot up. “What were you expecting?”

  “More personality,” I mumbled.

  She looked at me like a shrink watches a psycho. “Candy’s not returnable, miss.”

  “Or cooperative,” I said, snarling, and ate the cupid’s white chocolate head in grief.

  I went to the library and pored through second-rate cupid literature looking for clues. There was nothing on how to contact one. They just showed up, like wasps.

  I drove home, dejected. If you can’t find an answer at the mall or the library, what does that say about the world? I pulled into the garage; the automatic door locked behind me with grim finality.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I chewed my thumbnail as dawn sneaked across the sky, and braced myself for another fun day in the Magic Kingdom.

  It was Valentine’s Day.

  My cupid was at large.

  I spent the morning toiling at the Emotional Gourmet, selling dinky heart-shaped cheesecakes that my mother was afraid wouldn’t sell because they were too cute. They flew off the shelves—as Sonia says, “There’s no such thing as too cute on Valentine’s Day.”

  The shop was thick with Valentine madness. Lobster salad twinkled in crystal bowls, candied apple slices peeked from every corner. Chocolate truffle cakes beckoned from heart-shaped trays. Shiny hearts and thick lace hung from doors and display cases. Happy, loving couples lined the counters, oohing and ahhhing at the breadth of gastronomic glory before them. The whole world was in love.

  Except me.

  I ladled bouillabaisse into containers and tried to remember the exact moment of death.

  Was it when Peter asked why we’d never gone out before?

  Was it when the parking tickets fell on the car floor?

  Was it when he shouted the L word in the Student Center instead of the backseat of a Chevy, where it would have been appropriate and expected?

  I reached for the good memories to crowd out the bad—the looks, the feelings, the smiles, the embraces that had fed my soul for those whirlwind days. I could still see them, but they were out of focus. I wondered if it was possible for Peter and me to be a happy, cooing couple again. He appeared at that moment, swooshed through the doors of the Emotional Gourmet, like a knight returning from the Crusades to seek his fair maiden. It was all I could do to keep my breakfast down.

  “A.J.!!” he cried dreamily.

  “Yo,” I said back.

  He gave me a bouquet of white roses and said he loved me, he lugged a Valentine the size of a Ford Taurus up to the counter and said I was his entire world. He followed me as I ran screaming into the kitchen, handed me a box of Valentine candy, and was about to start singing when I went for aggressive action, shoved two biscotti in his mouth, and pushed him against the deep freeze.

  “Don’t,” I threatened, “sing! Don’t say anything personal!”

  Peter made a slight gagging sound and nodded.

  “I don’t like it when you shout your feelings about me in front of other people! I don’t want you to do it anymore! Do we understand one another?”

  Peter mumbled something through the biscotti. I sat him down like Henry Higgins did with Eliza Doo-little and tried to point out the subtleties of a caring, responsible teen relationship. I did this because nothing was going to make me miss this dance. I had clawed my way to get here and I wasn’t backing out.

  “Let’s take it from the top,” I instructed, “no shrieking your love…”

  Peter nodded.

  “No panting…”

  “Is groaning all right, A.J.?”

  “Don’t push my buttons, Peter.”

  Orlando, the assistant chef, glared at me, disgusted. I deserved it.

  “It’s not what you think, Orlando, and don’t tell my mother.”

  “Don’t tell your mother what?” Mom appeared from the basement holding a salami.

  “Nothing,” I said as Orlando punched a mound of brioche dough for men’s rights. “H
a ha,” I added, and slinked back on the floor as Trish Beckman, Psychologist-in-Training, entered the store in a bold sweep, wearing an expression that can best be described as inflamed.

  “I would like,” Trish said hotly, “six lemon custard muffins and to know the real reason why you are destroying your life and our friendship.”

  Now at this point I was a person who was going on maybe five hours of sleep over the last three days. This is not enough rest in which to search your heart for the law of kindness.

  I rankled. “Just cap it, Trish! I don’t need the heat. I don’t need the condemnation!”

  She leaned toward me, her eyes on fire. “And what do you need, A.J.?”

  “To be alone!”

  “Take a break, hon, will you?” begged Sonia.

  I pushed through the kitchen with Trish at my heels, past Peter, who had swallowed the biscotti and now cried out, “There you are!” I opened the first door I saw and stormed right in. It was the walk-in refrigerator. I was alone—and freezing.

  I stood there feeling inane, surrounded by dairy products and cholesterol-laden meats. The door opened and Trish crashed inside.

  “So,” she said looking around strangely, “it’s come to this.”

  I said it sure had.

  “I’ve left messages, A.J. You haven’t bothered to return one!”

  “I’m having a really rough time!”

  “You didn’t meet me during fourth period!”

  “I forgot. I’m sorry.”

  “You look awful!”

  I felt worse. I said I needed to keep what bleak emotional reserves I had for the dance. I said things with Peter were more complicated than I’d figured. I said I was really glad about her and Tucker—I wanted to know everything—I just needed to get through today without crumbling, at which point I would go back to being a supremely committed friend, but the sheer act of survival was going to take every ounce of strength I had. I handed her a piece of prosciutto as a peace offering.

  She refused it. “I don’t know what’s going on with Peter Terris, why he’s acting the way he is, but I can tell you that it’s not healthy. Every feeling he has has been distorted.”

  I hung my head in shame; I felt so lonely. Icicles were forming on my nostrils. Trish didn’t care. “There are plenty of girls at school who would kill to be in your position, A.J. They think you’ve struck a blow for females everywhere. But I wouldn’t, because the whole thing has changed you. You’re so caught up in the in-crowd number that you’ve forgotten about your friends and who you are. You don’t carry your camera anymore, you don’t even smile. Peter Terris is all gaga over you and you are positively miserable!”

  Tears stung my eyes.

  “If this is what you call love, A.J., I don’t want any part of it!”

  And with that Trish Beckman, best friend through thick and thin, stormed out of the walk-in refrigerator in the ultimate theatrical exit and left me alone to lean against a box of Canadian bacon and contemplate my thrill-packed future with Peter Terris, the human equivalent of Super Glue.

  I was sitting in my Volvo outside the driveway of the Ben Franklin Student Center watching the student workers carry in the big Bose speakers for the extravaganza rock and roll group Heather and the Heartbeats, who would be performing live for us tonight. Gary Quark’s brother was dating one of the Heartbeats who sang the doo-wop parts and the group gave Ben Franklin High a significant discount on the price. Gary said it also helped that they hadn’t had a booking since October.

  Joel Winger carried in a big red carpet. Chloe Bittleman lugged in trays of food. The sun set, leaving harsh, spindly shadows, giving the school a state-penitentiary flair.

  I shuddered and flashed my brights. Maybe Jonathan would see my SOS and respond. I rolled down my window. “Jonathan,” I whispered, “please come back.”

  But there was nothing.

  I curled into a half ball. I wanted to be in love again. I wanted to be dying to see Peter instead of recoiling at the thought. I drew a broken heart on the frost of my windshield and sniffed. No one wants to be between engagements.

  But the show must go on.

  I sat up and slammed the Volvo into first. I had to make the best of a snaky situation.

  I would embrace the King of Hearts Dance like my father had embraced advertising. I would stick it in everybody’s face who had ever broken up with me and look positively smashing, although the smashing part would only happen if I got a nap. I would be remembered by my classmates as the girl who brought Peter Terris to his knees.

  I said, “Jonathan, if you’re listening…,” and then I stopped. I knew he wasn’t.

  I steered the Volvo out of the parking lot and headed home to become dazzling.

  I was sitting at the kitchen table in my bathrobe, waiting for my nails to dry, waiting for the hot curlers in my hair to work a miracle on my dark, mysterious tresses that had given up around five this afternoon along with my skin and the rest of my body. Stieglitz had diarrhea. He whined pathetically, which meant he had to go outside again. I opened the back door for him and said that life was tough, but to be grateful he was a dog. Being human was brutal.

  I sighed deeply. I needed one thing to go right today.

  Dad padded into the kitchen, holding the Oracle Valentine edition.

  “Your mother,” he began uncertainly, “left this on my…”

  He cleared his throat and looked down, pained.

  “What I’m trying to say, A.J., is that this shot is very good. It’s got humor, symmetry, light balance…”

  I brightened.

  “It’s the best work you’ve done,” he added. “I mean it.”

  I was positively beaming. “That means so much, Dad.”

  I should have just basked in the glow, but I so needed to hear more.

  I touched his arm. “Do you think I could make it with my art, Dad? Do you think I have enough talent?”

  He was quiet for a long time. His eyes narrowed. His shoulders sagged.

  “I’m not disputing you have real talent, A.J, but talent and making it in the art world do not go hand in hand. Do you know how many photographers there are in this world with real talent who can’t even scratch out a living?”

  At that moment I wanted another father. I stood up, shaking. “What if I’m one of the thousands who can make it, Dad? What if I’m good enough and I don’t even try?”

  I grabbed the Oracle Valentine edition, raced past him, and pounded up the stairs.

  I took out my curlers and brushed my hair upside down in epic frustration with Mom’s megabrush to add extra fullness; I got limpness instead. I picked up a droopy strand of brown hair and watched it freefall across my sunken face. Peter was due in fifteen minutes. I looked dead.

  Mom appeared at my door and studied me like I was a pie in the oven with a faulty crust. “Into the bathroom!” she ordered.

  I went glumly.

  “Put your head down,” she directed.

  Mom grabbed the megabrush and said I needed to listen to her. She started brushing my hair in flowing movements like she was whipping cream.

  “I’ve known your father for twenty-two years, A.J., and I can tell you that he would do just about anything to spare you the pain he experienced as a filmmaker.”

  “Great…”

  She sprayed mousse through my scalp, lifting and fluffing and coaxing my hair to behave.

  “He’s swimming from a long way off on this one, honey. It’s not fair, but it’s where he is right now. Shake out your hair.”

  I shook.

  She ran cold water in the tub.

  “Stick your feet in.”

  “It’s freezing, Mom, I’ll—”

  “This,” Mom declared, “can wake the dead. Tonight you qualify.”

  I stuck my feet in arctic water and was hurled into an energizing rush of consciousness. Mom turned to examine my face. She yanked out the heavy artillery, her middle-aged eye-care kit. It must be bad.

  “L
ook up,” she ordered, and went to town.

  She covered me and decorated me like a poor, cracked cake that had to be rescued for company. She put a light covering of mascara on my eyes, powdered my cheeks with pink, glowing blush. She said, “We all have old ghosts we have to fight. Your dad is arm-wrestling with his right now. Can you live with that?”

  I fidgeted.

  Mom looked at me with exhausted eyes. “Can you at least try?”

  I sniffed and said I guess I could.

  “Is Dad going to be okay?”

  “Eventually,” she said. “In the meantime a little compassion wouldn’t hurt.”

  I nodded.

  Mom stepped back, satisfied, and turned me toward the mirror.

  “The natural look,” she announced. “It takes a lot longer, but it’s worth it.”

  I stood before the bathroom mirror, a teenager re-born. My hair hung lush, layered, and full. Underneath it was ratted and sprayed to high heaven—but no one would be looking there. Everything tonight was on the surface. My face shone with a deep pink glow, my eye angst had been obliterated. I put on Ruby Rapture lipstick and blotted my lips in the perfect outline of a kiss.

  Mom pushed me back into the bedroom, tossed me my killer red dress, my sequined shoes. In minutes I stood before my full-length antique mirror, having achieved smashing.

  The doorbell reverberated in my ear. Stieglitz looked at me mournfully and didn’t bark.

  I turned to Mom—our eyes locked in one of those parent / child moments people talk about when they’re old. I ran to get the door before Dad, in case Peter started yodeling or something lame. I’d make my big entrance at the dance.

  Ta da.

  Dad beat me to the door. Peter greeted him with an enthusiasm only seen among used-car salesmen. “Mr. McCreary!” he began.

  I crashed between them. “I’m ready!”

  Dad’s face turned soft when he saw me. He squeezed my hand with massive depth. I squeezed his back with consummate compassion.

  “Well…,” Dad said, beaming.