Second First Impressions

by Sally Thorne

  “I hope I find someone who suits me. I’d like to have someone attractive to complain to when I’m your age. Which is not old,” I rush to clarify.

  Renata pats my arm. “I am as old as dirt. Here he comes, sounding very unfit. He’s put in the effort on his so-called last lap. Little does he know—”

  Teddy says as he passes, huffing athletically: “One more, I’m getting a runner’s high.”

  Renata is equal parts impressed and annoyed. “I really need to get smarter with this one.”

  “And I really need to get ready for the Stitch and Bitch,” I say, but of course it’s no use. She rolls the cuffs of my shirt up to each elbow. Tug, the skirt is pulled up higher. She’s accepted her role as fashion adviser in Melanie’s Sasaki Method. She releases two of my shirt buttons.

  “Buy a size down. And this is your natural waist. Get some big belts, cinch everything in here.” She draws a line on me. “What do you have against new things, anyway? Don’t they pay you here?”

  “I worked in a church thrift store so I know brand-new stuff gets donated. It’s better for the environment. And yes, I’m on a budget.”

  Renata tugs at my hair elastic. It’s difficult for her and in these moments of struggle, I feel her frailty acutely. It’s the only reason I submit myself to her like this. She’s a tiny little loudmouth, but she’s also stuck in a ninety-one-year-old body against her will.

  With more tenderness than I ever thought her capable of, Renata says, “Look at yourself. Any young fellow would be lucky to have you. And when you find him, he’ll never let a good girl like you go.”

  I turn and see my reflection in the window of the rec center. Renata can work small miracles. Maybe I can picture myself, standing outside a bar, raising my hand in greeting as a man walks toward me. Ruthie? Nice to meet you at last. You look nice. “Thank you. I think so too.”

  Teddy is now in front of us, hands on knees, panting.

  Renata instructs him: “I want specifics on the physical sensations you’re feeling. I haven’t jogged since the eighties. Or the seventies. The sixties.” She racks her brains. “Ever.”

  “Like a warm burning, but it’s so good,” Teddy puffs, rubbing his hands on his thighs. His clothes are steamed onto his body now. “Like I can’t get the air deep enough. I’m all hot, I can’t see straight.” He’s talking down to the pavement. My presence is still unacknowledged.

  What an unexpected treat to see color in his cheeks and glittery specks of sweat on his brow. Is this exact kind of breathing what I’d hear through our wall? I have never thought as much about sex as I have in the past few days. I try to pull my shirt back into place and Renata spanks me with her sunglasses hard enough that they break.

  “Get that,” she says to Teddy, and he seems only too happy to collapse to his knees. “When we get back, I’m going to dictate a letter for you to type up. We’ll address it to the current creative director at Céline. Dear Sir. Quality is down on your sunglasses.”

  “Sure,” Teddy says, gathering the pieces. Then he finally looks up.

  All I can think of to say is, “Are you recovering?”

  He’s really not. The makeover has astonished him. His eyes are on the deep triangle of breast skin exposed to Renata’s solar nemesis. Arms, waist, hair, he’s not even blinking as he moves from one part to the next. His chest is rising and falling.

  Right in this moment, I’m extraordinary.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’ve been hanging for five o’clock all day,” Melanie tells me as I lock the office door behind us. “Finally, I get an invite to your place. Time to get this show on the road.”

  “My place isn’t exciting,” I warn as we walk up the path, but she’s not interested in my boring caveats and excuses.

  “Hello, I still live down the hallway from my mummy and daddy. You’re a grown-up lady in your own house. And I. Am. Excited.” She jumps into the courtyard, spends a bit of time looking at the tortoises in their enclosures, then knocks on Teddy’s door.

  “He won’t be there,” I tell her as I unlock my own door. “And he’s not invited, remember?”

  She turns his door handle and pokes her head inside. Great, so now I’ve got to worry about his lack of security on top of everything else? She calls, “Hello? Teddy, are you decent?” We hear nothing but silence.

  Teddy has been . . . nesting? He’s got a battle-scarred leather armchair with an afghan throw on it. There’s a coffee table that he definitely found on a roadside somewhere. He’s put my Women’s Health magazine on it and has a plain white bowl filled with candy. Has he copied my furniture layout? I take a few steps in. On the crumbling plaster wall, he’s drawn a huge flatscreen TV with a marker, complete with brand logo: TEDDYVISION.

  “Lucky his daddy is the landlord,” Melanie observes. “What a dump.”

  “Believe it or not, this is a big improvement.” The way he’s folded his little blanket makes my heart feel weird.

  Melanie leans in farther behind me. “Aw, look. There’s his turtle tank. He was scared TJ would get pneumonia out in the yard when he gets him back.”

  It grates when she acts like I might not know something about him. I dug that tank out of the storage closet myself. “Yeah, I know.”

  “It’s so cute how bad he misses his boy. Oh my God,” Melanie gasps, and I’m sure she’s seen something truly scandalous. She finishes with: “He’s borrowed Reptiles and Amphibians for Dummies from the actual library. He’ll be a cute dad one day, don’t you think?”

  He’d parade his baby around like his perfect little trophy.

  “In the far distant future, when he’s grown up himself.” I tug Melanie out of his doorway. “Come away from there. Let him have some privacy.”

  When we go into my cottage, she says, “It’s exactly like he described it. He said it’s like Pooh Bear’s house in a tree. No wonder he’s always trying to slither in here.” She knocks on the wall I share with him. “You are next-door neighbors with a hot boy. A silly, weird one, but undeniably hot. How does that feel?”

  “It mainly feels irritating, but in a nice way.”

  “How?” Melanie is smiling and perplexed.

  “Like when my oven timer goes off and he tells me through the wall that he had a dream that I was cooking him a lovely dinner.”

  “He dreams about your cottage,” Melanie says blandly. I keep a bowl of candy on my coffee table—exactly where Teddy put his—and she takes one. “And he can keep on dreaming where you’re concerned.”

  “I’ll get some snacks.” I stayed up late, pre-preparing a snack platter, all the while warning myself that Mel might cancel. After all, she’s young and fun. I’m about to reveal a 1950s-housewife level of effort. “Want to sit in the courtyard?”

  “Sure, after I take a look around.” She practically zips herself into a full-body forensic suit. I’m not too bothered; there’s nothing scandalous to find.

  I put the cheese platter and crackers out in the courtyard on what I’ve come to think of as Teddy’s table. Next, lemonade and some glasses. Friday evening and I’m actually doing something social with someone my own age.

  “You’re so neat,” Melanie’s voice calls from faraway inside.

  “I guess,” I reply right as Teddy skids into the courtyard on the heels of his sneakers, holding a walkie-talkie like he’s a security guard. He takes one look at the food on the table and says, “Yessssssssssss.”

  (Here’s a secret: I made a larger cheese plate than I needed to.)

  (A bigger secret: My heart just skidded into my rib cage on the heels of its sneakers.)

  “I am absolutely—” He’s interrupted by his walkie-talkie’s static crackle. “Starving.”

  “You left your door unlocked,” I accuse him. “Melanie just broke in. What are you doing here? This is a private function.”

  “Nothing to steal in there.” He shrugs. I am about to argue when we’re interrupted.

  “What’s your 10–20, Panda Bear?” R
enata’s sharp voice says from the walkie-talkie. When he doesn’t answer, she tries again. “I told him that this wouldn’t work. Come IN, Panda Bear, what’s your 20? OVER.” A couple of seconds later, a flock of birds fly over us.

  Teddy allows himself a soul-deep sigh then presses the side button. “Affirmative, Fashion Victim, that’s a big 10–4. I might be a while. Babe Ruth’s put out a big plate of cheese and grapes and crackers. There’s even a third glass, just for me. Over.”

  Renata replies, “Cheese party in the courtyard on a Friday evening. Is there wine? Describe what sort of cheeses. Over, obviously.”

  I go inside as he begins describing them to her—hard yellow doorstop, gooey white hockey puck, gross one with mystery bits—then find Melanie in my bedroom picking through the things on top of my dresser. “Teddy’s here.”

  “Good, good,” she says, distracted. “Is this all your makeup?” She opens an eyeshadow tin with her fingernail like she’s prizing the lid off a Petri dish.

  I lie. “I’m not sure. Maybe there’s more in the bathroom.”

  “Already looked there. Okay, so a lot of this is very old and needs to go in the bin.” (She’s not wrong. I used that palette for prom.) “I’ll want to see your clothes at some point too. That’s Week 3 of the Method.”

  I lower my voice. “We won’t go into full details of the Sasaki Method while he’s here. We’ll let him sit with us until he gets bored and wanders off.”

  “Good plan.” She goes outside. “Hello, Teddy, oh helllllooooo cheese.” They begin cutting into the cheese, squeaking knives and banter aplenty.

  “Renata’s revving up the scooter as we speak,” Teddy warns us, assembling a palmful of preloaded crackers for more efficient scoffing. He hands me one with a small flourish.

  “I think it would be better if you left,” I tell him as kindly as I can. He reacts like he’s never been so hurt. “This is something that I want to keep private.”

  “Aren’t we friends?” He’s got me there. “If you’re worried I’m going to tell my dad or Sylvia that you’re doing this, I won’t. I just want to help.”

  “Ah, just let him stay. He’s impossible to get rid of.” Melanie gives me a single sheet of paper. “I want you to sign this first.”

  It’s something resembling a waiver.

  “‘In participating in the Sasaki Method (hereby referred to as ‘the Method’), Ruthie Maree Midona’—ah, so that’s why you asked my middle name—‘acknowledges that she does so on a voluntary basis and is able to opt out at any point in the process.’”

  “But I hope you don’t,” Melanie interjects.

  I continue reading. “‘She waives, releases, and discharges Melanie Sasaki from any and all liability, including but not limited to the following that may result from following the Method.’”

  I read out loud the following events I am indemnifying her against:

  Hurt feelings

  Unfulfilled expectations

  Emotional turmoil or distress as a result of online dating

  Being murdered by a blind date (Teddy chokes on his mouthful)

  Costs associated with unplanned pregnancy (my turn to choke)

  Miscellaneous expenses incurred from any recommended physical presentation improvements, hereby known as “the Makeover”

  Any costs associated with the inevitable wedding that shall result from participation in the Method

  “Initial each,” she instructs.

  I hesitate for a long moment on the hurt feelings. “You are a very creative person. Where’d you get this template?”

  She watches my pen, halted on the signature line. “I found one online and modified it. The most important part is that you agree that this is voluntary. And down at the bottom you see that I copyright the term the Sasaki Method. I mean, I would if I knew how. What I’m saying is, don’t steal my amazing idea, you guys. I’m getting rich from this one day.”

  “I’m happy to sign that,” I try to not sound too dry. “But I want a confidentiality clause.”

  “I didn’t make one.”

  I look at the son of Jerry Prescott. He’s currently eyes closed, blissful and chewing.

  I write an amendment: All information regarding Ruthie Maree Midona’s participation in the Method will remain strictly confidential.

  “We all sign. Whatever happens, I want it to stay between us. I’m also adding a clause here that says we will not discuss or participate in the Method during working hours. No resources from the office are to be used.”

  Melanie replies, “Whoops, too late. I’ve stolen nine sheets of paper and half a spoonful of ink. Sorry, Teddy, I’ll pay your dad back. But the binder, I bought specially with my own money.”

  “Relax, I’m not gonna tell him.” Teddy takes the pen and signs next to my amendments when it’s his turn. It’s a surprising signature, very adult-man, and would look right at home on real estate contracts. “Or am I? Maybe I’m a corporate spy, sent to investigate all the minor paper thefts going on around here.”

  I’m starting to notice that he always checks to see if I laugh at his jokes. When I smile, he lounges back in his seat and eats grapes like life is grand. Melanie and I sign the document too.

  “Breaker, breaker,” the walkie-talkie squawks. “Fashion Victim incoming, over.”

  “I don’t mind this one,” Melanie confides in me. “She makes me feel like getting old won’t be too scary.”

  “I’d better get more cheese.”

  “There’s more cheese? I don’t have to hold back?” Teddy says with his mouth full and the word TAKE on his cheese-knife hand.

  “That’s you holding back?”

  Serious-eyed, he swallows and says, “Will you marry me, Ruthie Maree?” And I hate to admit it, but my heart hears the words, and it’s gaping-blushing-starstruck.

  Melanie pretends to pack up her folder. “My work here is done. Remember, lilac bridesmaid’s dresses.”

  “Even the cheese I thought would be gross isn’t gross,” he’s telling her when I go inside for more snacks. “It’s walnuts in cream cheese with honey. I’ll get a lilac tie to match you all.”

  I lean on the kitchen bench to privately regroup.

  “Don’t you dare try to be Ruthie’s husband,” Melanie scolds him. “We’re going to do a worksheet on it, but I already knew the moment I saw you. You’re not the right type for her.”

  He smiles with wicked white teeth, judging by his tone. “I’m everybody’s type.”

  “The fact that you think so just confirms you’re definitely not hers. Maybe you’re the next candidate for the Sasaki Method,” Melanie fires back at him, and I feel a moment of real, actual fear as I look in the fridge. Teddy out in the world. Teddy dating, being funny and charming. I mean, he always has been. But I know him now, and I don’t think I want him to. Oh no.

  Then Melanie makes the feeling worse. “I just assumed you don’t have a girlfriend. If you do, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “If I did, do you think I’d be curled up on a sixty-year-old mattress in the middle of nowhere? Eating”—crunch, crunch, crunch—“stolen handfuls of tortoise lettuce?”

  I’m walking back out with replenishments when Renata rounds the corner with a bottle of wine in her scooter’s basket and a single empty glass in her fist. “I’m here. Open this bottle,” she tasks Teddy seamlessly.

  “Hi, Fashion Victim. I think your wig’s on sideways,” Melanie says and she’s right. Renata has wispy bangs over one ear.

  “At my age, sideways is good enough.” Renata edges her scooter up to the table, not planning to dismount. “This is most civilized. What have I missed?”

  I reply, “You missed out on me signing a very creative waiver, and we’re about to start on Week 1 of the Sasaki Method. If Mel will actually explain what that means.”

  Melanie seems to compose herself for a moment, taking a new sheet out of her secret folder. “Week 1, of an eight-week program,” she announces like an infomercial, but
then falters. Renata’s presence has knocked her confidence. It’s understandable. The woman could make a billionaire CEO stare into a mirror.

  “It’s okay,” I encourage her.

  Melanie turns through the pages. She says quietly, “Just a reminder that I’ve never done this before.”

  “Pitch it,” Renata instructs. “Sell it.” Big cracker crunch. In this moment, she’s young again, at the head of a board table as her quivering staff present a mock-up of the next HOT OR NOT magazine cover.

  I say to Melanie, “Just explain it to me.”

  She begins. “When I thought about Ruthie, I decided that she needs to ease into this. So with that in mind, we will do different weekly activities, with a real date with a guy being the goal at the four-week midpoint. By the end of the eight weeks, I’d like to see her happily dating a really nice guy who’s into her, and she won’t need the Method anymore. Look at my first worksheet.” We all lean over it. “Ruthie will write down all the qualities she wants in a man, the sorts of things she’d enjoy doing on dates and any deal breakers. There’s a bunch of columns and lists for her to fill out here. We know she’s good at that.”

  “Four weeks? Eight?” Renata is unimpressed. “What about now?”

  I make eye contact with Teddy. He’s giving me that same feeling as I had at the gas station when he looked me up and down: like he’s squeezing, pausing, assessing.

  Melanie’s printed out a calendar. “We’re here. By Week 6, Ruthie should have a date to the Christmas party. And by Week 8, it will be New Year’s Day. She might be waking up with somebody.” She winks, smirks, laughs. All of the above.

  I ask Teddy, “Well, what do you think? Is eight weeks achievable?”

  “Too achievable.” He scowls darkly and jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “What if you get ahead of schedule? Don’t forget about our thin wall.”

  “You’ll be long gone,” Melanie says to him dismissively. “What do you care.”