by Rachel Cohn
Frank real-dad has a daughter, Rhonda, and a son, Daniel. Rhonda is such a bad-girl name. She is about fifteen years older than me. I bet when she was in high school she smoked hash in the bathroom and skipped school to hang out in Greenwich Village. She probably wore thick liquid black eyeliner, green lipstick, and black tights with tear holes pinned together with safety pins, just to piss off Frank. If I were named Rhonda, that's what I would do.
That would be so cool to call her up one day and just be like, "Yo Rhonda, this is your flave-flave half-sis Cyd Charisse. Let's hang together but utterly." She would want to brush my hair until it shimmered and then plait it into a dozen braids. She would give me advice about birth control and maybe sometimes, if we were feeling really giggly, she would pass on secret sexual techniques she learned from reading smutty books when she was my age.
Daniel is ten years older than me. If he knew me, he would be really protective of me and call me "kid" all the time. He would muss my hair up, slap me on the back, and
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always pick me first on his touch football team at Thanksgiving. He would give his friends the old "nuh-uh" when they checked me out. Daniel would have beat the crap out of Justin for getting me into trouble. He would have let me cry on his shoulder after I came back from the clinic, and he would have brought me Dunkin' Donuts in my room afterward and promised never to tell.
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Six
Shrimp, Sugar Pie , and I have decided to take Gingerbread on a field trip. Java the Hut has to work, of course, so he let us take his cool new VW beetle. Java's beetle is shiny red with black leather interior. It looks just like a ladybug.
We are going to Santa Cruz. Shrimp is going to surf and Sugar Pie and I are going to take Gingerbread for a walk on the boardwalk.
Nancy threw a freaknik when I said I was spending Sunday with Shrimp and Sugar.
"But that's our family day," she whined. "Dad promised to turn his cell phone off and not go into the office at all. We were going to take you and the kids to the museums in the park and then out for ice cream."
"Oh, could we really?" I said, doing my best impression of a Von Trapp child.
I almost felt bad because Nancy's icy white face did look very crushed. Then she snapped, "I don't remember you asking permission to spend the day with that boy ." She refuses to call that boy "Shrimp." I told her that boy also answers to his middle name, Flash. She's sticking with that boy .
"I asked you last week right before you had tea with the other ballet moms!" I actually never did ask. I thought about it when she was entertaining my little sister's friends' moms, but I didn't. But since Nancy is famous for not paying attention to me when she is showing off the house to
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her high-falutin' society friends, I knew I could get away with the lie.
"Well, fine Cyd Charisse, that's just fine, just go. I had to rearrange everyone's schedules so we could spend one day together as a family, but you just go ahead out with that boy ," Nancy huffed. I could see Leila in the corner of my eye arranging some flowers. Leila was shaking her head that Nancy was letting me off the hook.
When I was leaving, Nancy stopped me at the tall glass door. Her eye makeup looked like it had run from crying, which for Nancy is unusual. She always looks impeccably blonde and perfect.
"How come you hate me?" she said.
That question stopped my heart cold.
"How come you hate me ?" I answered.
I stormed out of the house because I felt I was supposed to after a comment like that, but actually I was very quiet and sad the whole drive down to Santa Cruz. Not even sharing a booty of chocolate with Sugar Pie made me feel better.
"You are a very spoiled child, Miss Sulk," Sugar Pie called to me from the back of the bug when we were about halfway to Santa Cruz. She passed me a miniature Butter-finger bar to show me she meant the comment in a nice way. Sugar and I both love to eat our candy in miniature size, except for Nestle Crunches, which we both agree are too whamma lamma ding dong to be eaten in miniature. We prefer our Nestle Crunches to be king-sized.
'Am not!" I said. 1 did not eat the mini-Butterfinger. Being called spoiled tripped me from a sad mood into a really bad mood. I like to think of myself as misunderstood.
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Shrimp laughed as he munched on his frosted strawberry Pop Tart. "Cyd Charisse, you are too," he said. "I don't know how I ended up with the most spoiled girl in the world. Sugar, it's your fault!" He was teasing and all singsong. But he must have felt my heart go tumble, because then he leaned over to kiss my cheek, which was not a good idea seeing as how we were driving on a windy road on a cliff over the ocean and Shrimp's hands were jumpy from his morning double espressos. The car swerved suddenly and Shrimp snapped back to attention less than a second before it was too late, right before we went splash over the cliff.
At my commune, there will be no cars. We will probably be so enlightened and unspoiled that we will be able to fly.
"Watch where you're going," I said. I think pouting is stupid but sometimes it serves its purpose. I did not kiss him back since he'd practically just killed us all.
"Burr-ito," Shrimp said. He always says that when I fall into what he calls my "chill factor," all moody and cold.
Sugar was dizzy from the sudden swerve. Maybe it had made her think of her dead Honey's honeymoon. We stopped the car at a rest area because she thought she might need to hurl, but actually she was fine once the car was no longer in motion. Once her hurl urge had passed, Sugar said could we stay here and rest awhile before getting back on the road. Shrimp said that's why they call it a rest area. He put down the backseat of the bug so Sugar could take a little nap. He covered Sugar up with an old mohair blanket which had been laying on the car floor stuck to a piece of bubble gum, and I put Gingerbread in her arms to keep Sugar safe and warm.
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While Sugar napped, Shrimp and I walked down a trail toward the ocean. "What are you so tweaked about?" Shrimp said.
I hate it when this happens, but tears started streaming down my face, totally out of control. I was remembering how after we first moved to San Francisco, while Sid was working, Nancy would get bored and lonely from not knowing anybody. Some days she would keep me home from school and we would drive down the highway along the ocean and she wouldn't even mind if I brought Gingerbread along, even though she hates that doll. One thing about my mom is that she is so beautiful, and as we drove along the windy cliff highway, I would feel so secondhand cool sitting next to her in the convertible. I used to want to dress like her, so before we'd leave she'd place a silk scarf identical to hers on my head and tie it under my chin to protect my hair from the wind, and then she'd hold my chin in her soft, perfumed hands and put lipstick on me, then give me an eskimo kiss on my cheek so she wouldn't ruin her lipstick. She always had a spare pair of rhinestone-studded cat-eye sunglasses to place over my eyes. When we got to Santa Cruz, she would buy me cotton candy and take me on the scary rollercoaster, not the kiddie one, even though I was not old enough. I have always been tall and looked a lot older than I am and besides, I would beg her to let me ride. Nancy would scream all bloody hell at the rollercoaster's sudden turns and heart-pounding dips, as I laughed and laughed. You are fearless, she used to say.
I shrugged at Shrimp's question. Sometimes when there's too much to explain it's easier to say nothing. Shrimp looked confused. I was chilling on him and crying
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and not explaining. He had that look Wallace gets when one of his girlfriends goes postal: "Women!" Sid gets the same look when Nancy complains about how much time he spends being Big Corporate Boss man, and not enough time with the family. It is some kind of universal guy look, a mixture of annoyance, desire, and wishing they could be watching Sports Center instead of witnessing their woman's freak-out.
If Justin had been standing with me in this scene, he would have bailed so fast I wouldn't have been able to emote word one even if I'd wanted to.
Luckily Shrimp did not
do that sensitive boy routine and try to hold me and wipe away my tears. Sometimes tears just have to run their course, and it's nice to have a boyfriend who understands that without being either mean or all smothery. When I was finished, we sat down on some rocks overlooking the ocean. I was glad Gingerbread was curled up with Sugar because the ocean breeze was seriously freeze.
Shrimp said, "Let's play Job for a Day," and I brightened up a little. He was eyeing the sun and the surf below and I knew he was jonesing to get back in the car and finish the drive to Santa Cruz. I appreciated him offering to play my favorite game so Sugar could have a rest and I could mellow out.
Shrimp started. "I would like to be the bellman at Campton Place Hotel who looks like the Beefeater guy for a day." The mental image of Shrimp wearing the bellowing bellman costume with the tights and the queer hat and flagging cabs for tourists made me giggle. The uniform would be bigger than him.
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"Short-order cook cuz I would like to know how to make perfect eggs," I offered.
"You think in one day you could master perfect scrambled eggs and sunnyside-up eggs and eggs-benedict eggs?" Shrimp asked.
"Everything eggs," I assured him.
"Toll taker at the Golden Gate Bridge," Shrimp said.
1 told him, "You would look so cute in that park service uniform."
A ray of sunlight shone right through the platinum spike in his hair, and he grinned. "Ya think?" he said, and in an instant my burr-ito melted.
I said, "Okay, I would like to be the voicemail message lady. 'You have three new messages.' Except I would use some husky porno voice and be all breathy and excited and whatnot. 'To delete this message, press...me, lover.'"
Shrimp laughed at my impression. "You'd be good at that, and how funny would that be, too, since you hate to talk on the phone." He thought awhile and then pronounced, "Traffic helicopter guy. I could be, like," he turned on a deep newscaster voice, '"Westbound traffic on the Bay Bridge is backed up to the Maze, metering lights are turned on, and thanks to Bob of the phone force who called in to report an accident in the far right lane of the Bay Bridge just after the island. Suckers!'"
"Excellent!" I said. "Weather girl. Except I would wear super short skirts with slits on the side and go-go boots and grow my fingernails real long and then paint them black so's they would look like a pointer on the weather map."
"Them's some weather I'd be watching," Shrimp said. 'Art director and executive vice president of Pop Tarts."
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"Brown-sugar division?" I asked.
"But fer sure."
"That's boss," I said. "I would like to be a See's Candy lady so I could wear that white uniform and make people happy when I give them their free sample."
"Okay," Shrimp said, "just don't give people white chocolate samples. Nobody actually likes white chocolate and it is such a gyp to get that for your free sample."
"You are so right," I said.
One time I tried to play Job for a Day with Justin and the only thing he could think up was quarterback for the New England Patriots. How clever .
"Census taker," Shrimp pronounced.
"But people might be really rude to you," I said.
"That's why it's a job for only a day," Shrimp reminded me. "You can do anything for a day."
Childbirth is one job I'm glad to keep off my resume, even for just a day. Nancy was in labor for a whole day when my little brother was born. She said it was the most painful experience of her whole life and she'd thought since I was an easy birth that labor was always that easy. She made Sid take her to a spa in Arizona a month later and while they were gone Leila let me feed my half-brother his bottle.
Feeding babies is not so bad, actually. They scream and scream so you think your eardrums will burst, but when the bottle hits their mouth, you can feel their whole body relax and, like, become part of you as the baby nestles in your arms. My little brother used to wrap his little hand around my thumb when I fed him, and then totally coo and flirt with me while he was feeding. He was the cutest thing
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and I almost was totally in love with him. I guess you could say I was half in love with him because he was my half-brother, but then when Nancy came back she would never let me hold him and Sid always made me wash my hands before I could be near him. Now that baby is in third grade and only likes to play with guns and toys that make exploding sounds. He still loves me best, though.
When I woke up this morning, I looked at the date on my Swiss Army watch and realized today was the day the doctor estimated as my baby's due date. That's when I called Shrimp and asked could we take a field trip. If things were different, I could have been giving birth about now. That baby would have my black hair and Justin's baby blue eyes. Maybe it was a girl and I could have dressed her up in silk scarves, cat-eye sunglasses, and red lipstick and given her eskimo kisses. I cannot picture that baby any more than that.
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Seven
Despite what Nancy says, I am not all doom and gloom, you know. I can let loose. I can have fun. I think.
Once we got to Santa Cruz, Sugar, Gingerbread, and I sunbathed on the beach awhile, catching some rays and listening to the ocean roar while Shrimp surfed. A Mexican mariachi band played a song from a nearby pier that sounded like an accordian lullaby. I stood up and showed Sugar my harem dance, where I lightly gyrate my hips and move my hands and fingers in cool shapes like I saw once in this documentary about dancers from the island of Bali. While I dance I hum this possessed chant like I am in an Islamic mosque even though my dance is probably sacrilegious.
"Do you like my dance?" I asked Sugar.
"I like your dance," Sugar said. "But I'm thinking it's not a good idea for a nice young lady to perform such a dance while wearing a string bikini and see-through wrap skirt on a beach swarming with young men. Could get you into trouble."
Twirling my head round and round, I pulled the hairpins out from the top of my head so my long black hair swished over my back as I harem-danced in time to the beautiful Mexican lullaby. I winked at Gingerbread. She winked back. She loves my harem dance.
"Don't worry about me, Sugar," I said. "I've already been in enough trouble for a lifetime. I might have run out of trouble."
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"Girl, you look like trouble."
"Thank you, Sugar," I said.
For a second I had an urge to tell Sugar about last fall, when I was really in trouble. I have not even told Shrimp about that. The only people who know are Justin and my real dad, and that's only because I had no dinero to take care of my little problemo , and Justin kept promising to get the money and every day that passed I threw up more and more but no money from Justin. One day I was almost out of excuses for getting out of gym class, so while I was in the nurse's office I called Manhattan information when the nurse wasn't in the room and I got the listing for Frank real-dad's company. I called the company switchboard and asked for him but they switched me to his secretary. She had this thick, nasal New York accent. I said, I would like to speak with Frank, please, and she said, Who's calling and I said, Please tell him it's Cyd Charisse. Right, the secretary said, and I'm Greta Garbo. I get that all the time. But maybe she heard the panic in my voice and maybe she was impressed that I used the word "please" twice, because when I asked for him a second time, she put me on hold and sounded surprised when she returned to the line and said he would be right with me.
"What's up, kiddo?" he said when he picked up the phone. His voice was all cheery and familiar, like this wasn't the first time we had talked since that time at the airport when I was five and he bought me Gingerbread. He did not have me on speakerphone like Sid-dad always does and he was a little out of breath, like he had just bolted up from his chair and run to close his executive office door so his un-Greta Garbo secretary would not hear him.
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I couldn't believe it was actually him on the phone. I wished I could
tape-record his voice so I would never forget the sound of it. "I still have Gingerbread," I told him, speaking softly.
"What's Gingerbread?" he said. He almost sounded annoyed, like he was worried I was speaking in some cryptic code.
What's Gingerbread? I couldn't believe my ears. I felt so betrayed I wanted to scream but instead I got mad and went straight to the point. "I need three hundred dollars," I said, matching his tone of voice. "I'm in trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" he asked.
"What kind do you think? " I said. That was all I needed to say. He wired the money to me by dinnertime that night. So counting the time when I was five, that call made it two times I have spoken to my real father in my life.
I stopped my harem dance to admire Shrimp right as his tight little bod grabbed a killer tall wave and the ocean curl rose over his head and the painted skull at the tip of his surfboard peeked through the water. It was like this perfect Shrimp moment. I asked Sugar, "Did you ever have a boyfriend where right away it felt like you just belonged together, like you had known that person your whole life?"
"I did," Sugar said. '"Cept turned out he felt that way about my sister, too."
Ouch.
"Maybe you just haven't found your soulmate yet," I told her. "C'mon, let's go find him." I dragged her off the sand and, arm in arm, we headed for the boardwalk. As we walked along the beach, our toes cushioned in soft, warm sand, I asked Sugar, "Do you really think I'm spoiled?"
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"Yes, baby," she said. "You do not even begin to understand the privilege you have had in your life. But your heart is solid gold. That's what's important."
I made a mental note to tell Shrimp I wanted to be a solid gold one-hit wonder pop singer next time we played Job for a Day. And I am also going to make it my mission to find Sugar her King Soulmate.