Anatomy of a Boyfriend (7 page)

He‘s an amazing athlete.‖

―Since when do you care about sports?‖ Mom asks.

―And what kind of stinkin‘ athlete runs around in big circles because he‘s too sissy to play ball?‖ Dad whines.

―Whatever. And Mom, I don‘t have to like sports to appreciate athletic skill. I used to go watch Amy all the time, and you never gave me a hard time about that.‖

After another silence Mom says, ―Certainly, it‘s normal for girls your age to want…friends of the opposite sex—‖ Dad‘s grumbling interrupts her. ―And your father and I don‘t want to discourage that.‖ Dad grumbles louder. ―It just seems to me you‘re giving this boy more time than you did your Stanford and Tulane applications.‖

―Oh my God!‖ I look at her really meanly. ―I worked
months
on those essays. I‘m so hurt you‘d even think that. And Dad.‖ I look straight at him. ―I hate it when you interrogate me like I‘m some criminal you‘ve arrested.‖

―We‘ll leave you alone now.‖ Dad grumbles again while getting up, but I know he is about to read me my rights. ―You shouldn‘t make this boy so important if all he‘s doing is distracting you. And there‘s no reason to get so defensive when we try to talk to you about it. As for this vegetable business, never feel bad about eating meat. Human beings have been doing it for millennia, and that‘s why they thrived. You understand what I‘m saying?‖

―I appreciate your anthropological assessment, Dad, but I really need to get back to work now.‖

Dad tries to smile, obviously feeling bad. ―Uh…wanna play a few rounds of Operation?‖

―Maybe later.‖

I swivel my chair around and wait until my parents close the door to resume my e-mail, but I have trouble getting back into the flow because I‘m so steamed at them for questioning my judgment. They don‘t even know Wes, and I wasn‘t lying when I said being a vegetarian has improved my health. True, I probably wouldn‘t have cut out meat had it not been for Wes, but so what? I figure it would be hard for him to think about dating someone he saw as a blood-thirsty carnivore. Amy always says a girl should never change herself to please a boy, but Wes has never asked me to change. Part of knowing cool people is adopting their best attributes. Besides, I don‘t think changing for someone is bad as long as you‘re objectively changing for the better.

10

I
t‘s the second week of February, and Wes is finally coming to a Science Quiz match. I had second thoughts about asking him because I know his being there will make me nervous. But after six weeks of watching from the bleachers as Wes outruns every other senior in central Florida, I‘m anxious to reverse roles and have him see me be the center of attention.

Tonight Wes will also finally meet my parents, who have been on my case about never asking him over. Amy wisely suggested that having introductions take place at Shorr rather than our apartment would prevent my parents from bringing up embarrassing stories and grilling him with questions.

Best of all, after the match Wes and I are going over to his house. It‘ll be the third time we‘ve hung out there since his movie party, except now his parents are in Miami visiting his brother, so we‘ll have the entire place to ourselves! I‘ve been popping breath mints all day in anticipation of our inevitable first kiss.

Shorr Academy resembles New England private schools in its austere, spartan decor, but the auditorium, a collective gift from some of the rich parents, is really beautiful. The floor is constructed entirely of pink and gray marble, and two Graeco-Roman-style columns flank the entranceway. Red velvet curtains frame the stage, which is where my four teammates and I sit behind a long table while the opposing team, from a school in Fort Lauderdale, is being teleconferenced in on our fifty-two-inch plasma screen.

With Wes in the audience, I feel extra special having a spotlight trained on my face. I‘m the only girl on either team, and I think I look kind of sexy in my plaid pleated skirt, white button-down oxford, blue blazer, kneesocks, and high-heeled loafers. I‘d rather Wes not see me get any questions wrong, so I don‘t buzz in unless I‘m absolutely sure of the answer.

The last question of the night is ―What‘s the common name for the reproductive organs that produce gametes?‖ I want to pass on this one too, but the teams are tied and this is the semifinals, so if we lose this, we‘re out for the season.

After hesitating for a moment, I murmur ―gonads‖ into the mike. Immediately everyone in the audience starts howling. Even the moderator cracks a smile, and I can feel myself blush. But as everyone starts applauding our win, I think maybe it‘s good Wes heard me say something sex related. After all, I want him to view me as someone sexual. In some weird way, I‘m glad my parents heard me too. I‘m not their little girl anymore.

After every match, Shorr hosts a minireception in the back of the auditorium complete with the customary cheese-and-crackers buffet table. Normally, I find my parents in their front row seats and we walk together to get punch. Today I give them a quick wave and head straight for Wes, who is standing by the side entrance.

―Hey, stranger.‖ I smile. ―I see you found Shorr okay.‖

―Eventually. Sorry I was late.‖

―It‘s okay. A little different from track, huh?‖

―Yeah, but just as nerve-racking! If I were up there, I don‘t know if I could remember my own name, let alone ‗ ‘nads.‘‖

Oh God, all I want to do is kiss you.

I grin. ―Let‘s find my parents.‖

They are already walking toward us.

―Congratulations, sweetheart!‖ Mom kisses me. ―Those were some tough questions.‖

―You made us proud,‖ Dad says during our hug, although he‘s clearly already checking out Wes.

―Thanks. Um, guys, this is Wesley Gershwin.‖

After an exchange of handshakes and nice-to-meet-yous and the obligatory what-colleges-are-you-applying-to conversation, Dad says eagerly, ―How ‘bout we treat you kids to dinner?

Wesley, we live right by this great seafood dive. Biggest prawns you ever saw. And lobster tacos.‖

―Um, Dad, Wes is a vegetarian.‖

―Oh…oh,‖ Dad utters, suddenly understanding.

Wes says, ―Thanks for the offer, Mr. Baylor, but I need to get back and feed my dog.‖

I‘m disappointed Wes said ―I‖ and not ―we.‖ He was the one who suggested we hang out tonight.

―Yeah,‖ I say to my parents, ―and this is one of the few nights Wes doesn‘t have track practice, so we were just going to kick back with some takeout and a movie.‖

Dad looks dejected, and Mom takes his hand. ―Well, have fun kids. Dommie, how late do you think you‘ll be?‖

―Until whenever the movie ends. See ya!‖

My annoyance at Wes‘s lack of assertiveness quickly fades as I contemplate a whole evening alone with him. It‘s such a nice change walking through Shorr‘s parking lot to Wes‘s Explorer rather than my parents‘ station wagon.

Three hours later the credits to
The Princess Bride
are rolling on Wes‘s TV. He‘s lounging in his desk chair, facing the screen. I‘m sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed. When Wes turns off the TV, the room is pitch black.

―That was great,‖ he exclaims. ―I can‘t believe I‘ve never seen it before.‖

―Yeah, you‘ve been missing out. It‘s such a timeless classic.‖ I lie back. Then a pause. ―Your bed is so comfortable.‖

―Yeah, sometimes I try to do homework on it, but I just end up falling asleep.‖

―I can imagine. I could just lie here for hours.‖ I sigh, the vision of the movie‘s last kiss lingering in my head.

After a moment Wes turns on the desk lamp, picks up the dog, reaches for a Gatorade, and asks if I want one.

―No thanks,‖ I say disappointedly as I sit up, my eyes stinging from the light. In
The Princess
Bride,
Westley falls for Buttercup even though she‘s a bitch to him. Here I am being all nice and inviting, and nothing! How much more encouragement does this guy need? And I know what‘s coming when he finishes his last swig.

―Dom, Jessica needs to be walked.‖

I scowl at the snivelly animal as I pull up my kneesocks and slip on my loafers. But then I ask, referencing a joke from the movie, ―Would it be so ‗inconceivable‘ if Jessica skipped one walk?‖

I was trying to be funny about it, but Wes looks at me like I‘m some fascist dictator. ―Dom, it‘d be really cruel not to take her out. Why would I do that?‖

―Oh. You‘re totally right. Sorry. Forget it.‖ I‘d do anything to erase the last five seconds, but he doesn‘t seem too pissed as we head downstairs and outside, so I try to relax.

One would think a late-night stroll around the palm-tree-studded neighborhood would be romantic, but within minutes the dog lets loose on the lawn. I realize shitting on the grass is a perfectly natural canine behavior, but the ugly presence of bodily waste is the king of all romantic buzz kills. Whenever I‘m over at Wes‘s, I always opt to use the guest bathroom even though he says it‘s fine if I use his own. I can‘t bear the thought of his being in earshot of my pee hitting the toilet water, let alone anything else that might escape.

On the way back to his place, I actually consider faking a fall so Wes could pull me to my feet and we could have some physical contact. I know that‘s pathetic, and it‘s not even worth trying, anyway—both his hands are already occupied, one with the leash and one with the plastic bag of shit he scooped up. Soon he picks up the dog itself.

―Last week the vet said she has arthritis, so she needs to take it easy.‖

Then why are we walking her in the first place?

―Oh no! Poor thing.‖

When we finally arrive back at his house, Wes lets the dog in and says he‘d better drive me home so he can rest up for the meet tomorrow. If I hear the words ―meet‖ or ―track‖ one more time I think I‘m going to scream. I‘m so aggravated the last thing I want to do before I get out of his car is give him our good night hug, but I do. It‘s the tightest and longest one so far.

―See you at the meet tomorrow, Dom.‖

―Yeah. See you tomorrow.‖ I pause. ―Hey, Wes?‖

―Yeah?‖

I like you, Wes. Soooo much. Could you like me that way too? If so, stop giving me mixed
signals and kiss me!

―What is it, Dom?‖

―Um, you know, sleep well, and knock ‘em dead tomorrow.‖

A month ago it would have been my dream just to be in his bedroom watching a movie, but now it‘s torture because I want so much more. It‘s like my entire conscious state has been reduced to this toxic blend of hope and uncertainty. I hate that I have to act cool and almost pretend I don‘t like him when in fact I do, because, God forbid, I might come across as desperate for affection or a little clingy, which everyone should know are perfectly natural human behaviors, after all.

Ugh!

11

M
om has a PTA meeting the last Friday of February, so Dad and I are on our own for dinner. I feel distracted because Wes hasn‘t e-mailed me in two days, and my hope of ever getting together with him is at an all-time low. I know Wes is busy with his track schedule and he can‘t always e-mail me back within twenty-four hours, but the fact that he‘s not even taking the trouble to text me a quick hello is just further proof he‘s not interested. As if I needed any more proof.

Adding insult to injury, Dad orders up Chinese from the vegetarian place I know Wes likes. The dinner conversation isn‘t helping my mood, although for once Dad‘s not his usual loud, swearing self.

―So, Dom, I‘ve been meaning to ask you for a while now, did that Wes boy do anything special for you on Valentine‘s Day?‖

―‗That Wes boy‘? It‘s Wes, Dad.‖ I push the rice around with my fork. ―And why would he do something? It‘s not like we‘re dating or anything.‖

After dinner I start writing my English paper on Emily Dickinson, but I keep thinking about what Dad said. Wes didn‘t even mention Valentine‘s in his e-mail that day. I was so disappointed. I‘m still disappointed.

I try again to concentrate on my paper, but every word I read or write reminds me in some twisted, far-fetched way of Wes. ―Parallel structure‖ makes me think of his perfect coordination as he runs. So does ―onomatopoeia.‖ I swear I can hear the whisper of his sneakers slamming into the asphalt every time I speak his name.
Gersh-Win-Gersh-Win-Gersh-Win-Gersh-Win.

I hold up my right hand and examine my mood ring, which Wes won for me at Skee-Ball when I tagged along with the track team at the arcade last week. Well, technically he didn‘t win it
for
me.

He won it, and then he gave it to me because he didn‘t want it for himself. However, at least half the track team was there, which included eleven girls, so it must mean something that Wes chose to unload it on me rather than some other girl. The only explanation he gave was ―I don‘t do jewelry.‖

My writer‘s block is pretty insurmountable at this point, so I shut down my computer and collapse on my bed. Then I imagine Wes at a meet jumping hurdles and tripping over one of them…and tearing a ligament or two…and having to drop out of track…which would free up his evenings…which maybe he‘d choose to spend with me. Wes told me he had tripped over a hurdle before, back in tenth grade. That‘s how he got that little scar under his eye. It‘s possible he could trip again. Am I evil for having these thoughts?

I consider calling Amy to complain, but then I remember she‘s on a date, which just makes me feel more like a loser. Anyway, she‘d just repeat the advice she‘s been giving me for the last month: (A) jump him, (B) ask him pointblank what‘s going on with us, or (C) drop him like a bad habit. I tried to explain to her that I don‘t want to set myself up for rejection, especially in case Wes isn‘t sure of his feelings yet, so that rules out
A
and
B.
As for
C,
I can‘t drop him, I‘m in too deep. That‘s the one thing Amy can‘t seem to understand. She‘s never gotten emotionally involved with any guy.

Without thinking about it, I walk into the living room, where Dad is sitting in his armchair reading
Fishing World.
Then, for the first time in years, I climb onto his lap and bury my head in his chest.

He puts down his magazine and hugs me. ―You all right, Dom?‖ After a pause he asks, ―Is it that Wes boy? I mean, Wes?‖