Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (10 page)

“Rainy Days and Mondays”

Monday morning, I leap out of bed because, as Nonna Cabrielli says,
“Chi dorme non piglia pesci”
—he who sleeps in doesn’t catch the fish. And I’m fishing for a date, which is why my hair and makeup are perfect. Today, my eyes look dark and mysterious, and my lips look wet and shimmery. I happen to have very sexy eyes and sensuous lips, like Raquel Welch. Lots of people say I look just like her, only shorter.

At breakfast, Papa glances at my face and asks if I’m going to school or to the circus. Ha-ha. Very funny. Then he asks if my “raccoon eyes” have anything to do with my “new boyfriend.” I glare at Ma. Did she
have
to mention Ian to Pa? I wonder if she told him about Ian’s motorcycle. Papa calls motorcycles death traps. Papa makes fun of boys with long hair. If he didn’t like Tim Fraser, who’s basically a preppy jock, what’s he going to say when he meets Ian?

Fortunately, Ma changes the topic. She says that on Saturday night, she and Pa are invited to the Epsteins’ for dinner. “So I’ll need you to babysit.”

“Ma, I already have plans,” I say (hoping I actually
will
have plans).

“Your plan is to babysit,” Pa says.

“But, Papa, I have a date,” I lie.

“So, invite your date over to the house,” he says.

Buzz gives me an evil grin. Little brat. “Why do I always have to take care of Buzz!” I yell.

Papa clutches his bread knife in his fist and says, “Carla, boyfriends come and go. Family is forever.”

It’s a pissy, windy, rainy day, and by the time I get to school, the hems of my bell-bottom jeans are sopping wet, and my perfectly ironed hair is frizzled. I spot Ian in the smoking area with Jim Malone. I don’t feel like hanging out in the cold, but I do anyway. We huddle against the wall, smoking. I don’t say a word about Ian’s rude phone manners Friday night.

At lunch, we meet in the cafeteria, and I drop hints about the movie
Klute
, with Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland, because it’s the perfect date flick. Action and romance. Something for everyone. But Ian doesn’t bite.

By the time we get to drama, I’m in a bad mood, and to make matters worse, Mr. Gabor announces that we’re doing trust exercises. I hate trust exercises. They’re so touchy-feely. And who does he put in my group? Ian, Jeremy, Benjamin, Geoff and Julia. I don’t even like looking at Julia, and I don’t like the way Ian looks at her either.

To do trust exercises, you stand in a circle and the person in the middle has to close their eyes, cross their arms over their chest like a corpse and fall backward. Someone always catches them before they hit the floor. Easy-peasy. But wouldn’t you know, Little Miss Sensitive can’t do it. Every time Julia’s about to fall, she stops herself at the last second. Scene-stealer.

Geoff says, “Don’t think about it, Jules, just do it.”

“I can’t,” Julia says.

What a suck. “Look,” I say, “it’s so simple.” I demonstrate, swooning right into Ian’s arms. I bat my lashes at him, but he’s already looking at Julia.

He says, “Come on, Rapunzel.” I hate it when he calls her that. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Not really,” Julia says dryly.

Ian laughs. “Just close your eyes and pretend you’re falling out of your tower.”

“And what are you, her Prince Charming?” I scoff.

“Why don’t we skip me,” Julia says nervously.

“There’s a thought,” I mutter.

But suddenly Mr. Gabor appears. “Ms. Epstein,” he says, “do you know why we do this exercise?” Julia turns about twelve shades of blotchy red. “Because in theater, no man is an island. Onstage, we have to work as a team.” He puts his hands on Julia’s shoulders and positions her so that her back is to Ian. “Relax,” he says, “I’m sure Mr. Slater will catch you.” I want to give Julia a big fat shove, but instead, I stand there
as she tumbles into Ian’s arms. Geoff claps. Julia’s eyes flutter open. Ian smiles down at her. And that’s when I decide: no more beating around the bush. If I have to break my dating rule and ask Ian out myself, I’ll do it.

After class, I follow him into the hall and say, “Ian, do you want to catch a movie Saturday night, or what?” My mouth is dry, and if he turns me down, I’m going to kill him.

Ian looks at me like he’s mulling it over. Then he says, “Sure,” and breaks into a grin because he knew what I wanted; he was just trying to make me squirm.

“Jerk,” I say.

“Come on,” he says laughing. “Let’s go back to your place.”

In my kitchen, we grab a snack and head downstairs. Buzz and Bobby have turned the basement into a pillow fortress, and they’re shooting Nerf balls everywhere. When we walk in, Buzz yells, “Enemy! Fire!” and they bombard us with those stupid pink and green sponge-balls.

“Quit it,” I yell.

Ian pelts the balls back at the boys, but I scoop them up till they run out of ammunition.

“Gimme the balls, you lousy traitor,” Buzz says, leaping out of his fortress, gun raised.

“In a minute,” I say. “First, I need you to do me a favor.” Buzz eyes me suspiciously. “Look, Saturday night, when Ma
and Pa go to the Epsteins’, why don’t you two hang out there and watch the hockey game together?”

“Sure,” Bobby says.

Buzz narrows his eyes. “Why do you want to get rid of me?”

“Look, I don’t want to babysit,” I say. “Ian and I have plans, okay?”

“What if I don’t want to go?” Buzz asks. The kid’s no dummy. He senses an advantage.

So, I do what I always do when the going gets tough: I resort to bribery. I pull a dollar bill out of my pocket and wave it in the air. “Listen, pip-squeak,” I say, “you go to Bobby’s, and this dollar is yours.” The boys eye the money greedily. A buck buys a lot of chocolate.

“Deal,” Buzz says, snatching the money.

Bobby pumps his arm. “ ‘Hockey Night in Canada’!”

“Leafs versus Habs,” Buzz says.

“Your team’s gonna get creamed,” Bobby taunts.

I drop the Nerf balls, and the boys scramble after them. “Clear out. We need some privacy,” I say. Ian puts Joe Cocker on the stereo.

As the boys scamper up the stairs, Buzz wags his bum like a girl and chants, “Carla and Ian sitting in a tree,
K-I-S-S-I-N-G
 …”

Finally, the basement door shuts. Mission accomplished! I turn to Ian. I sidle up to him, real close, and say, “I guess we can go to that movie now.”

Ian wraps his arms around me and says, “Let’s just stay here.”

“What?” I squawk. “What about
Klute
?”

Ian nuzzles his face into my cheek. “But, Carla, we’ll have the whole house to ourselves. Saturday night, you and me, alone.” The way he whispers it—oh my God!—I practically wet my pants on the spot. He pulls me down onto the pillow fort. Joe Cocker sings “Feelin’ Alright,” and I’m feelin’ pretty good myself. Ian and I make out like mad. He’s so much hotter than my other boyfriends. Those guys were so predictable. It’s like they were plodding through the salad course, killing time till they got to the main dish. Not Ian. With him, every course is gourmet. When we’re making out, I feel like I’m Jacques Cousteau exploring an unknown tributary of the Amazon River, wondering what exotic surprise is waiting for me just around the bend.

“A Case of You”

Dad arrives on Friday night, and Bobby tackles him as soon as he walks through the door. Dad throws Bobby up in the air and then gives me a big bear hug. “How’s my favorite girl?” he asks.

“I’m your only girl,” I say, smiling.

Dad winks at me. He kisses Mom. We all start talking at the same time, and suddenly we feel like a family again. In the kitchen, Dad unpacks food from Montreal: smoked meat, Fairmount Bagels (you can’t get good bagels in Toronto) and Bubby Epstein’s homemade blintzes. While we eat, he fills us in on the family news. Bubby and Zadie are planning to visit Uncle Seymour and Aunt Rose in North Palm Beach in November. Aunt Connie is working with a Zionist organization to free Soviet Jews. Dad tells us his latest jokes, and even though they’re real groaners, we grin because when he delivers the punch line, he laughs louder than everyone.

Bobby has a hockey game on Saturday morning, and I go along just to hang out with Dad. Bobby and Buzz’s team is called the Hornets, and Mr. Cabrielli is their coach. Dad goes into the locker room to help Bobby suit up, and by the time
he comes out, he and Mr. Cabrielli are acting like old pals, slapping each other on the back and joking around. Dad gives me money for hot chocolate and doughnuts (Mom never lets us buy junk food), and Dad and I sit in the stands and cheer with the other Hornet families.

Bobby plays left wing and Buzz plays defense. Eight minutes into the game, Bobby fakes out the defenseman and flicks the puck into the upper right corner of the net with a neat wrist shot. He pumps his arm in the air and grins at Dad in the stands because Dad has a deal with Bobby that if he scores a goal, or catches a pop fly in baseball season, he gets an ice cream. The Hornets win 4–3, and Dad springs for Orange Crush and Coke for the team.

After the game, the three of us get a booth at the Pickle Barrel for lunch. Bobby sits beside Dad, and his eyes are glued to Dad’s face. It’s like he’s trying to make up for weeks of missing him. “When are you moving here?” Bobby asks.

“Well, hotshot, the house hasn’t sold yet. Too many houses on the market,” Dad explains.

Bobby slumps against Dad’s arm. “How long’s it gonna take?” he asks. Dad ruffles Bobby’s hair.

“Maybe we’ll have to move back to Montreal,” I say. Dad shakes his head, but I don’t back down. “Mom’s the only one who wants to live here,” I say.

“Jules, don’t be so hard on your mom,” he says. “I know it isn’t easy for you, but it’s not easy for her either.”

“Yeah, well, she chose it. I didn’t.”

Dad sighs. “I hear you, kiddo. Let’s just wait and see how things pan out, okay?”

At least he doesn’t shut me down.

Saturday evening, Mr. and Mrs. Cabrielli and Buzz arrive for dinner, and they’re hardly through the front door before the two dads are talking hockey and complimenting each other on their talented boys.

“That Buzz sure is a smart player,” my dad says. “Clean checks. Not afraid to dig into the corners.”

“And look at Bobby, our best winger,” Mr. Cabrielli says. “That kid gives 110 percent every second he’s on the ice.”

Buzz and Bobby go to the basement to watch hockey. Mom serves her coq au vin, and Dad entertains his guests with jokes and stories. I stay in my bedroom and write to Mollie about Ian. This week in drama, we did trust exercises, and I had to fall backward into his arms. When I looked up, his eyes were mauve-blue, the color of snow shadows. A girl could get lost in those eyes and never want to come back.

Around eight o’clock, I sneak downstairs to grab a bite. I sit at the kitchen table, and from the dining room I hear Mrs. Cabrielli say, “I told Carla to invite her over.”

“Julia’s just going through a rough stage,” Mom says.

“Maybe she needs a boyfriend,” Mrs. Cabrielli says.

Mr. Cabrielli interrupts. “Carla has a boyfriend and I don’t like him.”

I stop eating. Does he mean Ian?

“Tony never likes her boyfriends,” Mrs. Cabrielli says.

“This one has no manners,” Mr. Cabrielli says. “Hair in his eyes. Drives a motorcycle, like a thug. What kind of boy is that, eh?”

“The same kind you were,” says Mrs. Cabrielli.

“What do you mean?” Mr. Cabrielli protests. “When I was his age, I took the bus. I had respect for your parents. And I always got you home on time.”

“And you never laid a hand on me,” Mrs. Cabrielli teases.

“
Carissima
, you were a knockout!”

“Tony!”

“And she still is!”

They all laugh.

Mom walks into the kitchen carrying a stack of dirty plates and doesn’t notice me at the table. She puts the dishes into the sink and holds her hands under the steaming water, eyes closed, just standing there letting the water flow between her fingers. She looks tired. When she turns and sees me, she practically jumps out of her skin.

Mrs. Cabrielli bustles into the kitchen carrying platters of leftovers. “Jules, there you are,” she says. “Why don’t you go over to the house? Carla and Ian are watching a movie on
TV
.”

My heart jolts. Ian is there?

Dad and Mr. Cabrielli walk into the kitchen. Dad says, “Poopsie, take the evening off. That’s an order.”

Mr. Cabrielli jumps in. “And make sure that boy is keeping his hands to himself.”

There’s no point in protesting; they all seem intent on sending me off. I say good-night and leave through the back door. For a moment, I linger in the shadow of the birch tree, watching through the dining room window as they return to the table. Mom slices her amaretto cheesecake. Dad pours more wine for himself and Mr. Cabrielli. Mom declines with a shake of her head. Maybe she thinks Dad’s drinking too much. They sit across from each other, Dad sprawled in his chair like a king at a banquet, and Mom sitting with her back straight, like a queen, keeping her dark thoughts to herself.

Of course, I have no intention of going to Carla’s, but it’s a cold night and I’m not in the mood for a walk, so I decide to try Geoff’s apartment. I’ve never been there before, but I have his address.