My Big Nose and Other Natural Disasters (8 page)

"Megan said you could show me how to get to her place."

"Sure." He didn't know how to get to Megan's? Good sign. Giving directions gave me something to talk about, even if "turn left here" wasn't exactly scintillating conversation. Megan lived in a cute, but tiny, old brick house. Her parents were divorced, and her brother lived with their dad. Lucky! I imagined life without Finn around to constantly remind me of my lack of social status. Maybe I could convince Mom that Finn should study abroad in some soccer-obsessed country? Then I could stay home alone, eating M&M shakes and watching brainless comedies.

I climbed into the back seat when Tyler honked for Megan.

"You don't have to do that," Tyler said.

"Oh, I thought—"

Tyler smiled his perfect magazine-model grin. "It was just a movie."

"Oh, yeah. I mean—" Oh, God. Was my face the color of my stupid beret?

Megan ran out to the car and gave me a weird look as she climbed into the front seat. "I know you've moved to the fancy neighborhood and all, but I didn't think you required a chauffeur."

Tyler raised his eyebrows at me in the rearview mirror. "She almost refused to get in because I didn't pick her up in a limo."

"I did not!" I was flung back against the seat as Tyler zipped out of Megan's driveway.

"Let's go to that little dessert place on California," Megan said. "They have the best peanut butter chocolate cake."

"Peanut butter cake?" Between twelve days (probably a new record) of Mom's Peanut Butter Diet and a week of cake deliveries, I'd come up with my own Anti—Baked Goods Diet. Just the smell of fresh-baked cake and frosting made me want to eat celery and carrots.

"They also have coffee, fondue, and a bunch of other stuff."

"Lead the way, Counselor Charming," Tyler said.

Another inside joke. I held on to my beret as the hot summer air blew wispy hairs loose from my braid. For twelve months, however many hours, minutes, blah, blah, blah, I'd been trying to figure out Tyler's mixed signals. Now he flirted with me almost every time he saw me but took Megan to the movies. On a Friday night. That was like a date, right? Otherwise why wouldn't they have asked Hannah and me to come along? Also, he had all these little pet names for Megan, but they
did
work together
and
they had had the same class schedule: AP and all that honors crap. My klutzy self got to have PE with him. He's a studly skier and all-around athlete. I managed to humiliate myself 3.2 times per week during gym.

To pay me back for taking care of her during the vomiting incident, Hannah had tried to find out the truth about the big date, but Megan had never returned her calls. She ignored text-message questions by responding with perky so-not-true-to-herself quips, until even Hannah grumbled something about "nonpersonal technological friendships." I wasn't quite sure what she meant, but I happily commiserated about Megan's friendship flaws.

Tyler parked along the curb on the little side road next to the dessert place—impressive parallel-parking skills. Maybe I could ask him for another driving lesson?

In the café, people wearing business-type clothes sat around little black tables. A couple of guys in suits came over to talk to Tyler and Megan. Law clerks.

I glanced around the room at the groups of ladies sharing a single piece of cake and sipping coffees. Several people drank cocktails; we had to be the youngest people in there. I sat up straight, attempting to look older, while glancing at Tyler's and Megan's clothes. Tyler wore a silky yellow shirt and jeans. Very mature. Megan looked every bit as good in her sparkly blouse and short black skirt. I looked like a child compared to them, plus I could tell my hair had blown around all crazy in the Jeep. I got up to run to the bathroom while Megan told the lawyers about the community cinema club's best-of-Britain review.

I tried not to watch myself in the bathroom mirror as I rebraided my hair. Fluorescent lighting = not good. My nose looked giant and red and blotchy; my whole face was splotchy. Why hadn't I noticed all those blackheads on my forehead? Why hadn't I worn more makeup? Why had I worn this stupid shirt? I looked like a backpacking-through-Europe cliché. I turned around to check out the rear view and noticed a smashed M&M on my butt. Finn's idiot friends!

By the time I got back to the table, our waitress had set chocolate martinis in front of Megan and Tyler. She never drank! And had plenty to say about people who
did.

"What would you like, sweetie?" The waitress couldn't have been more than five or six years older than me.

"I'll have the same." I tried to sound confident.

"How old are you?" She narrowed her eyes. "Do you have valid ID?"

"On second thought, I'll have an ice water." I shrugged my shoulders. "Dieting."

"Girls," Tyler said. "My, uh,
little sister
is always on a diet, even though she's cute as a bug." He reached over and pinched my cheek. "Mom's going to send you back to the clinic if you keep this up."

I stomped my foot under the table, accidentally crushing Tyler's shoe, but his smile didn't waver. "We'll also have an order of chocolate fondue and a slice of your famous peanut butter chocolate cake." He flipped my foot off his and pressed his foot on top of mine, not too hard, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't flirting.

I turned the little menu cube over in my hands, not reading the words. I didn't look up when Tyler lifted his foot off.

He glared at me. "What was that about, Stompy?"

Not answering, I looked down at my beautifully blurred reflection in the shiny black table.

"Toast." He and Megan clinked their glasses.

"Sorry, Jory." Megan leaned over to me. "But you don't look old enough, especially the way you're dressed. Plus, the law clerks vouched for us."

"What happened to making good choices?"

"Relax, Jory." Megan tipped her glass to her lips. "Nothing wrong with one little après-work drink."

"Isn't it illegal?" Ignored. Just like Hannah's phone calls and text messages.

"We're going to owe them some bigtime copy jobs." Tyler leaned back and sipped his chocolatini. "It
is
a nice way to end the workday."

The waitress clunked my ice water on the table while smiling at Tyler. "So you're a lawyer?" she asked.

"Guilty." Tyler flashed his alluring smile. Everyone laughed, except me.

"That must be great, to have a lawyer in the family," she said to me.

"Oh, yeah. Great."

Did she
honestly
think I'm his little sister? I had to look a teensy bit like a girlfriend. After all, people don't even think I'm my own brother's real sister, and Tyler's even better looking than Finn—to me at least. I pushed my little square cocktail napkin around the table in a circle while Tyler and Megan gossiped about the different lawyers in their office.
No, he left his wife for a law clerk two summers ago. Major scandal. He was going to run for office, but dropped out of the race. Don't dip your pen in the office ink. Ha. Ha. Ha. So-and-So has a thing for murderers. She supposedly flirts with them before putting them on the witness stand. Apparently she wins all of her cases.

When the waitress came with the fondue and cake, I scraped every bit of frosting off the top just to spite Megan, but she was too busy eating a chocolate-dipped strawberry off Tyler's fork to notice. That sure answered some of my questions. After all, Tyler did meet 99 percent of Megan's superior standards for boyfriend material.

I walked ahead of them as we crossed the bridge over the river to the theater; they had ordered another round and were both slightly tipsy. Anything wrong with
two
drinks, Megan? I had drunk so much water that I'd probably have to pee a thousand times during the movie. I tried to shake my hair around my shoulders, forgetting that I'd tied it up in a stupid intellectual-looking French braid; my beret fell into the gutter behind me.

"My little sister would forget her head if it weren't attached." Tyler picked up my beret and plunked it back on my head, hard. "It's a good thing you don't live in France."

What the hell did that mean? Did I look so terrible in a beret that they'd stop me at the border? Would shops have my picture up like a Wanted poster, saying, "Do Not Sell a Beret to This Woman!" Or was I simply too klutzy to live in
très
elegant France?

The theater was surprisingly crowded, considering they were showing some old British movie that was made before I was born. Another bonus: almost every member of the community cinema club was over the age of thirty. I sat between Megan and some possibly pervy forty-year-old geezer chowing down on popcorn.

Right before the movie started, a woman stood up and announced the premiere of some wonderful French movie next Saturday. "For those of you who haven't already bought tickets, reserve them this week. This one will be very popular."

They probably wouldn't let me in because I'm beret challenged.

During the opening credits, I had to get up to pee, but Tyler didn't move his legs and I nearly fell into his lap. "Watch the Italian loafers, Stompy."

Jerk!

The movie was about a timid old maid who barely survives by giving piano lessons and spends a scary amount of time talking to a photograph of some old biddy. When she finally thinks she's found love, it turns out the guy is totally using her, so she starts drinking as if booze is her only friend. In one scene she totally freaks out when she spills some whiskey. That's what I had to look forward to: a life like
The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne—depression, sadness, gloom, dejection, discouragement, downheartedness, melancholia, despondency, desolation.
So I've looked up
depression
in the thesaurus. Hasn't everyone? Anyway, I didn't feel like a freak for thinking about all those words after that god-awful movie. The couple in front of us got into a big argument on the way out of the theater; I heard only one disturbingly cheerful person say, "Wasn't Maggie Smith fabulous?"

I didn't say a word on the way home.

Tyler dropped me off first.

I didn't even care.

POPCORN AND POSSIBILITIES

The phone rang again. Mom glanced at the caller ID and shook her head. "She's called four times in the last half-hour." She handed me the phone. "What's going on between you two?"

"Nothing." I flopped down on the sofa and crushed one of Mom's fancy pillows to my chest, then picked at an M&M matted in the fringe.

"Does this involve a boy?" Mom got on her I-really-care-about-you-so-you-can-humiliate-yourself-with-juicy-details face and sat next to me on the sofa.

"No!"

"You can talk to me, honey. It wasn't so long since I was there myself." She ran her hand through her newly dyed blond hair, but it got stuck because of all the junk she smeared on her head every morning. Was she aware of that gesture? Like, subconsciously, she knows she's not young anymore, even though she's still trying, as day 17 of the Peanut Butter Diet attests. I'm never eating peanut butter pancakes, peanut soup, nutty noodles, or Chinese chicken salad again. Don't even mention the skinny Elvis: PB and banana on whole wheat.

"I just don't want to go to the stupid cinema club with stupid Megan and stupid Tyler because all they talk about is work this and work that. Plus Tyler thinks—"

"Tyler, as in Tyler Briggs?" Mom's eyes got wide. "Oh, honey. He's such a sweetheart. Did he tell you how his mother recently remodeled their kitchen?"

"Uh. No."

Her voice got low. "I heard a rumor at work that it cost something in the mid—six figures. She did it all because she was hosting the book club in November and couldn't do a tea in her
Sunset
magazine double-page-spread backyard. Apparently, she still hasn't forgiven Cindy Yee." Mom leaned back, clutching a pillow to her chest. "I've been trying to swing an invitation to that book club for over a year. I read all the books just in case I get invited and people talk about previous selections."

"That's kind of sad, Mom. Why don't you start your own book club?"

"Never mind." She shook her head. "We're talking about you. So, you and Tyler—"

"There is no me and Tyler. He thinks of me more like a sister."

I put my face into the pillow and groaned. For five days, eight hours, and twenty-three minutes, give or take, I've heard his voice in my head: "little sister," "Stompy," "Italian loafers." I tried to get Hannah to analyze his statement about my not living in France, but she said it probably meant nothing and I should focus on the present, which just then involved selecting the juiciest melon for her fruit salad. Sometimes I think Hannah's actually a forty-year-old narc on an undercover gig. She wouldn't come to the movies because of some church youth night that her latest crush, Alex from Church, said he "might" or "probably" would attend. She wouldn't analyze that, either. So irritating. I totally envied her live-for-today attitude, though. Wouldn't work for me: today involved Megan, Tyler, and another boring movie.

"But you'd like there to be a you and Tyler." Mom tucked her legs under her skinny bottom. "Is that it?" Too much glee hummed in her voice. She'd want me to date the biggest loser at Reno High if it meant her getting into that book club.

"I'm really tired of the whole thing. I'd love to stay home and watch some sappy romantic comedy, eat junk food, and get nine or ten hours of beauty sleep. God knows I need it."

"Oh, is
that
what this is all about?" Mom said. "Honey, your face has so much ... character."

Character
ranks well below
cute
in the noncompliment department.
Character
is code for "ugly," but in a fascinating watching-a-car-wreck-on-the-freeway sort of way. An old woman with wrinkles on her wrinkles has a face with character. Ugly guys with great personalities and loads of money have character in their faces.

My mom touched my nose, actually touched my nose, as if some kind of magic could spread from her beautiful face through her well-manicured fingernails to my nose. After my $360 paycheck on Friday, I was only $3,326, give or take, from buying myself some magic. Part of me wanted to tell Mom about the surprise nose job, but I didn't want to give her another opportunity to lecture me. Or give me a definite
no
answer. Again.