Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love (19 page)

What-EVER, Mom! My ears tuned out at “long, long time ago.” Inside my brain, my warning lights are flashing, my siren is sirening, I’m careening at dangerously high speeds around corners and through red lights in a state of total emergency. Ignorant and unwitting, without any idea of the potentially life-altering consequences of her actions, Mom is doing the Best-Friend Switcheroo!

ON MY DAD!

Won’t this make Dad fall in love with her again?

Can it be that that’s what she wants? Does Motherdear know more about the secret workings of X than she lets on?

I fantasize for a minute: what would happen if Mom and Dad got back together? If he dumped Laura and showed up in the East Village with a fistful of daisies (Mom’s favorite), asking the blue-toed Cheryl for a second chance? And what if she said yes, admitting their differences were minuscule compared to their long shared history and, most of all, the unadulterated joy they share in ME? Me, Felicia! The only thing they really have in common.

What would happen? He’d never move back to the city; he wouldn’t be able to stand it now that he’s been gas grilled and suburbanized. And Mom would certainly not want to give up the bookstore. So there’d be a big fight about where to live.

And then there’d be a big fight about Brearley versus the Pound. And whether to keep white bread or whole wheat in the fridge.

And poor Laura would probably starve herself to death, all alone in Lauraville, living on diet root beer and low-carb pretzels.

And Charles—

Enough. I turn off my lights and sirens, take a deep breath, and decide to simply Observe.

I watch my mom help Charles stick the little straw into his juice box without squirting juice everywhere.

I watch my dad chatting amiably with Frank, who once hung out with him in the parking lots of 7-Elevens, enjoying the Slurpee brain-freeze effect while they cranked Meatloaf up to earsplitting volume on the tape deck of my grandpa’s Chevy, back in the day when Meatloaf was new and music was on tape.

I watch him and Frank, who’s here as the date of my dad’s ex-wife and seems to have lost just as much hair as my dad has over the last twenty-odd years, and I think— you know, it’s fine.

Everything’s fine the way it is.

The salon was divine. Boobalicious Norma and her soul mate Travis showed up, and they give off the same sparks that are starting to fly from Trip and Deej, except they’re older and engaged and that opens up a whole other world of spark-making possibilities. Deej’s mother and father were there, sweet and so proud of their talented baby. Even Shally and D’Neece stopped by for a bite to eat, rolling their eyes a bit when Miss Doris spoke to them sternly about “what you children are doing with your young lives, and there are worthier boys for two righteous girls to be spending time with than the kind you have to take the bus to Rikers to see on visiting day.” But they stayed for second helpings and gave Miss Doris big hugs when they left, so I don’t think they were really mad about what she said.

Mom was tense at first, as befits a woman on her first date in years, but she eventually chilled out and found her party attitude. Dad talked real estate with Deej’s uncle Lester, who is raising money to fix up some of the beautiful old houses on the block without booting out the people who live in them. Laura drank too much punch, kicked off her shoes, and went on a cookie binge by the refreshment table (I’ve never seen her so happy). And Charles stood on one side of the stage all afternoon, dancing to the music. No matter who got up to play or sing, Charles stayed right there, shaking his little four-year old groove thang. At one point Laura tried to make him sit down but no one would let her, everyone thought he was just the cutest.

Jess, by the way, chatted at great length with Miss Doris, clapped and stomped her feet for all the performers, and paid not one bit of attention to Matthew other than the generic, hey-buddy-see-ya-in-school-tomorrow kind. I offered to try the Switcheroo on her, but Matthew declined. I can see why. He and I could have been making out naked on the stage and Jess wouldn’t have batted an eye; she was too busy being ENTHUSIASTIC about the soirée.

And all afternoon, in between everyone else, Deej sang. She sang everything anybody asked her to sing. She sang gospel songs, Motown songs, Barbra Streisand songs, Aretha and Patti Labelle and Patsy Cline and Judy Garland songs. She crooned and rapped and wailed and danced the Locomotion with Charles, who started calling her Deesha.

“Now I have two sisters,” Charles whooped. “Deesha and Feesha! Deesha and Feesha!”

That, by the way, was the end of being Felicia, to everyone except my mom.

I am now known to one and all as Feesha, 4-evahmore.

17

A
ll votes have been counted and the results are in— faculty, students, parents, and four out of five dentists agree, this is the biggest and brainiest and most bodacious Manhattan Free Children’s School science fair evah!

Go, Free Children! Free Children ROCK!

There are more than fifty projects, each one more edifying than the next. From where I’m sitting onstage I can see the guys in the dark suits from NASA and MIT and Microsoft scampering round like bunnies, taking copious notes and pressing their business cards into the hands of my fellow adolescent researchers.

Everybody, and I mean everybody, is here, except Randall. My mom is here, but no Randall. All the Kittens and Dawgs are here (including Trip, who seems to have whipped together a last-minute science fair project of his own), and Randall is absolutely not among them.

Even Mr. Frasconi is here! He finally made it back to New York, early this morning, just in time to be the Mister Mentor Master of ceremonies of the whole shebang. It’s been so crowded that we’ve only been able to wave across the gymnasium at each other. Now we’re onstage in front of everybody and he’s about to introduce Project Number Forty-two “The Search for X,” so this isn’t a great time to ask him, but I’m betting that the plump and pretty blond lady I saw him strolling around with earlier must be his Foxy Fräulein, the sweeter-than-a-jelly-donut Miss Elke Wolfgram herself.

And still there is no Randall. Attention, science fair passengers! You are now entering a Randall-free zone.

Mr. Frasconi gives me an encouraging wink before turning back to the microphone. “This next project,” he says, completely ignoring the scripted introductions he’s been given, “is of great personal interest to me as a poet, and as a man in love!” He beams at his Fräulein, who beams back at him from the auditorium, her cheeks aglow. “These two young scientists have fearlessly ransacked their own hearts, striving to know the unknowable! What could be truer to the spirit of scientific inquiry? And what topic more timeless and universal than the mysterious workings of human affection?”

Ohmigod. I see Randall, at the far, far end of the gym. He’s slipping in at this very moment through the big double doors, silent and ninja-like, invisible to all eyes except mine. Mere coincidence? I think not!

“Ladies and gentlemen,” roars Mr. Frasconi, “I give you Project Number Forty-two, ‘The Search for X.’ Prepare to learn . . . the Secret of Love!”

Matthew and I approach the podium.

“Before we reveal the Secret of Love,” I say, my voice reverbeverbeverberating over the mike, “I want to point out that it’s okay if you don’t really understand what we’re about to say. Some things you can’t really ‘get’ until you go through them yourself.”

At this, my mom starts cackling from the audience, which is good because it makes my nervousness go
p ft!
and disappear. I grin and wave in her direction. “Yes, Mom, I know that’s what you always say to me. Gloat in triumph, because I totally admit your rightness on this ONE particular point!”

Now all the parents start laughing. Matthew gives me a sly look and takes over the mike. “The details of our experiments have been fully documented,” he says. “If you stop by our table, you’ll learn all about X, the mysterious factor that makes love work out.”

Randall wanders over to our display, which is near the back of the gym. I mentally will him to stop and pick up one of our handouts (which have little good-luck nibbles around the edges, courtesy of Frosty).

I speak again, as Matthew and I rehearsed. “You’ll see how we conducted primary source interviews to Observe and Describe the workings of X, and used experiments to test our hypotheses.” I have to refer to my notes here. “These included the Romeo/Juliet Thing, Opposites Attract, Mutual Rescue, the Romantic Setting, and the Best-Friend Switcheroo.”

It’s kinda cool how you could hear a pin drop in the gymnasium all of a sudden. Randall is still at our table, reading. It’s now or never.

I keep going, my voice loud and clear. “All the data is presented in detail on our charts and handouts, so I won’t go into it further except to say this:

“Snow melts to reveal
All that was misunderstood.
We need to talk. Please?

“If you have any questions, I’ll be waiting at the back of the gym in fifteen minutes,” I blurt. “And now”— (insert Imaginary Drumroll here!)—“Matthew Dwyer and I are pleased to reveal . . . the Secret of Love!”

I turn the mike over to Matthew. He looks at me strangely and clears his throat. “Ahem. The Secret of Love has two parts,” he says. “An axiom and a corollary. The axiom: Love Happens.”

I step forward. “The corollary: Love Happens to Everyone.” Is Randall still here? I can’t see him anymore; the stage lights are shining right in my eyes.

“Love Happens is a way of saying that love has its own navigational system,” Matthew continues. “It starts, it stops, it takes off, and it lands, but we can’t tell it where to fly. Is this good news or bad news? Look at it this way: our experiments proved that X is real.” He flashes me his half-smile. We both know he sounds a lot like me right now, but that’s mostly because I wrote this part. “It’s like rain—it’s hard to predict exactly when it’s going to fall. But you definitely know when you’re getting wet.”

“The corollary: Love Happens to Everyone.” I had carefully planned how I was going to explain the corollary, but I am so incredibly jazzed about my own fearlessness—go, Feesha!—that I decide to improvise. “This is also known as the Meg Ryan Rule,” I say, abandoning my script, Frasconi style. “See, in a movie, if Meg Ryan’s in it you KNOW she will definitely have X and be madly clinching with whatever guy she wants by the end of the film.”

A murmur of assent ripples through the crowd. Matthew’s looking at me like I just went nuts. “I’d like to thank my mom for pointing this out to me,” I go on. Not to mention the Deck of Hollywood Stars. But a science fair is not the time to start giving credit to esoteric messages from the Great Beyond, and I’ve been way too busy to have even thought of consulting the Oracle in a long time. Besides, Momski deserves the boost.

“Before undertaking this project, I used to think that some people have X—like Meg Ryan, or even Matthew, here,” I say. There are some titters in the audience. “And that other people don’t have X at all. Like me, for instance.”

Matthew puts his hand on my shoulder, buddy-like, as I go on. “But our experiments have proven, beyond a doubt, that we’re all capable of spewing mass quantities of X,” I say. “Every single one of us is the Meg Ryan of our own love movie.”

The crowd is hanging on my every syllable. “It’s just that your X only really activates when it comes into contact with compatible X, at the right time and under the right circumstances, and”—I shield my eyes against the lights as I finish—“you have to make sure you take your blinders off first.”

I give Matthew the wrap-it-up signal, and we end our presentation by inviting members of the audience to come to the microphone and tell their stories of X. How it happened, how it didn’t happen, how it almost happened and unhappened and happened again. (The audience participation angle was Matthew’s idea, by the way, something about qualitative data versus quantitative, but who cares, I think it’s a snazzy touch!)

A long line forms at the microphone, but I don’t need to listen. There’s only one X-story I’m interested in right now, and I’m going to know the ending in exactly fifteen—make that lucky THIRTEEN—minutes.

Twelve minutes and forty-five seconds later, I’m in the back of the gym, and Randall’s walking right toward me.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say.

“Nice presentation,” he says. “Looks like you’re a hit.”

We look up at the stage, where Mr. Frasconi is hogging the mike, holding hands with his Foxy Fräulein and telling their X-story in Teutonic Technicolor detail. Miss Wolfgram is blushing two little red circles on her cheeks, like a Dresden china doll.

“You guys should definitely win,” Randall says. He’s holding one of our handout sheets. “Your project is awesome. Somebody was chewing on it, though.”

“It was Frosty,” I said. “For luck.” I know I should play it cool, but I can’t bear the suspense. “Did you read that?” I ask. “The Best-Friend Switcheroo part? And the Romantic Setting? They’re all about you.”

“Yup,” he says. He stares at his sneakers.

“I’m sorry for the mix-up, Randall,” I say. “I still want to go out with you. Really.”

“You do?” Randall says. It’s not so much a question as an expression of disbelief.

“Yeah,” I say. “If you want to.”

“I feel bad about getting so upset with you,” he says. “On the boat. That was such a weird night. That Romantic Setting mojo, it’s really something.”

“It is,” I say.

“I apologize for that,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” I say. “But I like that you’re open with your feelings, Randall.” I take his hand, or he takes mine, I can’t tell which. “I like that about you.”

“But I should have trusted you more, too,” he says. “I should have, you know. Listened.”

Now we’re making as much eye contact as four eyes can make. “I wish we could start over,” Randall jokes. “Maybe we could go beat up some bad guys together. That seemed to work last time.”

I know he’s kidding, but boy, have I learned my lesson! When you’re trying too hard to make X happen, the trying only gets in the way.

“Forget that!” I say. “Why don’t we just go out for a burger or something? Hang out? See what happens.”

“Sounds good,” Randall says. “This afternoon I’m training at the dojo. How’s tomorrow? A burger at the Moonbeam after school? Maybe a walk in the park? The farmer’s market is open at Union Square. They sell really good apple cider donuts.”

“Perfect,” I say. “Donuts are perfect.”

I have to admit that Matthew and I did not win anything at the science fair. But guess who took first place?

Harold Johnston Mathis the Third, that’s who! Project Number Seventeen, “A Nonalcoholic Champagne Distillery,” was the surprise hit of the day. Seems that Trip has found a way to brew nonalcoholic champagne that is virtually indistinguishable from Veuve Clicquot.

To demonstrate this, Trip had to bring in a few cases of his dad’s best vintage champagne (marked “For Teachers Only,” of course). The judging faculty tasted Trip’s brew carefully but found it necessary to keep returning to the actual Veuve to maintain a basis of comparison. By the time they had to choose a winner for the science fair, the judges were unanimous in their selection of Project Number Seventeen and very, very happy.

“The worst thing about getting sober is the lack of champagne,” Trip explains, handing out cups of the bogus bubbly as all the Kittens and Dawgs gather round to congratulate him. “So I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

“Is this what you served on the Betty J?” I ask him, guzzling the tasty drink with abandon now that I know it’s only seltzer plus some mystery ingredients, including, apparently, pulverized Almond Joy bars and a sprinkling of burnt toast.

“Of course,” he says, handing cups to Deej and Jess.

“So why did Dmitri get drunk?” I ask. Surely the Romantic Setting couldn’t be THAT powerful.

Trip laughs and pours refills for everyone. “The mind is an amazing thing,” he says. “You just have to
believe
.”

As the crowd in the gymnasium disperses, my mom makes some lame joke about “staying too long at the fair” and says she’ll see me at home for dinner. But the real reason she’s booking out is that she’s meeting Frank at Starbucks for coffee. I heard her making plans on the phone this morning.

Go forth and X-iply, O blue-toed Cheryl!

Speaking of phone calls, my dad, who missed the science fair completely because he’s on his way to Singapore on one of his ultraglam business trips, actually remembered to call to say good luck even though it’s already tomorrow where he is, or yesterday, I forget which way the time travel works. He hasn’t mentioned Brearley since the salon. Maybe he realized my life is not such a mess after all, once he got a closer look at it. My life, I mean. My room, still a mess.

So Matthew and I, a little disappointed about not winning but superhappy for Trip and proud of our achievements nonetheless, get two take-out chais from the Moonbeam and go for a quiet, celebratory stroll in Madison Square Park.

We take possession of our usual bench, near the playground. Everything’s turning green in the park.

“Cheers,” Matthew says. “We did it.”

We sit and sip our chais. A pair of pigeons is squabbling over some old corn chips. Science is hard work, that’s for sure. I’m looking forward to getting back to my poetry.

A fresh slew of pigeons join the pair in front of us. They peck, strut, take to the air briefly, and settle down again in fresh configurations, black and white and gray and orange and piebald. It’s amazing how they all seem to know what to do and when to do it, without any talking or planning or instruction, without being given any data at all.

I watch the birds, and the new green grass. Nature poems would be fun, I think. Animals, plants. Weather. I’ll have to discuss this with Mr. Frasconi tomorrow.