Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love (2 page)

(Et sweatera, by the way, is Kat’s expression for when you’re giving a recital and you’re nervous and can’t stop sweating and so you put on a sweater over your sleeveless gown to hide the sweat and that just makes it worse, et sweatera.)

Mom sees my panic attack and sighs. “There are thirty other decks here, Felicia, what’s the big deal?”

Can you understand why I might not have shared with Motherdear that my friends and I call ourselves the Sex Kittens? Mom is cool, but no mom is THAT cool.

Before I can say anything, she puts her hands over my eyes. “Here,” she says. “Calm down for a minute. Say to yourself, ‘The Kitten deck already gave me its gift. Now I’m ready for fresh wisdom.’ ”

“Kittengiftreadyfreshwisdom,” I mumble.

“Choose a new deck. No peeking,” she says, clamping her hands tighter over my eyes.

I reach my hands out, run my fingertips over the shrink-wrapped boxes. I stop, exhale. “This one,” I say. The Oracle isn’t gone, I tell myself. It’s just changed portals. My questions will be answered and everything will be fine and Matthew will
lovemelovemeloveme
. . . .

“The Tarot of Hollywood Stars!” Mom says, handing me the box. There’s a picture of Clint Eastwood on the cover. Obviously, the Death card.

“Ewwww,” I say.

“Don’t judge.” Mom smooches me on the head. “Be open. You’ll learn something.” Mom considers “being open” one of the cardinal virtues. This was a big problem in her relationship with Dad. Dad is not “open” enough for her.

Near the front of the store, a customer is struggling to get one of the big laminated acupuncture charts down off a high shelf. “I gotta go,” says Mom, tearing the shrink-wrap off the deck and handing it to me. “Have fun.”

The Tarot of Hollywood Stars? Puh-leeze. I’m this-close to putting the deck back on the shelf and going home and writing some really stalkerish love poems, just for spite. But—what’s the harm in choosing a card or two?

I close my eyes and shuffle. I think of Matthew, and I ask: sick obsession, or lovahDawg of destiny? I turn over a card.

Johnny Depp. Frikkin cute, that Johnny Depp. I read:

THE OBJECT OF YOUR DESIRE SEEMS PERFECT AND UNATTAINABLE. NEITHER IS TRUE. SEEK THE SUBSTANCE BENEATH A CAREFULLY CONSTRUCTED IMAGE.

Huh. A simple yes or no would have been good. Seek the substance. Do they mean chocolate? Get serious, Felicia, this is MATTHEW we’re talking about!

I think of Matthew: his cool gray eyes, the silky hair that falls in his face a hundred times a day, the way he murmurs little secret things to the rabbits he keeps at school.

I concentrate, close my eyes, choose another card.

The Olsen twins. Feh. This deck is an embarrassment to all things esoteric. But I read:

IN ORDER TO MAKE TWO INTO ONE, ABANDON YOUR FIXED IDEAS. INSTEAD, SEE THE WORLD THROUGH THE EYES OF YOUR PARTNER. A FRESH APPROACH IS NEEDED.

Okay, a fresh approach, but what-what-WHAT? A clue, s’il vous plaît! One more card and that’s it; this is making me even more mental and that was not my goal.

I think of Matthew: it’s like there is some mysterious THING that I am so PATHETICALLY LACKING that, if I could only figure out what it is and
get
some, would change everything and then Matthew would love me like I love him, happy ending and fade out in a little heart shape.

Is there such a thing? And if so, what is it?

I choose a third card.

It’s Meg Ryan.

Meg Ryan. I thought we said Hollywood STARS. This must be an old deck. I look for the text.

There is no text.

But all the cards have text.

ALL THE CARDS EXCEPT MEG RYAN.

“Get off the phone, honey, the movie’s gonna start!”

“So what does that mean?—just PAUSE it, Mom!—I mean, no text at all? That’s weird, right?”

Jess is on the other end of the phone, listening patiently to my hysteria. She was not nearly as disturbed as I was about the Kitten deck being sold. In fact, she seemed to find it wonderfully mysterious.

“I don’t know, Fee.” Jess is the only person who calls me Fee. It saves her time, which is important to her. “I guess it means you have to figure it out yourself.”

“That is some lazy-butted Oracle, then!”

“Felicia!”
Mom’s patience has run out.

“Okay, okay, gotta go. See ya tomorrow.”

“Okay. And, hey, Fee—happy Valentine’s Day!”

I hang up the phone. Ohmigod.

Ohmiblessedinnergoddessarchetypewithinthat’sinsideme.

Why does today have to be Valentine’s Day?

Not just because today is the day the true Oracle abandoned me and sent a bunch of cheesy Hollywood has-beens in its place, except for Johnny Depp, who is a cupcake.

And not just because I’ve been CRAZY-IN-LOVE-WITH-MATTHEW-DWYER for six months and there is nothing to show for it except my own increasingly dubious mental state, plus ten zillion poems that are—sorry, Mr. Frasconi—not about animals.

No, my question is more general. Why does it have to be Valentine’s Day, EVER?

Isn’t February bad enough? It’s dark and cold and slushy and yucky, even in my beloved Big Frozen Apple, and then comes this pointless annual exercise in cruelty and mockery, which I do my best to block out. (Recall how, during my tête-à-tête-à-tête with the Kittens today, I never mentioned the little red foil hearts strung around the Moonbeam? Or the single red roses in bud vases, pathetically wilting on each table? Or how our Moonie had red glitter stuck to her cheek in a foolish little heart shape? That’s because I didn’t see any of it, that’s how powerful my blocking mechanism is. Yes, impressive, I know.)

Valentine’s Day, date-night U.S.A. for the boyfriended, how nice for them, on a Thursday night the calendar says I should be having dinner with my dad. But this week he and “Laura” are off snorkeling in Bermuda, how extremely nice for them, while Mom and I sit here in our no-boys-allowed East Village chick pad with our spoils from Blockbuster:
Terminator 2,
in which a single mom with no body fat whups everybody’s ass, hmmm, I wonder why Motherdear never tires of it?

Did I mention cruelty and mockery? As I hang up with Jess and plop my butt on the phuton couch (Jess once read an old novel where sofa was spelled “sopha” throughout, so now we spell futon “phuton”), I can see that, appallingly, the
Terminator
tape has started with a trailer for some mushy looooooooove movie. Like that’s really what I need to be seeing right now.

“
Sleepless in Seattle
! This must be an old tape,” Mom says, crunching on some popcorn. “All the DVDs were out, can you believe it?” Sure I can. It means we’re not the only losers—sorry, people—in New York City who are home watching movies tonight.

Wait. Waitwaitwait. Sleepless in SEATTLE?

Isn’t that a MEG RYAN movie?

It is—there she is, all tiny and love-struck on the TV screen, all young and goofy and pretty, her hair all freakishly fluffy in that Meg Ryan way!

This Kitten ZAPS to attention. My arms go goose bumpy. The Oracle is about to speak!

I concentrate as hard as I can on my question: what is the thing that would make Matthew
lovemelovemeloveme
if I weren’t so pathetically lacking whatever this thing is? And does such a thing even exist, and what is it, and HOW DO I GET IT? Okay, three questions, but whatever! Speak, Oracle! I’m listening!

“Meg Ryan has IT.” Mom’s mouth is full of popcorn, but I could swear that’s what she said.

“Meg Ryan has what?” I ask, trying so very hard to sound casual. Mom chews. I want to yank the bowl of popcorn away. Oracles should not talk with their mouths full.

Mom picks a little kernel off her front tooth. Gross, Mom.

“You know. IT,” she says. “The X-factor of love. Ohhhhh, yes. Meg Ryan is the walking embodiment.” My mom says things like “walking embodiment” the way other people say “nice day, isn’t it?” I actually admire that about her.

“Think of any Meg Ryan movie,” she goes on, waxing profound. “As soon as she comes on-screen, it’s like a flock of demented Disney lovebirds start fluttering around her. The lighting gets woozy, the music swells. Is there ANY chance this woman is NOT going to get the guy she wants? I mean, come on!”

Mom takes another sip of Shiraz. I say this not to suggest that she is a drinker of any repute, because she is so totally not. But she’s on a bit of a roll about this Meg Ryan thing, and the half-glass of wine she’s consumed in preparation for our Valentine’s extravaganza is no doubt making some small contribution. That and the fact that she’s serving as a mouthpiece for the Great Beyond.

I, meanwhile, am truly impressed at the way the Oracle has taken possession of my mother AND my TV. The answer to my question is coming through loud as a rock drummer and clear as Sprite (insert Booming Oracular Voice here): “Yes, Felicia, there is an IT! A love catnip! An X-factor of loooooove!”

I began wondering what Matthew (O be mine!) Dwyer is doing right this very Valentine’s minute. Oh, the love catnip I would waggle under his precious nose, if only I had some—

Mom looks at me, oozing maternitude. “But that’s just in the movies, honey,” she coos, leaning in—is this her talking, or the Greater Forces of All-Knowingness? “Real life,” she intones, “is more complicated.”

My goose bumps fade. I’m 99 percent sure that was Mom talking; I can tell by the way she sinks back on the phuton with that pleased, I’ve-Bonded-with-My-Teenage-Daughter expression on her face. The Oracle has shaddup and the Feature Presentation is about to begin.
Mominator 2
.

Mom says every line before the characters do, and chuckles to herself afterward. This is what passes for entertainment around here. I’m only pretending to watch the movie, because all my inward energies are scrunched in a ball, playing and replaying the mysterious Meg Ryan message:

IT . . .

Love catnip . . .

The X-factor of loooooove . . .

Before you can say Ahhhhhnold, Humanity has been saved from the Machines once more, and Maman is rinsing out her wineglass and yawning and giving me the old tapping-her-watch, meaningful Mom-eye. As if she had not recently served as a popcorn-chewing bullhorn for the Great Beyond!

I have some serious thinking to do, so I smooch the old girl good night and retire for the evening. This involves walking exactly eight steps, through the Living/Dining/Home Office/Multipurpose Space that is the main part of our apartment, through the short hallway, and into the little bathroom with the pull-chain light, and then into My Own Room.

(Mom sleeps on a Murphy bed in the L/D/ HO/Multipurpose Et sweatera, and she is a total sweetie pie to let me have the bedroom. “A girl your age needs privacy, so you can develop your
autonomy,
” she has said on more than one occasion. Autonomy has nothing to do with getting a car, but we city folk prefer the trains and buses anyway. Why travel alone?)

I sleep on a twin-size phuton with midnight blue sheets and a crimson velvet bedspread that I think was a stage curtain once. I dig around for my stretched-out black yoga pants and an ancient Hello Kitty T-shirt, grab my notebook and favorite pen, and climb into bed.

Now to work. The X-factor of love DEFINITELY exists, the Oracle made that as plain as a pair of chinos from Land’s End. But what is it? And how do I get some?

I start to make notes. Johnny Depp. The Olsen twins. Meg Ryan.

See the world through the eyes of your partner. . . . A fresh
approach is needed. . . .

But how can I see the world through Matthew’s eyes? All he cares about is science!

Felicia’s Private Kitten Directive Number Tensythirteen: When in doubt, sleep on it. Answers often come in dreams.

Here’s the poem I wrote that night, before I fell asleep. It does not even pretend to be an animal poem.

Love makes people nervous wrecks.
You often see them cryin’.
Their love connection disconnects,
And not for lack of tryin’.
It’s like there is some evil hex
That turns true love to lyin’.
If only we could all ooze X,
Just like Meg Ryan.

2

Against All Advice, I Tell Matthew
That I Have Something to Tell Him

L
et us pause for a moment and be thankful for dreams, visions, and the restorative powers of sleep.

Thank you.

And for the fact that there are no coincidences.

Thank YOU!

For Mere Coincidence could NEVER explain how, this morning, as I yawned and stretched and rummaged through my stage-curtain bedspread for my notebook, the sunlight that comes through the narrow window above my bed only for an hour a day and only during the winter months, when the sun lines up just so with the crack between the two tenements behind our building (our own East Village Stonehenge, Mom likes to joke)—what else but FATE could possibly explain how those scarce and carefully timed photons (as opposed to phutons!) zoomed through the glass and cut a beam of bright, dancing dust particles in the air before landing precisely on the life-changing words I scribbled last night, like a sunshine yellow Highlighter of Destiny:

But how can I see the world through Matthew’s eyes? All he
cares about is science!

And twin thank-yous to you and you, Ashley and Mary-Kate Olsen!
Merci, merci
for the following invaluable tip!

In order to make two into one . . . see the world through the
eyes of your partner. . . .

Matthew and I will be sure to invite both of you to the wedding.

To review: I am, first and foremost, a poet.

But in the case of Me and Matthew, it will not be a sonnet or a limerick or a haiku, not Shakespeare or Emily Dickinson or even Anonymous who will provide the Secret Decoder Ring of Loooooooooove.

It will be SCIENCE.

WHAT IS X?

X (also known as IT, but X sounds more
Scientific and that is the KEY!) is the
thing that makes Love Work Out. X is what
makes soulmates recognize each other
across crowded rooms and turns just-friends into the love-of-my-life, never
had a fight and pass me another slice of
that 50
^th
anniversary cake, puh-leeze!
Most importantly, X is what gives a Sex
Kitten guaranteed, ongoing proximity to a
Horn Dawg. The math on this is très simple:

Kitten + Dawg + X
= strolling in the park As One,
hand snuggling in hand
= lunching together in the cafeteria,
tray nuzzling against tray
= being envied by the envious throngs
who think of you as a Permanently
Melded Couple— FeliciaMatthew, or
MatthewFelicia, for example.

X is a Total Mystery, an Unnamed Source,
a Top Secret Classified Document with
all the juicy parts crossed out. X has
blocked its Caller ID and hangs up before leaving a message.

BUT by using the cold, rational, completely objective tools of SCIENTIFIC
research, I am going to unmask the mean
ing of X and discover the Secret of Love.

And Matthew Dwyer, Boy Scientist and
GeniusDawg of Data, is going to help me.

P.S. He does not know this. Yet.
I’m going to tell him today.

“You’re going to do WHAT?”

Jess is looking at me with those alarmingly raised eyebrows. Her mouth is open, too, in a perfectly round shape. She looks like a cartoon of a surprised person.

Kat has remembered that she no longer chews her hair. She is now sucking on the tassel of her scarf. “You are too much, Felicia,” she says. “Too. Much.” This is tough talk from Kat, who thinks more but says less than most people.

I knew Jess and Kat would need some time to rally round the Scientific Search for X. Early this morning, after my visit from the Yellow Highlighter of Destiny and before I got in the shower, I dashed off the first draft of my X-cellent Manifesto (see above) and e-mailed the Kittens a sneak preview. With fingers Xed, you might say, since I know my worried pals are reaching the limits of their patience when it comes to my obsess— whoops, my feelings about Matthew.

“I guess you got my e-mail,” I say in my what’s-the-big-deal voice. Now truly fearing for my sanity, Jess and Kat have intercepted me at Third Avenue where the M15 bus lets me off. We’re rounding the corner of East Nineteenth and Irving Place, right at the point where the Pound comes into view.

It’s a bright, sparkly winter morning, and the sun is melting what’s left of the snow into dirt-flavored Slurpee. The Pound has these funny curved windows up the front of its five brownstone stories. If the light is in the right place and you squint, it looks like the building is smiling at you, like the man in the moon smiles at you wherever you go. The building looks like that now. I take that as a good sign.

But Jess is not smiling. Those expressive eyebrows have furrowed low over her darkest brown, almost black eyes. Jess sometimes looks like Little Orphan Annie, with her frizzed reddish-brown hair and dot eyes. I mean that in a good way. She’d never describe herself as cute, but she is, even when she’s stomping through slush and ranting, like so:

“Fee, LISTEN. I think you are making a BIG mistake. Number one, you are obsessed.”

“People go insane,” adds Kat.

“Number two, once you TELL him, you can never UN-tell him! You will have to LIVE with the consequences of this CONFESSION until we are SENIORS!” I think she means senior year, but Jess is always so EMPHATIC in her OPINIONS that maybe she means senior citizens. ( Jess is planning to go to law school someday so she can make the world a better place. I think it’s a FINE plan.)

Kat is staring at her boots as if they’re interesting. She glances up at me—up from the boots, I mean, but actually down, since she’s a good five inches taller than me.

“I just don’t know, Felicia,” she says, barely audible.

Which is the last straw. Enough! “Look,” I say. “The Search for X is NOT what you think!”

What I want to say is this:

Hear me, O Kittens! Is it right that I should spend these precious days of my fourteenth year moping, pining, wondering, and waiting for a smoke signal of looooove from Matthew Dwyer, Dawg-o’-my-dreams?

Is it fair that I should be exerting so much of my Kittenpowers purring hopefully in his direction, with only the most feeble of tail wags in return?

No. It is not. So I have to DO something. Even the Oracle thinks so. Anything would be better than this LIFE OF TORMENT.

But that sounds so deeply loseresque, so what I actually say is: “Yes! I’m going to tell Matthew how I feel about him. But it’s not the pathetic stalker move it sounds like!”

We’ve arrived at the Pound. The Free Children are milling about, trying to make wet gray snowballs out of the mush. Kat is looking at her feet again. Miss Jessica Kornbluth for the Prosecution has crossed her arms. That’s never a good sign.

“And even if it is, it’s for the sake of science!” I blather on. “Matthew’s a scientist. This is something that will add to the body of human knowledge. I’m sure he’ll totally understand.” And not think I’m a geeky, X-deficient loser, I neglect to add—out loud, anyway.

Neither Jess nor Kat is looking at me at all now. They’re both focusing on something a little above and behind my right shoulder.

“And NOT think I’m a geeky, X-deficient LOSER!” I decide to say, borrowing some of Jess’s emphaticness for emphasis.

“Hey.” It’s a Dawgvoice. “Hi, Jessica. Hi, Katarina.”

I’m wondering exactly what shade of red my face is, but it’s a moot point, since you can’t RIP your face off your head and hide it in your backpack, even if you desperately want to for some humiliating reason.

“Hi, Felicia,” says the Dawgvoice.

Exhale a whew of relief! It’s only Randall. Randall is perfectly nice but dull, the sort of person you would not even notice except he’s best friends and Dawgbuddies with Matthew Dwyer. On his own merits, Randall’s not the sort of Dawg your face should get red about saying something stupid in front of.

(Mr. Frasconi would prefer I say Randall’s not the sort of Dawg in front of whom your face should get red. But I like it better my way.)

Nope, Randall’s definitely not the sort of Dawg whose unexpected arrival would make your cheeks turn strawberry ice cream color, but not cool like ice cream, more hot like tomato soup, no matter how much of a fool you might have just been acting like (sorry, Mr. F!).

Unless, of course, shoot-me-now Matthew Dwyer was standing RIGHT BEHIND HIM.

Yes, there’s my cutieDawg standing there, skinny and slouched like a greyhound in the cold morning sun. Hair the color of winter grass in Central Park, and soft as a rabbit’s ear. At least, I imagine it is. I’ve never actually touched Matthew’s hair.

Jess and Kat are looking at me with that mixture of horror and fascination usually reserved for watching reality television. Now that she’s eaten a teacup full of slugs, what will that madcap Felicia do next? I do not disappoint.

“Hey, Matthew.”

“Hey,” he says.

“Listen,” I say, smiling the smile of a used-car salesman with a lemon to unload, the useless, nothing-left-to-lose smile of a death row inmate slurping down one final milk shake. “I have a really cool idea for a, um, science thing. Can I talk to you about it?”

At the words “science thing,” Matthew perks up like a puppy that just spotted his lost chew toy under the phuton.

“What is it?” he says in his yummy, quiet voice.

“Are you gonna be in the lab later? It’s kind of complicated. I’ll come by and we can—”

I pause for effect, and also to enjoy the sight of Jess sputtering and Kat, who generally avoids eye contact, just outright staring at me. “You know.
Talk
about it.”

Matthew nods. “Sure. I have to clean all the rabbit cages today, so I’ll be there, like, all afternoon.”

Okay cool, cool, later, see ya later. Phase one is complete! How easy is this? X, prepare to surrender your mystery. The Secret of Love is an onion that just lost one layer of skin.

This afternoon, I will go to the lab, and there, as we breathe in the fragrant bunny-turd aroma of the rabbit hutches, I will tell Matthew all the things that I have, um, decided to tell him.

Felicia’s Private Kitten Directive Number Gazillion: When your Kittenpals tell you you’re insane, YOU ARE.

I AM INSANE.

Uh, Jess? Kat?

WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP ME???????