Shrimp (5 page)

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soon after lunch when I was waiting outside the guidance counselor's office. I was filling out the paperwork that will allow me to get out of school early for my work-study job this semester (genius plan, CC, genius way to legally ditch school) when who should walk past me on the bench I was sitting on but Shrimp's brother's girlfriend, Delia; couldn't miss her carrot-colored frizz of hair anywhere. She doubled back. I don't know why she looked surprised to see me--I
do
go to this school, really--and anyway what was she doing here?

Much as I am in a major state of Shrimp longing, here was my first live person connection to him and I was mute paralyzed--what if she wasn't happy to see me? Shrimp and I parted on not-great terms, me accusing him of cheating with the Autumn girl and him accusing me of being a spaz
and
crushing on his older brother. Both of Shrimp's accusations were, in fact, true, but when I spent the better part of my New York summer working as a barista goddess in my half-bro Danny's West Village café, The Village Idiots, and telling the clientele the whole Shrimp saga, they had weighed in that I jumped to conclusions about Shrimp and Autumn. From what they heard, Shrimp didn't sound like the type of guy who would cheat.

Of course, if Shrimp hadn't been getting with Autumn
before
I accused him of it, that's not to say he didn't
after,
I HATE that! And I'm not just being a hypocrite considering I did have an almost-fling in NYC with Luis, pronounced
Loo-eese,
whose kisses are almost hotter than his six-pack abs, and with whom I had one physical encounter in which no actual penetration was involved so therefore, doesn't count. I really want to be crazy at just the thought of this

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Autumn wench's fingers so much as
touching
Shrimp.

I wonder if I am a stalker or have jealous, potential-homicidal-rage tendencies. That would suck.

But would a stalker get the kind of greeting that Delia heaped upon me? Delia is a dancer and the manager at the Java the Hut store in Ocean Beach, and she performed this ditzy-weird little plié of happiness before taking my hands to lift me from the bench. She wrapped me in a giant hug. "Look who's back," she said. "Cyd Charisse!"

I couldn't even be polite enough for small talk. I had to know: "Where is Shrimp!"

Delia smiled. "He's been in Papua New Guinea with his parents. They just finished up their overseas stint and they've all been doing some traveling in the South Pacific together. He'll be back in a couple weeks. They're coming home, too, supposedly for good. Wallace is inside talking to the guidance counselor about Shrimp's schoolwork and what he'll have to make up when he gets back."

I said, "So are their parents finishing up the Peace Corps thing?"

I heard a chuckle come from down the hall and there was Java, major
sigh,
Java with the mature Shrimp face and added height, the brown hair and brown eyes and surfer bod, Java who still smelled like peppermint tea. I tried not to let out an involuntary moan as he patted both my shoulders. He looked genuinely happy to see me.
Quel
relief.

"Peace Corps!" he said. His laugh sounded amused but a little bitter, too. "Shrimp didn't actually tell you our parents were in the Peace Corps, did he?" I shrugged. Shrimp never had said exactly, now that I thought about it. "Because I hardly think folks with their federal records

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would be invited into the Peace Corps." I swear Java was about to crack up at the idea.

Delia stuck her left hand out into the air, dangling the wedding finger, which had a shiny little diamond on it. "Guess what! Wallace and I are engaged!"

Holy shit! Delia was going to get a starter marriage of Java pressed against her bosom and wrapping her legs around him, all with the legal authorization of the State of California and the approval of God. Could she be any luckier?

Java said, "Yeah, we're getting married on New Year's Eve. We thought we'd do it at the beach, then we thought,
Ah, that's so tired, let's do this right--big flashy spectacle and all.
So we're having the ceremony and reception at a hotel on Nob Hill. We're on our way now to an appointment at the stationery store to look at invitations, then we're off to register at Tiffany and Crate & Barrel. You'll come to the wedding, right? You'll have a blast. Our wedding planner found us this tight swing band and great caterer and..."

And just like that, my formerly unquenchable Java lust/crush was not only quenched, but 99 percent obliterated. Wedding registries at Tiffany and Crate & Barrel? I'm like,
Wallace, DUDE, former SEX GOD, could you be any more bourgeois?
The remaining 1 percent of my crush can remain, out of respect for the sheer gorgeousness that is Java.

Shrimp and I will probably never get married, although hopefully we will live in glorious sin together for many years. We will live in a giant loft overlooking Ocean Beach with a huge bed in the middle with mosquito netting hanging from the ceiling, wrapping the bed into a swirl cocoon that's as cute as it is unnecessary. Our loft will have a telescope at the

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windows where Shrimp and I will stand naked in the midnight moonlight, looking out over the roaring Pacific and trying to spot shooting stars. There will be an art studio space in one corner for Shrimp, and in the opposite corner will be a giant espresso machine, one of those Eye-talian ones, along with an industrial-size KitchenAid mixer, like Danny has, for me to make coffees and bake treats for whomever wants to come over and hang and do art and be all salon-ness but never
FAB-u-lous.
Shrimp and I will never get bored with each other or buy into the bourgeois institution of marriage.

Sid and Nancy are married, but theirs seems more like a marriage of convenience--she gets his wealthy lifestyle; he gets a beautiful trophy wife. They bicker all the time, but I guess in some ways they love each other-- although I
really
hope they're not having sex anymore. The only people I know who really love each other and are friends and life partners and soul mates as much as they are lovers are my brother Danny and his boyfriend, Aaron. And they can't get married in the United States, like all official and legal, even though they're like responsible, recycling, tax-paying citizens. What kind of fucked-up logic is that?

Java and Delia were so excited I didn't want to interrupt them as they yammered on about their wedding of the century, but I really wanted to cross-examine them like in a courtroom drama. When
exactly
is Shrimp coming home? If your parents aren't building bridges or whatever in the Peace Corps, just what
were
they doing south of the equator? Please state for the record,
does
Shrimp miss me,
does
he want me back?
What
is the deal with this Autumn person?

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Java and Delia's wedding plans were so fantastically boring I wasn't annoyed that my cell phone was vibrating inside my pocket. I thought,
If it's Nancy--voicemail, anyone else--jackpot.

And since it was not Nancy, I answered the phone. The caller was Sid-dad's secretary, giving me instructions on where to show up for my work-study job. The plan is I'll spend the semester helping with administrative work at the cafeteria at Sid-dad's company. It's not as good a job as being a barista, but hopefully I will learn about running a food business. But wait a minute--did the secretary actually say the board just decided to close down the cafeteria and now Sid-dad wants me to work at some new restaurant he's invested in--the same one where Alexei the Horrible will be spending his semester off? Was it static on the cell phone, or did I actually hear her say the words, "Everyone here just
loves
Alexei--such a great guy. Your father is so pleased about this project and that you'll be working with Alexei."

So much for my genius plan to get out of school early two days a week. Now I know Ash got not only her innocent baby face from Sid-dad, but also her evil scheming abilities.

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*** Chapter 6

If I thought
I was embarrassed to be picked up from school last year by Fernando in the Mercedes sedan, I had a nice surprise coming. Far more embarrassing was having my mother pick me up after school.

Helen and I were sitting at the MUNI stop outside school, waiting for the bus. I was twirling my hair through my fingers, remembering how Shrimp used to love doing that to my hair, and Helen had her sketch pad on her lap, drawing her Ball Hunter comic. Ball Hunter has just discovered that a tourist taking pictures every day at the same spot in front of the Legion of Honor is actually a radical ecoterrorist plotting to destroy the Rodin sculpture outside the museum and replace the courtyard space with a greenhouse. Ball Hunter has alerted the G-men, but they're not taking him seriously. Ball Hunter is going to have to take care of this one himself.

A black Mercedes SUV stopped at the street corner alongside where we were sitting. The passenger's-side window came down. Helen looked at the driver of the car and groaned. "Oh, one of
those
people. Perfect blond driver lady there probably got lost after her Pilates class and needs directions back to The Marina. I HATE those SUV people."

Perfect blond SUV driver lady said, "Hop in, Cyd Charisse. Did you listen to the voice-mail message I left you earlier today? I forgot to tell you that your doctor's appointment is this afternoon, so I just came for you myself."

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"Mom!" I said, mortified. I hadn't listened to her message.

Helen's eyes opened wide. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't realize. Call me later." Helen and I may be new instafriends, but I haven't known her long enough to expose her to my family or its lifestyle, so I guess I couldn't be mad at her for unwittingly dissing my mom. But hey, my mom is the one taking me to the gynecologist to talk about birth control. Helen's mom doesn't even want girls going to her room.

I hopped into the SUV Nancy drove on, gulping back a vitamin water. She said, "Do you want me to come in with you? Not for the exam, but to talk with the doctor."

"No," I said, almost in a whisper.

One of the prices of our new peace is we are supposed to start family counseling together, so I don't need her in the gyno office with me too. I can take only so much torture. My mother just recently found out, while we were in New York, about what really happened between me and Justin, my boarding school ex, before I got expelled from that school, about how he left me to go to the clinic alone, as if the problem was only mine. And while I'm grateful Nancy forgot to tell me the day of the gyno appointment, because it is probably going to be insufferable and painful having my mind and womb prodded so I'm glad I didn't have time to dread it, Nancy has yet to see through making an appointment for both of us with a shrink type. My personal theory is there's major drama to be mined from
her
teenage years back in Minnesouda and maybe she's not in such a rush to follow through on the counseling part of the Little Meltdown Incident follow-up plan.

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"What?" Nancy said. "I can't hear you."

The driver ahead of us whom Nancy had just unsuccessfully tried to cut off gave her the finger from the driver's-side window. I repeated, "NO," to Nancy's question, but louder, then wanted to get off the topic so I said, "Dad is making me work with Alexei. Can I get another work-study job?"

Nancy flipped the bird back to the driver ahead; with her soft pink hand of French-manicured nails and whopping wedding ring rock, the act almost looked pretty. She said, "Don't talk to me about the work-study job--take it up with your father. I'm surprised, though--I thought you'd like working with Alexei. Aren't you all about cute boys?" She giggled--seriously, gross. "Oh, I forgot. Alexei is Public Enemy Number One. God forbid you should think well of a boy at an Ivy League college, one with goals who eats nutritiously and..."
Eats nutritiously?
What does that have to do with anything? Like, where do my mother's brain cells come from? "I didn't like you being on a work-study arrangement, anyway. You barely have enough credits to graduate as it is and the classes you do have are not exactly college-preparation level. But take it up with Dad; he always takes your side, anyway. You two voted me off the island on the work-study issue so I'm staying out of it."

Nancy pulled up in front of a medical building off Fillmore Street. She said, "Go on up. I'll park the car and wait for you at Peet's Coffee on Fillmore. The doctor's office has all your information already, and I've talked to the doctor on the phone about your... um... issues. So, you know, she knows what's going on." Nancy seemed as embarrassed now as I.

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I said, "Does Dad know?" It's weird enough that my mom knows about my... urn... issues, but it's also a relief. But if Sid-dad knew too, maybe I wouldn't be his pet anymore. Cupcake daughters don't have abortions when they're barely sixteen years old.

"No," Nancy said. Her tone held an unspoken threat, like she had done me this favor of not telling him--but she still could.

Nancy reached behind her seat and handed me a package. "Here," she said. "Something nice to open while you're waiting in the doctor's office. It's never fun to wait for an appointment with the gynecologist, but it will be fine. Trust me, it's not bad at all, and you'll be amazed how relieved you feel after."

The package was postmarked from Papua New Guinea. I jumped out of the car, ran into the building, and tore open the box. Inside was a painting on the backside piece of a Cheerios box, cut to the size of a 4-by-6 photo. It was a Picasso-style painting, picturing a headless, wet-suited male upper body that was tenderly holding a female head in its arms. When I looked closer and saw the long black hair, the pale skin, and the dark lips, I realized the head was mine.

That picture had to be the best incentive I could ever have to bolt up to the gynecologist's office.

I do appreciate about my mother that she knew that after the whole experience the place I would most want to meet her would be at Peet's, the thinking person's Starbucks. When I got there I ordered a straight double shot in honor of Shrimp, who drinks his espresso straight up and says that lattes and capps are the equivalent of stupid yuppie mixed