Storky (2 page)

HERE LIES STORKY.

 

3 people at 3 separate times found out my last name today and went, “Are you
Amanda’s
little brother?” like they couldn’t believe it, that I’m such a dork when she’s the Queen of Popularville.

0 people ate lunch with me today. I wish Brian was here. Nothing like your best friend moving out of San Diego the week before school starts. If Brian was still around, I’d be in his kitchen right now trolling for junk food. Not sitting in my bedroom typing this stuff on the computer about my crappy day.

I only started this journal to have something in common with Gina and to let her know I’m a sensitive guy. But I got kind of addicted to it. Kind of. Like a heroin addict kind of needs drugs.

I wonder if Gina’s doing her journal right now too, using that pink diary I gave her last year for her birthday. I can just imagine her hunched over it, sitting cross-legged on her bed in a little white lace nightie.

No. Better picture her fully clothed at her desk. Otherwise Rex might go nuts in my pajama bottoms and I won’t be able to concentrate on my journal. Or anything else.

Okay, now I’m imagining Gina in gray sweatpants and a big black jacket. Oops. Not leather. Something ugly. Polyester. Good Rex.

Maybe right now Gina’s twisting her hair as she writes about her perfect, nickname-less, friend-filled day. And her major crush on me. Yeah, right. Minor crush? Not even.

Dad came 21 minutes late and took me out for Spanish food. He said, “Mercedes Bonnafeux gave this a 4-fork rating on the radio last week.” And I’m like, Ugh, another foodie restaurant. I didn’t say that. Just thought it. I’d rather go to a movie or bowling, so you don’t have to talk so much.

We sat at the table wracking our brains for stuff to say. At least I did. He mostly chewed on octopus legs, checked out his Rolex, and watched the front door.

Finally, Dad’s newest bimbo delight showed up. I call her The Thighmaster, because she’s always groping Dad’s leg. She makes her living getting rid of ladies’ hair. Facial and pubic. That’s just weird. Brian said they put hot wax over ladies’ pubes, let it dry, and then pull it off. Ow! Why would anyone want to do that? I’m glad I’m not a girl. The Thighmaster’s job sounds like the worst in the world, besides the guy who cleans up the animal crap at the petting zoo. And substitute teachers.

Dad managed to work in his story again about playing college football against Boomer Esiason, how he intercepted Boomer’s big pass in the last quarter of the game. I can quote him on it by now. “And when I took that ball and turned it around, Boomer looked like his mother had just died on him. He’s probably still not over it yet.” Then he always ends with this deep chuckle.

Got to hand it to The Thighmaster though. She goes, “Who’s Boomer Esiason?”

She practically sat on Dad’s lap, stroking his chest while she talked nonstop. Mostly yakking about some friend who got her ankle tattooed in Tijuana. That got her lifting up her sundress to show off the Minnie Mouse tattoo on her thigh, and her and Dad giggling like morons.

That’s when I started thinking about
Home Improvement
, how great it would be to live with both your parents, no sisters in the house, just working on cars every day after school with your dad while your mom made cookies.

I guess if I lifted weights, or played a sport, or at least wasn’t a nerd, Dad wouldn’t need his girlfriends for company on Sunday nights.

NOTE TO SELF: Memorize map of school. So you don’t have to stare at it while you’re walking. Because you could bump into people. Like 2 huge lardheads. And they could try to give you a wedgie. They could in fact succeed. You could still be sore 9½ hours later.

Remember to call said lardheads in 10 years if you need pool service for your humongous swimming pool with the swim-up bar and Jacuzzi. Because that’s probably the kind of career they’ll have. Pool men. While you’ll be either the Voice of the Padres, a Humvee/Ferrari dealer, or
Playboy
’s talent scout.

Mom completely humiliated me at my dentist’s office today. She just had to bring her Rules of Evidence flashcards into his waiting room. And she wore her USD Law T-shirt with the toothy guy chasing an ambulance on it. It wouldn’t be too bad if you were 25, but not if you’re 40 and all the other moms are in polo shirts or suits, reading
Good Housekeeping
and
People
. I bet she’s the oldest person in her entire law school.

Then I had to see the annoying Dr. Berman. As I laid back on the chair, he put his pudgy hand through my hair and goes, “Let’s take a look at those teeth, Mikey.”

I don’t like people messing with my hair, except girls, maybe. Plus he still calls me Mikey and I haven’t been Mikey in 8 years.

But what really bugged is that after he pushed me off to his assistant, he must have headed right for Mom. When I came back to the waiting room, he goes, “Bye, Geraldine, study hard. See you Friday.”

And Mom goes, “Okay, Howard, 8 o’clock.” Then she giggled and thanked him for helping her with her flashcards.

Yes, my life has gotten even worse. Mom now has a date with my fat dentist.

Turns out Gina’s going on a date too. Will my good luck streak never end?

I biked to her house after school. She looked gorgeous as usual. And patriotic. She wore this American flag halter top that was so tight the stripes were all curvy.

I stood at her door listing 2-letter Scrabble words in my head, the only way I could keep Rex calm in my Fruit of the Looms.

She went on and on about this guy who asked her out at lunch today. Gina automatically went to the A-list table the first week of high school. Since Brian moved away, I have no one to sit with. It sucks.

“He’s 16,” she said as I thought of
pa, pe
, and
pi
. “He has his own car.” She did her adorable pout and goes, “How could he be interested in me?”

I go, “He’ll love you. You were so popular in middle school, and everyone thinks you’re cute.” Then she smiled and said, “You think?” I wanted to be honest. To say, I think you’re the most beautiful girl in the universe, and your smile is killing me. Instead I nodded and asked if she did all the Encouraged Reading.

She’s like, “What?” I said, “You know, in the orientation handbook?
The Pearl, Wuthering Heights, Waiting for Godot
. I read one a week this summer.”

Couldn’t figure out her reaction. She just looked at me with her pretty little mouth open. Awed by Captain Sensitive? Did she think to herself, Michael Pomerantz might seem kind of dorky on the outside, but the inside is what counts, and he’s the most deep, insightful, literary, just plain sensitive person I’ve ever met. Especially for a male. In a heterosexual way, of course. I can’t wait to see what other parts of him are sensitive.

Or with my luck, Gina was merely stunned by my dweebosity. Not that I could focus on her feelings with her in that halter top.

Now I can, typing my journal. Sometimes I think the only reason me and Gina are friends is because we’ve been friends since fourth grade, when we were the only kids pulled out for gifted class. Which mostly meant skipping spelling tests so we could build giant molecules and play Mancala while the gifted teacher read the
National Enquirer
.

Wait. That’s not the only reason Gina likes me. I’m the guy she can play Scrabble with, or use 4-syllable words around, or bitch about Honors Algebra to. She gets to act smart around me. Little does she know I keep picturing her naked.

So she told me this dude plays football and he’s a junior and his nickname is Hunk. Hunk? Why not just Brute, or Hulk, or Thug? “And,” Gina says, “he has the most exquisite gray eyes and really, really big calf muscles.” Too much information.

I told her our football team is supposed to suck this year, even worse than last year. But that just kept her in Hunk mode, how he asked her to watch his practice, how he worked out all summer so he could make varsity, blah blah blah, and I said I had to go. A guy like me doesn’t have a chance with a girl like her. Yeah, I’m Gina’s dream date—Brillo pad hair, beak nose, and all.

 

 

In Honors English today, Ms. Dore was droning on about
The Great Gatsby
, how it’s supposed to be this great romantic book. Yawn, yawn, yawn. All the sudden Ms. Dore shut up, walked over to Heather Kvaas, and snatched a note right out of her hand. After she read it, she marched down the aisle and gave it to me. Gina let out this loud gasp and everyone laughed. Ms. Dore went back to the chalkboard and continued droning.

Gina had written “Gina Harrison” 9 times on top of the note. Like she’s going to marry Hunk Harrison and it takes so much preparation to get used to the name, she’s got to write it 9 times a day. Underneath she wrote, “Heather, should I tell Mike P. (Storky) about his fly?”

I looked down and there it was, unzipped. My briefs were poking out. One of the pairs dyed pink in the laundry last month. I shot a look at Gina, and she was totally staring at me. But she turned away as soon as I looked at her. I closed my fly so fast it’s lucky Rex didn’t get caught in the zipper.

How long was my fly open? All day? Through lunch? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Maybe no one noticed. Who noticed, I wonder? Gina did. Why was Gina looking at my crotch anyway? Maybe that’s a good thing. But she called me Storky. I hope she never ever brings this up, ever. I don’t think I can talk to her for a long time. Not that we speak much anyway.

Mom’s on her date. She already broke one of Amanda’s Cardinal Rules of Dating. She’s out with someone who didn’t ask her at least a week in advance. According to my sister, asking a girl out for less than a week before is like telling her you know she has nothing else to do. If Justin Timberlake asked Amanda out for 6 days from now, she’d probably turn him down.

That’s not a problem for me, considering I’ve never asked a girl out. And I guess it’s not a problem for Amanda either, being so hot. But Mom hasn’t been on one date since the Divorce, so if she said no, she might have to wait another 2 years.

Another Cardinal Rule of Dating is never let a guy be more than 15 minutes late. Twice I saw Amanda refuse to answer the door when a guy exceeded the 15-minute limit. I know I’ll never be late to pick up a girl. Well, like 5 minutes late. Amanda says it’s wimpy to get there exactly on time.

Dr. Vermin came 19 minutes late. Even with aftershave on, he still smelled like dental office. He wore his hair all slicked back like he’d fallen headfirst into a vat of motor oil.

I saw Aunt Marsha give Mom a thumbs-up sign behind Dr. Vermin’s back. No way did he deserve that. Aunt Marsha had come over with June to help Mom get ready for the date. Supposedly. I bet they just wanted to check out Dr. Vermin.

I’m sort of used to seeing Aunt Marsha and June holding hands now. If I lost my virginity to an older woman, I’d definitely pick June. Except that she’s a lesbian. Maybe she’s bi though? Maybe one night with me and she’d become a total hetero? Sure.

Dr. Vermin didn’t stay long. Mom made me vacuum the whole house for nothing. He just went, “Hi, everyone. Are you ready, Geraldine? You look like a queen.” Mom shot Aunt Marsha a look, like, Is that good or bad? After practically taking Mom’s closet apart, they had finally decided on this white pantsuit. I didn’t see anything queenly about it. Not even royal. Amanda did this big phony smile and Dr. Vermin took Mom’s hand and they left. At least he didn’t mess with my hair again.

When they walked out, me and Amanda pretended to puke. Then everyone but me went somewhere. Aunt Marsha and June went off to see some barfy art film. Amanda had a date, of course. He came to the door looking like Ken doll’s twin, in a tweed blazer and button-down shirt. When he found out Mom wasn’t here, Ken doll stripped down to a Coors Mountain Brewery T-shirt and jeans and went, “Party time.”

After they left, I just hung around like usual, flipping the channels between MTV and Nick at Nite. I heated up a frozen pizza and ended up eating the whole thing. I’m a pig.

I wonder when Mom’s coming home.

It’s 1:33 A.M. Amanda just got back.
Before Mom
. When I told Amanda, she said in this loud voice as if Mom, wherever she was, could hear her, “Good for you, Mom, you’re finally getting laid.”

Laid? No way. Gross! Admittedly, it’s possible. But for my own mental health, I cannot think about it.

It’s 2:14 A.M. and I’d like to know where Mom is. What if Dr. Vermin kidnapped her? I mean, how much do we know about him, really? Just that he’s a dentist. That alone makes him evil.

Amanda’s fast asleep, sprawled on her bed with the light on, dried drool on her chin, clutching a romance novel,
Prisoner of My Desire
. It’s too bad no one in high school really knows her like I do. She’s a closet geek.

I could sneak the novel out of her room. But it’s too much work to go through all the descriptions of fancy dresses and sunrises just to get to the throbbing loins and hot pulsating flesh stuff.

I’m going to sit on that stupid flowery couch Mom bought right after the Divorce until she comes home. I’ve been flipping between TV movies: hot babe with gun avenges rape, hot babe in tight prison jumpsuit fights off lesbians, and hot babe stalked by madman slowly loses clothes.