Been There, Done That (23 page)

“Having sex can give you some idea, though,” Katherine said, lounging on the pillows. “I mean, none of the guys I’ve done ever called me a dyke.” She looked at Amelia. “No offense,” she said quickly.

I stuck a cheese puff in my mouth and sucked it until it became mushy. The saltiness provided a nice foil for the wine’s sugar. “Katherine,” I asked, “How many guys have you, you know—”

“Fucked?”

“I was trying to find a more delicate term.”

She looked at the ceiling and began ticking off her fingers. Amelia and I waited silently. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “I can only think of seventeen, but I know there’s been more.” Seventeen! I gawked at her. I’d always suspected everybody else was having more sex than I was. Now it had been confirmed. I felt like lecturing Katherine on the dangers of unwanted pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases, but I suspected her mother had slipped her a pamphlet or two over the years.

“And you?” Katherine asked.

“Three,” I answered honestly. “But the last two were short-term rebound things.” Katherine nodded. Amelia seemed nonplussed. Apparently, three was a respectable number for a college freshman. “But, honestly, I think I rushed into things. You’re smart to have waited, Amelia. Not wanting to screw a guy in high school doesn’t mean you’re gay, you know.”

“I know.” Amelia sighed. “I just don’t know how I’m going to tell my mother.”

“She wants you to be gay?” I asked. “That’s really open-minded of her.”

Amelia laughed grimly. “When I told her I was gay, she shut herself in her room for five hours. Then she asked me not to tell anybody. Did I ever mention that I founded a gay student association at my school?”

“Did your mother know?”

“She did when I showed her the picture in the yearbook. I never liked any of the boys in high school,” Amelia sighed. “So I figured I must dig girls.”

“But did you?” I asked. “Like girls, I mean.”

Amelia nodded vigorously, then paused for a minute and shrugged. “I had this friend in high school? Clarissa? We were best friends, and one day we, you know, kissed. And it felt good.” She stuck up her chin for emphasis. “But then she got all weirded out, said she didn’t want to be queer, and started going out with this total skank. When I thought about what it must be like kissing him, it made me feel all yucky, you know? And Clarissa and me, we weren’t friends anymore, and that made me feel all bad. And I couldn’t stop thinking about her. So I figured I must be in love.” She reached for a Twinkie and ripped open the wrapper. “I told my mother,” she said with a satisfied smile. “She hit the roof.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re gay, though,” I said. “Maybe you were just sad about losing your friend.” Amelia looked so depressed at the thought of life as a straight woman that I changed course. “Then again, maybe you are gay, but just a little bisexual, too. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I’d read an article recently about the prevalence of bisexuality. It sounded downright exhausting to me, but I understood that it was a valid and hip choice—especially if, like Amelia, you sport spiky hair and a pierced tongue. “So what if you noticed that Jeremy’s a hunk? Jeremy is a hunk. That doesn’t mean you want to have sex with him.”

“But I do!” Amelia exclaimed.

“Oh,” I said.

She thought for a moment, flicking her tongue at the Twinkie and licking off little bits of cream. “I want to peel off his shirt with my teeth,” she murmured. More Twinkie. More cream. “And run my tongue inside his navel. I want to suck on his toes and sit on his face—”

“Okay!” I said, laughing and pretending not to be embarrassed. “I get the picture.”

Katherine squirted cheese on her thumb and sucked it off with a loud pop. “Amelia, babe,” she said. “You are so not gay.”

“Damn it,” Amelia said, finally taking a big bite out of the Twinkie. “My mother is going to be so fucking happy.”

 
 
Brynn lived off campus, on the top floor of a brick apartment building with cheap, oversized windows. I’d gotten her address from the campus directory. I wondered how many boys had tracked her down just as I had, although for an entirely different purpose. The first night I parked across from the building, I saw her hunched over her computer, which cast a ghostly glow. The next night, she leaned out of her window, smoking a cigarette. Day three, she sat on her bed, knees up, highlighting a text book. She had room-mates, I assumed, but she always seemed to be alone. The fourth day, she finally left the building. Her car was a sporty silver Audi, far nicer than anything I ever hoped to own. She left the city limits, and I tailed her carefully.

She pulled off the highway two towns away and drove down a quiet road before turning into the lot of the Gray Gull restaurant. I’d heard of it—after all, there aren’t many restaurants in the middle of nowhere—but it wasn’t the kind of spot generally favored by college kids. It had gray weathered shingles and a lobster pot out front. After Brynn, dressed conservatively in khakis and a jean jacket, went inside, I lingered by the front door, pretending to study the menu: clam chowder, onion soup, fried clams, fried scallops, broiled haddock, Indian pudding . . . The clams would be greasy, the haddock mushy, but it still looked better than anything I’d eaten in weeks. I was tempted to go inside but feared Brynn would recognize me.

I heard a car door slam but didn’t jump until I heard a voice say, with obvious surprise, “Kathy? What are you doing out here?”

Dean Archer stood a foot away, nervously smoothing his strawberry blond hair. His smile didn’t reach to his eyes, which darted between me and the front door.

“Me?” I stammered. “Oh, I, uh—”

“I’m meeting a colleague here,” Dean Archer announced. “Fellow from the history department.” He glanced at his watch. “He’s late. Maybe I’ll just wait in my car.” He headed back to the parking lot.

“Nice to see you,” I said, trailing him to the lot and stopping dead when I saw him climbing into his car. This time I got the make. A Camry. And it was gold, not tan.

twenty-six

The ladies were engrossed in a discussion about epidurals when I arrived at Marcy’s shower. “I never even got mine!” one exclaimed. “I wanted it so much, too! I said to the nurse, ‘Okay! Now!’ and she said it was too late—it was time to push! Next time I’m getting an epidural the minute the stick turns blue!”

“My epidural didn’t take!” countered another. Her listeners clucked in sympathy “So I’m lying there with this needle in my spine and an I.V. in my arm, and I’m still in excruciating pain!”

Marcy wasn’t there yet since the shower was a surprise (she knew about it, of course, but now she supposedly believed it was scheduled for next weekend). I spotted Marcy’s friend Meredith, who I knew reasonably well, and headed across the rose carpet because chatting with her would be slightly less excruciating than standing all alone and looking like a loser.

“Hi, Meredith.” She was standing next to the food table: a bonus. I popped a mini quiche in my mouth and spread some artichoke dip on a slice of Italian bread. I smiled (mouth closed) and tried to look genuinely pleased to see Meredith, even as I waited for her to ask if I was seeing anyone.

She surprised me by saying instead, “Here’s some free advice, Kathy. If you ever find yourself in the position of giving birth, insist on—I mean, demand!—an epidural.”

“Thanks, Meredith.” I tried to look amused. “I’ll try to remember that.” I stuck the bread in my mouth and savored the taste of the artichoke dip, which was made with cheese—Gouda?—and a touch of sherry. It was so much better than that slimy cafeteria food. The dining hall would probably be closed by the time I got back to Mercer, anyway; after the shower, I planned to drop some work off at Jennifer’s apartment. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon, but if I ate enough of these things over the next couple of hours, I could call it dinner.

Meredith took a big gulp of her wine. “So, are you seeing anyone?”

“No one special,” I said, implying that I was at least keeping myself busy with a smattering of Mr. Wrongs. “Nice house,” I said insincerely. It was a few streets away from Marcy’s and similarly tasteful from the outside. However, the owners, lacking the benefit of my guidance, displayed an excessive fondness for mix-and-match florals. “Whose is it again?”

“Alex’s mother.”

“Oh, right.” I spotted her across the room. She was blond and plump and wearing—what else?—a flowered dress. “And what’s her name?”

Meredith shrugged. “I’ve always just referred to her as Alex’s mother.”

“Hi, Kathy.” I turned. It was Marcy’s sister-in-law, Pamela. She bared her teeth at Meredith in an approximation of a grin. “Meredith.”

Meredith turned red. “How are you, Pamela?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she mumbled something about seeing if Alex’s mother needed any help and scurried away. Meredith played a key role in the animosity between Marcy and Pamela. Marcy had never liked her brother’s flashy, humorless wife, whom she’d nicknamed “The Professional Shopper.” Still, relations remained cordial until Jacob’s bris, when Meredith, being both kind-hearted and chatty, tried to make conversation with Pamela, who was sitting alone. Perhaps it was Meredith’s basic decency that kept her from recognizing Marcy’s sarcasm in the nickname. Then again, maybe she’s just dim. At any rate, she shined her big smile at Pamela and chirped, “So Marcy tells me you’re a personal shopper.”

Pamela, looking confused and suspicious, answered with a careful, “Nooo.”

Meredith barreled forward with, “Oh! But I asked Marcy if you worked, and she said you’re a professional shopper. I figured she meant a personal shopper. Hey! What a great job! To get paid to shop for other people!”

Of course, Pamela rarely shopped for anyone but herself (and when she did she opted for items such as marked-down mugs). Later, Marcy tried to undo the damage—“All I meant is that you’ve got really good taste”—but their relationship had been strained ever since. Surprisingly, Pamela always latched onto me at these baby things, presumably because we were generally the only two women whose lives didn’t revolve around children. The only difference between us was that I was childless, while she actually had a daughter, a well-dressed, sallow-faced four-year-old with an army of baby-sitters and a habit of hiding under tables at family events.

“I like your shoes,” I told Pamela. I did, actually.

“These?” She kicked up her foot and twisted around to see what she was wearing. “I got them on sale on Lord & Taylor. I’ve got another pair almost exactly the same, but I couldn’t resist.”

“Well, when you find something that works,” I said.

“Did you do something to your hair?” she asked me.

I wrinkled my nose. “I’ve just been ignoring it, so it’s a bit longer than usual. I think I need a new look.”

“I don’t know,” she said, squinting. “The length is nice on you. Makes you look—younger.” I stifled a giggle. She touched my bangs. “Some highlights might be nice. Auburn, maybe.” And so we were off on a conversation with so much more depth than the parallel one about epidurals.

Marcy looked so shocked when she walked into the living room that I thought she’d been honestly fooled. Later, she admitted that Dan had been coaching her all morning until she achieved a believable progression from confusion to recognition to appreciation. A few days earlier, Alex’s mother, the one hosting the party, had let it slip about the date change, but she swore Marcy to secrecy lest the other Alex’s mother, the one who’d spilled the beans about the shower in the first place, find out. The two had made up, but Alex’s mother—the hostess—liked having something to hold over Alex’s mother. The other Alex’s mother.

I am not against showers. If I ever get married, I sincerely hope that someone will throw me one. When Marcy got engaged, I threw a tasteful affair in her mother’s living room (at the time, I was still living in the Charlestown dump with Tim), where Marcy opened pastel packages containing platters and nighties and an acrylic bagel cutter (that one came from Pamela). When she got pregnant with Jacob a year later, I commandeered her mother’s living room again, and the gifts were even better than last time: mobiles and blankies and box after box of teeny-tiny clothes. So I figure she owes me. Of course, at the rate I’m going, my bridal shower gifts are more likely to run along the lines of large-print books and Depends pads.

When Marcy was pregnant with Joshua, one of her new mommy friends threw her a second baby shower. Now that she’s about to pop out kid number three, here are some of the things Marcy already owns: one bassinet, two cribs, two changing tables, a front baby carrier, a baby backpack, a bouncy seat, an ExerSaucer, two single strollers, one double stroller, one jogging stroller, a swing, a Johnny jumper, a narrow-mouth Diaper Genie, a wide-mouth Diaper Genie, three diaper bags, seven infant towels, nine baby blankets, fourteen receiving blankets, and a wipes warmer. The first time Jacob’s sensitive butt encountered a cold wipe, in the ladies room at the Chestnut Hill Mall, he screamed so loud he made Marcy cry.