Beyond Blonde (13 page)

I was so stoked about having an entire gallon of ice cream to myself that I almost missed that. “What?!”

“Before we get to that ‘what,’ there’s something else.” She got up again. Put her spoon down. This was serious, Kit was walking
away
from the ice cream. “It’s heavy.” Kit started pacing. She was scaring me. The whole conversation had been scary, strange, off. Hell, Kit had been strange, okay,
stranger
lately.

I examined her while she paced. Perfect, skinnyish, blonde, beautiful. She was dying.

“I need a drink. Want a drink?”

I shook my head.

Ohmygodohmygod! I could hear her reach for the glass in the library bar, the tinkle of the ice cubes, the glugging of the Southern Comfort. She
promised
that she hadn’t puked in over a year. Jesus, Moses, Buddha, I hated that word.

Kit came back with her drink and took a swig. She was dying of the puking disease. I should have said something sooner, earlier, before now. It was all my fault. I am gutless.

“Shit, Sophie, you look worse than I feel. Take a snort.”

I took a gulp and gagged. “Too sweet.”

“Easy, buttercup.” She patted my back.

“Are you dying?” I asked as soon as I could get words out.

“No, you moron.” She handed me back my tablespoon and
shoved the chocolate fudge down to my end of the counter. “But you’ll think it’s worse.”

I wanted to slug her. “You have a venereal disease?”

“I’m a virgin, remember?”

Right. “Then what? Tell me!” I got up and grabbed her. “Nothing’s worse than the pictures in my head! I suck at suspense! I can’t take the anxiety, Kit! What?”

“Okay! I’m a … thing is … I’m, well, I’m pretty sure that I’m …”

“WHAT?” I shook her.

“A lesbian, I think, a bit, maybe, I mean probably. No, I’m sure. I think.”

I let go of her. “Is this like a test or something?”

She shook her head. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! My thoughts were thumping and my heart was racing, or the other way around.

Kit drained her glass and plonked it onto the counter. “I need to know
exactly
what you’re thinking.”

Thinking? I did what I do best—worry, worry, obsess, and fret. In a nanosecond I did the tour. It was like the stations of the cross. I worried about Kit, her father, her mother, the Blondes, and then Kit some more, but God help me, mainly, I worried about me. What did this all mean for
me
? How was it going to affect
me
? And oh, sweet Buddha, did she have a crush on
me
? Help. Help.

Obviously, I couldn’t tell Kit that. Tears pooled in her eyes waiting for a release signal.

“Breathe, Sophie. What
are
you thinking?!”

“Well, I’m trying to think what Buddha would do?”

“What the hell?”

“Or Moses or Gandhi.”

“Okay, I’m pretty sure the last guy isn’t a religion and that you’re nuts.”

“Yeah.” I smiled. “Breathe, Kit.”

She smiled back.

“Are you sure? How can you be sure? I mean you spelled out Rick Metcalfe’s name in hickeys on his stomach for God’s sake! It could be a phase, or lots of people talk about being, um, I think it’s bisexual, which means …”

“I know what it means, Sophie.”

I followed her down to the rec room not even feeling my legs. “I know what it means because I’ve been seeing shrinks for two years, remember? Two years, Sophie. I’ve been exploring the crap out of this. I am what I am.” She plopped down on a beanbag chair. I plopped on the one opposite her. “It’s why my mom wants me to go to California with her. She says it’ll be easier all around.”

“Your dad?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

We sat there. Lesbian, she thinks she’s a lesbian.

“Say something, Sophie.”

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.”

Kit groaned.

“Okay,
oy vey
!”

That stopped her in her tracks. “
Oy vey,
Sophie? Seriously?”

“What? It’s a Biblical Hebrew thing and hence it is an exclamation that is entirely in keeping with one of my faiths.”

“You’re stalling.”

“Yes.”

“What do you really want to ask?”

“Nothing, it’s just that, well, lesbians
and
California, it’s too much, too many big things to process, these big things, I mean.” She folded her arms. “Okay, have you ever, uh, well have you …”

“Made out with a girl?”

I nodded.

“No.”

“Then how do you know? See, that’s my point, you—”

“I
know.
One
knows
these things. It’s the laws of attraction. I tried to make myself like Rick or any guy. I
tried,
Sophie, I tried really, really hard.”

My heart was going to break out of my chest, but I nodded my most calm and understanding nod. “Well, thing is, I’ve got to be wondering, just a bit, not a lot mind you, but like, have you ever been, well, attracted to, well for instance, someone like me?”

“Someone
like
you or you, Soph?” She snorted. “Relax, you’re adorable, and I can see why the guys like you, but no, you’re not my type.”

I didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved. I was leaning toward insulted when she jumped up to go upstairs and get another drink. “How about Madison?” I asked.

“Yeah, way back in middle school.” She loped up the stairs and loped back down a moment later with drink in hand.

“Well, everyone has a crush on Madison for God’s sake, that’s why she’s Madison. That just proves it!” I insisted. “It
is
a phase. You read about this kind of thing all the time in
novels about the British boarding school system. The girls all make out together while they’re studying for their A levels. Just because you weren’t attracted to Rick in the end …”

“But I was
attracted
to a player on the Jarvis team last year, and one on Lawrence’s this year, and then my female shrink in California, and then …”

“Okay, stop. I get it.”

“No, you don’t.” She kneeled. “I can’t help it, Sophie. It’s the way your God made me. The burn you felt when Luke touched you?”

I nodded.

“A guy can’t do that for me. It’s a lot … I know. I’ve been practising telling you all summer and all of September. Can you live with, with it?”

Live with it? Me? My fret cycle went into overdrive. Well, yeah, I suppose, if I have to, if she can’t switch back I mean. Jesus God. I was going to have to check it out in the
Living Faiths Encyclopaedia
. I may have to change religions again and find one that will accommodate one of your best friends being a lesbian. And I knew I wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight no matter what she said about me not being her type. And, of course, this was going to have to be a secret. What a whopper! How much would I have to lie? How was I going to keep a straight face when we all talked about guys? If I couldn’t stand all the not knowing, how could she? What does it feel like? What would happen when she told? And there was no way I was going to let her run off to California. Her family, her life, her friends were here, right here.

I came up for air. “You gotta give me some time, okay?”

“Sure, cool.” Her eyes welled up again.

“So how does it work, exactly? What goes where?”

She unwelled and heaved a pillow at me.

“Hey! I am merely trying to be sensitive and supportive here.”

“And nosy!” She threw another pillow. “Your guess is as good as mine!”

I opened a bag of salt and vinegar chips. “So, let’s speculate.” I also opened up a family pack of Maltesers. “We’ll compare notes on everything we know so far, paltry though that may be.”

“It’d be better if we had Sarah here,” she said. “The two of us have a pretty pitiful roster of sexual experience.”

“We’ll be okay. Remember, I read three hundred romance novels last year—there’s not a thing I don’t know.” I threw both pillows back at her.

Four hours later, Kit hit the lights and was out in minutes. I watched her sleep for almost two hours, and five hours later, I went upstairs to start the coffee. I felt good. Great even. Especially considering that I had just pulled my very first all-nighter.

As soon as
I got home from Kit’s, I pulled out my trusty encyclopedia and scrolled through the relevant sections about Buddhism and Jewishness. I did not reread
Christianity: The Catholic Church Since the Reformation
because, well, for one thing, it was the smallest piece of my religious practice, so to speak, and, for the other, I was worried about what it might say.

Okay. I slammed the book shut. Okay! According to my exhaustive search, Kit was wrong. Being a lesbian wasn’t this big, burn-at-the-stake thing with religions! Well, maybe in some weirdo church-type places, or maybe a thousand years ago, but not in my index. According to
The Concise Encyclopaedia of Living Faiths,
it was nothing. “Lesbian” wasn’t there as a good thing or a bad thing; it just wasn’t in the index at all. Therefore, being a lesbian must be a neutral “who cares” kind of thing.

Works for me.

I offered up a short but intense prayer of thanks on behalf of Kit and myself. My altar was coming along nicely. I now had a red silk runner complete with shiny tassels and embroidered gold elephants. Auntie Radmila had given me a pewter rosary, which she had had blessed in Rome, and it lived peacefully beside the small bronze Star of David that Auntie Luba found kicking around in her trunk. Finally, I had these Buddhist-type incense thingies that smelled like burnt oregano. So, I lit my candle and incense cone, made the sign of the cross, and touched the bronze Star of David. It would be okay. Kit would be okay. Please, please, please, make it okay.

Thank you, thank you. Amen.

I blew out the candle. Now what? I went to the kitchen, then the living room, then back to the kitchen again. Since it was still early in the afternoon, I assumed that Mama was showing a house. And then I remembered. It was the last Saturday in the month. Memories erupted. It had been months. I just fell out of the habit of going. The last Saturday of every month was a big glamour beauty day for the Aunties. Cast in stone, sacrosanct, and sacred. When I was little, they made me feel like the magician’s assistant for their elaborate and convoluted rituals.

I jogged all the way to Auntie Eva’s. Damn, I
was
in good shape.

“Hi guys!” Everyone and everything was already assembled in the dining room. “It’s me! I’m here to help.”

Shocked squeals, hoots, and riotous table thumping greeted me. “Sophie, buboola, baby!” fluttered Auntie Eva. They all wore their beauty uniforms, floral housedresses covered by
shower curtains jerry-rigged to look like salon smocks. Auntie Radmila had on my Bambi shower curtain from three moves ago. The dining room table was pulled out to its full “seats twelve” size, and it, in turn, was covered with more shower curtains, newspapers, mud masks, toners, peroxide, creams, a dozen tweezers, lotions, and four separate piles of hair-dying accoutrements. The bowls were plopped on top of photos of near-naked Sunshine Girls that the Aunties seemed thankfully oblivious of. Added to these impressive piles were packages of Rothmans and du Maurier cigarettes, as well as seven ashtrays, Tylenol, breath mints, Courvoisier, and shot glasses.

“I svear on all my pieces, za child has grown! Little Sophie, Auntie Eva’s little flower, za treasure in my chest,” she sighed.

“She iz a rose in za vinter!” agreed Auntie Radmila.

Mama sat silent but beaming.

“I thought you could use my help?” I grabbed a pair of plastic gloves, snapped, pulled the fingers, and then put ’em on like I’d just done it last week.

“Sophie, are you stuffing your brassiere vit za Kleenex?” asked Auntie Radmila. Four pairs of eyes zoomed in on my boobs. I looked down.

“No, Auntie Radmila, this stunning set of 32Bs are all me.”

“Hmmph!” Auntie Eva snorted. “Zey are a big B.”

“Much better!” Auntie Radmila nodded in approval. You’d think she had grown them herself. “How your basketball iz doing?”

“Great, brilliant, in fact! As you know we’re undefeated. In fact, we’re on track for facing Oakwood at the finals.” I would have gone on, gone into more details, but it would have been
useless. I’d lost her. Both her and Auntie Eva were back to staring at my chest.

Auntie Eva suddenly slapped the table. “Brandy for everybodies, you too, Magda. Don’t make a face! Sophie, pour. Zis iz a celebration. Our Sophie iz back!” I poured while they rifled through their hair dye boxes.

The Aunties refused to feel stifled by a single colour or, indeed, company. Miss Clairol coexisted with L’Oréal on their heads. Auntie Eva had me mix up a combo of Champagne Blonde, Medium Blonde number 420, and Ultra Bleach Blonde, all by different companies. Auntie Radmila and Auntie Luba were similarly creative. Sometimes they mixed the dregs of all the dyes and made a soup out of it before plopping it onto their hair. Waiting to see how the colour would turn out was both nerveracking and thrilling.

When I was little, I made meticulous notes about the names, numbers, and proportions from each mysterious box. I earnestly transcribed that information into my Hilroy notebooks, the ones with the really wide spacing. The Aunties always made a fuss about how critical this precise recording was. I was the very key to Auntie fabulousity. Of course, they never actually paid any attention to the notebooks and winged it with whatever colours they’d picked up on sale.