Boy Meets Girl (19 page)

Okay, breathe, Kate. You’ve got to breathe.

It’s just, I never had a guy go to so much trouble for me. I mean, make a whole dinner for me, and all. Dale made me tea once when I was sick in bed, but that’s about it. Plus he left the tea bag in it when he went to warm it up in the microwave and the staple ignited and the kitchen caught on fire and the fire department had to come put it out, and we had to get all new cabinets, so I’m not even sure that counts.

But Mitch. Mitch made me scampi. Shrimp scampi.

And it was good. The scampi, I mean. Really, really good. He says he went to cooking camp as a kid (Cooking camp! Apparently no one in his family was very thrilled with the idea . . . they wanted him to go to soccer camp with his brother Stuart. But Mitch says he was more interested in scoring pies than goals).

Anyway, he’s in the kitchen now, making dessert. He won’t tell me what it is. I sincerely hope it involves chocolate.

But that’s not why I’m freaking out. The dessert thing, I mean. And the-having-a-guy-cook-for-me thing.

No, it’s the fact that he just told me that he USED TO BE A PUBLIC DEFENDER.

It’s true. He only came to work for his father’s company because his dad had a heart attack, and then bypass surgery, and he begged Mitch to keep an eye on things at the firm while he was recovering.

Apparently, a large part of the recovery process for Mr. Hertzog is playing golf with his buddies in Arizona.

But whatever. The point is, Mitch isn’t really a soulless corporate drone. He has never embraced big business and is in fact looking forward to getting back to work down at the criminal courts.

Where he apparently defends those who can’t afford to pay for their own lawyer.

And the thing is, Mitch could get a job anywhere. He doesn’t HAVE to be a public defender. He does it—well, probably for the same reason I became a social worker . . .

To make a difference.

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KEEP FROM LIKING HIM???? More than liking him, even.

He got mefired. He got me fired because he doesn’t like his brother’s girlfriend.

And Istill totally want to jump his bones. I KNOW! There is something severely wrong with me.

Seriously. Because—oh my God—he’s so perfect. I mean, he COOKS, and he VOLUNTEERS, and he WANTS TO HELP PEOPLE. . . . God, even hisapartment is perfect. I mean, it’s clearly a GUY’s apartment, and it’s a little messy—baseball caps stuffed in amongst the paperback mystery novels on the bookshelves; University of Michigan basketball season schedules lying around on the coffee table; a copy of Playboy peeking out from beneath the couch where he obviously recently shoved it.

But it’s a beautiful apartment, one he inherited from his dead grandfather, two bedrooms (he uses one as an office and a guest room for when his nieces and nephew come to stay, he says) and two bathrooms—1800 square feet with a balcony overlooking the East River. He owns, which is good, because the rent on a place like this would be five grand a month at least. Maybe even more, because there’s a health club in the building. The maintenance alone has to be at least fifteen hundred a month.

And he’s gotthree TVs, one of them at least a 42-incher (for watching the games, he says).

And okay, all the furniture is brown: brown couch, brown armchair, brown place mats on the dining-room table, even brown sheets (I peeked on the way to the bathroom) on his bed.

But I could fix that. I mean, I watchTrading Spaces, I know how a few well-placed slipcovers can brighten up a space. . . .

OH MY GOD, WHAT AM I THINKING?

Professor Wingblade would be appalled. I mean, he always told us we have to develop a relationship based on trust and mutual harmony before we can—

OH MY GOD, HE’S GOT TIVO!!!!!! I just found the remote, wedged in between the sofa cushions. TiVo. I’ve never had a boyfriend who had TiVo. I’ve never had a boyfriend who owned his own TV. I mean, I bought the one Dale and I—

Wait. I need to get a grip. Yes, Mitch seems like he might—in spite of the whole getting me fired thing—be a great guy. And yes, he has a great apartment.

But, even though he used to be a public defender, right now he’s making five hundred dollars an hour defending corporate giants from the likes of little Mrs. Lopez, who has never hurt anyone (who didn’t deserve it, anyway).

And he’s so cavalier about the whole thing, he got me fired. FIRED!!!!

Besides which, I have a lot of problems right now. I can’t be jumping into a romantic relationship with someone I’ve only just met. I need to find a job, and an apartment, and a sense of purpose to my life. Professor Wingblade said that you can never truly love anyone until you learn to love yourself, and the truth is, I am finding it very hard to love myself since I got fired. Not that I define myself through my work. It’s just that . . . without my work, who AM I? What is my purpose here on earth? I want to make a difference and help people, but no one will seem to LET ME. So if I can’t do what I was put on this earth to do, WHY AM I EVEN HERE????

And seriously, supposing something DOES develop between Mitch and me. How am I going to introduce him to people? “Oh, this is my boyfriend, funny story: He’s the one who got me fired?”

Um, that will not exactly endear him to my social set, if you know what I mean.

But, oh my God, he has such really nice lips! Mitch, does, I mean. What’s a public defender doing with lips like that? It’s not FAIR!!! I was looking at Mitch’s mouth all through dinner, when he was telling me about the year he took off to travel around the world. And his lips really are very beautifully shaped. They look like they’d be really . . . strong. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s weak lips. But no need to worry about Mitch’s. I have a feeling those lips of his could make a girl forget all about being destitute and homeless . . . and quite a few other things, as well—

Damn. The Praying Mantis. I forgot about the Praying Mantis! Are they dating? Are they just friends? What is up between the two of them? Why didn’t I remember to ask over dinner? God, if he’s seeing her, I will just have to KILL MYSELF. How can I compete with an Ingres-like praying mantis in designer duds, especially when I can barely afford control-top pantyhose?

What the hell. I don’t want to have a relationship with a lawyer. Do I?

Oh my God, I just peeked into the kitchen, and he madebraised pears in chocolate sauce for dessert. Braised pears in chocolate sauce with VANILLA HA¨AGEN-DAZS for dessert—

HOW IS ANY WOMAN SUPPOSED TO RESIST THIS MAN?

Oh my God! This is HORRIBLE!!!! I was right! I was right! About his lips, I mean! They are VERY strong!

This is AWFUL. His lips are so strong, I am practically melting into the couch. Oh, WHY did I kiss him? WHY WHY WHY???? I do NOT need to be falling in love right now—particularly not with a lawyer!

It’s all my fault, though. We were just enjoying our braised pears in chocolate sauce when suddenly something, I don’t know what, came over me. I think it was when he was talking about his nieces and how he was teaching them to speak Japanese (for instance, thatbacca means “stupid”) and one of them asked how Japanese people could understand each other when they were all speaking this foreign language, and then one said to the other, “Because they were BORN speaking it, ya bacca!”

And something inside of me just snapped, and I HAD to jump on him and start kissing him, I just had to, Praying Mantis be damned!

And oh my God, he looked so surprised. But kind of happy, too.

And I was right. I was SO right. He has really, really strong lips, and he kisses like he means it, and we must have been kissing for like half an hour, because all the ice cream melted. But that’s not all that melted, because I swear to God I think I am now one with my control-top panty hose, which I had to wear because the dress I borrowed from Dolly is so tight my stomach was pooching out in front, and now I think got so hot from all the kissing that my skin has become grafted to the Lycra, and thank God Mitch excused himself when he did, or there might possibly have been a small thermal nuclear reaction in the vicinity of my crotch, and now if I can just peel these stupid things off without him coming back while I’m doing it, maybe he won’t ever know I was wearing control-top hose in the first place.

Where did he go, anyway? Oh my God, what if he left because he knows it’s wrong to be getting involved like this with an unemployed homeless person? Even though he does keep insisting that he’s going to get me my job back. Only I don’t know how, it’s not like I’m in a union like Mrs. Lopez and can sue the company for not giving me written warning or anything.

But excuse me, he makes a living—or used to, anyway, defending society’s rejects. Who is HE to look down on a person just because she happens to be unemployed—thanks entirely to HIM, by the way?

Wait—what if that’s not why he excused himself at all? What if he excused himself because of the Praying Mantis? What if I jumped on him before he got a chance to explain that he and the Praying Mantis are engaged?

Well, screw her. I don’t condone boyfriend-stealing, but goddammit, you can’t make braised pears for a girl and expect her to—

NO! God! What is WRONG with me? I do NOT want to be in a relationship right now.

WAIT! What if he went to go get a condom? Is that what guys do? I mean Dale never did because we were each other’s first and onlies—well, until tonight, maybe—and who knows what is going on with him and that Vivica girl—

And besides, I’m on the Pill.

But this is different, this is two adults in the big city, not high-school kids fooling around in the back of the boy’s mom’s Chevette. Should I have said something, like, “Don’t worry, I have protection,” since I do, in my purse?

But maybe the girl isn’t supposed to say that. Maybe that’s, like, slutty. Maybe I should have just reached casually down and brought out the pack—

MAYBE I SHOULD JUST LEAVE!!!!!!!!!! Because, seriously, where is this going to go? I moved to New York to HELP people, how can I possibly have a relationship with someone who—

But public defenders help people, don’t they?

Except he’s not a public defender anymore, he’s—oh, God—

What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the weight of a single grain of sand? Equal to my interest in the message you are about to leave. Speak at the tone.
 
(Tone)
 
Mitchell. This is your mother. Mitchell, if you’re there, pick up. Mitchell, this is serious. Your little sister is missing. Janice has run away. I came home from the American Doll Society meeting and she was gone. I have no idea where she is and I’m worried sick, because . . . well, we had a little tiff earlier. Is she with you, Mitchell? I can’t think where else she’d go. If you hear from her, Mitchell, let me know. I know we aren’t exactly speaking right now, you and I, but . . . well, I would think you could let your own mother know that her child is all right. I mean, it would be common courtesy to do so. Whatever your personal feelings about me might be. So . . . call me. Please.
 
(Click)

To: Stacy Trent

Fr: Mitchell Hertzog

Re: We need to talk

Get whichever one of your children who is on the phone and not picking up the Call Waiting OFF the phone and call me.

This is serious.

Mitch

To: Mitchell Hertzog

Fr: Stacy Trent

Re: We need to talk

It isn’t one of the kids, it’s Jason, he’s on the phone with his grandmother. It’s their semi-annual “what shall we invest our fortune in” discussion. What seems to be the problem?

Stacy

P.S. How was your big dinner last night? Did it work? The aphrodisiac shrimp scampi, I mean.

I’ll tell you, it would take a lot more than shrimp to get ME to forgive a guy who’d gotten me fired. Hope she wasn’t THAT easy, or you’ll lose interest, I just know it. You always did love a challenge. Especially if it had breasts.

To: Stacy Trent

Fr: Mitchell Hertzog

Re: We need to talk

It’s Sean. She showed up at my apartment last night. At a very inopportune moment. I don’t want to talk about it over the office e-mail system. I don’t want Stuart to know about this. Can you come into the city and meet me for lunch today? It’s important.

Mitch

To: Mitchell Hertzog

Fr: Stacy Trent

Re: We need to talk

I’ll be there with bells on. Such a mystery! See you at noon.

Stacy

P.S. I’ll call you from the building lobby. I don’t want to run the risk of bumping into Stuie.

To: Kate Mackenzie

Fr: Jen Sadler

Re: SO?????

HOW DID IT GO???? I can’t believe you didn’t call me last night. Did you even come HOME last night? Because I talked to Dolly already and she said by the time she and Skiboy retired to the boudoir—her exact words, by the way—you were still in absentia.

Oh my God, are you STILL with him? Where ARE you? CALL ME AND TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT!!!!!

J

P.S. I’m glad SOMEBODY is getting some. I mean, not that I’m not. But with this whole baby thing, it’s kind of a drag only doing it when a little stick tells you to, and not just when you feel like it. Anyway. DISH!

To: Jen Sadler

Fr: Kate Mackenzie

Re: SO????

Sorry, I got back here really late and then overslept. I am turning into SUCH a slacker. I mean, just because I’m unemployed doesn’t mean I have to ACT like it. But here I am already sleeping past ten. It’s HORRIBLE!

Plus I missedCharmed.

Anyway, sorry to disappoint you, but nothing happened. Well, not NOTHING, but not what you think. I mean, we kissed. On his couch. For a long time.

And Jen: he has VERY strong lips.

I’m so confused.

Want to have lunch? Somewhere cheap ’cause I’m broke.

Kate

To: Kate Mackenzie

Fr: Jen Sadler

Re: SO?????

No offense, honey, but I ate lunch at noon, like a normal person. You’re on your own with that one.

And as far as ‘fessing up goes, Kate, that was pathetic. You KISSED? That’s IT???

You MUST be confused, if a hot, wheelchair-basketball-playing lawyer makes you dinner, and all you do is KISS. I know it’s been awhile, Katie, but please. You couldn’t come up with anything better than THAT?

J

To: Jen Sadler

Fr: Kate Mackenzie

Re: SO????

Please. That’s not what I’m confused about. We’d have screwed like rabbits if his doorman hadn’t buzzed. Mitch wasn’t going to answer it, but I was like, “What if the building is on fire?” and he swore (!!!!!!!!!!) and went and answered the buzzer, and the doorman was like, “Sean is here to see you,” and Mitch swore even more (!!!!!!!!) and said “Let me talk to her,” and this woman’s voice came on, and she was crying and going, “Mitch, you’ll never believe what she did to me.”

I swear to God for a minute I thought it was that praying mantis lady, the one I told you about, from the museum?

But then Mitch looked at me and said, “It’s my little sister.”

So of course I was all, “She sounds upset, you should let her up.”

Which he did, but you could tell he didn’t want to. Next thing I knew there was this girl with green hair crying on the sofa where we’d been making out (I can’t believe I just wrote that. But it’s true. We’d been making out! On his couch! AND IT WAS GREAT!!!!!!!!!!! Oh, God, I am so going to hell).

Anyway, poor Sean—that’s his sister. Or really, her name is Janice, but she wants everyone to call her Sean, and who can blame her, really? Janice is a bit of an old-fashioned name for a girl like her. I mean, she’s only nineteen—was clearly in crisis and was just busting to tell Mitch all about it. I offered to leave, since I figured she didn’t want a complete stranger to hear whatever it was.

But before I could go she just spilled it all out—about how their mother had made her leave college because she was concerned about a “friendship” Sean had developed with one of her roommates, and how Sean had tried to be reasonable about it, but how Mrs. Hertzog had forbidden her to communicate with this girl—Sarah—and how she’d taken away her (Sean’s) computer so she and Sarah could not even exchange e-mails. Because of course Mrs. Hertzog had secretly been reading Sean’s e-mails to Sarah, and had figured out that the girls’ relationship wasn’t exactly of the platonic variety, if you know what I mean.

Poor Mitch! I mean, it was clear he loves his little sister very much, and he was very good and gentle with her, offering to make her some hot chocolate—“the kind with the mini-marshmallows”—and let her stay the night if she wanted to.

But when he heard the part about Sean and Sarah’s “forbidden love”—her words, not mine—I thought he might run out of there and never come back. I mean, he deals—or dealt, rather—with murderers every day, but the thought of dealing with his little sister’s sexual identity crisis clearly threw him into panic. He sent me a look of such total and complete helplessness, well, I knew I couldn’t possibly leave. I mean, he NEEDED me, Jen. He genuinely needed help coping with his tiny little lesbian sister.

So I sat right down and, just like Professor Wingblade told us to, I held Sean’s hand and I listened to everything she had to say, which was most of the usual stuff for a kid who was coming out to her family for the first time. And I explained to Sean that her mother still loved her, but that Mrs. Hertzog was just frightened and confused, and that she hadn’t meant any of the things she said, and that Sean should give her a few days to process the information, and she’d probably calm down and be able to discuss the situation rationally again.

Only Mitch didn’t look as if he believed this. In fact, he even snorted . . . which, I let him know, wasn’t helping. You know, when Sean wasn’t listening. But Mitch just said I didn’t know his mother, and that rational thinking was not one of her strong points.

But I find that so hard to believe. I mean, she gave birth to Mitch, didn’t she? And—aside from the whole getting-me-fired thing—he seems like one of the most rational people I have ever met. I mean, after his initial shock, he took the whole thing with Sean in stride. In fact, when we said good night—after Sean had calmed down and stopped crying, and even cracked a joke or two about how sorry she was to have spoiled our “date”—he told me not to worry, that getting my job back was his biggest priority, especially now that he’d seen me “in action,” as he put it.

In fact, he said I seem wasted on human resources, and should go into a private therapy practice.

But of course, it’ll never happen. The private-therapy thing. Unless I get an MSW, I mean. And how would I ever be able to afford to go back to school when I don’t even have a job?

But it felt good to be of use to somebody for a change, instead of, you know, just mooching off everybody, like I’ve been doing since—oh, I don’t know, it seems like forever. Sean seemed almost perky by the time I left.

I can’t really say the same for Mitch. I mean, he didn’t exactly look like he was going to slit his wrists or anything, but he didn’t look too pleased.

I’m almost positive he thought he was going to score last night.

Um . . . so did I, actually. Thank God Sean showed up when she did, or I might have done something really, really stupid.

I miss you. I miss the office. What’s happening? Has anybody jammed the copier accidentally on purpose so that the hot copier repairman has to come?

To: Kate Mackenzie

Fr: Jen Sadler

Re: SO?????

Whoa. Ask and ye shall receive. That was some story.

But excuse me, Miss “Is The Hot Copy Repairman There.” It sounds to me like you’ve got a hottie of your own eating right out of your little hand. I mean, counseling his little sister through her sexual identity crisis? Way to score! The guy must think you’re freaking Dr. Phil. Only, you know, not bald, and with boobs.