Four Things My Geeky-Jock-of-a-Best-Friend Must Do in Europe (4 page)

Sunday evening, still

Dear Delia,

I’ve just changed clothes to get ready for the party. Aren’t you proud of me? The black tank top I wore to dinner just wasn’t cutting it. It’s been tight anyway, lately, and after eating lasagna, salad, bread, cheesecake, and two iced teas—they stuff you like pigs here—I thought the seams would pop. Which can be VERY dangerous when you’re at a party, you have to admit. So, after rooting through my suitcase and trying on every top I brought with me, I finally picked a shirt that is sure to boost my confidence tonight: my favorite baseball jersey! Number 12! I hit four homeruns in this shirt, seven doubles, and one triple, so I think it should help me through a simple, little party. I’ve GOT my GAME on, Delia! I am GONE!

Hm. I’m still here. Maybe while I’m waiting for the cheerleaders and marching band to arrive, I could write a bit more to you about, uh, DINNER—

Yes, that! Tonight was the first time we had dinner in the big dining room, where we’re supposed to eat every night. We watched Mount Vesuvius fade into the distance through these huge windows (or else they’re pretty MAJOR flat-screen TVs), while a string quartet played in the background. Our waiter is this cute, old Greek guy with a black shawl, named Cristo. (The waiter is named Cristo, not the shawl.) He’s got to be at least eighty, or maybe a hundred, and you can barely hear him when he speaks, so we all had to lean over each other to find out what the two dinner choices were. The only thing I could understand was “lasagna,” so I ordered that. Good thing—it turned out the other was some vegetarian pilaf, or something, because this one woman at our table ended up with that on her plate. It looked WAY too healthy for a vacation food.

The pilaf woman is named Linn, and she’s Vietnamese and was at the table with her husband and son—also Vietnamese—who didn’t say much. I think they only speak their native language, which is (I’m sure you guessed this) French. They live in Paris. My mother asked Linn where they live in Paris, and she answered, “Chinatown, of course,” with more than a hint of “DUH.”

I’ve been thinking about this. She obviously thought my mother’s question was silly. I thought it was silly, too, but that’s because I knew she asked it just to have something to say, and not because the answer would mean anything to her. A response like, “I live on Lafayette Boulevard,” would have produced a politely enthusiastic nod from my mother and an immediate insertion of a large forkful of lasagna into her mouth, to cover up the fact that she knows absolutely nothing about the neighborhoods of Paris. But Linn didn’t know that. She just seemed to think that my mother should have assumed her family lives in Chinatown. Uh, WHY? Aren’t Vietnam and China two completely different countries? I mean, do all Asian people live in ONE place in Paris?

Delia, you’re probably thinking, “Why is Brady asking ME these questions?” Or you COULD be thinking, “Why doesn’t Brady stop procrastinating and GET TO THE PARTY???” (To either question, my answer is the same: I don’t know.)

Linn’s son is fifteen, and she told us his full name, which is something like Linn Chi Lahn. And, yes, it seemed strange that a boy would have the same first name as his mother, but then Linn explained that Vietnamese names are sort of backwards, and the first name is actually at the end, so he is called Lahn. My mother, then, wanted to know why she was called Linn (though if I were her, I would have been afraid of somehow appearing stupid again, but we’re talking my mother here), and Linn explained that her name was reversed when her family first immigrated to France, so she just got used to being called Linn.

I remembered that something like that happened with my grandmother’s family. I don’t think they even had a last name, because they came from a shtetl a long time ago, where last names weren’t even used, and they ended up being called “Goldsmith” because, I guess, they WERE goldsmiths. So, anyway, I thought the Vietnamese name thing was kind of cool, since—as your message on my hand continues to remind me—I like to learn things. I was thinking of one of your other messages on my hand, though, when I first saw Lahn at the table tonight and asked myself, “Is this a code-red Euro-hottie sitting RIGHT here at my dinner table?”

I have decided that, no, he is not code-red material. Orange, maybe, but that’s not enough for you, I guess. He is tall and nice-looking, but there’s a pretty significant language barrier, and I have to draw the line there. I mean, if I can’t talk to someone, at least a little bit, they CAN’T be code-red, and that’s THAT. YOU might be able to rate someone strictly on the basis of appearance, but that’s because you are superficial and I am not.

This is so much fun—being able to say things like that, without you punching me in the arm.

Hm. But what if I am already home and sitting next to you as you’re reading this? I suppose, in that case, I am running out of the room.

ANYWAY. I personally need to know there are attractive thoughts inside an attractive head. Or, in the absence of that, I’d want him to perform some sort of athletic feat. (And, Delia, I’m not talking what’s inside his shoes. Definitely not that.) I did, for a moment, think that I might be able to communicate with Lahn, though, when his mother said, “Lahn speaks English.” But then Lahn gave his mother the same look I give my mother when she tells people I speak German just because I’ve taken it for one year at school. Some things are the same all over the planet, I suppose. Like the look you are required to give your parents when they act like they have recently escaped from the psych ward.

Guess what I found out? (I know you don’t care, but tough.) We are supposed to eat at the same table every night, with the same people. It’s like they’re our boat-family, or something. It’s a pretty adult-heavy family, though—Lahn and I are the only kids. There is this couple from Canada, who have EXCELLENT Canadian accents, and these two grandparent-type women from California, who have California accents, which is to say they have no accents. Don’t you think it’s weird that certain parts of our country have MAJOR accents—like Alabama and Massachusetts and North Dakota—and other places have NO accents?

Okay, okay. I’m sure, by now, you are screaming at the top of your lungs, “STOP
THINKING
, AND GO TO THE FRIGGIN’
PARTY
!!!” Yes, you’re right. My mother went to a show with her Canadian siblings, so it’s pretty lonely here, just me and the pile of clothes that spilled out of my suitcase. Maybe I should put them away before I go.

Nah. It makes me feel like I’m in my room at home, which is soothing. I could, though, put some more concealer over my cheek-flower. Between that and all the words on my hand, I feel like one of those tattoo-obsessed people. Which doesn’t help with my confidence level, LET ME TELL YOU.

Oh, all right, all right. I’m GOING, I’m GOING.

(a.k.a. Painted Lady)

Sunday, still

(Will it never end?)

Dear Delia,

I’m pathetic. You should start proceedings to divorce me as your best friend, because there is no hope for me. Ever. You should have seen me at the teen party tonight. It was total, public humiliation. I would jump overboard, but then there’d be the bigger public humiliation of a rescue. Running away once we land in Barcelona may be my only option. I can’t write this letter now, because I have to pack.

Oh, OKAY. I’ll tell you about it. (THEN I’ll pack.)

THE PARTY

Everything started out FINE. I took the elevator to deck nine, where the teen lounge is, and the party was already going on. I was greeted by Pink’s voice over the speakers (GET THIS PARTY STARTED!!) and a very happy-looking guy in a sailor hat. (The little white type of sailor hat, like the one I bought for my five-year-old cousin when I was on the Cape May ferry last summer.) I can’t remember the guy’s name, so I’ll call him Gilligan.

“Hello!” Gilligan said, all excitedly. “I’m the youth activity director!”

“Hi,” I said, noticing immediately that there were several foosball tables at one end of the room. There were only a few gamers at each one—all boys, perhaps even some Euro-hotties, I figured—so I began to think that maybe this wouldn’t be so hard, after all. I’m pretty good at foosball, and I’m way more comfortable in a competitive sort of atmosphere. My confidence was building, Delia.

“Drinks and snacks over there,” Gilligan said cheerfully, pointing in the direction of a long bar, where there were sodas all lined up and glass bowls filled with—this is awesome—Mediterranean blue M&Ms. He started to say something else, but was interrupted when one of the gamers suddenly yelled, “TOURNAMENT!” which resulted in just about everyone in the room heading over to watch the foosball players. It was like some huge magnets inside the tables had been activated.

So, figuring I’d wait till the crowd died down over there, I headed to the bar. First I downed a big handful of the blue M&Ms (for courage) and then looked over the sodas. Each had a maraschino cherry floating on top and a plastic animal hanging over the rim of the glass. I took one with a cute, little monkey.

(In retrospect, I’m thinking that was a poor choice, given what happened next. Clearly, monkeys are bad karma for me—maybe a giraffe would have been better.)

By the bar was a wall that showed music videos, and a few girls were dancing in front of it. Near them were a few puffy chairs, and one of them was occupied by a boy with dark, wavy hair and dark eyes. Italian, I figured. Or Greek. Or Israeli. Or some similarly attractive alien species. I sized him up, Delia, as almost certainly code-red. And all I needed to do, I told myself, was walk up and meet him. THEN, I told myself, task #4 on Delia’s (annoying) to-do list would be OVER. There was one little problem, though: TOTAL PANIC.

Feeling like I would throw up any second, I asked myself (not out loud, thankfully), “What would Delia do?” Naturally, the answer terrified me, so I switched to the question: “What would Georgia do?” To that, I thought-answered, “Well, she would be British, of course, and I know how to do THAT.” And then I thought-added, “But what if he doesn’t speak English? Or British, for that matter?” At which point, I thought-yelled, “DO IT, BRADY!”

So, armed with this (totally misplaced) sense of confidence, I strolled over to the puffy orange chair and, acting like a cool person (which I’m obviously NOT), picked the cherry out of my glass, popped it into my mouth, and said, “Bazzin’ pahty!” (Which I know is stupid, but it made perfect sense in the completely idiotic fantasy world I had entered by then.)

He turned, smiling, and said, in a definitely too-loud kind of way, and in a cowboy accent straight out of the Wild West, “Hey! Yer a New Yorker!”

At which moment I inhaled the maraschino cherry and began to CHOKE. I couldn’t get a sound out at first, and I guess this guy is trained in life-saving or something, because he sprang right up out of his seat and got behind me and squeezed my stomach so hard that the cherry FLEW out of my mouth. At that point I managed to squeak out, “I’m okay!” so he let me go. By then the girls on the dance floor had stopped dancing and were looking at us, as was the rest of the room. (And the rest of the world, I think.)

“Ma name’s AJ,” he said, smiling (a little too) big. “Ahm from Texas. I lak that flar on yer face.”

Still feeling somewhat gaggy, I coughed out, “Thanks!” and “Got to go!” and “Bye!” until I backed myself to the lounge door, at which point I bolted for the elevator, which didn’t come fast enough, so I ran down a thousand flights of stairs (at least) and all the way back to our stateroom, where, panting, I jumped into bed.

I’m so pitiful that I’m clearly a hazard to myself.

And I’m NEVER going to be British again. Speaking that way is EXHAUSTING, anyway. I don’t know how the Brits do it all day.

And I also don’t GET how the Queen’s husband can be a prince. Shouldn’t he be the KING? Georgia may be the only thing that makes sense over there, and she’s not even REAL.

My mother just got back from the show. She’s telling me to get my clothes off the floor. I’m telling her that I’m just trying to make it more like home, so she’ll be cozy and not get homesick. She doesn’t seem to appreciate that, though, because she keeps telling me to get out of bed and pick up my clothes. See if I do anything nice for her again.

Dov’e la passerella?