Love and Other Foreign Words (16 page)

Monday, September twenty-ninth, begins my private and thrilling countdown to Friday, my sixteenth birthday, the official end to the insignificance of fifteen. It's also the official beginning of Sophie and Josh Brandstetter's great romance—such as it is in these early days. Sufficient rain and chilly nights have turned every leaf in town every color of the autumnal rainbow, inspiring Sophie to inspire Josh to confess “I love you.”

He said it at her house last Friday night, and Sophie replied as only she could.

“I know.”

She's working on a collage in jewel tones she's going to give him this Friday morning before school. Instead of her signature, she's going to write
I love you
at the bottom. She signs every birthday card to me the same way.

It's amazing to me how different the same words can feel, even when they're written.

• • •

I have just joined Stu at our regular table at Fair Grounds. At least twice a week since the beginning of this month, Ethan has joined me on walks here. Sometimes he sits for a few minutes with Stu and me. Sometimes he gets coffee to go. Always, we have wonderful conversations. He knows just the right questions to ask about just the right subjects: What did you think of the “Mr. Roboto” video the first time you saw it? Can you study with music on? How's my teaching style?

That's what he asked me this morning, just a little bit ago on our after-class walk.

“Josie, tell me something honestly,” he began.

“As opposed to something dishonestly?” I teased. Well, I partially teased. Okay, I wasn't teasing but tried to sound like I was.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning quickly at me. “Yeah, I guess that goes without saying. But I do want to know how you think the class is going.”

“Oh, it's great. I love it.”

“And what about—do you think my teaching style is okay? Am I lecturing too much? Am I holding people's interest? Am I getting through?”

“I think,”
you're perfect
, I wanted to say but said this instead: “you're doing really well, and you don't need to change a thing.”

He nodded. Satisfied. Relieved. And I felt pleased that I was the one who made him so obviously contented.

Text to Kate, 11:52 a.m.

If Ethan asks me to assess him, his style, what does that mean?

Text from Kate, 11:53 a.m.

that your opinion is important to him!!!!!

I click my phone off and look up in time to catch Ethan's eye as he leaves with his coffee in a big blue travel mug. He waves. I do the same and return my attention to Stu, who is grinning clumsily at me as he chews an enormous bite of his bagel sandwich.

“What?” I ask.

He mimics my wave, tweaked with his version of shammed girlishness.

“He waved. So I waved back. It was polite,” I say.

He swallows, says nothing but “Mm-hmm,” and finishes the sandwich in self-satisfaction, to which I say, “Just sit there and chew, please.”

“Ha ahl I'h hooing.”

That's all I'm doing.

“I can't believe Jen Auerbach finds you hot.”

His grin just grows, and I try to ignore him as I sip my tea, but now I'm thinking about his beard and ponytail and now that entirely too amused smile on his face, and I blurt out, “She doesn't like your beard.”

“Maybe I'll shave it for her.”

“Good,” I grump, and grow slightly more irked when I notice the scent of toes wafting my direction.

• • •

“Josie!” Kate calls out happily the instant I walk in the back door this afternoon.

“Kate!” I respond in kind.

She and Mother are sitting at the kitchen table with a number of papers spread out in front of them—guest lists, seating charts, responses to invitations that went out two weeks ago, plans for the violent overthrow of Columbus Country Club, where the reception will take place.

“I know exactly what I'm getting you for your birthday,” Kate says.

“Good, because it's Friday.”

“Contacts. Contact lenses.” She turns to Mother. “That solves it. She can wear them at the wedding.”

“Solves what?” I ask as I drop my backpack and start to pour myself an enormous glass of water at my dad's wet bar.

“No one's wearing glasses in the photos,” Kate says. “There'll be a glare. It'll be awful.”

“I'll take my glasses off for photos,” I say.

“Josie.
Eh
. You can't pause halfway down the aisle, take your glasses off, have your picture taken, and put them back on,” Kate says.

“Actually”—I sip some water—“I'm sure I can.”

“You'll be carrying flowers,” she nearly whines.

“With both hands?”

“Josie, just let me buy you contacts for your birthday,” she says as I take a seat on one of the stools in front of Dad's bar and start spinning slowly.

“I'd rather have a goat,” I say.

“A what?”

“A goat. I ask for one every year, and technically,” I say, stopping to face Mother, “that means I never get what I want.”

“Yet you manage the deprivation with such composure,” she says, and I happily return to spinning.

“You actually want a goat?” Kate asks.

“Yes, and everyone else who knows me well knows that. How come you don't?”

“Why do you want a goat?”

“I want to learn how to make goat's milk cheese.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't know how.”

“Why not just buy goat's milk?”

“If I have a goat, it will be free,” I say.

“If you had a cow, so would cow's milk.”

“Our yard is hardly big enough for a cow, Kate. Now you're just being ridiculous.”

“Josie, I'm not—just—what? Never mind. And stop spinning. You're making me dizzy.”

“Then you should be tested for vertigo.”

“You're not getting a goat, obviously, so it's going to have to be contacts,” she says.

“That's a little bit of a false dichotomy, don't you think,” I say as I stop spinning. “It's not contacts
or
a goat. There are tons of other things you could get me, and why don't you have your shopping done yet? My birthday
is
in four days.”

She tries the traffic cop stop gesture. I copy the move in a slightly more exaggerated manner.

“Now what?” I challenge, so she lowers her hand.

“I've been busy with wedding plans,” she sneers at me as if the answer were so obvious, I was stupid to ask it.

“Well, I don't want contacts. I just won't wear my glasses at the wedding.”

“You'll—” She drops both hands with a loud slap onto the table and puffs out a bit of air. “You'll ruin the photos.”

“Kate,” Mother tries to soothe her.

“She'll squint and ruin the photos,” she says. “Tell her she has to get contacts.”

“Tell
her
this is just a stupid wedding, not a coronation,” I say.

“Girls.”

“Josie. Oh! You do not understand these things. They have to be perfect, and you're making my life really difficult.”

“Oh, well, in that case, I apologize for my myopia.”

“
Err,
Josie!” And with a dramatic shove away from the table, she rises and marches out of the kitchen up to her bedroom.

“She started it,” I say to Mother as I make one complete revolution on the stool. “And she's becoming unhinged. You and Dad should be very concerned about her.”

“Your father and I
are
concerned about Kate. She has a very low tolerance for personal stress. However, we did not anticipate your contribution to her stress level.”

“Can't Dad drug her?”

“Josephine. Are you saying no to the contacts simply to aggravate your sister?”

“I haven't even decided if I'm going to the wedding.
If
it even happens.”

“It's happening, and you're going,” my mother says in her most imperative voice.

“Well, I don't want contacts. And I don't like Kate's telling me I have to have them or I'll wreck her photos.”

“That was a bit much. I'll talk to her later.”

“Well, talk to Dad too, because he missed an important exchange here that proves what I told him a little bit ago about Kate.”

“Fine. But I would like you to try the contacts,” Mother says.

“Are you serious?” I protest, and Mother merely sighs at me. “I could get a corneal ulcer.”

“You won't.”

“I could go blind from it.”

“You won't.”

She waits.

I pick at a fingernail.

“Josephine, I would appreciate it if you would try the contacts for the sake of a little peace in my life at this moment. You might even find you like them.”

“And if I don't?”

“I would appreciate it if you would try the contacts with the mindset that you might enjoy them.”

Erm.

“I'll try them,” I say, and spin once on the stool. “For you. Not for Kate, because I don't like how she went about the whole thing.”

“Thank you.”

“But if I lose my vision as a result, Kate has to donate her corneas to me.”

“I'm pleased to see you're being reasonable about this,” she says as she picks up papers and tucks them neatly into one of four (4) color-coded folders.

I'm not in my room thirty-two seconds before Kate rushes in
without knocking
and throws her arms around me in a real hug—one thousand times better than an X Marks the Spot Hug, making it very difficult for me to remain mad at her. Yet I manage.

“Josie, thank you,” she says, and drops herself onto my bed.

I sit at my desk, pretending to start homework I finished earlier. I rarely have any.

“You're going to be really happy with contacts,” she says. “I promise. They're so comfortable. And you know what? You won't have to wear those ridiculous safety glasses when you play volleyball.”

“Why wouldn't I keep wearing safety glasses?”

“And,” she says, getting excited by the thought, “you won't clink frames when you and Ethan get—uh—close.”

I stare. Our relationship is entirely class and conversation on the way to Fair Grounds and she's got me entwined in some awkward, bespectacled make-out session? Even
my
fantasies don't extend that far. I don't know if I should be offended or flattered.

“Oh, now, Josie, I'm not making fun of you. It's just that I have the funniest image of you and him, sitting side by side in the library, working on a dissertation or something, with your glasses on.”

Offended.

“Why is this funny?” I ask.

“Because it is. It's classic,” she says as she stands and walks toward the door. “Two brainy kids in glasses. I love it.” In the doorway she stops to say, “But he's going to see your huge, blue eyes in a couple of weeks and be blown away.”

Really?

“And my pictures will be perfect,” she says. “All that's left are your ears. We have to get them pierced. And then your hair.”

“You're going to pierce my hair?”

“You're so cute. No, I'm going to fix it.”

“Fix?”

“Oh, but we're all getting our hair done the day of the wedding, so I didn't mean that in a bad way,” she quickly adds.

“Okay,” I say, squinting at her in disbelief as she leaves.

Silently, I repeat her list of complaints against my appearance and tick them off on my fingers: un-pierced ears, hair, glasses, boobs (such as they are)—and I think she just told me I'm funny-looking.

Maybe I am. I never pretended I was a great beauty, but I understand now what Kate is saying—brains don't flatter anyone in photos. Maybe I'll just hang out with Geoff at the wedding.

Wait.

What?

Mother, Dad, and a groggy Kate sing Happy Birthday to me the minute I enter the kitchen, and then they sing it again after Dad shouts out, “Once more,
goioiso
!”

Goioiso: joyfully
.

It's a musical term—a mood marking, connected to tempo.

My dad has a beautiful baritone voice that translated into a beautiful alto voice in Kate, of which I am completely jealous since all I can do is merely sing on key.

Hugs and kisses follow the second chorus of Happy Birthday, which Kate promptly blights by saying, “And you know what else today is? Five weeks and a day to my wedding.”

“Oh,” I say, and cheer myself with thoughts of seeing Ethan later this morning and being sixteen and older in his presence.

Since it's my birthday—at least, that's the excuse I'm using—I allow myself the diversion of imagining eventualities. I envision the intertwining of Ethan's and my glasses, so to speak, as Kate so kindly fantasized yesterday on my behalf. My hands shake at the idea of it—my daring to script how, when, and where it will happen. I picture his office—warmly lit by a couple of small lamps, an old wooden desk, two small leather chairs of the kind usually found beside fireplaces, and books crowding shelves on three walls. I am a junior. A senior. I no longer take his classes but drop by his office to talk. Just talk. He is always happy, he says, to see me.

We have the marathon conversations I have dreamed of for years about everything that's important to us. And we never exhaust a topic, never find ourselves at a conversational dead end, relying on
hmm,
yeah,
and
so
to lead us out of any awkwardness. But tonight, this night, we allow our conversation—about us, how we met, how it was love at first sight, which neither of us believed in to begin with—to trail off. This night is about silence—about smiles and looks full of meaning. About knowing. We will just know that now, right now, all we want to do is kiss each other. For its delicious duration, no one else in the world even exists.

It's going to be Pperfect.

• • •

My Facebook page and phone are full of brief birthday wishes with countless smiley faces,
X
's and
O
's, which I still want to rub in Geoff's face, but mostly I wish his remark about not having many friends didn't still bother me. Smiley faces,
X
's and
O
's. Look at all the friends I have, Geoffrey Stephen Brill. I dare you!

• • •

Stu's in his car in his driveway, waiting for Sophie and me. I can see as I cross the street that he has shaved, which I acknowledge—only because I can't help it—with a smile. He rubs his chin and says through his open window, “Tell me what Jen thinks.”

“Don't you want to know what I think?”

“I already know what you think—usually before you think it.”

“You only
think
you do.”

“You like me better without it,” he says.

“I
like
you no more or less than I ever have,” I say, happy that I get to correct him. “I prefer looking at you without the beard.”

“Why?” he asks.

“It's just not part of your identity to me,” I say.

“I guess,” he says, looking critically for a moment at my face. He points up at me as he says, “My beardlessness is to me as your glasses are to you.”

“Exactly,” I say.

“See how well I know what you think,” he gloats.

Sophie comes outside then and greets me with a hug and climbs into the backseat of Stu's car, saying, “You're the birthday girl. You get to ride up front today.”

“At Cap, I'll be the birthday woman,” I tell her.

Stu nods in quiet agreement while Sophie says, “That's kind of bizarre.”

“I like it,” I say.

“You would,” she says.

“How's Josh?” I ask, twisting around to face her.

“Perfect,” she says, raising her eyes heavenward for a moment.

“Don't start,” Stu says.

“You're just jealous,” she says.

“Yes, I'm jealous that you're going out with Josh. Don't tell him,” Stu says.

“No, you're jealous that I have a boyfriend and you don't have a girlfriend.”

“That's woman-friend to me,” he says, smiling quickly at me.

“That's true. I could have a man-friend at Cap,” I say.

“Don't you already?” Stu asks under his breath, and I pretend I don't hear him.

“Guys, these words are just gross,” Sophie says. “Stop using them.”

• • •

Later, after depositing a slightly disgusted Sophie at the high school, Stu parks nearby, and under a pale blue sky streaked with cirrus clouds, portending rain, we enjoy a long walk to campus.

“Do you ever find this a little culturally schizophrenic?” I ask. “You know, man, woman here.” I point toward Cap. “Guy, girl there.” I point behind us toward the high school.

“I never thought about it,” he says.

“I think about it a lot.”

“You think too much.”

“You think as much as I do,” I say.

“Yeah, but not about the same things,” he says through something like a laugh.

“That's because you are a guy-man.”

“Probably,” he says.

“I'm just noticing it more lately. I don't know why.”

“Probably because you're aging, and as you hurtle toward decrepitude, your perspective changes.”

“Yes,” I deadpan in Stu fashion. “That must be it.”

“Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

Across the street from Cap, while we're waiting for the light to change at Drexel, Stu pulls a card out of his backpack and hands it to me. I open it to find that he has traced his hand on a folded piece of white paper and colored it to look like a turkey wearing a party hat. Inside:
Happy birthday from Enoch, the wily birthday turkey.

This he has written in crayon. Brown.

He's nodding and smiling at me when I finally look up.

“Did it all by myself,” he says. “Sophie didn't help me at all.”

“Very impressive. No matter what anyone says. In any language.”

As we cross the street, I try to work the conversation around to Jen Auerbach, but I can't manage it naturally, so I give up for now.

• • •

We arrive at our classroom before Ethan. Stu checks his watch.

“I'm going to run to get coffee,” he says. “You want anything?”

“World peace, a goat, and a chocolate chip scone.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

I set to work pulling notebooks, one folder, and the correct pen from my backpack, when someone taps my desk. It is Ethan, who smiles down at me as he says, “Happy birthday, Josie.”

“You remembered.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

He walks to his desk, and I promptly fold myself over at the waist, shoulders on knees, and pretend to dig for something in my backpack, allowing the red that I know colors my face just now to abate. Judging by the heat, it doesn't. I keep digging. I must have seven pens in here. I should have more, though. I usually have more, which means someone is taking my pens, and I'm sure it's Kate.

I have no idea how long he has been standing there—nor how long I have been contemplating Kate the Pen Thief—but when I finally look up, I see Stu, staring down at me, bemused, as he asks, “Can I help you?”

I promptly produce a pen.

“Found it,” I say, and he just nods at me as he places a tissue-paper-wrapped scone on my desk.

“They were out of goats,” he says.

“What about world peace?”

“The woman ahead of me got the last box.”

“Was she wearing a sash?”

“She
was
wearing a sash. Was that significant?”

“It was Miss America. Did you get her autograph?”

“No. I was afraid she'd hold the pen funny, and it would just bug me all day,” he says, adding a quick sidelong glance for emphasis.

• • •

When class ends, I linger. I tell Stu I'm going to hang around for a few minutes and will catch up with him at Fair Grounds. I don't even make a pretense of stalling anymore, just collect my things, catch Ethan's eye, and wait until he too is packed up and ready to leave.

“Going to Fair Grounds?” I ask.

“I am, and thank you for waiting.”

“Anytime.”

We start out.

“So tell me about school, Josie. What's going on?” he asks.

“Which school?” I ask.

“Yeah, I guess I have to be more specific with you. Uh—both. Well, which do you prefer?”

“Both and neither, lately, but ultimately here.”

“Really?”

“Usually, it's just a relief being home and decompressing in peace and quiet.”

“Decompressing is always good. So tell me about home. What are your parents like? Are you close to them?”

“I'm close to my entire family,” I say. “My parents and both older sisters.”

“You're lucky,” he says in a tone sounding slightly sad.

“You know, I know I am. Aren't you close to your family?”

“No, not really.”

“I think I would shrivel up and slowly die without my family. Or I'd hope to.”

“I'm in no danger of shriveling up and dying, but we're just not close. I think I can sum it up by saying we don't have much in common, and opposites don't attract. So,” he says more cheerily, “back to your family. You have two older sisters?”

“I do,” I say, and we talk about them and their names and ages and miscellaneous stats, of which Geoff is last, the rest of the way to Fair Grounds.

Opposites
don't attract
echoes in my head over tea and my second scone of the day, which Ethan buys me, though I tell him he does not need to. He says to consider it a birthday present. I opt not to tell him why I'd prefer a goat.

We join Stu and his pile of food and talk—through Ethan's one cup of coffee and then a little longer—about Columbus, music, Chicago, popcorn, movies. It's one of those lovely organic conversational chains, a word or phrase in one topic inspiring a whole new topic and so on. No long pauses interrupted only by
hmm,
so,
erm
.

And the whole time my attention is divided between the present exchange and
opposites don't attract
. Ethan and I are definitely not opposites, and I am growing a bit more comfortable with the idea that he and I just may be something more to each other . . . eventually.