Love and Other Four-Letter Words (13 page)

We all glanced over at Eli. He shoved a third cookie in his mouth, even though he couldn't possibly have finished chewing the others. Maybe he was experiencing air deprivation due to the food lodged in his throat, but his face was as red as a fire engine.

I
f you insist?” Phoebe boomed across the dog run the next morning. “She said, ‘If you insist'?”

“Yeah … that's pretty much what she said.”

We were sitting on the bench that was shaded by an umbrella of leafy trees. With the heat wave still in full blast, the temperature was already in the upper nineties, without the slightest hint of a breeze. But this time Phoebe had brought along a doggie dish and a bottle of water.

“We're obviously dealing with one insecure little bitch! Jenna's obviously threatened by you.”

“By me?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“Why would someone like
her
be threatened by
someone like
me
? And anyway, I'm probably more insecure than all of them, and I'd still never say something like that. …”

“First of all”—Phoebe leaned over to refill the dish at our feet as Moxie lapped up the remaining water— “coyotes are so skittish and unpredictable. And second of all, Jenna's
obviously
the more insecure one. Look at the way she had to put you down to make herself feel better.”

“You've got a point. …”

“I mean,
everyone
is insecure to some degree,” Phoebe continued, “but it doesn't mean we can go around dishing out insults whenever we feel like it.”

“Are you?”

“Where do I begin?” “But I just thought … you just seem so confident. …”

“To quote my sister, Charlotte, ‘Confidence and insecurity are not mutually exclusive,’ Phoebe said, folding her arms across her chest. “For instance, deep down, I like myself. But I also wish I weren't such a runt. I wish the guys at school didn't think of me as a buddy type. I wish I could fill more than a jog bra—”

“Are you kidding?” I interrupted. “I wish I could fill up
just
a jog bra!”

“Are
you
kidding? I would kill for yours. …”

“You can have them!”

“Okay.” Phoebe giggled. “Let's make a dual appointment with a plastic surgeon. Whatever they take from yours they can siphon into mine!”

“Gross”—I made a face—“but you've got yourself a deal.”

I glanced at the people strolling down the street, sipping iced coffees. Everyone seemed to be moving more slowly these past few days and it was catching me off guard. I guess I'd grown accustomed to the fast clip of the city.

“Doesn't it feel like a big catch twenty-two?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“It seems like guys only go out with girls who've had boyfriends before, like they have this stamp of approval that they're ‘girlfriend material.’

Phoebe nodded. “You can't get it unless you've had it but you must have it in order to get it.”

“Something like that …”

“That's why my only date so far has been in a chat room with Mountainking.”

“Do you think it will always be this way?” I asked.

Phoebe adjusted the Velcro on her knee brace. “Charlotte says it gets better in your twenties. That guys start appreciating women who have something to say.”

“But I don't want to wait until then.”

“I know.” Phoebe scrunched up her nose as she began ripping the Velcro back and forth. After a minute she said, “Remember the other day, when we were talking about birth control pills?”

I nodded. We'd had a long discussion about the Pill when I told her that Kitty had started taking it after Jack got a battery of tests for sexually transmitted diseases, so they wouldn't have to use condoms. We both agreed that when we have a serious relationship that's exactly what we'll do too.

Especially since condoms are so icky,
Phoebe had added.

How do you know?
I'd asked. A few years ago, I'd stumbled across a pack of lubricated condoms in Dad's desk drawer while I was searching for a hole-punch. I didn't open them or anything. But I did check back a week later, only to discover that two were missing, which made me feel really strange inside.

That's when Phoebe told me how she once swiped a condom from Charlotte's toiletries bag.
You wouldn't believe how big it got,
she grinned, describing how she'd filled it with water from the bathroom faucet. When she got to the part where she flung it out her thirdstory window and watched it explode on the sidewalk, she was laughing so hard she could barely finish.

But this time around she was solemn.

“I went to my dermatologist yesterday and she wants me to go on the Pill.” Phoebe paused. “I haven't even gone to first base yet and I'm starting birth control pills.”

“Why?”

“For my skin. They say the Pill can clear up acne.” We were quiet again. This was the first time Phoebe had mentioned her complexion. I wouldn't say it's horrible, mostly rough reddish patches and a few painfullooking pimples, but it's the kind of thing that always looks worse to the person who has it.

I shaded my eyes from the sun. Maybe I should fill her in on Mom and Dad after all. About the lump I got in my throat upon hearing Dad's voice on the answering machine yesterday, something for Mom about health insurance forms. Or how Mom forgot to order an air conditioner until this morning, two days into the most severe heat wave in years. Now they're saying they can't deliver it until the end of the week, which seems pointless because the equatorial temperatures may well be over by then.

I struggled to take a shallow breath.

“Sammie?” Phoebe asked, the hint of a smile on her lips.

“Yeah?”

“Charlotte told me something else too.”

“What?” “She says coyotes are the most common roadkill in the Southwest. That some people even swerve their cars to hit them.”

“Really?” “No one would
ever
swerve toward a chocolate Lab.” “Thanks.” I smiled too. “Thanks a lot.”

When Phoebe showed up at the dog run on Monday, she had a camera strapped around her neck.

“What's that for?”

We'd arrived at the exact same time, so we were standing on the sidewalk outside the dog run. Moxie was sniffing Phoebe's knee brace. Dogma was sniffing Moxie's hindquarters.

“Mountainking.” Phoebe moaned. “When we were chatting online last night, he wrote that he's going on a date with the fry girl at McDonald's, where he works.”

“Oh, no.” I leaned against the metal gate. “It gets worse,” Phoebe said. “I wrote back that that's fine with me because I've had a boyfriend all along and we're practically engaged.”

“Oh, no,” I said again.

“Oh, yes. I regretted it the instant I sent it.” “What did he say?” “Here's the worst part. He wrote, I quote, ‘I'll believe that when I see it, as in a photograph of the two of you together.’

“So what did you say?” “Here's the
worst
part. I wrote, I quote, ‘Could you ask anything easier of me?’ Phoebe leaned forward onto the fence, burying her head in her hands. “Oh, Sammie, what have I gotten myself into?”

“Can't you just scan an image of any couple? I could probably dig up one of Kitty and Jack.”

“I would,” Phoebe wailed, “except he knows what I look like! I dug through shoe boxes of photos last night, but the only men I have pictures with are my dad and brother. And I can't do the incest thing, not even for Mountainking.”

“So where from here?”

Phoebe straightened up again, lifted the camera over her head and handed it to me.

“Congratulations.” She grinned. “You have just become a professional photographer.”

“But …” I glanced up and down Columbus, where the majority of people were executive types hurrying to the subway, and parents pushing drooling babies in strollers. “Who?”

“You just take the pictures,” she said, “and leave
that
up to me.”

Phoebe grabbed my hand and steered us toward Central Park. The heat wave, which had lingered all week, was finally supposed to break today. The radio was predicting severe thundershowers by early afternoon. But that was pretty hard to believe, seeing that the sky was clear and blue, without a single cloud.

Once we were in the park, Phoebe suggested we head to the Boathouse. That's this place where you can rent rowboats to take onto the small lake, but they also have a fancy restaurant and a snack bar.

“Where the food is,” Phoebe sang, “is where the boys are!”

“But how?”

She just pressed her fingers over her lips as she hurried me along. I gripped Moxie's leash with one hand, and with the other I steadied the camera so it wouldn't bounce against my chest.

Phoebe treated us to two iced teas as we settled outside the Boathouse, fastening the dogs to the wooden picnic table. There were a few people milling around, mostly tourists, but Phoebe remained optimistic.

“I'd take a
seeeexy
Italian lover any daaaay,” she drawled, attempting some accent that sounded anything but Mediterranean.

As I stirred sugar into my drink, I spotted a guy, probably in his late twenties, carrying a newspaper under his arm.

“What about him?” I whispered, pointing my chin in his direction.

“Too old.” Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “He'd look like a pedophile.”

After a few minutes, I noticed a lanky guy, much closer to our age, chaining his bike to the wrought-iron fence.

“How about him?”

“Too tall.” Phoebe shook her head. “He'd make me look like a midget.”

We'd just finished our iced teas when Phoebe sucked in her breath. A family of three, most likely from out of town, was ambling by us. The mother was carrying a Manhattan guidebook. The father was carrying a video camera. The clean-cut teenage son looked like he'd rather be getting a root canal without Novocain.

“Just right,” she murmured, heading toward them. “But Phoebe …,” I whispered. I had no idea how she was going to attempt this.

“Follow me,” she said, beckoning, “and get ready to snap.”

I had to lift my gaping jaw off the pavement as I watched Phoebe explain to the family that we were
interns at
Seventeen
and had an assignment to photograph “everyday” teenagers for an upcoming issue. Before I knew it, the parents stepped aside, the father started his camcorder and Phoebe waltzed up to the guy and latched her arm around his waist.

I snapped a picture.

“Maybe you should take another,” the mother said, “in case it doesn't come out.”

The guy scowled.

Phoebe beamed.

I snapped wildly.

“You definitely have more balls than I do,” I told Phoebe as soon as they'd disappeared down the path.

“It's not that hard.” Phoebe grinned. “And it's ovaries … not balls!”

For the next few hours, as an “intern” at all the major teen magazines, I photographed Phoebe with at least a dozen different guys. Only one turned us down, whispering that he was
running from the Feds.
We weren't sure whether to believe him, but judging from the way his eyes darted suspiciously around, we weren't going to challenge him either. There was only one shot left on the film when gray clouds started to form in the sky.

“Uh-oh.” Phoebe glanced upward. “We should head home.”

“There's one thing we have to do first,” I said, wiping mustard off my fingers with a napkin. Phoebe and I had just split a soft pretzel.

“What are you …”

But I didn't stick around to explain. Instead I tossed her the camera and marched up to a guy with reddish brown hair and a goatee.

“Excuse me?” I asked. My hands started shaking, so I stuffed them in my pockets.

“Yeah?”

“We're interns at
Jump
and need to take photos of everyday …” I paused.

“Sure.” He grinned, slinging his arm around my shoulder. “I'm all yours!”

When he walked away, I couldn't wipe this gigantic smile off my face.

Phoebe dashed up to me and gave me a big hug.

“Who's got the ovaries now?” she asked. “And with an Airedale at that!”

Just then, a drop of rain plopped onto my arm. I untied the dogs as Phoebe sheltered the camera under her shirt, and we started across the park. We'd just reached the spot where Phoebe and I usually say goodbye, when lightning streaked the sky, followed two seconds later by a loud clap of thunder. Dogma froze, huddling close to the ground.

“What should I do?” I shouted. It was pouring by now, rain dripping off my cheeks, my nose, my lips.