Pink Slip Party (17 page)

My apartment, thanks to Ron and Ferguson, now perpetually smells like feet.

Luckily, I have Kyle to think about as a happy distraction. I am trying to soak up this beginning stage — this flirty-talk stage, which has added a whole new dimension to the relationship. A nice one, in my opinion. Steph, who can only be distracted from Maximum Office planning for brief intervals, offers to help me pick out what to wear. Her suggestions pretty much revolve around wearing something with a plunging neckline.

“You forget I don’t have cleavage,” I tell her.

“Men don’t care,” she says. “All they want to see is a little bit of boob. They don’t care if they’re squashed together or not.”

“Great,” I say.

I don’t think this approach will work with Kyle. For one thing, I’ve known him too long, and he’s likely to call me on it by suggesting I look like J. Lo in Versace, or worse, Lil’ Kim at practically any awards show.

For another, I don’t want a cheap one-night stand with Kyle. I want more than that, because for the first time I realize he’s got Potential. He’s smart, funny, and sexy. I wonder what it would be like if we started seriously dating, and why I hadn’t really allowed myself the luxury of considering him before.

Think of the benefits: for one, he already knows I’m crazy, so there would be no surprises later. Two, he’s already met and impressed my parents, and has not been scared off by them. Three, I know, deep down, that he is one of the Good Guys.

“Oh, dear, somebody’s got a bad case of smit,” Steph observes, as I try on and then discard the fifth outfit I’ve pulled from my closet. Everything is either too obviously trying (like my power suit) or too horribly frumpy. Since being laid off, my closet seems to have lost any trendy clothes it had.

“I am not smitten,” I say.

“Any girl who tries on more than six outfits is smitten,” Steph says, as I angrily discard the sixth on my bed.

“If I had money, I’d buy a new outfit,” I say.

“That’s the second sign of smit,” Steph says.

“I am not,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.

“Why don’t you wear those dark low-waisted jeans?” Steph points to the back of my closet.

“Serious plumber’s butt,” I say. When I sit down in them, they might as well be at my knees for the coverage they give.

“Hey, whatever cleavage you got, flaunt it, baby,” Steph jokes.

I snort. “I hardly think butt cleavage is the way to win Kyle.”

“You’d be surprised what guys go for,” Steph advises. “Wear those jeans and these boots,” she says, picking up my kitten-heeled boots. “And this,” she adds, holding up a black V-neck sweater.

“If I wear these, it means I can’t sit down in view of anyone,” I say.

“Sitting down is overrated,” Steph says.

Kyle calls while I am still in the shower, and Missy takes a message. Apparently, something came up and he can’t give me a ride to my parents’ house.

“Did he say why?” I ask Missy, feeling a tiny stab of disappointment.

“What do I look like — your social secretary?” she spits.

“What did he sound like?” Steph prods, attempting to help.

“He sounded like a guy who was calling to say he can’t pick you up,” Missy says.

“That is totally unhelpful,” I say.

“I was aiming for rude, but I’ll take unhelpful,” Missy says.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Steph orders me, when she sees my mind working. “You’ve known this guy forever, right? He’s probably just gotten a flat tire or something.”

Or something, I think.

With some trepidation, I take the train wearing my super low-riding jeans and manage to arrive at my parents’ house early. This is a first.

I barely make it through the front door before Dad is handing me a giant platter of raw meat, because he is barbequing enough sausage for a third-world country. I scan the living room, but there’s no sign of Kyle. Just Todd and Deena, who are cuddled up together on Mom’s couch. No matter how early I am, I can never beat Todd.

Seeing Deena is a shock. Usually, between my birthday dinner and Dad’s spring barbeque, Todd’s changed girlfriends three or four times.

“Nice jeans!” coos Deena. Since she is wearing what looks suspiciously like sprayed-on black spandex pants, I am not sure whether or not to take this as a compliment.

“Have you heard from Kyle?” I ask Todd, trying to be nonchalant, but failing. I still can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

“He had something he had to do.” Todd shrugs. “He may be here later.”

“What
was he doing?” I ask.

Todd gives me a funny look. “Why do you care? And why are you all dressed up all of a sudden?”

“I am not dressed up,” I say.

“Jane, I’d say these days if you shower that’s dressing up,” Todd teases. “Actually coordinating an outfit that hasn’t been sitting on the floor of your closet for days constitutes formal wear.”

“Very funny,” I say.

Mom interrupts before I can say more.

“Jane? Can you help me in the kitchen?” Mom asks, raising her eyebrows in the secret signal that she has news to tell me.

“It’s your Dad,” Mom says, surprising me in the kitchen. “He’s officially been laid off.”

I say nothing for several seconds.

“Well, you know they were cutting back his hours,” Mom tells me. “And, well, they finally just cut them back to zero.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

“Last week!” I cry, sounding outraged like Todd. “How come nobody told me?”

“Well, I tried to call,” Mom starts. “But no one seems to be answering your phone.”

“How is he taking it?”

“Not well, so be extra nice to him, OK?”

Being extra nice to Dad is difficult, because he has had a few beers and is ranting about the fact that he wouldn’t be out of work except for the bad foreign policy decisions of Bill Clinton.

“We should never have gone into Somalia,” Dad says, while flipping burgers. He is wearing a NRA T-shirt that says “From My Cold Dead Hand.”

“That’s when our economy went south.”

“Dad, there’s no way you can blame your unemployment on Bill Clinton,” I say.

“Oh, you just watch me,” he says.

I sigh, and glance out to the front yard, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kyle’s car.

“What you need to do, Dad, is get your resume on Monster and Hotjobs,” Todd advises. Leave it to Todd to start in with the suggestions before Dad gets his first unemployment check.

“That’s a waste of time,” Dad tells Todd. “Most jobs aren’t advertised. It’s all who you know.”

This should be interesting — watching my brother going head-to-head with my dad in a career advice-giving contest. Neither one would ever admit to not knowing everything there is to know about everything.

“But I’m thinking maybe I’ll let your mom earn the bread around here for a little while,” Dad says, suddenly. “I could get used to this women’s lib stuff.”

Dad is the only person I know under the age of seventy who uses “women’s lib” seriously in conversation.

“Or maybe your mom and I can move into that grand apartment of yours,” Dad tells me. “Lord knows you have enough space in there.”

Dad is surprisingly upbeat about his situation, and I think it’s because he hasn’t yet made a trip to the unemployment office.

“Everybody have a seat,” Mom declares, when Dad finishes grilling. I keep nervously checking the front door, thinking maybe our doorbell is broken.

“Jane, why aren’t you sitting?” Mom asks me, as I stand in the corner of the kitchen eating off my plate.

“I just prefer to stand,” I say.

“Come on, sit,” Dad commands.

Reluctantly, I take a seat at the far end of the table, with my back to the wall. I try to pull my sweater down over the back of my jeans, but it’s short by about two inches. I can feel a breeze.

“So, Jane, have you heard from Cook4U? I can’t get a straight answer on what they’re doing with that graphic design position,” Mom says.

“Er,” I say. “Well, they probably just decided not to hire anyone and didn’t say anything.”

“It’s weird. Cheryl won’t even talk to me about it,” Mom says.

I am saved by the sound of Kyle’s car in our driveway. I only just manage not to bolt to the door like I’m ten again. I beat Mom to the door by a half second.

Kyle has on his scarf, and he doesn’t make a move to come inside. Behind him, his car is still running.

“I wanted to come by and say hello, but I can’t stay,” he says in a rush.

He looks like he’d rather be anywhere than on my mom’s stoop, and I am struck by the awful thought that he wants to avoid me. He won’t even look in my direction, instead staring over my shoulder to my mom, standing behind me.

“Oh, nonsense. Come in and get something to eat,” Mom says.

“No, really, I’ve got someone in the car,” he says.

I am trying to see who it is sitting in Kyle’s passenger seat, but the glare from the windshield makes that impossible.

“Bring your friend in, too,” Mom says congenially. “Come on, one minute won’t kill you.” Mom, ever the good hostess, gives the car a welcome wave.

Just then, as we watch, the passenger door of Kyle’s car opens, and out comes a long, slinky leg. Shiny brown shoulder-length hair follows, then the perfect 36 C boobs, an impossibly small waist, and perfectly rounded hips complete the picture. Nobody looks that much like Catherine Zeta Jones except Caroline. As in Caroline, Kyle’s girlfriend for three years who ran off to Australia one summer with only a phone call as explanation. Caroline, as in the same woman Kyle thought he might marry. Caroline, his ex who’s supposed to be halfway around the world, but isn’t because she’s standing in my parents’ driveway.

“It’s just silly for me to wait in the car,” she’s saying to Kyle, as she comes up the drive. “Mrs. M, it’s been far too long!” she cries, coming up the drive and opening her arms up wide to give my mother a hug. Caroline’s parents used to live on our street before they moved downtown. Still, it’s no reason for her to practically step on me to get to Mom, who takes the hug with a surprised look on her face.

“Caroline, I thought you were…”

“In Australia? Well, I’m back,” she says, turning to throw a look over her shoulder to Kyle. “And this time, it may be for good.”

I have never had my appetite so fully and utterly quashed as it is in the seconds that follow the arrival of Caroline. The one chicken wing I’ve eaten, in fact, feels in danger of launching itself into my mother’s living room.

Caroline.

Her shiny, perfect hair and her spotless white cable-knit sweater, brown corduroy miniskirt, and suede camel boots. Her easy, throaty laugh. The way she simply captivates a room with a charming half smile and flip of her hair. How am I supposed to compete with that?

I look over at Kyle, who seems to be at Caroline’s mercy, who doesn’t flinch when she gives Kyle’s arm a possessive pat.

Todd looks nearly as stunned as I am. Apparently, Kyle did not let him in on this little secret either. Deena, unnerved by the presence of another busty woman in the room, frowns slightly as she takes in Caroline’s appearance. Dad, who’s the only one in the room incapable of picking up on the obvious social tension, barrels into the room and gives Caroline a bear hug.

“How long have you been in town?” Dad asks. “I hope you’re here to stay.”

“Just a couple of days,” Caroline says. “You could say I’m feeling out my options.”

I feel light-headed. I sit down.

“Jeez, Jane,” Todd cries, laughing, drawing the attention of everyone. “Quit flashing us all.”

I realize I’ve sat down on Mom’s ottoman and exposed my plumber’s butt to half the room.

“Excuse me,” I say, springing to my feet with such speed that I nearly drop my paper plate full of bratwurst on Mom’s living-room rug as I head to the bathroom.

M&M/MARS
800 High Street
Hackettstown, NJ 07840

Jane McGregor
3335 Kenmore Ave.
Chicago, IL 60657

April 5, 2002

Dear Ms. McGregor,

While we are sure you are an excellent graphic designer, we do not have a job available for the hand-coloring of our M&M chocolate candies. That is done by an automated process in our factory.

Also, we are not considering the addition of any new colors to our candies at this time. However, we will keep your suggestions of Magenta and Burnt Sienna on file.

Sincerely,
Ray Lopez
Human Resources Professional

11

I
wonder how long I can stay in the bathroom before I’ll be missed. Five minutes? Ten? Twenty? I stare at myself in the mirror, my hair up in a I’m-not-trying-too-hard ponytail, and my this-is-almost-natural-but-better make-up, and wonder how I misread the signals so badly. Hadn’t Kyle been flirting with me — and actually kissed me? Hadn’t we been dancing around the idea of
dating?

Was I so far gone after the Mike fiasco that I couldn’t even read basic dating signals anymore?

I let my head fall against the mirror. Someone should take me out of the dating game before I hurt someone — namely, myself.

I take a few more breaths. Calmly, I analyze the situation. Kyle kissed me. Kyle
definitely
flirted with me on the phone. Kyle calls an hour before he’s supposed to pick me up and cancels. Kyle arrives at my parents’ house with his once-serious ex-girl-friend who is acting like they’re back together.

I’m not the crazy one here.

*   *   *

Fueled by something very close to hostility simmering just below the surface, I re-emerge from the bathroom and spend the rest of Dad’s barbeque standing in the corner with my arms crossed, not eating.

Kyle doesn’t look at me the whole time, not even once, not even an uneasy glance in my direction. I don’t know how he can stand not looking at me. I am practically glaring at him. Caroline, who is flipping back her shiny dark hair like she’s starring in her own Pantene commercial, sends me a look, every now and again, that in my paranoid state, I take as gloating.