There's Cake in My Future (26 page)

The woman smiles at me warmly as she hands me a form. “It’s sixty dollars, cash or check. And you need to sign this permission slip.”

I write out a check for sixty dollars, then begin madly filling in all of the blank spaces on the permission slip. (Name, date of birth, reason why if we accidentally shoot your kid off into space, you can’t sue us…)

I hear a man’s voice coming from one of the offices. “Julie, do you know what we did with the Friends of Waxell budget? I can’t find a thing on this desk.”

I look up at the sound of the voice—my heart jumping into my throat.

Nah, couldn’t be. I look back down at my work: no, she’s not allergic to anything (other than alarm clocks). I write a note telling them that she may
say
she’s allergic to any kind of sauce, including plain butter, and vegetables, but that’s bogus.

“It’s in your top right drawer. Pink sheet,” Julie yells to the man in the other room. “Kevin, have you met Mrs. Washington yet?”

Kevin???

I look up, my eyes opening wide in fear. I’m pretty sure I resemble a terrified sorority girl in a B slasher movie, right after she insists on taking a walk alone in the forest to look for her scantily clad roommate, and two seconds before she is confronted with her executioner.

Obviously, I am discussing an ex-boyfriend. What else would inspire such a spirited reaction at 7:55 in the morning?

Kevin Peters walks out of the principal’s office looking fucking amazing. His brown hair is still short and wavy but now has a few flecks of silver that I can see. His eyes are just as clear, warm, and brown but now have a few small lines to show off all of the laughter in his life. His jaw is still just as chiseled as it was when we were twenty-two, and he still looks exactly like Prince Charming in the
Sleeping Beauty
cartoon.

And I’m in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, an oxford cloth shirt I only ironed in the front, no makeup, and sporting a ponytail.

God. Fucking. Damn it.

Why is it that when we run into our ex-boyfriends, we always look like crap? I think back to any woman I’ve ever known. I have never once heard of a story where the woman is dressed in an evening gown, makeup done, hair perfect, and he’s a beat-up mess walking into a Chinese restaurant on a Saturday night in his battleship-gray sweatpants to pick up lo mein for one.

Kevin’s face lights up when he sees me. “Nic?”

I force a smile as he walks up to me. “Hi, Kevin.”

“You look fantastic!” he says, pulling me into a bear hug.

“Thanks,” I say. “So do you.”

He pulls away, his brown eyes sparkling at me. “So, do you have kids here?”

“She’s the Washington girls’ mom,” Julie tells him.

“Stepmom,” I correct her. “I mean, bonus mom. I mean…” Great. Now I sound like a nervous wreck. “What are we calling ourselves these days?”

“So you’re Jason’s fiancé,” Kevin asks, my reputation apparently having preceded me.

“Wife,” I say a little too quickly, holding up my engagement and wedding rings.

I know this is petty, but right now I’m very happy Jason spent too much money on my engagement ring. At the time I thought it was a gigantic waste of money, a ring that just screams, “Trophy Second Wife.” But at this moment, it is the only thing I have going for me. Because I notice Kevin isn’t wearing a wedding ring.

Hah! I win!

“How’s Heather?” I ask him, hoping to hear that the trollop dumped him after he dumped me for her.

“She’s good,” Kevin says, scratching his neck self-consciously. “Won the Kennedy Award last year.”

The Robert F. Kennedy Journalism Award. I fucking hate her. I smile. “Tell her congratulations.”

“Wish I could,” Kevin says. “We’re divorced.”

“Oh,” I say, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine,” he says, giving me his best self-deprecating smile. “So, are you still writing?”

“Well, I was working for the
L.A. Tribune,
but I decided to take some time off to write my novel.”

Kevin’s face lights up for the second time in a minute. “Oh my God! You’re finally writing
Tales from My Happy Place
. Good for you! Do you have a rough draft? Can I read it?”

“It’s still very rough,” I say, noncommittally. Then I add, “But I’ll let you look at it once I’m done.”

Why? Why did I say that? Just treat him like a fire: lay low and crawl on your elbows and knees to the nearest door to get the Hell out of there.

“I would love that,” Kevin tells me, while flashing me a smile that still melts my heart. He walks over to the office coffeepot. “So, do you have a couple of minutes for coffee?”

As if on cue, Malika comes tearing through the office and over to me. “Nic,” she whines, while grabbing me in a forceful hug. “I forgot my space journal. You have to go and get it. Pleeeassseeee…”

And now I have a five-year-old hanging on me. I don’t think I could be less cool if I tried. “Honey,” I whine right back, “it’ll take me at least an hour to go home, find it, and then come back.”

Her bottom lip starts to quiver. “But I can’t go on the field trip without my journal.”

I sigh. Damn it, I can just feel myself about to cave. “I’m sure your teacher can give you another journal to write…”

As Malika looks up at me with those doelike brown eyes and pleads, “Please, please, please…” I can feel Kevin’s eyes on me. Judging me. Thinking I’m a bad mom.

“Okay,” I sigh.

“Yay!” Malika says, giving me a great big hug. “You’re the best bonus mom ever!”

I force a smile to Kevin. “Duty calls. Rain check?”

And then my little love pushes me out the door, and farther away from my old life.

Thirty-two

Seema

“I am a woman aged…” I say aloud as I read my computer screen, “thirty-two. Seeking a man aged…” I think about the question for a moment. “What should I write?”

“Type in thirty to thirty-eight,” Mel tells me as she types in her profile.

“Wait a minute,” Nic argues from our couch as she leafs through her wedding proofs. “Why is it that the man can only be two years younger but up to six years older?”

“Men mature slower than women,” Mel tells her as she clicks away at her keyboard. “Therefore, Seema probably wants a guy who’s older.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nic says to Mel, then turns to me. “Men never mature. Grab a young one.”

“This from a woman whose husband is six years older than she is,” Mel points out.

“Yeah, but he’d be perfect if he were my age,” Nic tells us. “Start out looking for perfect. Better to shoot for the stars and hit the moon rather than aim for the gutter and get a bull’s-eye.”

“I think that might be this Web site’s motto,” I quip as I type. “What should I say my desired annual income for a man would be?”

“Ask them how much money can they print in a year,” Nic jokes. She hands me a black-and-white proof. “I can’t see the fire extinguisher glop on your dress in this one. Can you?”

I look over to see a very nice picture of Mel, Nic, and me. Nic is radiant. “Nice, and no I can’t see anything. But will it be in color?”

Nic looks at the picture. “I’m not sure.”

“Have it retouched if it is,” I say to her. “How would you describe my job?”

“Put that you’re in the arts,” Nic says at the same time Mel says, “Say you’re an executive.”

“If she says she’s an executive, she’ll catch an actuary,” Nic tells Mel.

“There’s nothing wrong with an actuary,” Mel points out. “And if she says she’s in the arts, she’ll wind up with a broke artist who lives with his mother.”

It’s Wednesday night, and the three of us are back together as a group for the first time since the wedding. While Nic goes through her wedding proofs, Mel and I begin our quest for the perfect man via a leading dating Web site for singles in Los Angeles. Mel has put out her silver chili pepper for good luck. I leave my silver shovel in a drawer.

“How has the stepmothering been going?” Mel asks Nic.

“Better,” Nic says, although her slightly weak tone of voice makes me wonder if she’s questioning it. “Although with Jason working such long hours, this is the first night I haven’t been with the girls in over a week.”

“Well, at least you have the weekends,” I say to her.

“Well, I will soon,” Nic says, sounding a bit worn out. “Unfortunately, the governor was in Washington last weekend, and Jacquie went with him. This weekend, we have time off, but the following weekend is a governors’ conference, and she’ll be out of town again.”

“I love how you say ‘time off’ like you’re serving a jail term,” I say as I debate whether I should fill out the box saying I’m curvy, or if that’s some online code for “fat.”

“Actually, being stuck at home with sleeping kids and unable to leave does feel a little like I’m under house arrest some nights. Oh, and I’m not allowed to use the ‘what the’ words anymore. That’s been a challenge.”

“The what words?” Mel asks, furrowing her brow.

“No, not the ‘what’ words, the ‘what the’ words,” Nic clarifies. “You know: what the fuck, what the hell, what in the God damn fucking Hell are you doing? Malika’s classmates call them the ‘what the’ words. And I’m not allowed to use them. Particularly while driving.” She looks at my screen. “Who’s Seema562?”

“I am,” I say.

“I see,” she says, clearly not seeing at all. “And why?”

“On the first question, when they asked me what I wanted my username to be, I typed in Seema. I thought that one advantage of being Indian is that at least no one has my name. But then it said that name was already being used. Makes sense, I figured. Even if Seema isn’t a common name, I gotta figure at least one girl in this country would have it.”

“Have there really been five hundred and sixty-one other Seemas trying to hook up online?” Nic asks, surprised.

I shrug as Mel says, “At least you got a number. When I gave the name Mel, it suggested I take the name WittyMel.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask her.

“Seems like lying,” Mel admits.

“At least they didn’t suggest DesperateMel or LonelyMel,” Nic jokes.

“I don’t know,” I counter. “Maybe that’s the way to go. Reverse psychology.” I check out a few pics of the guys that fit my parameters so far. “I mean, there’s a guy here called Whatacatch. As if.”

“Let me see what he looks like,” Nic says, happily walking over to my side of the table. “I mean, if he has the confidence to … oh, yuck.”

“I know! Right?” I say, shaking my head and checking a box that allows me to delete him.

“Maybe you should fill out the whole questionnaire, then start making choices from the available pool,” Nic advises.

“Fair enough,” I say, then read the next question. “Oh fuck. What are you saying for exercise?”

“I put five or more times per week,” Mel says.

“Yeah, put that,” Nic tells me.

“I can’t,” I say. Mel actually does exercise five or more times per week. My idea of exercise is that excruciatingly long walk from the couch to my freezer. “How about I say once a week?”

“Once a week sounds a little fat,” Nic explains to me.

“Hey, for this drinking question, what’s the difference between a social drinker and a moderate drinker?” Mel asks.

“Put social,” Nic suggests. “So did I mention I ran into Kevin yesterday?”

Both Mel and I stop typing and turn to face Nic. She looks back at us innocently. I’m the first to say something. “Sweetie, you’ve been here twenty minutes. You buried your lead.”

“No, it’s not like that,” Nic says, brushing off the information with the tone of her voice. “Turns out he’s the principal of the girls’ school. I saw him a couple of days ago when I was dropping them off…”

“A couple of
days
ago, and you’re just mentioning it now?” I say to Nic suspiciously.

“Oh, it was barely worth mentioning,” Nic says, shrugging. “I mean, I called Jason the minute I got in the car. But he didn’t seem fazed by it, so why should I be?” She walks over to Mel’s screen. “Okay—this is the fun part: what do you want in a guy?”

“How’d he look?” I ask just as Mel asks, “Is he still married?”

“He looked great. No, he’s divorced. And before you ask me the next question, no I don’t still like him.” Nic reads the screen. “Mel, you’ve said you’ll take a guy three feet zero inches tall.”

“Wait. Really?” Mel says in surprise as she moves her face closer to the screen. “Oh, look at that. All right, I’m five-foot-two, so what can I get away with height wise for the guy?”

“What brings me to this site?” I read from my computer. “Well, isn’t that a loaded question? ‘I am in love with my best friend, and he won’t have me. Thanks for asking.’ ”

“What is going on with Scott?” Nic asks, having heard the latest during a recent late-night phone vent.

“He’s called twice this week, and texted a few times, but he hasn’t seen me since he brought my car back Sunday. One would assume it’s because he’s with
her
. That’s the main reason I’m doing this—I need a fantastic date for his show a week from Saturday.”

Mel jumps back from her seat. “Oh, God no!” she yells as Nic simultaneously winces at something they see online.

I get up and walk over to look at Mel’s screen. “Which one?”

“The Fu Manchu guy with the nose ring and the tattoo of the butterfly around his eyebrow.” Mel gasps in horror. “I specifically said no body piercings, no facial hair, no tattoos.”

I point to a different picture, this one of a cutie with red hair and blue eyes. “How about him? He’s cute.”

She sighs. “I don’t know. I guess.”

“No,” Nic says, shaking her head. “Don’t go on a date with someone who makes you sigh before you’ve even met him. Let me scroll through.”

Nic quickly scans through several pages of potential mates, stopping at a handsome dark-haired man. “His job is listed as medical/dental or veterinarian. He doesn’t smoke, drinks moderately, diet is meat and potatoes. Send this guy a note.”

Mel scrutinizes his picture. “Okay. What should I say?”

“I want to have a meaningless relationship with some guy for a few nights so that I can forget all about my problems with my current guy,” I answer immediately. “Must buy me dinner first.”