Why Girls Are Weird (3 page)

Dale's birthday party was in three days and my stories were coming along nicely. I knew he was going to love his present. I printed out some of my fan mail to brag about my “audience.”

My sister Shannon called to find out what I was getting Dale. She and Dale have always gotten along since last Easter, when he flew home with me. I couldn't find either of them for two hours. Turned out they were hiding in the garage, smoking dope, and going through my fifth-grade diary.

“Is he still into those stained-glass things?” she asked.

“That was last year,” I said as I walked out to my balcony, crooking the phone under my head. I gave a quick look back to see if my cat was planning his great escape, but Taylor was sacked out on the kitchen table.

“I can't keep up with his fads,” Shannon said. I heard her light a cigarette.

“You know what to get him,” I said.

“I am not buying anyone a theatre mask.”

Dale collects theatrical happy/sad masks. Some are paintings, others are statues. His Christmas tree is a terrifying ornamental ordeal. We've all spent several nights outside of Dale's company complaining about how creepy the collection is.

“It's cheesy and wrong and it makes me not want to be his friend,” she said.

I laughed. “I'll tell him you said that,” I said.

“Shut up. I think for his birthday I'm going to rid his bedroom of all the scary masks and it'll be the best gift ever.”

“I just don't go into his bedroom. It works out better for all of us that way.”

“It only works out better for Jason.” We often joked that Dale's boyfriend, Jason, actually hated all of us, which was why we rarely saw him. Apparently Jason didn't want Dale to feel like his relationship had to be his entire life, but I think the truth was that Jason couldn't stand us.

“Hey,” Shannon said, and I could picture her grin. I could see her leaning forward, her brown hair brushing over her forearms as she giggled into the phone. “Don't you think that those masks over their bed leave this deep mark on Jason's psyche that never goes away? They're trying to have sex and it's like, ‘Mask in your face! Mask far away. Laughing at you! Crying far away. Laughing! Crying. Closer! Closer! Closer!' You think Jason ever sleeps? I mean, no wonder he's such a grouch.”

“Shannon, you're scaring me. Are you coming to my apartment or are we meeting up at Dale's?”

“Go to Dale's. I don't know exactly what time I'll get in. I've got a test in my three o'clock I can't skip. Traffic's gonna be a bitch.”

“Are you staying the night?” I asked. I wondered if I had any clean sheets in the apartment for the futon. I thought about the monster laundry beast that was squeezed up against the closet door, threatening to take over my bedroom. I debated doing laundry for the fifth time that week.

“Nah, probably not. Just in and out. I don't know. If we drink I might crash at your place. Or Dale's. Jason makes yummy omelets.”

“So now you're a big Jason fan,” I said.

“Love his omelets; don't necessarily love him. Are you going to Hartford for Mom's birthday?”

“Maybe I'm not invited. She hasn't said anything about it to me.”

“She will. I gotta go, Stinky.”

We hung up and I went back in to feed Taylor.

I found my cat slumped around the pillow on my futon, sleeping with one eye open. He always crawled into the place I just left, hoping to find the warm spot made by my ass.

He jumped down onto the hardwood floor and stretched out his hind legs. His gray and white fur spiked up around his neck as he hunched himself forward. His tail lowered as he pulled himself back. He stopped to sniff at the coffee table but saw that I had already cleaned my sandwich plate.

He jumped to the counter. He brushed up against the coffee maker as I offered him a choice: “Chicken or fish?”

He mewed, brushing his left side along a bottle of wine. I caught the bottle before it tipped into the sink. I opened the can and plopped the solid hockey puck of food into a small bowl. The kitchen filled with the sharp scent of cheap tuna fish as I sang “The Taylor Song.” It goes: “Taylor! Taylor! The cat with the fur on his face! Taylor!” I was confident the song didn't make me a crazy cat lady, by the way.

Once back on the futon, I held a pillow to my chest. Taylor had recently been eating the corner of the pillow, so the damp stuffing was pushing though the cheap green fabric on one side. It was quiet in the small room. I glanced at my television, my laptop, and my stereo. Nothing was calling to me. I bounced in place. I thought about doing my nails, but it seemed like too much work. The sound of Taylor's wet chomping filled the room. I was so restless, I was excited to hear the phone suddenly ring.

The Caller ID said it was Becca. I hadn't heard from her in a long time. I searched for the cordless, hoping for a twenty-minute chat that ended with an invite to go out with a group of her friends. Dinner and a movie, maybe, or even just watching television at someone's apartment. Becca's timing couldn't have been better.

“Hello?”

“Anna, it's Becca! I'm getting married!” She said it quickly, like I'd been expecting her to call and say exactly that.

Normally those three words produce shrieks and giggles, sending a room or even an entire house into chaos. But those three words were coming out of Becca's mouth, so they only produced a small, worried mental hum that flatlined underneath my restless jitters. See, Becca wasn't the closest friend of mine, but she was a woman in my social circle. Now she was a woman who'd moved up another rung on the ladder of life, while I was still down below. Someone was getting married. Someone else. Another person that wasn't me. As I sat still listening to her recite the engagement story, the hum in my head turned into a murmur. Then it sizzled into a loud, vibrating buzz. I hated that feeling of dread weighing down my arms, that heaviness making my stomach feel so empty. I hated it because I never expected to feel it. I didn't think I was that kind of girl. I looked down to see that my palms were sweating; there were also tiny half-moons indented from my fingernails. I opened my mouth wide when I realized I'd been clenching my jaw. What was happening to me?

“So anyway, we're finally doing it. Married. Hitched! Can you believe it?” Her voice cracked on the last word, and I could tell this phone call was way up in the double digits on her list. By now she was reciting a well-rehearsed monologue. She might not notice I wasn't picking up my cues.

Becca and Mark had been together for about four years and had been talking about marriage for the past year, waiting until they had enough money saved up. I didn't even have someone I was debating marrying to discuss savings and budgets with. Someone else had done all of that searching and finding, and that girl—she wasn't me.

“Congratulations.” I hoped I sounded sincere. “When's the wedding?”

“In nine months.”

“Oh!”

“No. No baby,” she said quickly, laughing. No, nothing was sordid or imperfect about this impending wedding. Hers was just fine. Everything was great. Becca had been declared “A Keeper.” She was getting married. I was not. I was “A Releaser.” Or maybe even “A RunLikeHellFromHer.”

“We wanted a wedding in the spring, and I'd like some time to get myself in shape,” she continued.

Becca was what my mother would call “well put together.” Always wearing an “outfit” and not just clothes, she's the only person I know who wears a blazer to a bar.

“How'd you like to be a bridesmaid?” she asked me.

I didn't expect this offer, as I hadn't been one of Becca's closest friends. Ian was the closer one to this circle of people. They were Ian's friends first. I had fully expected to lose them after we split up. I appreciated that they all stayed my friends after the breakup. They really liked Dale and were pretty considerate about not forcing Ian and me to get back together.

“Wow, Becca. Thank you. I can't believe you're asking me.”

“Donna's not going to be able to make the wedding because she's got a family reunion that weekend.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“Shit. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'm just glad that I can ask you. I was worried we wouldn't have enough room to have everyone in our wedding party that we wanted and now we can. Besides, you and Ian were really there for us that one time we almost broke up and it would just mean so much to us if—”

“Becca. It's okay. I'll be in your wedding.” I politely cut her off before she had to fabricate a loving history between us. I was flattered enough that she was thinking of me. “I'd be honored,” I added, in case she was still feeling guilty.

Now, I'm not the kind of girl who defines her personal status and self-worth by the length and quality of her relationships. Or at least, that's what I thought about myself before I picked up that phone to hear Becca's good news. Then I was flooded with the jealousy of another person getting picked first. I didn't need a husband to prove I was worth something. I just hated being second.

Or last. God, don't let me be last. The Spinster. The Old Maid. Aunt Anna With the Cats. I don't have to be next, but please, please, please, I can't be last.

The guy at the Circle K already had a pack of Marlboro Lights and a 20-ounce Diet Coke sitting on the counter when I walked in. “I saw you walking up! I know what you want!” He beamed. How did everyone else know what I wanted? Why couldn't I have that insight?

I got home, grabbed a bottle of beer, smacked my pack of cigarettes against the inside of my wrist and then opened them. I sat down to my computer. I lit a cigarette, took a breath, and I wrote. I wanted it to be okay to feel like this. It'd be okay if I were Anna K.

LATER, 30 JUNE