Why Girls Are Weird (6 page)

Shannon and I wandered through the hundreds of people gathered at Lake Travis to watch the fireworks. We got there just in time for the sounds of the city's orchestra to float down the grassy hill as the sun set and the sky settled into a beautiful deep blue. Dale, Jason, Becca, Mark, and a few people from Jason's work were already on their backs, wiggling with anticipation. I could tell they had been there a while from the empty bags of chips and mostly empty gallons of water strewn about their blanket. I flopped down on a space beside Dale as I felt him watch me. Shannon took off her shoes and stretched her legs. I listened to Becca talk about a caterer she was thinking of hiring.

I felt the clumps of dirt and tiny rocks digging into the back of my hips and shoulders through the blanket, but I didn't care. I welcomed the discomfort. This was the first time in a long time I wasn't watching the fireworks from the cup of Ian's lap. I wasn't sad, but I could feel the absence, like riding a roller coaster without someone in the seat beside me. Who would I turn to with excitement, making sure the beautiful sights weren't all just a dream?

When the fireworks started, I leaned forward to grab my disposable camera and saw a couple standing in front of me. They were holding hands and looking at the sky. He would whisper something in her ear as each pyrotechnic explosion faded and she'd giggle, throwing her body toward his. They'd bump into each other and stay closer with each crack in the sky. He held her around her waist, turned her at the chin, and kissed her.

As I looked down, Dale caught my eye. “Hey,” he said gently. “They're probably on a first date and both very drunk. Don't go romanticizing them.”

I shook my head. “No. See how her body fits into his?”

“This is a conversation I'm not going to win.”

I settled my head on his thigh. He put his hand on my forehead as we watched the fireworks above us. I looked over and saw his other hand was holding Jason's. They looked at me like proud parents and then turned their gazes skyward.

I rolled until I was on my stomach. “I'm sorry we fought,” I said into Dale's leg.

“What's that, Muffly?”

I looked up at him. Catching his gaze, I felt tears pressing urgently against my face. “I'm sorry,” I said, miserably.

“Now that's the reaction I'd been waiting for. Fights aren't over until someone cries.”

“Well, then it's over.”

“Your entry today was really good. Broke my heart.” I looked up and saw he was crying a little too. “I wish I was around when you were growing up so you didn't feel so lonely.”

“Me, too, Dale. I'm glad you're here now, though.”

He nodded and stroked my hair. I turned back around and watched the rest of the fireworks. When the last explosion hit the sky, I knew it was over, but I didn't move just in case there was still one more that nobody saw coming.

I doubt LDobler would be as interested in me if he saw the five rough drafts of that letter. I was admittedly more interested in him because he was a man, but I also liked that he sounded older than most of my other fans. He sounded like a peer. My daily amount of e-mail was growing rapidly. I didn't have time to write all of them back, but I did read them. People rarely asked a question or wrote something that begged a response anyway. It was more like they were just letting me know they were there, which was a great comfort. Their excitement was infectious and kept me writing with a near daily frequency.

A few days later, as I drove to the grocery store to pick up kitty litter, I wondered if I came across as myself in my webpage. I didn't know how obvious it was that there was a real person behind the stories, even if some of them were fabricated. Was it engaging enough that it didn't matter? If I were someone else sitting in a cubicle, and I happened across the webpage, would I stay and read?

I was still completely absorbed in myself when I walked into the store. Maybe if I paid attention every once in a while I'd avoid the misery I continually fall into.

08 JULY

I did hide behind a stack of peas until Ian's phone call was cut off. And I wondered if he was talking to Susan. But when he lost the call he didn't just shrug and walk on. He stood there trying to get the call back until Susan walked up, tossed a bag of potato chips into their cart, and put her arms around his waist. Ian didn't seem to care about his lost phone call once Susan was in his face. But I couldn't have Anna K stare at her ex-boyfriend and her ex-friend in an embrace. Anna K would have left the room with some semblance of pride. Anna Koval, however, never left the room until all dignity had been lost.

I'd known Susan since college so I knew all of her flaws, all of which I will list here: she's dumb, lazy, a bad tipper, likes to hog any food you share, makes strange noises with her lips when she sips drinks, and has the worst laugh I've ever heard. Like a hyena. Oh, and she's got a gigantic face. All puffy and big and it towers over her body. She doesn't even grow enough hair on her head to balance out her enormous face. Susan and I once spent an evening in the dorm listing all of the reasons why we were perfect girlfriends, but when your friend becomes The Girl After You, you're allowed to think nasty thoughts about her. She is not your friend anymore.

Okay, so she's not exactly dumb, but she used to do this thing where she pretended she was incredibly dumb so boys would talk to her. I hated it, and when I dated Ian he said he hated that quality in a girl as well. He seemed to not mind it on Susan, however, as I watched them practically chew each other's lips off right there next to the Frosted Flakes.

When I was a kid, I had to take placement tests every time I moved to a new school. They were all the same and always included an IQ test. One part of the exam was a series of images where I had to identify the one thing wrong in the picture. I was really good at them. The sun was setting on the wrong side of the beach house. The chair only had three legs. The swing set was missing rope. We do it in relationships, too. We can take one glance at the picture and instantly spot what's wrong. She's wearing the shoes he hates. He's on her side of the bed. He's using a condom. If this image was frozen right now and handed to me, I'd fail the test. There were too many things wrong.

There was the kissing. Ian hated public displays of affection. He'd hold my hand, but if my fingers started wandering up his arm, he'd eventually grab my hand and lower it, or he'd move my arm away entirely. I once tried to kiss his neck and he
backed up
. He said it made him look like he was property to have me press my body all over him in front of strangers. Now he was mugging down with Susan in front of some six-year-old grabbing a box of Cheerios.

Ian was clean shaven. That was why I probably would have walked right past him if I hadn't heard him on the phone. He hated shaving. Back when we first started dating, he had this clean face with great skin that I loved to run my cheek against. Two years later, he was sick with the flu for a couple of weeks and let a beard grow that he never shaved off. “What's the big deal?” he'd ask me with that smirk just poking out from underneath scratchy brown whiskers. So I had to date a man with a beard because I'd already been dating the man under the beard for two years? Unfair. I think a beard changes a man. He thought a beard made him look smart. I thought it made him look like a serial killer.

The third problem with this picture is the outfit Susan's wearing. She had on a little blue skirt that, if I was forced to admit it (because someone would be injured or there was a lot of money to win), I'd call “cute.” She also wore a tight-fitting short-sleeve top. If I had attempted this outfit when Ian and I were together, he'd have asked why I was “trying so hard.” He liked me in jeans and T-shirts. Whenever I put on a skirt he always felt like I was overdressed. He said it made him look sloppy. I hated how his laziness dictated my wardrobe, but I told myself that he liked me in simple clothes because he loved the person inside of the clothes. These are the things we convince ourselves when the person we love is actually making us sacrifice who we are.

When Susan moved forward to kiss his ear, her shirt rode up her back and I had to look away to take a breath. I had seen her thong. Ian was always trying to get me to wear a thong, but I wouldn't do it because it made me feel dirty and I didn't like having a piece of cloth running up my ass. I knew it disappointed Ian that I wouldn't wear one, but I never understood what he thought he was missing out on. We usually started having sex once we were already in bed for the night. I don't care how much of a sex kitten someone wants to be—nobody wears a thong to sleep. That's pain.

Ian's hands slipped around Susan's waist and he hooked his fingers into the strap of her thong at her left hip. His hand lowered and I realized why he was changing himself for Susan. No matter how many of her flaws I could recite from memory, I knew the one thing she had over me that I could never beat.

Susan had a perfect ass.

She knew it, I knew it, and clearly Ian knew it, the way he was holding her bottom. He kissed her neck and held her ass in his hands. I bet she let him do all kinds of things to her. He probably didn't even have to ask if he could do them, either. I knew he wanted to try things with me that he was too nervous to ask about, and since I didn't really want to try them, I never brought them up either. I could tell that he wanted to do more, but he never said anything. I bet Susan just raised her perfect ass in the air without saying a word and let him do whatever he wanted.

The biggest thing wrong with the picture was that I was still standing there hiding behind a canned vegetable display. Why hadn't I left? Why was I watching him hold her perfect ass, completely forgetting about the phone call he just lost, while he kissed her enormous puffy face?

Then I saw he had a six-pack of wine coolers in his shopping cart. Perfect ass or no, there's absolutely no reason for Ian to buy anyone a wine cooler. He's not dating a woman; he's dating a sorority girl. I knew right then that he couldn't be happier with her than me. She couldn't replace me if she had seven perfect asses stacked on top of each other, silently waiting for Ian to ravage them. Perfect asses standing in a row, accepting his every fantasy. They could be there glistening with perfect skin, smelling like lollipops, but at the top of that stack was Susan's gigantic shiny face sucking on a “cooler” like a hungry toddler.

That's when I laughed, that's when they looked up, and that's when I hauled ass out of the store.

I only had the one ass to haul, you see. And it might not be perfect, but it's fucking fast.