Anatomy of a Boyfriend (4 page)

―Dominique, stand up straight!‖

―Yes, Grandma.‖

―Oh, your eyebrows are so bushy! They detract from the green in your eyes.‖ Then she turns to Mom. ―Why don‘t you buy her tweezers?‖

Mom answers calmly, ―Dommie‘s eyebrows suit her face well.‖

―Dom‘s a beautiful girl,‖ Dad chimes.

―A woman‘s eyebrows are the archways to her soul,‖ Grandma proclaims, batting her fake eyelashes. ―Neglected eyebrows signify a neglected soul.‖

Suddenly I‘m scared Wes thought they were too bushy.

By the time we finish our eggs, I‘m accused of being a bad granddaughter for not phoning enough (I still give a courtesy call at least twice a week), and Dad‘s accused of being a bad son-in-law for not making enough money to allow Mom to stay home (Mom enjoys teaching, and Dad already covers most of Grandma‘s expenses so
Grandma
doesn‘t have to work). Mom defends us both, of course, with her special way of sounding firm but noncombative. All in all, nothing‘s changed in six years.

Weather permitting, Mom, Dad, and I go out on our fishing boat after every trip to Grandma‘s as a way to overwrite the previous stressful few hours. Both my parents grew up going fishing with their fathers, and it‘s always been our favorite family activity. I also credit these outings as one of the reasons I got into biology and am so good at dissections—ever since I can remember, I‘ve been using an assortment of tools to unhook, debone, and disembowel our catches before filleting them for dinner.

It was actually because of a frog dissection that Amy and I became best friends. Back in sixth grade we were paired up as lab partners, and Amy was so grossed out by the sight of intestines and smell of formaldehyde that she actually passed out. I felt bad for her and offered to take care of the whole operation in exchange for her writing up the lab report, and she was so grateful she painted this gorgeous picture of a frog on a lily pad for our cover and did all these professional-looking charts and diagrams on her computer. I‘m sure it was her visuals that got us the highest grade in the class. After that we started hanging out all the time, and I‘m still closer to her than any of my Shorr friends. Amy will sometimes accompany us on the boat, but she‘s too squeamish even to handle live bait. That she won‘t touch a shrimp with her hands but will take a random boy‘s dick into her mouth has always seemed bizarre to me.

Today Dad steers the boat toward Captiva, and we cast our rods in Foster Bay. There‘re no clouds, and the low line of sand and palm trees around us has a comforting, cradling effect. As I lean against the rail waiting for a tug on my line, I gaze down at the water. It‘s a shimmering light blue, just like Wes‘s eyes. I imagine him standing behind me on the boat and holding me steady as I reel in a catfish. Oh no! I forgot to check my e-mail this morning!

I drop the rod at my feet, rummage through my backpack for my cell phone, and try to check my e-mail on it, but of course I can‘t get a signal.

―Watch it!‖ Dad shouts as he picks up the rod. ―Expensive equipment like this doesn‘t grow on trees.‖

―Sorry, Dad. I wasn‘t thinking.‖

I shake my head and survey the horizon in an attempt to clear my mind. But within the minute, I imagine Wes and I are walking on a secluded beach somewhere. He tries to take my hand, and I playfully scurry away, knowing there is no chance I could ever outrun the prize-winning sprinter of the EFM track team. He catches up with me a few seconds later and pulls down my bathing suit, causing us both to fall to the sand…. I can‘t believe I‘m thinking this stuff when my parents are two feet away.

Five hours of raunchy daydreams later we finally arrive home and I get online first thing, just to be disappointed by an empty in-box. It‘s only been a day, though, and we‘re going to see each other Monday at the New Year‘s party as it is. I console myself with this thought until Instant Messenger‘s ―invitation to chat‖ window suddenly appears. I don‘t recognize the screen name, but I have a pretty good hunch. I‘m grinning as I accept the hail.

The100MeterDash:
Hey Dom. It‘s Wes Gershwin.

DominiqueBaylor:
Oh, hi! Thanks for adding me. How are you?

The100MeterDash:
Good. Thought I‘d take a break from my essays and make sure your knees were on the mend.

DominiqueBaylor:
I‘m so glad you did.

Yes, everything‘s healing nicely. So I know I asked

you this over e-mail, but where are you ―crapplying‖? And what do you think you‘ll major in?

The100MeterDash:
NYU and Fordham. English, definitely. I read a lot.

DominiqueBaylor:
Cool! I take it those schools have track teams too?

The100MeterDash:
Yep. My parents are also making me apply to Miami since my brother, Arthur, is a sophomore there, but I really want to live in New York City.

DominiqueBaylor:
I‘ve never been to NY but always wanted to visit. But enough college talk, I‘m sure you‘re sick of it. How is your day going otherwise? And should I call you Gersh or Wes?

The100MeterDash:
Wes. Only trackies call me Gersh. Day‘s going great. Arthur‘s here on break, so we‘re hanging out. Soon I‘ll take a run with Jessica.

DominiqueBaylor:
Who‘s Jessica? An EFM friend?

The100MeterDash:
No, my collie.

DominiqueBaylor:
Oh, Jessica‘s a very human name for a dog.

The100MeterDash:
Well, we got her 10 years ago back when we lived in San Antonio. The girl next door, Jessica Sky, had this red-orange hair that matched the collie‘s fur exactly, so I named it after her.

DominiqueBaylor:
She must have been flattered.

The100MeterDash:
Well, I don‘t think she was super thrilled a dog reminded me of her, but we stayed friends, so it‘s all good. How‘s your day?

DominiqueBaylor:
Good. Went fishing! Must have caught at least 12 bass, and Mom‘s making 3 of them for dinner. Yum!

The100MeterDash:
Bass, eh? That sounds good. I became a vegetarian last year, though, so I can‘t enjoy that stuff.

DominiqueBaylor:
A vegetarian? Uh-oh, you must think I‘m some ruthless fish-killer!

This chat lasts over an hour, and Wes hails me the next four nights also! Fortunately, he never says anything assholeish, and I manage to avoid making a fool of myself. I‘m also the one who ends all the chats, which is good—Amy always says you‘re supposed to leave boys wanting more. To my relief Wes never mentions Jessica Sky, or any other girl, again.

The one discouraging aspect of all this IM-ing is Wes never sounds overtly flirty. Mostly we talk about school, movies, and all the cities he‘s lived in—his Dad‘s civil engineering firm moved his family five times in the last fifteen years! Amy says Wes‘s timidity is probably a direct result of his never being able to get settled in any one place, and she suggests I take the lead and start inserting provocative lines like, ―Can you hold on, Wes? I have to take my panties out of the dryer.‖ First off, IM-ing about underwear is not my idea of a come-on. But even if it were, I don‘t want to risk losing this great thing we have going by pressing the issue too early and scaring him away.

The night before the party, however, the tide shifts slightly when he writes:
The100MeterDash:
You know, Dom, chatting with you is quickly becoming one of the highlights of my day. G‘night.

After rereading the line a few times to make sure I‘m not imagining things, I‘m unable to form a coherent sentence, so I respond with:

DominiqueBaylor:

See ya tomorrow.

If I were gutsier, I‘d have written back that chatting with him has become
the
highlight of my day.

5

I
dedicate the entire afternoon of New Year‘s Eve to preparing for the party. In the shower I loofah my feet, knees, and elbows, and I shave my legs, underarms, and bikini area. I even clean out my belly button with a Q-tip. My carefully planned outfit of dark blue hip-hugger jeans and a green wraparound top won‘t reveal any of those zones, and I certainly won‘t be taking off any clothes tonight, but it‘s fun to
feel
ready for anything.

Amy arrives at my place after dinner armed with Revlon‘s entire cosmetics counter. She‘s an expert makeup artist, which makes sense since it‘s a lot like painting. She even plucks my eyebrows for the first time, and I have to admit Grandma was right about it playing up my eyes.

After she‘s done with my nails and hair, I do a bunch of 360s in front of my full-length mirror and study my posture from all angles.

―You look great,‖ Amy reassures me while bouncing impatiently on my bed. ―And you know I‘m not just saying that.‖

―I‘m really starting to get nervous, though. What if we just don‘t click?‖

―Well, you‘ve got the double-clicking down. Just try not to barf when you see him this time.‖

―Ha ha,‖ I drone as I grab my purse. ―Let‘s go.‖

The closest parking spot we can find to the party is six blocks away. Amy‘s been to Paul‘s before, so after I check myself in the passenger side visor mirror for the twelfth time, I follow her as we make our way up the street and then down a weather-beaten wood stairwell leading to the beach.

Paul‘s parents‘ beach house—mansion, really—is white, modern, and gorgeous. It‘s lit up like a birthday cake, with strings of Christmas lights suspended from the roof and tiki torches lining the porches. Halfway between the front porch and the shoreline, a huge bonfire casts patches of gold onto the beach, revealing dozens of guests talking, drinking, eating, and making out on blankets.

Please, Wes, don’t be one of the people making out.

As we approach the beach house, I recognize a few old friends who used to attend Shorr, but I‘m too intent on finding Wes to concentrate on anyone else. After a couple minutes Amy spots him bent over the mammoth stereo on the patio. We walk toward him.

―Nice ass, Gersh,‖ Amy yells over the music. I elbow her in the side.

Wes jumps up and turns around. He‘s blushing, but it doesn‘t detract from how manly his loose blue jeans and charcoal gray polo make him look. It‘s thrilling being this close to him again, but I can feel my throat tighten I‘m so nervous.

Wes looks at me first. ―Hi, nice to see you again.‖ Then he turns to Amy. ―Braff, what‘s this crap I hear about you dropping out of track?‖

―It‘s not crap,‖ Amy says proudly. ―It‘s my last year, and I want an easy spring.‖

He shakes his head. ―Slacker.‖

―And proud of it! This semester I‘m all about cruising and boozing. Speaking of which,‖ Amy says as she hoists up the shopping bag she‘s carrying, ―we beareth champagne, ‗borrowed‘ from my stepdad‘s cellar especially for tonight‘s festivities.‖

―Cool, can you put it in the fridge?‖

―With pleasure!‖ She grins at me pointedly before leaving.

―And what are these?‖ Wes asks, stepping closer to me and looking down at the tray I‘m carrying. I can feel the sweat drip down my armpits.

―I made chocolate-dipped strawberries.‖

―Really?‖ he exclaims, wide-eyed. ―Are these all for me?‖

I like his voice. It‘s masculine, but not too deep.

―Well, they‘re for everybody. But I remember we were, um, IM-ing about our favorite foods, and you said strawberries were yours.‖

As I watch him devour two of them, my stomach gets that same satiny sensation I used to feel while swinging in the playground.

―Mmm,‖ he says, wiping off some strawberry dribble from his very cute cleft chin. ―That was so good.‖

―I‘m glad you like them…. Um, do you deejay all the parties you go to?‖

―Well, I hate small talk. But if I put myself in charge of something, like the stereo, then I can do that and not worry about making conversation.‖

―I totally know what you mean. I can‘t stand small talk either.‖

I grin at him. He grins at me. Then…nothing. Awkward silence alert! He‘s looking at me anxiously.

I force a smile. ―Um, I guess it would help if we liked small talk, huh?‖

―Yeah, I guess.‖ He grins back.

Suddenly some guy yells from the living room, ―Hey, Gersh, come on! We‘re playing Grand Theft Auto!‖