Born Confused (20 page)

—Hey, Dilly, long time no see! she managed. She nudged him, sustaining a funny little smile in the midst of her befuddlement, upper lip sliding out slightly over lower; her happiness at seeing him was still palpable, and embarrassing for some reason.

Dylan looked like it had been such a long time, in fact, he still didn’t see. He was giving Gwyn a Queens mannequin look, staring out vacantly from his model-mold face, and it was beginning to give me a very unpleasant feeling in the intestinal region.

—Who’s the little girl? said the cornrowed one in a husky voice.
—Dilly?

—Oh, this is just a friend. From my high school.

—Just a friend! cried Gwyn, trying to laugh, but the chortle abruptly cut off, sounding more like a choked cough.—You’re funny.

—Well, we’re friends, aren’t we? said Dylan, giving her a pseudo-friendly pseudo-punch in the shoulder.—And it
has
been a while!
Hasn’t it.
Good to see you, Gwyneth. How’s Joysey?

—Gwyndolyne, said Gwyn.

It had been a while? But she’d been at Astor Place this morning. I didn’t know what make of watch he was using.

—Gwyn—that rings a dingaling. Oh, is this that girl who follows you around, the one you can’t get rid of? said Cornrow coolly.—The one who puts the zzzs in Jersey?

She scanned Gwyn from top to toe.

—Nice fashion statement, by the way. You got any wine to go with that cheese?

It suddenly didn’t look so cool to be in a tee that screamed tourist. But still.

—It’s his shirt! I said.

—Uh, right, said Dylan.

—It is, Gwyn pouted.

—Yeah, actually it is, said Julian, surprisingly. But Dylan ignored him.

—Gwyn, Gwyn, he sighed now, shaking his head as if to say
You really shouldn’t have skipped your medication.

—By the way, honey, said Cornrow, who was fast becoming Corn-ho.

—Everybody
loves New York.

—Uh, this is Kashmere, D and G—she’s the lead in our film, said Julian quickly, as if an introduction at this point would smooth things over.

—D and G? Looks a little more B and T to me, the strangely named one said.—I guess you weren’t kidding when you said you were slumming all those years without me, Dyl!

This was fast turning into a most cringeworthy scenario.

—Excuse me! I said, before I could stop myself.—Like you guys aren’t Bridge and Tunnel yourself?

—Kashmere is strictly two-one-two material, said, startlingly, Kashmere.—Even switched back from six-four-six.

She shot us another nasty look before turning back to Dylan.

—Now Dyl, baby, enough Kashmere stories, she said.—Why don’t we move on out of the children’s department. You get the table, I’ll get the java. How do my men want it?

—Uh, I’ve kind of lost my appetite, said Julian.

—I’ll take mine black, said Dylan.

—I love you, too, honey, she said, and then she gave him a kiss
that convinced me she was the leading lady—and not just onscreen. It lingered, like in sugarless gum commercials, and there were tongue cameos and everything. I think she was overdoing it on purpose; no one macks like that—it was closer to chewing than necking. And then she stepped off, swiggling away to the queued-up coffee counter.

—You know this is your shirt! Gwyn fumed.—I can’t believe you acted like it wasn’t!

Dylan didn’t say anything. Julian began to whistle a little tune and check out the ceiling like he was considering building a skylight.

—So none of that meant anything to you?

—I meant to tell you, Dylan said.—I’m seeing someone else.

Duh! I joined Julian on the ceiling. Both of us sort of hovered about, I suppose in case backup forces were needed, but trying to be as plainclothes as possible.

—Sorry I didn’t return your beeps, Dylan added, as if this was the obvious focus for the apology.

—Meant to tell me when? cried Gwyn.—Last night in the bathroom? This morning in the hallway? No wonder you were in such a rush to get to school. Fuck, Dylan, are you even
making
a movie?

—Sex didn’t seem like the right time to mention it.

Wha—? So they had? In an eye blink I went through a hasty hierarchy of emotions: First I was really hurt that she hadn’t told me, then I realized that was a little megalo, and then I was left just shocked. But I guess if she hadn’t talked to me about it, I couldn’t really bring it up. And then I was hurt all over again that she hadn’t told me. But I tried to stay composed; frock, it wouldn’t help much if I acted out of the loop.

—You wouldn’t have even mentioned it at all! Are you trying to tell me you had some psychic flash that I would be here right now and came on down to have a heart to heart?

—I told you this would happen, mumbled Julian.—I told you you should tell her.

—It’s just we’re not in Joysey anymore, Dylan said, ignoring him.

Thanks for the geography lesson, Columbus.

—It’s time I started, you know, breaking out into other ethnicities, other cultures, he went on.—Something I seriously doubt would be of any interest to you. How can I fulfill my artistic calling if my entire world revolves around Springfield? Even him—

Here he indicated Julian.

—Even he can be kind of provincial in his outlook, and he’s at least an artist.

Julian squinted at Dylan, as if he were hoping not to recognize him; his entire face smarted. We both promptly pretended to be immersed in the homes and gardens section of the magazine rack.

—You think I don’t have enough, what, culture? cried Gwyn.

—You wouldn’t want to go anywhere without a mall in a five-mile radius, Gwyn! Dylan retorted, irritated.—I need a girl who knows about the world. And that’s not you.

Now we were all speechless.

—It’s all here in New York, he added.—It’s in New York where you can lose your barriers, lose yourself into life.

—Where I can lose you, at least, said Gwyn quietly.—So I’m a friend, huh?

Dylan shrugged and nodded.

—Well, let me tell you something, Dylan Reed, she said, rallying momentarily.—Friends don’t treat friends like that. I mean, with a friend like you…

She turned away, deflating.

—I thought I didn’t need any other ones, she whispered.

—Sorry, my baby.

—You know what, Dylan? she said, but her voice remained quiet.—I’m not yours. And I’m not a baby. I suddenly feel all grown up, to tell you the truth.

But she didn’t look all grown up, there in her I Love New York T-shirt, and there was something really heartbreaking about it.

—You’ll get over me, said Dylan, consoling her and now superlatively pushing my buttons.—It will take time, but you will. And one day you’ll meet someone else.

I couldn’t take it. I knew I could be cranky with Gwyn sometimes, but I couldn’t stand it when anyone else treated her with even a modicum of meanness. I nudged her foot and spoke.

—Are you dense? She already has! Haven’t you, Gwyn?

—Uh, yeah, said Gwyn, not so convincingly.

—She was
meaning to tell you,
I said.

—Oh yeah? he said condescendingly.—Who?

—You don’t know him, said Gwyn.

—So, an invisible friend. What, he has no name?

—Of course he has a name! It’s Karsh…um…

She turned to me.

—Karsh
um?
quizzed a dubious Dylan.

—Kapoor, I said.

—Karshum Kapoor! she said.—That’s his name. And thanks for introducing me to NYU, Dylan, because that’s where I met him.

—When?

—Oh, you know. One of those nights you were
editing.

At first I’d thought this was a pretty lame cover-up, but Dylan did look a little razzed, and as Gwyn went on I could see what there might be for him to be jealous of.

—He’s a tall, beautiful computer genius…

—Drummer, I said.—And drummer. In fact, Zakir Mehra—you
have
heard of Zakir Mehra?

—Uh…obviously, said Dylan.

—Well, he was taught by Zakir Mehra himself.

—Wow, said Julian.—He sounds really cool.

He did sound really cool, actually. And to top it off: It was all true! I considered adding that he was nice to his mother, too, but figured I’d bring out my inner Seinfeld and quit while I was ahead.

—Yeah, right, said Dylan snottily.—As if a guy like that even exists. And if he did, as if he would ever go out with—

Gwyn’s mouth tremored, and she suddenly shot off in the direction of the bathroom. I was about to follow but I still had something to say.

—Don’t ever come near her again, I hissed.—You think you’re so hot? You don’t even reach the soles of her feet. If you mean lack of class, you know there’s only one Bridge and Tunneler here.

—I wouldn’t talk, Donna.

—Is that a promise? I said, too heated up to even correct him.—You’re so condescending just because you’re in film school—but where’s the film, Spielberg? Sounds to me like you’re just spending money to jerk off. But I guess it’s fitting—you’re definitely the biggest jerk I’ve ever met.

—You
are
kind of condescending, Julian ventured.

—Shut your trap, Julian, what do you know? Dylan snapped.—You’re just the producer.

—And Gwyn should branch out into other ethnicities? I continued, on a roll now.—Hello? She just spent her day in Jackson Heights, Queens—where everyone thought she was a supermodel, by the way. And New Jersey’s not multiculti enough for you? I’m Indian, you creep!

—And kamasutronic, Julian added.

—You better go drink your coffee before it goes frappe in that ice queen’s hands, I said.—And no point waiting around for Gwyn, in case you were—she’s on her way to Karsh, Karshum now. Why do you think she ran off like that? Oh, and I forgot—not only is he a tall, gorgeous, brilliant, full-scholarship computer genius Indian drummer, but he’s a
total
expert on Lata.

I added that last on purpose.

—Lata?

—Lata Mangeshkar. You’ve never heard of him?

—Of course I have, Dylan snooted.

—Well, he’s a
she,
bozo—the top-selling musical artist of all time. Gotcha! You know, maybe you should be exposing yourself to more cultures, Dylan, more
ethnicities.
Get out of the house more. Or, I take that back:
Stay in.

I couldn’t believe I’d said all that. It was as if I’d been possessed by—me. The expression on his face had been well worth it, as if he’d been ambushed in a paint-gun attack, naked. I picked up our stuff and turned to go now, and Julian stared at me as I passed, eyes wide in something that looked a lot like admiration.

—Dimple, he said, almost to himself.—Dimple Lala.

In the bathroom all was silent, then a muffled sound, and more silence.

—Gwynnie?

I peered under the stalls, bunching up my hair so it wouldn’t drag on the floor. No shoes, and again. And then in the last stall, that beloved pair of size seven feet curling up out of sight a second too late.

I tapped the door.

—Gwynnie? It’s just me.

There was no reply and I pushed. To my surprise it gave, and I could see now, hunched on the stool like a tiny New York-loving garden gnome, my Rabbit.

I was swept over with so many emotions, not least of them regret and sadness. Secretly, I had wanted them to break up for so long but now that it had actually happened it didn’t feel so good. It wasn’t how I’d pictured it at all—I’d always envisioned Gwyn coming out on top, in form, leaving a trail of broken heart bits in her glittery wake. To see her hurt like this was deeply upsetting.

I wanted to take her in my arms but I didn’t want to topple her, so I ended up giving her a clumsy sort of shoulder hug.

—Frock, Gwyn, I said.—This reminds me so much of that time in fourth grade when you came looking for me after Kevin Dunst told me I was the color of dog doo and I ran off and hid. Remember that?

She nodded.

—Well, I think I forgot to say thanks.

—Anytime, she said laughing. But it wasn’t long before the laughter squelched into a strangled sob and we had our arms all the way around each other. She smelled like when she was a little girl, the sweet condensed-milk scent of her skin mixing with the salt of her tears.

—Don’t cry, please don’t cry, I said.—It’s going to be all right.

—Get exposed to other cultures, she fumed.—I mean, duh, my best friend is Indian!

—That’s what I told him.

—You did?

—I did.

—And not to mention my imaginary boyfriend.

—I told him that, too, I said, stroking her hair.—I think I gave him the beginning of an idea of what an asshole he is. But not enough for you to ever give him a passing glance again!

Gwyn looked up at me. Her passing glance now included deep liquid bruises under her eyes where the mascara had run.

—You really are my supertwin, she whispered, voice breaking. She stared down at herself.—I can’t believe I’m in this cheesy shirt. You know, right now I hate New York.

—Yeah, I said.—But it’s one bad apple in the Big Apple, you’ve got to remember that.

I took her hands and coaxed her up.

—Come on now, swashbuckle up—you better stop crying or you’ll make me cry. And that could get ugly.

She nodded shakily, trying a smile on for size, trooper that she was, and reached up a hand to wipe her face. When she pulled it away, she stared a moment, her fingers gone violet where she’d touched her cheek tops.

—Stupid mascara, she said, shaking her head.—It said it was waterproof, sweatproof, sportproof.

—Don’t worry, I said.—You won’t need tearproof anymore.

I helped her up, and we wound together to the sinks, close as the Siamese twins we’d played one Halloween. After she washed up she turned to me.

—Geez, Dimple, I’ve had about all I can take, she said.—Why don’t you just find me a suitable boy while you’re at it?

On the way home, Gwyn kept her shades on and didn’t say much. She became so suddenly withdrawn it frightened me. I tried to distract her a few times but celebrity gossip only goes so far in terms of healing power. To be honest, I wasn’t too good at comforting her in a post-jettisoned state—after all, she’d never been dumped before!