Dunkin and Donuts (2 page)

Chapter Two

“Shayla, this is your mother. Stop screening my calls and call me back as soon as you get this message. Your father and I would like to properly meet that boyfriend of yours, so stop acting like he’s a serial killer and call me back.”

I cringe. My mother has been leaving messages on both my home phone and cell phone for the past two days and there’s just no more avoiding her.

I pick up the phone and dial.

“Well, it’s about time.”

“Hi Mom. How are you? How was your day?”

“Don’t get smart with me young lady.”

I do not point out that, at thirty-one years old, I am not exactly a young lady anymore.

“What have you been up to?” my mother demands.

Having sex with my boyfriend
, I think.

“Oh, you know,” I say cryptically. “Life can be busy sometimes.”

“Too busy to make time for your mother, I guess.”

“Not at all, Mom. I’m making time for you now.”

“Well, your father and I would like to take you and Dunkin out to dinner.”

I highly doubt Dad cares one way or another, but I say, “Okay. What would you like to do and when?”

“Let’s go to dinner in the city this weekend. I’ll make a reservation and we’ll all get dressed up—especially you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it might be nice for your boyfriend to see you in something other than jeans and a sweatshirt. And, you know, wearing a bra.”

“Dunkin sees me in my bra lots of times,” I say.

“Don’t be fresh.”

She started it. Why does interacting with my mother make me stoop to juvenile behavior? Sometimes, around her, I feel like I’m operating at the same level of maturity as one of the five-year-olds I teach. I’m a kindergarten teacher, by the way.

“Okay, Mom. Friday night works for us. You pick the restaurant and let us know what time to be there.”

We hang up. I slump down on my couch and begin pummeling myself for my spinelessness. Why hadn’t I just said no? Nancy Reagan is probably shaking her head at me disapprovingly at this very moment.

Chapter Three

I scrutinize myself in the rearview mirror. I can’t possibly lose ten pounds in time for Friday night dinner with the folks, but, perhaps, I can avoid at least a portion of my mother’s insults by doing something about my face. I can wear makeup and I can address my newly-appeared unibrow. I swear, I’ve been sailing along fine, plucking as-needed, but I suddenly seem to have acquired a scary Freda Khalo-esque brow-bush within the last few days. It’s been too long since I last had my eyebrows waxed and having tamed brows always makes me feel better about myself.

I usually go to see Li Chen at Rainbow Nails on Germantown Avenue just a mile away from where I live. But, when I arrive at the nail salon, the petite Chinese woman at the desk explains to me in choppy English that Li Chen is out sick.

“I do your brow,” she proclaims authoritatively.

Obediently, I follow her into the back room for my waxing.

“Okay,” she says. “You want thin, yes?”

“No. Natural.”

“Yes. No natural.”

Wait. Does she think I’m saying natural or not natural?

“Not too thin,” I clarify.

“Sure. Yes. I make thin for you.”

“Not too thin.”

“Yes, yes. I know.”

But, does she? It is with trepidation that I lean back in my chair and let her do her thing.

It is never a good sign when the person waxing your eyebrows says, “Uh-oh.”

I try not to anticipate the worst. I should’ve waited for Li Chen to recover from her unspecified illness. When I look in the mirror, I see that one eyebrow has been left relatively untouched. It retains its natural arc and shape. Like a trimmed hedge, it has been neatly groomed. The other eyebrow appears to be missing. A pencil-thin line appears where my once-bushy brow had been. I now have lopsided over-eye caterpillars where I used to have a unibrow. I’d kill to have that unibrow back now. It’d be preferable to this. I look like Uncle Leo in
Seinfeld
when he loses his eyebrows and has to have them drawn on. I’ve been maimed. I am a caricature of my former self.

“I make even,” the eyebrow lady suggests.

But, as far as I’m concerned, she’s already done more than enough damage. I pay her and leave.

An hour later, I sprawl out on my best friend’s couch while he assesses the damage.

“How bad is it?” I ask.

“The truth?”

I nod solemnly.

“It’s bad. If that woman was a doctor, you could sue for malpractice. As it is, you could probably sue anyway. You look tragic.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“C’mon, Shay.”

I glower at him. I hate being called Shay and Brice knows it.

“Shayla, you love me for my honesty.”

“Honesty. Not brutality. Last month, when you got that bad haircut, I reassured you that it’d grow back and refrained from telling you that you looked like you’d been beat up by a weed wacker.”

Brice, having the benefit of three and a half weeks of re-growth, laughs. “Point taken.”

My best friend is a 300 pound, larger-than-life, flamboyantly gay teddy bear. We’ve been inseparable since college and he always knows how to cheer me up.

“What flavor of ice cream do you want? I have butter pecan, pralines and cream, rocky road, and chunky monkey.”

“This feels like a rocky road-worthy fiasco,” I say.

He doles out two scoops for me, three scoops for him, and we dig in.

“Seriously, babe, I’m sorry about the brows. But, they will grow back. You’re a hottie and bald-faced or not, Dunkin is gonna think you’re sexy as hell.”

“I haven’t even thought about what Dunkin will think of me. I’m worried about dinner with my mother.”

“Oh, yeah, well, you’re screwed.”

“Thanks.” I spoon some more conciliatory sweetness into my mouth and laugh.

“At least one of us will be. I’m so horny I could die.”

“You’re looking at me like that’s my fault.”

“Well, you were the inspiration for this goddamned dating diet,” he points out.

Last summer, I’d gone on my own self-proclaimed dating diet. After a seemingly endless supply of dating misadventures, I’d decided to take a three month sabbatical from trying to find “Mr. Right. ” And I’d declared to everyone I knew that, since I’d been through the dating equivalent of Chinese water torture, I needed a break from the dating scene. In my hiatus from trying to find Mr. Right, I’d had quite a few enriching life experiences and, ironically, had ended up meeting, and falling in love with, Dunkin.

While I’d been going through my personal transformation, Bruce had been getting his heart broken by his long-time boyfriend Robin—who I lovingly refer to as the philandering asshole. After Brice broke up with Robin, my best friend had vowed to go on his own dating diet. It’s been almost six months and, as far as I can gather, his dating diet activities have consisted of getting drunk on boxed wine and devouring entire boxes of Russell Stover’s chocolates.

“You know, you really ought to make some goals for yourself during this time off from dating,” I suggest.

“I have goals,” Brice says incredulously. “I’m going to lose weight, learn Swahili, and change careers.”

I am dubious about his weight loss endeavors. He’s spooning even more rocky road into his bowl and his countertops are providing homes for boxes and bags and tubs of treats that I won’t even mention because even the thought of them is an incentive to binge. I’d raise an eyebrow at him, but, at the moment, my eyebrows are defective.

“Okay,” my best friend concedes. “I’ll get more specific about my goals, write them down, and even start following through—tomorrow.”

“And tonight?” I ask.

“Let’s order a pizza and watch
Jerry Maguire
for the millionth time. You need a diversion from thinking about your disastrous eyebrows.”

Chapter Four

It’s nice to be part of a real relationship, the kind where lives begin to be intertwined, futures planned, dreams discussed. Not that Dunkin and I are headed for the altar or hearing the distant pitter-patter of little feet in our imaginations. But, we have exchanged keys.

We have an open-door policy. I keep Diet Coke in his refrigerator, a toothbrush in his bathroom, and have even stashed tampons underneath his bathroom sink. I have an open invitation to come over any night of the week—and I don’t even have to call first. In fact, sometimes, he’ll turn his key in his lock and open the door to find me curled up on his couch reading or sprawled out in his bed taking a nap or sitting at his kitchen table eating peanut butter straight out of the jar. Invariably, he’ll smile at me, kick off his shoes, and join me in whatever I’m doing.

It’s late as I head home from Brice’s place, but I have an urge to stop over at Dunkin’s. True, at 1:30 in the morning, he’ll probably be in bed sleeping, but I have romance on the brain.
Jerry Maguire
always makes me a cuddly sort of frisky and I decide to climb into bed, naked, with my boyfriend for a late night booty call. Never mind that I haven’t actually called first. I’m sure Dunkin won’t mind.

When I pull into his driveway, I’m surprised to see that his bedroom light is on. I wonder if he’s sitting up late reading or watching TV. Maybe, he’s stressed about something. Maybe, he’s masturbating. Well, for better or worse, I turn my key in the lock, let myself in, and quietly slip into the foyer.

Stripping down to my birthday suit, I drop my clothes into a heap on the floor then tiptoe quietly up the stairs and down the hall toward Dunkin’s bedroom. Suddenly, I wonder if, maybe, this was a bad idea. I don’t want to give him a heart attack. I hear Dunkin’s voice from the other side of the door. He’s speaking with someone. Is he on the phone? This late at night?

“Dunkin,” I call out so as not to startle him. I knock three times on his bedroom door in true Sheldon
Big Bang Theory
fashion.

“Hey, baby!” he shouts. “C’mon in. I’m just talking to my mom in London. I’ll be done in a sec.”

I open the door and stride in in the buff. I am fully in the room, fully in view of Dunkin’s computer screen, before I register the fact that Dunkin is not on the phone with his mother as I’d thought, but is Skypeing her in London.

Mrs. Wilks is fully made-up despite being in her nightgown and bathrobe. She is daintily sipping a cup of coffee and here I am butt naked in full view of the screen. It is 6:30 in the morning in London and apparently they are enjoying some mother-son bonding time.

“Well hello dear,” Dunkin’s mother says scathingly.

Dunkin chortles loudly.

“Hello, Mrs. Wilks,” I say from my vantage point on the floor. I’ve ducked down onto the ground and am crawling out of her eye line toward Dunkin’s feet.

“What a surprise.”

“Yeah, I didn’t expect Dunkin would be busy at this time!” I say lamely, shouting up at the screen. I pull Dunkin’s comforter off of the bed, wrap it around me, and then stand awkwardly draped in the blanket. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“You should be, dear. Between jumping out of cakes and appearing naked in the middle of the night, you’re not exactly the model of modesty. Why Dunkin’s ex-wife—”

I knew I’d never live down the cake debacle. I cringe inwardly.

“Mom,” Dunkin interjects cutting off what is sure to be a cataloguing of his former bride’s considerable assets. “I think I’d better sign off now. I wanna spend some time with my incredibly beautiful and extremely naked girlfriend.”

“Speaking of naked, dear, your eyebrows look atrocious. Is one of them missing?” his mother gets in one last jab.

But, before I can answer, Dunkin mercifully hits the “Sign out” button, terminating his conversation with Cruella de Vil.

He opens his arms wide and I fall into his expansive embrace.

Chapter Five

Dunkin dropped me off at school this morning on his way to work. He’s taking off the last few hours of his workday so that we can go to the movies. Sure, we could go to the movies any day, but we wanted to go to a matinee because we’re both sleep deprived after our incredibly late night/early morning lovemaking. Surprisingly enough, having his mom see me naked did little to squelch our respective sex drives. Then, again, the first time we ever did “it,” his parents had been downstairs waiting for us to take them to the airport. So I guess Dunkin’s libido is unsquelched by the presence of his mother. I won’t overanalyze the implications of all that.

Anyway, Dunkin had no afternoon patients and decided that paperwork could wait so he’s picking me up as soon as school ends and we’re going straight to the 4:00 showing of
American Hustle
. I can’t wait.

“Someone looks tired today,” Ronnie greets me as she walks in just moments after me.

I wonder if the bags under my eyes are giving me away or if it’s the intensely longing look I’m directing at her oversized cup of Wawa coffee. I smile wanly at my teacher’s aide and, God love her, she hands me her cup of coffee.

“Take this. You need it more than I do,” She grins.

“Bless you,” I say. It’s my second cup of the morning. I’d caffeinate myself intravenously today if I had my way. I’m beat.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Shayla, but did something happen to your eyebrows?”

I laugh. “Li Chen got sick.”

She screws up her face quizzically.

“My waxing lady was off work and the girl who did my brows…” I gesture at her handiwork.

Ronnie shakes her head. “At least they’ll grow back. It’s not like you got electrolysis. Can you imagine if someone did that to you and it was permanent?”

I smile. People seem to think nothing of telling me I look like shit. Well, at least I know they’re honest.

When the kids start filtering in, at least three or four of them point at my face and comment. One of the snot-nosed little buggers—and I say that with love—actually tells me, “Your face looks really bad like that. You should change it back to the way it was.”

I can’t help it. I laugh so hard I snort coffee out of my nose. Then, I start to cough and my eyes water. I imagine that, underneath my unfortunate eyebrows, my eyes are now bloodshot. Great. I’m growing more attractive by the minute.

After explaining to the kids that Ms. Ross is fine but that she had a little problem at the beauty salon and that her eyebrows will grow back, I instruct them that it’s best, if they don’t have anything nice to say, to refrain from saying anything at all.

“Even grownups get their feelings hurt,” I say.

“Yeah. It looks like someone hurt your eyebrows,” Tommy the Smart Aleck Thurman says. “They look really messed up.”

Rude little guy, but endearingly cute. Apparently, my lesson on manners missed the mark.

I move on. The kids are learning to write their first and last names and decorating posters with their names and photos on them. The day seems to fly by. Ronnie infuses as much energy into the classroom as her coffee did into my body and, before I know it, lunch time has come and gone. I discretely check my phone. There’s a text message from Dunkin.

Thanks for an amazing night last night, beautiful
, he writes.
I love you and can’t wait to see you later
.

I text back,
I’m exhausted, but ecstatic. Love you too and can’t wait to wrap my arms and legs around you
.

After lunch, Ronnie and I separate the kids into two groups for our history lesson. I teach my group all about the Underground Railroad while Ronnie teaches hers about Abraham Lincoln. Then, my group of kids put on a short skit for the rest of the class about Harriet Tubman bringing slaves to freedom and Ronnie’s group sings a song about the Emancipation Proclamation. We’re attempting to make learning fun. I check my watch. We have recess then snack time then naptime and, after that, the kids will work on art projects until their parents come to pick them up.

As I trot the children outside to the playground, I think back to my pre-Dunkin teaching days. Ever since I fell in love, I’ve started seeing my kindergarteners through different eyes. You’ve heard of rose-colored lenses? Well, mine are biological clock tinted. Not that I’m ready for a baby. I just seem to have more love in my heart for the little munchkins.

“Okay kids,” I call out after about twenty minutes. “Time for a snack.”

Half of them line up eagerly while the other half grumble about not having enough time to play and sulk back inside after their hungry peers. While I’ve been outside with the kids, Ronnie has laid out today’s snack—cheese and crackers and mandarin orange fruit cups. The kids dig in voraciously, talking animatedly with one another and scarfing down their food like wartime refugees. Little kids can eat. I snag some cheese and crackers for myself and nibble along with them. It’s been a good day.

As I’m readying the kids for naptime, little blonde-haired, blue-eyed Angelica, the cutest little girl in class, comes over to me. She tugs at my pant leg and the expression on her face is one of pure agony. Has one of the other kids been mean to her? Does she need to use the potty? I scoop her up in my arms.

“You okay, honey?” I ask.

She opens her mouth to respond and expels a seemingly endless quantity of partially-digested cheese and crackers and orange fruit cup onto my shirt. I teach kindergarteners for a living. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve been vomited on. In fact, of all the bodily fluids I’ve had ejected onto my person, vomit is certainly not the most offensive. But usually, I have a spare shirt in my car or go straight home after work where I can shower and change. Not today. Dunkin dropped me off and we’re planning on going to the movies straight from school. Shit! After cleaning up Angelica, who somehow managed to avoid getting any puke on herself, I leave Ronnie in charge of naptime and proceed to scour myself with elementary school bathroom soap. It smells like an oddly tangy mixture of lemon juice, disinfectant, industrial-strength solvent and urine. Gross. I’m not sure it’s much of an improvement from Angelica’s vomit.

I wash my shirt in the sink and dry it out under one of the hand dryers.

Still, the first thing Dunkin says when he comes to pick me up to go to the movies is, “What’s that smell?”