From Butt to Booty (28 page)

I have to get a job. I realize there are people my age who have been working for years. But they’ll die young and decrepit. I have years ahead of me to work—why start early? I had a reprieve during soccer, but the season has ended and the parentals are making all sorts of job-finding grunts, and barking laughter at my answers.

Why do I have to work? I don’t want to work. I want to play. I’m not very good at it, but that’s just it—I need to get better at playing before I am forced to work for the rest of my life. I need memories to draw strength from when I’m too old to know what the latest chart-topping hit is. Which is what—like, thirty?

Jobs. Jobs. Jobs. What do I want to do? Mom stuck the classifieds under my door this morning. I think that’s another grunt.

I haven’t showered. I haven’t changed out of my pajamas. Really, what’s the point?

I pull out a highlighter. Food service is out; I don’t like touching other people’s spit. I can’t handle having to clean up after anyone—busing tables is out. Waitressing is out, since you have to start as a buser.

I’m so not interested in delivering papers or mowing lawns. I flip the page.

Dog walker. I’m an animal person. I’m not a crazy animals-have-feelings person, but I think dogs are cute. I could walk them. I read further. Six a.m.? Five bucks an
hour
? I don’t think so. I wouldn’t walk small children at six a.m.; why in hell would I get up early for
five bucks
to walk a herd of poodles? Someone needs to call and tell them they need to offer more in the way of
dinero
, or those dogs are going to be walking themselves.

I keep reading. I draw a smiley face over the office tech positions. “Donut shop looking for hard worker for after school and some weekends.” My interest is piqued.

Hmm. I sit up and turn down the latest CD Clarice burned for me. Femme rock with minor screaming. No big surprise.

“ ‘No experience necessary. Free donuts. Competitive wages,’ ” I read out loud.

Oh, I bet they pay twelve bucks an hour. At least.

I like. I circle the ad with my Sharpie. Not the same small-penis Sharpie we used in the girls’ bathroom at school, but a different one. This one is purple.

This has potential. I go to the computer and type in the donut shop’s URL for a copy of the application. I like donuts. I can sell donuts. It’s food, pre-spit, with no cleanup.

We’re having Heather’s family over for an engagement party dinner. Mom has been insistent that she meet the whole new clan of in-laws. That’s what she’s calling them: a clan. I think the argyle/plaid outfit Heather wore the first time she met Mom must
have seared itself to Mom’s brain. It’s like she thinks it was an ethnicity thing rather than a fashion faux pas.

We’ve never met Heather’s parents. After hearing her mother’s take on sperm as an infectious disease, I’m almost positive this will be an evening I won’t, or perhaps can’t, forget. I’m trying to figure out how to work sex into the conversation, if only to see Mrs. Dean’s reaction. Maybe I can ask about Mike and Heather having babies. That might work.

Mom has worked herself into the tizzy of all tizzies. She’s having this delightful event catered, not because she has arrived at the conclusion that no one she loves should be forced to swallow her food, but because she’s obsessed with having French cuisine. Somehow frogs’ legs and snails spell romance. Can you spell “whacked”?

Personally, I’d like a steak and kidney pie. Termites? Chocolate-covered crickets?

Kidding.

Hmm, what do I think is the most romantic food? I’d say a double grande caramel coffee concoction because that’s what I ordered on my first date with Stephen. But I can’t really smell Starbucks right now without getting nauseated. I hope it’s a phase and I’m not off coffee forever. That would be rough. I’ll have to order stuff I don’t like on all my other dates in case I become allergic when things don’t work out.

The caterer has been here for hours setting up. There are smells wafting around that I’m not sure I’ve ever come across before. My stomach is lurching.

“They’re here!” I close the curtains and yell toward the dining room where Mom has coerced Dad into helping her move the furniture around. She even cleaned out the room of all her crafty stuff
so we could eat at the table tonight. I’m sure it’ll be back tomorrow, but it’s a nice change of venue.

“Don’t yell, Gert!” Mom shouts back at me.

“Whatever,” I mutter, and roll my eyes.

I peek out the window. Mike and Heather picked up her parents so they wouldn’t get lost on the way here. Heather’s mom looks just like her. Only very blond, five inches shorter and about a hundred pounds heavier. She’s a bustling hurricane of activity, stomping and fluttering out on the front walk, wearing a sweater with appliquéd hearts and butterflies.

Heather’s dad is also extremely short, but with salt-and-pepper hair that melds into a beard. I think he has a mouth and a chin, but I wouldn’t bet anything irreplaceable on it. It could be a shadow, but short of a total lunar eclipse, I’m not thinking so.

Mike has never looked happier. He isn’t even sweating. Then again, it’s a balmy forty degrees, so maybe his sweat’s evaporated.

I open the door before they even make it up the stairs.

“You must be Gert.” Heather’s mom envelops me in a cloud of floral perfume and a hug that invades my personal space.

“Come in,” I squeak, squirming to break her hold.

Heather’s dad prods me loose. “I’m Art.” There was no trick of shadow: His beard takes up most of his face. However, he does have a place where a voice comes out. That’s a good sign for a mouth.

My mother rushes forward and it’s a battle of perfume and effusiveness. Rather
Wild Kingdom
–y. “Phyllis, it’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“And you, Betsy. Heather’s told me how welcoming you’ve been.”

“Ah, she’s a sweet one. Our Michael is lucky to have found her. Come in, we’re going to have wine and canapés before dinner.”

Mom has hearts and wedding bells, the tissue-paper kind you get at the Hallmark store, hanging from the ceiling. There’s crepe paper and confetti. It’s like wedding decorations suicide-bombed themselves in protest. Just a little over-the-top.

I stuff a cracker with cheese into my mouth and sip a goblet of sparkling cider. No wine for me.

The evening divides itself into the women discussing wedding plans and the latest in event trends. The men sit together as if the women are contagious, talking about fishing, golf and the stock market. Art isn’t terribly into sports and Dad doesn’t know anything about stocks, so it’s a grunt-and-pause type of interaction. Mike pretty much tries to keep things going. I sit by myself eating things I recognize, like grapes and cheese. The rest of the food all appears alien and brown. “Romance” isn’t the word that comes to mind.

We move into the dining room for dinner. The caterer is wearing a white apron, has a terrible fake French accent and is serving us. It’s a freakin’ good thing I filled up on cheese when I see the main course. I’ll spare you the gagging and the breathing through the nose.

The engagement cake is finally brought out, with little cups of espresso and cookies. I have a big slice of cake because it’s four hours after the canapés and I’m falling asleep from boredom.

Finally they leave. Mom looks pleased. “Did you have a good time, honey?” she asks me. She appears momentarily fragile.

“It was great, Mom.” I kiss her cheek.

“You think so?” She brushes my hair from my face. She hasn’t done that for years.

“Yeah. Night.” I slump up the stairs.

“I love you, Gertie.”

I pause. She doesn’t say this often. “Love you, too.”

Dad’s asleep on the couch.

My phone rings before the sun is even up. “ ’ello?”

“This is Darcy at the Donut King. We got your application. Am I speaking with Gertrude?”

“Yes.”

“Come in Monday. You’ll be taken through orientation. Plan on being here for four hours. See you then.”

“Wait.” I rub my eyes.

“What?”

“I got the job?” I ask.

“Yep. That’s what this says.” She hangs up.

Whoa. I’m a working girl now.

Hmm, what else? There must be something I’m missing.…

I have a
terribly
bad feeling in my stomach. I think there’s something very, very wrong with Clarice. She hasn’t returned my phone calls and I’m certain she’s ducking around corners to avoid me at school. I can’t think of anything I’ve done, so I’m clueless. I track down Maggie outside her third-period class. “Is Clarice avoiding you?”

Maggie pauses. “I haven’t seen her today.”

I nod. “I’m pretty sure she saw me and then ducked into the main office so she wouldn’t have to walk by me.”