Authors: J. J. Murray
I'm Your Girl (7 page)
Jack
A
fter making three trips to the Salvation Army with Noël and Stevie’s clothes, many of them tear-stained, I had made the world’s worst-looking snowman in the backyard.
You’ve made worse.
The sticks I had used for arms were bigger than the snowman’s body, the eyes were two mismatched wood chips, and the hat was an upside-down bird’s nest.
At least it doesn’t have crushed beer cans for ears like last year
.
I had tried rolling the snow into balls, but it wouldn’t stick together until I added some dead grass, old clover, and dirt. It sure was colorful.
I know Stevie is up there giggling about it.
And Noël is, too
.
“It’s a nice snowman, Jack. And thanks for skipping the beer ears this year,” she’s saying
.
Beer ears this year. Yeah, that’s something she would say. She was always better at rhyming than I was.
I had sat on the big swing for the longest time, gently gliding back and forth, as more snow floated down. It was…peaceful. It was as if Nature was covering up my world with a fresh, clean blanket.
Until the snowman had decided to fall. I had to prop him up with a couple of bricks.
So, now he’s a snowman with red feet
.
That point out behind him?
So, he’s forever walking backward, like you
.
I’m making progress.
You could be making more
.
I’m inside the kitchen warming up and staring at a Russell Stover candy box sitting on the table. I’m afraid to open it, though it still has its plastic wrapper, because it has to be at least six or seven months old. It was a “just because” gift to Noël; I forget what for. Just one of those loony romantic things I used to do “just because” right before…
Don’t think about it
.
It was the last gift I ever gave her.
I’ll bet they still taste good
.
I’m not hungry.
A little chocolate never hurt anybody, and you need to gain some weight
.
I won’t eat the ones with the nuts. Noël loved the ones with nuts.
Because she said she married one
.
I’m not that nutty.
Yes, you are
.
If I keep talking to myself, maybe I will be.
No. It’s good therapy.
While I eat only the nougats, I look around the kitchen. I should have carpeted the floor. It’s so cold. Oh, and that border still looks so good! I thought it would come out crooked, but Noël was there to help me. I should remove all the latches on the cabinets that kept Stevie from messing around. But…maybe the next family will need them.
You can’t stay here much longer.
I know.
I can’t stay in a four-bedroom house alone. It’s a waste of space. I haven’t been downstairs except to throw dirty clothes into the laundry room, and some of the crumbs in this kitchen are starting to move. Most of the crumbs are at Stevie’s place—
Don’t go there
.
I can’t help it.
Get out of the kitchen, then
.
I wander down to Stevie’s—
my
—room and jiggle the top bunk. I’m sure it will come off the other one. Maybe I can set them up side by side and put Noël’s king-sized mattress over top of them. That would save me a daily bump on the head anyway.
Good thinking
.
Thank you.
Though your daily bump knocks some sense into you
.
I grip one end of the top bunk and lift, and the entire bunk bed comes off the floor. Is that supposed to happen?
Evidently
.
There must be some trick to this. Hmm. I should take off the mattresses first, maybe put the entire bunk bed on its side…What’s this?
Sticking out from under the top bunk mattress is a picture book about planes, trains, and automobiles. As I slide it out, I see two more books wedged underneath, each of them a picture book about animals. How did Stevie get up here? And why did he hide them? And where and when did he get them?
I see a bar code on the back of the first book, “Roanoke Public Library” in bold letters underneath the dark lines and numbers. Noël used to take him nearly every Saturday morning to the library for story time. It gave me most of the morning to write since they would often go to a park or a museum afterward.
I guess I should return these.
Tomorrow.
Yeah, I guess tomorrow is as good a day as any. I have lots of nothing to do tomorrow, all day as a matter of fact.
Nothing to do and all day to do it
.
Is “nothing” something to do?
Sure. And you’re good at doing it
.
The phone rings, and I answer without checking the Caller ID. “Hello?”
“Is Thomas Mann there?”
We used to get Mr. Mann’s mail when we first moved in, and we—
I
—still get phone calls for him. “Thomas Mann hasn’t lived here in six years. Please put me on your do-not-call list.”
“Are you the new home owner?”
“Yes, but—”
“And is there still a VA loan on this property?”
“That’s none of your business. Now please put me on your do-not-call list.”
“Is your current loan at seven percent or higher?”
Pushy bastard
.
“It’s none of your business. Now please, put—”
“We here at the Financial Group can help home owners like yourself who have high-interest, VA loans and—”
I hang up. I doubt anyone can help me.
Don’t be so sure.
Now what am I
really
supposed to be doing?
You’re doing fine.
No, I’m forgetting something.
You’re supposed to be writing another book, but don’t rush it. Live a little first.
You call this living?
I had signed a two-book deal. I have no idea what to write about for the second book, and I’ve been avoiding even
thinking
about writing it.
You’re good at that
.
What?
Not thinking
.
Thanks.
It’s all a part of doing nothing
.
My agent and editor are expecting something similar to the first one. It’s supposed to be full of dramatic, guilty pleasures on every page. And I have a January 31 deadline for three chapters and an outline.
I’m screwed.
No, you’re not. You’ll think of something
.
I can barely function in my own wearisome life, and I’m expected to create other, more exciting lives?
So, they’ll be as dysfunctional as the characters in the first book
.
What I should do is write the exact
opposite
of what they expect. I should give readers dramatic,
innocent
pleasures.
Like a picture book for children
.
Yeah, like a—No. I write for adults.
It’s not possible to write a book about innocent
, adult
pleasures
.
Well, I’m going to try.
Your agent and editor won’t like it.
What can they—or anyone for that matter—do to me that hasn’t already been done to me?
Good point.
I am going to the library to return these books tomorrow, and while I am there, I will read up on some of my competition.
But you’re supposed to be writing
.
One step at a time, right?
You’re the boss, chief
.
Diane
I
pick up the fourth and last book,
Wishful Thinking
, by D. J. Browning. Nice, colorful cover photograph of an average sister in a hard hat with a Mona Lisa smile. Different. Opening the book to the first page, I read:
1: Daniel “Dan” Pace
I know I am in trouble when Beth says she wants to eat at Hooters on a Monday night.
Asking a guy to Hooters has to be some kind of new test for men, and I’m failing miserably. I am trying not to look at all the reconstituted breasts and buttocks bouncing and all the pierced and tattooed belly buttons undulating around the restaurant. And all those tan legs! Pairs of them everywhere I look! How can a man
not
look at Darcy, his server, when the sun on her sunrise tattoo below her belly button has set somewhere lower? How can I
not
stare at the freckles practically staring back at me through Darcy’s tight
shorts? How can I
not
stare at Darcy’s hooters at a place called Hooters?
You could respect your date and look into her eyes, Dan. Uh-duh. And is this guy white or what? He’s staring at “tan legs.” This must be one of those interracial books I’ve heard about. I read on:
“You remind me of my mother, Dan,” Beth says, her eyes following Darcy instead of looking at me, a plateful of shiny clean chicken bones in front of her and five empty bottles of Sam Adams guarding her side of the table.
Back to reality. “Hmm?”
“I said, you remind me of my mother.”
I hope my one class in psychology will come in handy here. “I remind you of your mother?”
Beth nods, sighing in Darcy’s direction.
“Um, is that a compliment?”
Beth glances my way. “No, Dan. I hate my mother.” Her eyes grab on to Darcy again, her tongue flicking over her lower lip. Damn, she’s sexy when she does that. “I’ve hated my mother since the day I was born.”
Where’s this coming from? “So what exactly did you mean by that?”
She guzzles more beer. “You’re pretty smart. You figure it out.”
Beth is gay, Dan. She and Darcy are going to hook up and leave you hanging at Hooters. So predictable.
“Figure out what?”
Beth rolls her eyes and takes another sip, tossing her napkin on the table. “I’ll be back.”
I watch Beth head for the bathroom and glance over at the semicircular booth across from us. Two black women sit on either side of a black man who either had to have played some football or had to have done a tour or two in the service. Lucky guy. He’s got two women, one on either side of him, yet he’s able to be hard staring at every implant in the restaurant. One of the black women, who has light brown eyes almost like a cat’s eyes, catches me staring, so I quickly return to picking at the label of my Sam Adams.
Yep, this is an interracial book. I’m somewhat intrigued. “Cat’s eyes,” huh? They’re probably contacts.
I have no idea why I’m here. I’m sitting alone at a table on my fifth date with Beth, and I’m still not sure why I’m with her at all. Nancy, a woman I teach with at Monterey Elementary, said we’d be “perfect” together. “She’s so outdoorsy and spunky,” Nancy had said. “And she is so into hiking like you are, Dan.”
Hiking. Right. On two of our previous dinner dates, all she did was hike to the bathroom or talk our servers to death. On our other two dates, we sat in front of her TV watching college football on ESPN, the dramatic fall colors of the Blue Ridge Parkway screaming to be hiked through. And at the end of each evening, she rushed from my car or rushed me out the door of her condo without even saying good-bye. I have yet to find out if her tongue flicking feels as good as it looks.
“Because she’s gay, Dan,” I say. “Now hook up with the sister, and let’s get on with this thing.”
Beth returns. “You figure it out yet?”
I sigh. “Well, I know you don’t like your mother.”
“I hate my mother. There’s a difference.”
“Okay. Um, so if you hate your mother, and I remind you of her, you must hate me.” I smile and wait for Beth to contradict me.
She doesn’t.
“I, uh, I hope I’m wrong.”
“You’re not.” She gulps the rest of her sixth Sam Adams.
Huh? “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that you hate me?”
She nods. “With a passion.”
I sit back. “Then why have you been going out with me?”
“Just to see.”
“To see what?”
“To see if you interested me.” She shrugs. “And you don’t. Sorry.”
This is messed up! “Then why’d you agree to go out with me tonight?”
“For the hot wings,” she says, with a soft laugh. “And the view.” She raises her eyebrows. “Isn’t that why you come here, too?”
Wait a minute. Something weird is happening here. “This is the first time I’ve ever been here, Beth.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, it’s true.” I’d be too embarrassed to eat here by myself, and Hooters is not the place to take a lady if you want to keep her respect.
Three cheers for Dan! Not. Wait a minute. This means, then, that Dan doesn’t think Beth is a lady…or something like that. I’m getting to be as confused as Dan is.
Unless she likes good hot wings, I guess, or…she
really
likes the view.
Beth waves at yet another server. “I come here all the time.”
“You come here…all the time.” Oh…shit. I can handle this. “You’re, um, you’re bisexual?” Please say yes! This is every man’s fantasy, and I am definitely a man in need of a fantasy to come true at this time in my—
“Hell no, Dan. I’m not even bi-curious.” Oh. I guess that’s good. It would be so hard for me to take if she were dumping me for a—
“I’m a lesbian, Dan. I thought Nancy told you.” Spunky. Outdoorsy. Into hiking. Beth, who looks like an L.L.Bean model with her short, dark hair; high New Hampshire cheekbones; jeans; Timberlands; and blue and black flannel shirt, is a lesbian?
Gee. What a nice stereotype to see
again
in a novel. This had better grab me in the next few pages, or I’m going to slam this one.
I run a checklist through my mind. Beth likes sports. Check that—Beth
loves
sports. She can quote stats, scores, and sports scandals better than any guy I know. She plays on a softball team and everything, and she even played field hockey in college. Lesbians wielding sticks? Wait, they’re curved sticks. Nothing phallic there. And so what if she wears flannel shirts; I mean, I know it’s a stereotype and all, but I wear flannel shirts. And no one can drink more beer, belch louder, or—
Geez, she’s more of a guy than I am. About the only thing she hasn’t done is light some farts, though I did see a lighter in her bathroom.
Dan sounds like a fraternity boy. I hated the frat boys at Purdue. All their secret this and that was just cover for their insecurities.
And not a single one of them ever asked me out.
And she did ask if I had a cute sister. How’d that conversation go? “You have a sister?” Beth had said. I had said, “Yes.” Beth had smiled and said, “Is she cute?” Hmm. I should have connected the dots with those two questions.
“Uh-duh,” I say.
“No, uh, Beth, Nancy didn’t tell me that you were a, an, um—”
“A dyke.”
So glad she said it instead of me. Oh, sure, I was thinking the word, but I would never say it. To a woman, anyway. There were a few in the service with me, but every one of them could have kicked my ass. Come to think of it, even the nonlesbian women in the Marines could have kicked my ass.
Dan’s wimpy. Or at least he says he is. I bet he can handle himself. Or, rather, I hope he can handle himself. The sister on the cover looks rugged.
And as for Nancy, the bitch, we’re going to have a long talk. Nancy is still trying to get me back for that one-night stand two years ago. I mean, other than teaching fourth-graders in the same building together, we have absolutely nothing in common. Except for that bottle of vodka. And the whipped cream. Oh, and the peanut butter. And the ice cream. Good thing I was out of Hershey’s syrup or the stains never would have come out of the comforter while we made our “ba-Nancy split.” I still have a little peanut butter stain on the wall. Something about peanut oil on latex paint not coming out. Why did we—oh, yeah. Jewel had just broken up with me, and I had no self-control that night, and I was hungry, and I do have a sweet tooth, but—
So far, Dan is clueless, unscrupulous, and loveless. And he’s an elementary school teacher? Would any sister—or any
woman
for that matter—be interested in that combination? I don’t think so. This writer flunked characterization—and logic—in a big way.
Beth pats my hand. “Don’t worry, Dan. But, hey, you never know. Things might work out for you in the end.”
“They, uh, might work out how?”
“One can always hope.”
“Hope for what?”
Darcy chooses this moment to return with our check, and Darcy is doing that tongue-flicking thing. In Beth’s direction. And it’s sexy as hell. Either chapped lips must be catching or…
No…way. Was I just bait for a lesbian hookup? No wonder Beth said that she wanted to meet me here.
Darcy hands the check to me and slides a slip of paper to Beth. Beth peeks at the slip of paper and nods at Darcy.
“Have a nice evening, y’all,” Darcy says.
“You know we will,” Beth says, and Darcy walks away, occasionally looking back at Beth.
Beth gathers her coat. “Sorry, Dan.”
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Where are you going? What just happened?”
She stands. “I have a date.”
“With whom?”
“With Darcy. Haven’t you been paying attention?”
My dinner date has just picked up our server for a night of tongue flicking. “You and Darcy are going to…”
Beth nods.
“Just like that?” And I’m not invited?
She slips into her coat. “Hey, Dan, I tried to include you, but Darcy isn’t into that.”
“Into what?”
Beth squints. “I thought you were from California.”
“Yeah, but that was a long time ago, and just what does being from California have to do with this?”
Beth shakes her head. “I gotta go get ready.”
“And you’re leaving me with the check?”
She laughs. “Yes, but don’t worry about the tip. I’ll tip Darcy later for us, okay?”
And this is the end of his version of the events, thankfully. I don’t like him or find him believable for a second. I turn the page and hope the sister is more likable.
2: Tynisha “Ty” Clarke
Tynisha? Hmm. Is Ty going to be ghetto? Is this another one of those “opposites attract” interracial romances? You’d think that just having two characters with different skin color would be enough. Well, let’s see if Tynisha is a believable sister:
I know I shouldn’t be eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation in a restaurant, but when you’ve been waiting as long as we have, you have to do something. That’s so…twisted! Poor Dan!
“Did you just hear what she said to him?”
Mike sighs and pours out more salt onto the table, flicking several grains toward Pat. “He should have seen it coming, Ty. Look at her. She’s wearing what he’s wearing and looks more comfortable in it than he does.”
Pat arranges the stack of Sweet’n Low for the fifth time. “She
is
wearing a flannel shirt and work boots, Tynisha.”
“I wear work boots, Patricia. What are you trying to say?”
“If the boot fits,” Pat says.
I am so glad to get out of those heavy, steel-toed Red Wings that I wear while I’m roaming Roanoke, Virginia, in my Verizon van—
Hold up. She said, “Roanoke, Virginia”? She works in my adopted hometown? So, the Hooters in the story must be the one out on Williamson Road, not that I’ve ever been there. I might just like this book a little. My new hometown is in a book. Imagine that.
—looking for some address in the middle of nowhere, hopefully not having to gaff a pole or squeeze into a crawl space. Climbing poles for the phone company is not glamorous at all, but the pay is better than good. I am one of the few sisters climbing poles for any company in the state of Virginia, but that doesn’t mean I’m a dyke.
“That’s right,” I say. “It means you’re a pioneer, girl.”
“Forget you, Pat,” I say. “That’s just wishful thinking on your part. That’s probably why you’ve been my friend since the seventh grade. Hoping you can get a piece of this action.”
“Come on now. You know I only pole climb, no pun intended. And unless you grow a dick, Ty, I don’t want your…”
Oooh, Pat is nasty. I’m glad she and Dan aren’t going to hook up. I shudder. But they might hook up anyway. Dan seems hard up enough. And did Pat really have to say, “Grow a dick”?
Mike elbows Pat and cuts his eyes to the left. “Finally.”
And, naturally, it’s the wench who has a date later with Beth. And Dan is still sitting there at his table peeling his beer bottle. Man has to be hard up, but why is he so calm? If I were Dan, I’d be breaking shit about now, and I wouldn’t have been stuck with the check. And how clueless is he? I mean, he didn’t know his girlfriend was a lesbian! The man should be wearing a stupid sign.