Love and Other Foreign Words (14 page)

“Want some?” Stu asks, holding his muffin toward us both.

“See?” Ethan says. “Everywhere you go, people offer you their muffins.”

“We're that kind of place,” Stu says, and takes an enormous bite.

“Looks like you've got a head start on Josie and me.”

“Ahuhhizer.”

“Appetizer,” I translate.

On our way inside, Ethan asks, “Are you guys staying here? Getting it to go?”

“We usually stay,” I say.

“I'm just going to grab coffee to go today,” he says, and they're so efficient at Fair Grounds that it takes thirty-two seconds, darn it. “But maybe next week I'll stay. You're making that muffin look awfully good.”

“You shu hie a by.”

“You should try a bite,” I say.

“Next time. I'll see you guys,” he says, and wishes us a good day and waves from the door.

I turn to Stu to ask, “Does Jen Auerbach know that you cannot wear socks with seams in them?”

“Probably not.”

“Don't you think she should know this about you?”

“No. It's more important to me to find out if she can walk in misaligned, seamed socks.”

“I knew you liked her,” I say.

“Actually, I need to know this about everyone, but it's a topic that rarely arises naturally,” he says.

“All right. I'll find out for you.”

“Yes, it was my plan all along to get you to ask her.”

“You like her.”

“The way you like the teacher?” he asks, smiling wickedly.

“What?!” I protest.

“I saw you walking with him. Looking kind of cozy.”

“We were talking about Styx. How else am I supposed to look?”

“Okay,” he says, raising his shoulders high, still smiling that smile.

“Eat your muffin,” I order, which is Josie for
Shut up,
which, in this case, is Ohimig*d for
You're right and I have no comeback
.

• • •

Later in the afternoon, on our perfectly aligned walk back to the high school, I lose myself in the mental recall of “Lorelei.”

When I think of Josephine, my head turns all around

As gentle as a butterfly, she moves without a sound.

I call her on the telephone. She says, “Be there by eight.”

Tonight's the night she's moving in, and I can hardly wait.

The way she moves,

I gotta say,

“Josephine, let's live together . . .”

Stu doesn't ask me what I'm thinking. We never ask each other that. It's not that we don't need to. It's that we know how rude it is to interrupt.

Friday morning. I have just set my backpack on the classroom floor when Ethan approaches me and asks through that fabulous look of shared, personal information that only exists between close friends, “Fudge with Mrs. Easterday tonight?”

“Hanging out at his house tonight,” I say, pointing at Stu.

“Have fun,” Ethan says, walking toward the big desk at the front as Stu asks, “You are?”

“Yeah. Sophie and I have some theories to discuss.”

“About what? Don't say Josh.”

“Okay. Monkey grooming theories. Is poosking innate or the result of social pressure?” I scrunch my face at him. “Of course Josh.”

“Poosking?”

“Yeah. Picking bugs off some—”

“I know what poosking means.”

“Your knowledge of primate hygiene is one of the things I like best about you.”

“I thought you dug my beard.” He pushes his chin toward me and asks, “Want to pet it?”

“How long are you going to keep that thing?”

“I was going to shave tomorrow, but now I have to keep it so that you don't think I shaved it for you.”

“I didn't ask you to shave it. I asked how long you were going to keep it.”

“Your implication being that I am going to, at some point, get rid of it.”

“I don't even know why you have it.”

“Because I can,” he says. Then he wrinkles his forehead and points across the room to where Ethan is standing, preparing for class. “Hey, how does he know Mrs. Easterday?”

And I just smile, content with the feeling of sharing a little information with Ethan alone. This is like the feeling of an inside joke—a bond, and a private one at that.

This is a good beginning.

• • •

Late this afternoon, I walk home with Sophie. She's this year's art director for the yearbook, whose staff meets every day after school, same time as my volleyball practice. If one of us finishes early, we hang out with friends—Note to Geoff: I
still
have
them—and wait. Stu would have waited for us after his soccer practice if Sophie weren't in love again. He says he can't stomach listening to her prattle on about Josh, says he prefers her post-break-up complaints to her pre-relationship gushing.

All the way home, Sophie describes the perfection of Josh Brandstetter's flirting skills. She doesn't want to go out with him just yet. It's only the end of the second week of school and obviously a little too warm and green still for what she considers the best season for love.

“Fall is the perfect time of year to be in love,” Sophie says. “When it's getting cold at night, and all the leaves have turned. I love that.” She turns quickly to me. “But I'm not stringing him along. He knows I like him. He just doesn't know how much.”

“I know that. You're just prolonging the run-up.”

“Prolonging the run-up. Yes, perfect.”

“I heard him call you hot today.”

“Shut up. Who did he say it to?”

I name a couple of his friends.

“Shut up,” she says again, which only makes me smile.

• • •

Shut up
is the unit of language I'm recording for my Language Variation Project. Translated situationally, it means:

1. Stop talking.

2. Thank you.

3. I am not.

4. You're kidding.

5. You're right, and I have no comeback.

I already have four examples since Wednesday, when my dad bought me, especially for this project, a black, hardback journal from an office supply store—the third store we visited that night. Dad bought a small brown leather journal with a red silk ribbon attached as a bookmark. I asked him what he'd be using it for and all he said was, “Wouldn't you love to know.”

• • •

Kate's car is in the driveway when I get home, and on the counter in the kitchen is a package from Victoria's Secret, addressed to her. Next to it lies a note:

Dear Josie,

I got you this for the wedding but am giving it to you early as a completely frivolous peace offering.

xo,
Kate

Upstairs, I crank up “Lorelei” on my computer, peel off my T-shirt, throw it on the bed, scramble into the new bra—“padded for extreme lift”—and squint old-lady-like at my reflection in the mirror until I finally put my glasses back on.

Hmm.

I look the same but for boobs. I thought I'd look . . . different
.
Not exactly the swanlike transformation I imagine Kate envisioned.

Josephine, let's live together.
Bah-bah-bah.
Brighter than the stars forever
.

I flip through the accompanying catalog to get a sense of what I am doing wrong and contort myself—butt out, knees slightly bent, arms wrapped all the way around me. Oh, wait. I have to take my hair out of its ponytail.
Tousle, tousle
. Then holding the pose just so, I call for Kate.

“Yes?” she asks as she enters my room and tries not to laugh.

“Who stands like this?” I want to know.

We shout over the music.

“Josie.”

“Have you ever stood like this in front of Geoff?”

“I'm not telling you that.”

“You have!” I giggle and sham more poses. “And like this too, I bet.” I shove one arm up in triumph. With the other, I push my hair around. “And this.”

“Josie,” she laughs, and turns the music off. “Mother!”

“Don't call her!” I shriek and quickly put my T-shirt back on, stretching it out over my brand-new bust.

“She's not home. So how do you like it?”

“I'm not sure.” I poke at the bra cups. I think they may be bulletproof. “How does this look?” I thrust my chest out. “Do you think Dennis DeYoung will want me now? Actually, I hope he doesn't. I wouldn't want him to leave his wife for me.”

“Isn't he a little old for you?”

“He's entirely too old for me, but I hate thinking of him as having any imperfections, so I choose to think of him as ageless. Like his voice.”

“I see. So am I forgiven?”

“Because you bought me this? No. You're forgiven because I love you.” She squeezes me into a quick hug as I say, “But this is ridiculous. I can't wear this.”

“Of course you can. It's convertible. The straps unhook to make it strapless, so it will work perfectly with your bridesmaid dress.”

“It's still ridiculous.”

“It'll look great under the dress. Trust me.”

“When's the next fitting?”

“October eleventh.”

“Will it be the last one?” I ask, hoping it will. We've already had two.

“We'll probably have four altogether.”

“Four fittings?”

“Yes. Sit,” she says.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and she starts brushing my hair.

“Are all the other bridesmaids going to be there again?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I'm not going.”

“Yes, you are.”

“They make me crazy.”

“I know,” she says, robbing me of the chance to list my complaints. “But be nice to them, because they adore you. Especially Madison.”

“I think you stay friends with her to torment me,” I say of Kate's lifelong best friend, Madison Orr.

“Josie, this may shock you, but my friendships have very little to do with you.”

“They should have more to do with me when their behavior affects me.”

“Madison loves you.”

“Madison talks about me in the third person when I'm right in front of her.”

“Yeah, she does,” Kate says, wrinkling her nose just a little. “But she means well.”

“Plus, doesn't it bug you how she holds her pen? She puts too many fingers on it and presses too hard,” I say, awkwardly miming it.

“Are you going to tell me about this guy at Cap or not?”

“I can tell you right now that if he holds his pen wrong, our relationship is going nowhere. Except I already know he doesn't.”

“Ooh. So you have a relationship?”

“I don't know. No. Well, technically, yes, but it's just from class.” I twist around to face her, and she sits when I do. “But I really think we have a connection.”

I go on—at length—telling her every pertinent bit of info but his last name, every gorgeous detail, especially the ones highlighting our many similarities, and when I am done gushing, which I manage to do with punctuation, Kate asks, “How old is he?” And I feel as if I have just run full speed into a wall I saw ahead but chose to ignore.

Crash! Ow!

Erm.

“Older,” I say, and flop back on the bed.

Defeated.

“Josie. Come on. Sit up.”

“I can't. This bra is too heavy.”

I'm barely able to see over it, so I'm happy when Kate lies next to me, cuddling her shoulder into mine.

“Is he a senior?”

“No, he's not a senior, but he is older, and I'm—” I can't even say it, so I puff the last of that sentence out and close my eyes.

“You're nearly sixteen, and you're going on thirty. Sometimes. Other times twelve.”

“This is actually not helping,” I say.

“No. I know. But, Josie, you have to know you're not the typical sixteen-year-old. I'm sure Ethan sees that.”

“He sees sixteen. And so do I. And so do you, and so does the whole world.”

“Josie, you're not always going to be sixteen.”

“I know that. Kate, I do know that, and I keep telling myself that maybe, eventually, we'll get to know each other, and he might like me. A lot. But that's a long way off, and in the meantime, I already know I like him. A lot. And I don't know what to do with these feelings. I don't even know what my feelings are. Only that they're real, and they're huge, and they're completely confusing.”

“Just be easy with them,” she says as she sits up. “Love is a huge thing.”

“You think it's love?”

“Maybe. And if it is, it will last long beyond sixteen. And you just have to deal with it. It isn't something you can work out like a math problem.”

“I can work everything out like a math problem. Well, almost everything.”

“Not this,” she says. “What's Ethan's last name.”

“He doesn't have one. He's like Sting, Madonna, Bono. Ethan.”

“I'm not going to Google him.”

“Yes, you are,” I say as I prop myself up on my elbows.

“Yes, I probably would,” she says, giggling a little.

“Your feelings for Geoff are really this huge?” I ask.

“My feelings for Geoff are very real and very strong,” she says, “and I know how you feel about him, so I'm going to go.”

She's at the door, ready to leave, when I ask her, “You really
love
him? Him?”

“Josie,” she says, and sighs. “We've had a really nice conversation, and I'm happy to talk to you about Ethan, but you're going to spoil it all by bringing Geoff up, just so you can insult him—”

“That's not
why
I bring him up. That's just an organic bonus.”

“You're starting. I'm leaving.”

She closes the door behind her, and I am left alone in my room and in my confusion and in my bra, which is, no matter what Kate says, ridiculous. I need socks or hamsters or something to fill out the cups.

A couple minutes later, I return my hair to its ponytail and start to slip out of the bra when it occurs to me what it represents. The bra, next contacts and pierced ears—all of them alterations, improvements of me apparently yet to come. I toss the new bra into a dresser drawer, close it and drop, deflated, onto my bed, stewing over a new word.

When?