Love and Other Foreign Words (4 page)

“Geoff's gifted too, you know,” Kate adds.

“Gifted?” I ask. “Or”—I sham his incorrectly applied quote-marks move—“gifted?”

“Josephine,” Mother and Dad say in quiet, serious unison.

“Well.” Geoff pretends to demure before telling a story about himself in first grade having a fourth-grade reading level and being the favorite of his school's librarian. They probably had matching shoes.

“Didn't I tell you he was smart?” Kate says to us all while tipping her head against Geoff's shoulder. “I still say you should let Dad test your IQ. He tested Josie.”

“I was merely out of lab rats that day,” Dad says. “Didn't know what to do with all my cheese.”

“You know, I've never had it tested,” Geoff says. “Labels merely pigeonhole people. And, anyway, I don't feel the need for a number to confirm what my academic record has already shown.”

“If you get it tested and find out you're actually retarded,
that
would be irony,” I say, and receive the most reproachful version of The Look so far tonight. If I push it, I'll lose my iPod for a week.

“So what is yours?” Geoff asks me.

“Didn't you just say it doesn't matter?”

“Well, for me, but since you know yours, I thought I'd ask.”

“And yet my parents don't like me to say,” I reply.

“Really?” Geoff asks.

“Really. House Rule. Large and Excessive House Rule,” I say as Mother clears her throat, but I catch her suppressing a smile. “Broken upon pain of death.”

“Not pain of death but torturous grounding,” my father says. “No, all I'll say is that it's up there. Makes up for the surprise that you were, eh, Josie?”

We share elbow nudges and smiles while Kate quietly explains to her fiancé
that I was a menopause baby. Mother thought she had the flu.

“Ah,” Geoff says to my father. “That must have been quite a challenge.”

“Yes,” Dad says with contrived solemnity. “But I do believe I handled every contraction admirably. Wouldn't you say so, dear?”

“You were very brave,” Mother says, and I volunteer to set the dining room table then, just to escape the kitchen.

I should have volunteered to set the Wagemakers' table too. And Mrs. Easterday's. She lives next door.

Isn't this how people stage their disappearances? They claim they're going to run an errand.
I'm going out for a pack of cigarettes. I'll be right back.

I'm going to have to learn how to smoke.

• • •

Later, as we begin to make our way into the dining room for dinner, my dad hooks his arm through mine and steps with me away from the others.

“Josephine, I would like you to observe much and say little at the table,” he says before producing his most imperative expression, letting me know he is wholly serious.

“Do I get to share my observations with you later?”

“You do.”

“Unabridged?”

“I expect nothing less.”

“Okay then.”

“You're a good girl, Josie,” he says. “Most of the time.”

• • •

Geoff addresses me only once at dinner, with a predictable question about music, which is the language of adults who don't know how to talk with
adolescents
. This language consists of questions mostly and always about music, school, and pastimes. It is a language that does not create real conversations but merely the impression of them.

In response to Geoff's question, I grin at Ross when I speak about the perfection of Styx and Dennis DeYoung.

“Styx,” Geoff repeats. “Kind of an edgy rock group turned prog-rock turned synth-pop turned concept-album group. Not quite soft or mainstream pop but nowhere near jangle or power pop either, don't you agree?”

Seconds pass in silence.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I say.

“You really have met your match,” Kate teases, and I shove an enormous bite of salad in my mouth and chew in protest of Dad's rules.

“No, it's not that,” Geoff says. “It's just the genres and sub-genres they experimented with. I don't think they ever fully identified with one, which is one of the reasons why I've never been able to embrace their music.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“But I think it's great that you like music from previous generations. I do,” he says. “I think it shows a real maturity in taste. So very good for you.”

He winks at me and ignores me for the rest of supper, during which he instructs Ross about current diabetic treatments, corrects Maggie's perfectly pronounced
Renoir
as
Ren-wah,
and keeps fondling Kate's breasts. Okay, not exactly, but he touches her arm or hand whenever he talks or she does, and it's so frequent it's bordering on molestation. I can't believe no one's putting a stop to this.

• • •

After dinner, we womenfolk clear the table, leaving Geoff lecturing my father and a glassy-eyed Ross about the number of tick-borne diseases other than “the over-diagnosed Lyme disease.” All the while, my father interjects with too much enthusiasm, “You don't say?” And, “Well, imagine that.”

When I retrieve the last plate, Dad says, “Did you get a load of that, Josie? Tularemia can be spread by deerflies as well as ticks.”

“You don't say?” I ask with dad-like enthusiasm on my way back to the kitchen.

Ross and Maggie cannot leave fast enough. I think they leave skid marks in the driveway. Taking the hint lost on Geoff, Kate finally announces that they must leave too. I open our front door before either one of them dons a coat.

Just across the threshold, Geoff says, “Oh, and my compliments to the chef tonight.”

“Thank you,” Mother says.

“If you don't mind my saying, there was a bit too much basil in the sauce, but it's a common mistake American cooks make.”

“Is it?” Mother asks.

“Next time, if you put in about one-third less, you'll notice the difference. You'll be able to enjoy the other flavors and not feel assaulted by basil.”

Mother thanks him plausibly, and the moment she closes the door, I say, “I feel the need to inform you both that I dislike him . . . very, very much.”

My parents bristle at the word
hate,
except in reference to injustice, vulgarity, and thugs who mug old ladies. But I come close to using it tonight.

“Did you see how he kept touching her?” I demand, wriggling at my mental image.

“I thought it was endearing,” Mother says to my horrified, “What?!”

“Now, Josie,” Dad says, hooking his arm through mine and leading the three of us slowly to the study. “In this family, we like the ones each other likes and love them if we must.”

“No, we don't. We don't like Uncle Vic. You called him organically unpleasant after last Thanksgiving.”

“That's true. I did. You think he heard me?” he asks hopefully.

“Your father means our immediate family.”

“Geoffrey Stephen Brill is never becoming immediate family,” I say. “I, for one, won't stand for it, and I don't think you two should either. You need to call Kate tonight and tell her to give the ring back. He is all wrong for her, and we should not make room for him in this family.”

“Now, now,” Dad says. “You need to give Geoff more of a chance than this one evening. He may improve in your current estimation.”

“It will never happen.”

“Not with that attitude, it won't. But you may be glad of knowing someone like Geoff one of these days,” Dad says.

“That will never happen either.”

“Oh, I think it may. Imagine if Sophie Wagemaker goes for a walk in the woods with one of her many admirers and contracts Tick-Borne Relapsing Fever. Whom would we call? Why, Geoffrey Stephen Brill.” Dad pats my hand. “Yes, we may find that he is very useful, indeed. I believe you could learn a great deal from Geoff if you will allow him to teach you.”

“About ticks?”

“Ticks and other things, my dear.” He cups his hand against my cheek and smiles maniacally. “You never know what you're going to learn from another person—about him or about yourself.”

“So you're not going to say anything to Kate?”

“I am not,” he says.

Well, then I'm going to have to,
I think as I pick up a gray stoneware jar with
Leeches
printed across it, drop into one of the big wingchairs, and plot my strategy while nibbling on the M&M'S Dad keeps in the jar for me.

I call Kate first thing this morning. Well, second thing. Minutes ago, I learned via a thorough Internet search that Geoffrey Stephen Brill is not a deadbeat dad, wanted fugitive, or registered sex offender. Not in
this
state.

At the moment and for the foreseeable future, I cannot dislodge his triptych name from my head, nor can I forget the repulsiveness of his handshake. Shivering at the memory, I wipe my hand on my sweatpants, and I dial Kate's number.

While her phone rings, I glance at the framed, autographed photo of Dennis DeYoung on my desk and tell him, since he's looking keenly at me, “I'm taking care of this right now.”

He'd do the same.

“Josie,” Kate answers in a sleep-gravel voice. “It's Saturday. What time is it?”

Kate is not the morning person my dad and I are. He rises even earlier than I do so that he can be at his office by 7:30 at the latest. Even on Saturdays I naturally rise early and fall asleep around ten at night, which makes dances and parties arduous. I actually need a nap before most of them. Or I leave early. Or both.

“It's seven thirteen,” I say. “And I know it's early for you, but I couldn't wait. I have to talk to you about Geoffrey Stephen Brill.”

“He's great, isn't he?” Kate says.

“No. He isn't. He's horrible.”

“He is not.”

“He is obnoxious, unpleasant, and overbearing, and if I keep going with this list, eventually I'm going to come to
asshole
. But I'm stopping now so I don't upset you too much.”

“Josie! You don't even know him.”

“Kate, he's the single most uninteresting person in the world. You're not really going to marry him, are you? Is this a delayed rebellion? Is this the boyfriend—”

“Josie, stop it!”

“—you should have had when you were sixteen just to piss off Mother and Dad?”

“Josie, I'm hanging up.”

“Tick-borne diseases? Need I say more?”

“Oh,” she says. “Well.” I hear her sitting up. “He was just nervous about meeting everyone. I mean, think about it. You know, you guys are kind of an intimidating family to join.”

“Who?”

“You. All of you.”

“You're part of us,” I say, irked.

“Especially Dad and you.”

“We are not.”

“Right. Not to anyone with IQs higher than Einstein's.”

“You're the one who brought up gifted. Didn't Dad teach you not to?”

“I'm hardly the one he'd say that to.”

“What?”

“Anyway, Geoff would have figured it out, and he just wanted everyone to know that he's smart too.”

“So he chose to display his stunning knowledge of ticks? Kate.”

“Josie, stop. Well, yeah,” she concedes. “That was an odd topic, but it was an article he'd just read, so that's what came to mind.”

“Well, lucky us that he hadn't just read about rectal lesions.”

“Josie, enough. He's a great guy. Really. Just give him a chance. You'll get to know him better. He'll be less nervous, and you'll see.”

“No, you're the one who needs to see.”

“See what?”

“That he's all wrong for you. As usual. Gorgeous, brilliant, interesting.” I tick them off on my fingers, and Kate can tell. She can feel the sting of my finger-ticking over the phone. “You said he was all these things.”

“He is.”

“He's none of them. There is something wrong with your ability to accurately assess the men you date. You should not trust your own judgment here, which means you need to listen to me and break up with him right now.”

“Josie, I love him. He loves me. We're getting married, and you're going to love him.”

“He's—”

“And if you don't right now, then you'll learn to,” she nearly snaps at me.

“Apparently I'll have to learn about ticks too.”

“Josie, stop it.”

“No, Kate. I'm telling you the guy is wrong for you.”

“You may be fifteen going on thirty, but you're still fifteen,” she says, wielding
fifteen
as if it were a knife, “and you have no idea what you're talking about in these matters.”

“What matters?”

“Love.”

“I know what love is.”

“Right, with all your vast experience?”

And,
ouch
,
she twists the knife in.

“It's more than a dictionary definition,” she says. “So fall in love, and then we'll talk. Until then, you have no ground to stand on. So I'm done talking with you about this.”

“Well, I'm—”

Click
.

“—not.”

I hang up the phone completely irritated and fuming under my own little black cloud. I hate this cloud. It smells like toes. Every time Mother finds me in a black, cloud mood she says I look as if I'm smelling someone else's toes. Therefore, black clouds smell like toes. Who knew?

“I'm not giving up,” I tell my photo of Dennis, pointing at him so he knows just how serious I am.

Text from Stu, 9:05 a.m.

How was the dinner?

Text to Stu, 9:06 a.m.

We were assaulted by basil.

Text from Stu, 9:06 a.m.

Sorry to hear it. Food poisoning?

Text to Stu, 9:07 a.m.

Close.

Text from Stu, 9:07 a.m.

Feel better.

Text to Stu, 9:07 a.m.

Working on it.

Text from Stu, 9:08 a.m.

So what's wrong with this Pgeofff guy?

Text to Stu, 9:08 a.m.

He spells his name wrong.

Text from Stu, 9:09 a.m.

A tragedy.

Text to Stu, 9:09 a.m.

I knew you'd understand.

I set my phone down and wrinkle my face at the smell of toes. Kate's right. I am woefully inexperienced about the actual application of love and am reduced to learning from secondary sources such as Stu, Sophie, and Jane Austen.

Here, I think Sophie, of my living experts, has more experience—or a better track record, anyway—than Stu. Her relationships, while many, last longer than Stu's, and the break-ups are dramatic and always her choice. They are rarely Stu's. Yet they never truly unsettle him either.

Text to Stu, 9:11 a.m.

U R the love 'em & leave 'em type.

Text from Stu, 9:12 a.m.

I realize this is not a non sequitur 2 U, but . . . WHAT?

• • •

I have gone out with exactly three people in my life—count them, which I do, grimly raising fingers: one dance freshman year, one dance last year, and dinner and the homecoming dance with Stefan Kott just five loveless months ago in October.

I'm hoping my date-a-year history is not becoming a pattern. I also hoped Stefan and I might go out a little longer than just one night, but that didn't happen. He's nice and cute in a gangly way, with a mop of curly sand-colored hair that gets thicker, not longer, as it grows. And he plays bass guitar in a band with three friends, calling themselves Blue Lint Monkey, who haven't had any paying gigs yet, but someday they might.

I admit I have a thing for musicians.

Text to Kate, 9:15 a.m.

Can Geoff sing or play guitar?

Text from Kate, 9:17 a.m.

No. Y?

I knew it
, I quietly grumble and set my phone on my desk.

• • •

Stefan had told me at dinner, before the homecoming dance, as we furiously searched for conversational commonalities—well, I did—that he only asked me out because of my height. He's one of the tallest guys in our class, and I am all legs—flamingo legs at that, long, skinny, knobby-kneed, and nearly as pink. Sometimes I think I have more than just two. Then he added in the nicest possible way, “But it turns out I kinda like being with you too.”

And I thanked him but felt so thoroughly undermined, first by the height remark and then by the word
kinda
, that I became quietly fixated on these things and could think nothing other than
I'm tall and he only “kinda” likes me?
To compensate for the few minutes of awkward silence that followed, I spoke for most of the remainder of the evening in what can only be described as Stream-of-Consciousness Josie.

During our first slow dance, he said to me, “Do you think you could stop talking for the rest of this song?”

Sure. Of course. Got it. No talking during slow dances, which were few and left a lot of other time for yammering—all the way into my driveway, where I hopped out of the car before he even turned it off, and I darted inside the house. Exhausted.

Oh, and I tripped, stepped on my dress and tore it somewhere between the recipe for my mother's spaghetti sauce and a brief history of how English became a global language in the modern era.

Then, just to prove I could be quiet at will, I consciously said very little on the phone the next day when he called, and again the following Monday when I saw him at school. Tuesday too. By Friday, we just said hi to each other in the halls when we passed. And, yes, I felt disappointed because I liked him, but height? Height was it for him? I keep a growing list of qualities important to me in the guy I fall in love with. I'm up to twenty, and I admit that height is on the list, but it's not the
only
thing on the list.

Text to Sophie, 10:02 a.m.

Know of anyone who wants to ask me to the prom?

Text from Sophie, 10:04 a.m.

Really? OK, I'll ask around. Who do U like? BTW no 1 says know OF.

Text to Sophie, 10:04 a.m.

Thx. He should have as much in common with Dennis DeYoung as possible. BTW, I say know OF.

Text from Sophie, 10:04 a.m.

I know. I love it. I'd sound so stupid.

Text to Sophie, 10:05 a.m.

U never sound stupid.

Text from Sophie, 10:05 a.m.

Text to Sophie, 10:06 a.m.

Having Sophie find me a prom date is not exactly the modern equivalent of
their eyes met across a crowded room,
but it's a start. Like Kate said, I need some love experience here. If I don't gain any soon, I won't be able to prevent Kate from making the worst mistake of my life. And hers.