Reinventing Mona (15 page)

“My side? Okay, I’m sleeping and then I hear my hair being cut. I open my eyes and Teddy’s holding a pair of scissors in one hand and a big chunk of hair in the other. End of story.”

“Is this when you hit Teddy?” Jacqueline asked as she sat in a chair made of twisted tree branches. “I didn’t hit him, I pushed him away,” I protested. “He was cutting my hair off!”

“She hit me,” Teddy corrected.

“I didn’t hit you, you little freak, but who could blame me if I did?”

“It sounds as if you may have hit him, Mona,” my father said, his eyes wide with disappointment. “Did you hit Teddy?”

“He cut my hair off! I didn’t hit him. I shoved him, but if—”

“She hit me,” the scruffy little runt said again. I looked at his little face, a rim of snot crusting around his nostrils, translucent blue eyes and raisiny little lips that kept forming the same sentence. “She hit me.”

“I didn’t hit him, but I’d have every right to. Why doesn’t anyone care that this little shit chopped off my hair for no reason?!”

Jacqueline asked me to please watch my language in front of her son. My father told me that Teddy had a reason for cutting my hair, it just wasn’t a good one. As the older one, I was responsible for acting responsibly, he said. “Hitting is never, ever okay,” he began in a gratingly mellow voice. “We brought you kids here to keep you away from the violence of the outside world. We’re trying to create a place of harmony, peace, and love here—not a war zone.”

“This is not who we are, Mona!” said Jacqueline. “We don’t curse at each other and hit children.”

“But we cut off each other’s hair?! Why am I the only one getting in trouble?”

Even as I spoke the words, I knew there was no such thing as trouble in our own private Woodstock. Teddy and I were told to take a walk in the woods together and work out our differences. Ironically, the adults were doling out the cruelest punishment we could have imagined. We were instructed to talk about our feelings about “the conflict,” what brought on Teddy’s desire to cut my hair and how things might have been handled differently. Less than an eighth of a mile into our walk for world peace, Teddy and I broke our silence. He told me he was going to cut the rest of my hair off when I went to sleep that night. Then we threw rocks at each other for another half hour before we agreed to pretend we’d worked it out, so we could get home in time for lunch.

* * *

I stepped out of the gym sauna and rinsed my face with cold water, ready to return to boxing class. My heart raced with lust when I turned the corner and saw the dull gray bag waiting for me. “Ready for an ass kicking?”  I asked, smirking silently.

At lunch, Mike asked me what I was so worked up about on the telephone that morning. I told him I had set my tax appointment with my future Mr. Married and Filing Jointly. “Let’s get our plan together,” Mike said as he began shoving an over-stuffed turkey club sandwich into his mouth. “You look great by the way,” was muffled by food. “The new clothes are working for you. Looks like you took off a few pounds, too.”

“Yes! Seven, so far. Do you notice anything else different about me?”

“Straight hair.”

“Yes,” I perked. “I can’t believe you noticed.”

“Vicki told me you were getting it done. Looks good.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and took the longest sip of soda I’d ever witnessed.

“I really like her,” I smiled.

“Yeah, she dug you, too. Even though you sent her home looking like a freakin’ Washington lobbyist.”·

“I thought the suits looked great on her. Hey, did she get that ... did you know she was going for a job interview, at um, that—”

“At a club?” Mike relieved me. I nodded. “Yeah, I know about it, but I’m not thrilled about my kid sister stripping.”

“How come?” I asked.

“Cause I been to strip joints. I know what guys are like when they’re there. I’m one of ‘em, remember?”

“Mike?” I leaned toward him, lowering my voice to ask him permission to continue. Instead, he kept chewing.

He feigned annoyance. “What?”

“I can’t help wondering if there’s more to you,” I said.

“More than what?”

“More than this ‘I’m a dickhead who can’t understand women’ routine. I can’t help thinking there might be someone, I don’t know, real underneath it all.”

“Nah,” he dismissed. “This is basically it. Every woman I’ve ever known—except my mom—asks the same thing, but this is the real me, Mona. There’s no Mr. Sensitive underneath. Y’know, if I could teach you one thing that would really separate you from the rest of the pack, it’d be to back off on the whole ‘breaking through’ routine. Guys hate that shit. We’ve all heard it a thousand times.” Mocking a female voice, he continued, “‘Let me in emotionally, take off the mask, you don’t have to be afraid to show me the real you.’ It’s really kind of annoying, to tell you the truth. Most chicks seem to think there’s this whole emotional inner life that guys have that we’re afraid to share, but the fact is it’s pretty much what you see is what you get with us. Differentiate yourself a bit, Mona, and be the cool one who doesn’t do that shit. Believe me, you people are genetically capable of it, ‘cause I’ve met a few who don’t do the whole gold-mining routine. Vicki doesn’t. My mom doesn’t. Most of you do it, though, and truthfully, it’s a big turnoff. Be that ass-kicking chick I saw at the gym today. Be the cool one that doesn’t hyper-analyze shit, and read deep hidden meaning into nothing.”

“You watched me at the gym?”

“Oh, yeah. You were looking pretty tough in that class.” He smiled and put his hand on top of mine like Greta always does, “Tell me, Mona, was that the
real
you?”

“Very funny.” I pulled my hand back.

“Let me in.” He tilted his head and spoke softly, teasing. “A good man can help you work through your rage and get through to the real you, Mona. The soft, gentle Mona who’s simply afraid to love.”

Oh my God, he’s right. It does sound barfy.

I shot back, “The soft and gentle Mona has spent half a lifetime afraid to do anything. I need to be the tough and strong Mona. The new and improved Mona, who I assure you will never again ask about the real you.”

“Atta girl!”

“‘Cause I don’t really give a shit.” I laughed. “You’re my employee, here to serve me and my needs.”

“Even better.” He double high-fived me over the table. He laughed, clutched his hand to his heart, and wiped away an imaginary tear. “Sometimes I really feel like I’m making a difference in this world.”

“Oh stop!” I swatted him.

When the waitress brought our check, I realized we hadn’t discussed my strategy for the first meeting with Adam. “Hey Dog, this lunch has given me some good info, but I really need to get a game plan for my tax meeting. Can you stay an extra fifteen minutes?”

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he offered. “Ever play air hockey?”

“Never lost a game.” I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow to challenge him.

“Prepare to.”

Freddy and Jacqueline bought an air hockey table for us kids after we all signed a treaty agreeing that there would be no fighting over use, no score keeping, and no gloating. These rules, of course, went straight out the door after the first week. The sound of the puck was like firecrackers when us teens played. The banging, the shooting—it was invigorating.

Todd explained how to use geometry to excel at air hockey, sketching directions on how to shoot the puck at the center of the side of the table, so it ricocheted straight into the goal. He explained that hitting the exact right spot was difficult, but if I could get the puck there, the angle would never fail me.

Mike slid the puck to me from across the table, bowing chivalrously to give me the first shot. As I gripped the knob, I felt the cool familiar breeze gently wafting from the table. A couple of kids stood beside us and put their change on the edge of the table to reserve the next game. The cacophony of the arcade was distracting but energizing. I pretended all of the bells, sirens, and buzzers were sounding just for me—my personal cheering section.

When I told Mike I’d never lost a game, I wasn’t lying. It’s just that I hadn’t played in sixteen years. Grammy wasn’t exactly an arcade gal and Greta loved “real sports” far too much to indulge me in plug-in games. It had been a long while, but when my hand gripped the knob, the adrenaline rush was as familiar as the feel of cold water. My first shot blurred past Mike as I heard the gratifying sound of the puck blasting through the goal. The swish. The back and forth spatter of the puck struggling to escape its inevitable fate. The flat dead thud of defeat as the puck hits the bottom of the goal return slot.

“Lucky shot,” Mike said before whaling the puck back toward me. The cadence sounded like applause. My arm flung the knob for a shot then returned to defend my goal. Mike instantly caught on to my angle shot and learned to defend against it. I switched sides and started aiming for the left side of the table. Whack. Goal. “I am excellent!” I shouted, holding my hands over my head and wailing while doing a short victory dance.

Swoosh. Clunk. Mike shot the puck straight into my goal while my hands were overhead. “Hey!” I shouted. “You can’t do that! You have to ask if I’m ready before you shoot.”

“No, I don’t,” he dismissed. “Come on, shoot.”

“You totally cheated. You saw I wasn’t ready for you to shoot. That was completely unfair.”

“Hey, you were busy with your little touchdown dance, so I exploited the opportunity. That’s the way the game is played. Come on, shoot. This thing is on a timer.”

I gritted my teeth. Swish. Plop. Score. I held my knob right in front of the goal, leaned back into my hip roll, waving my left hand overhead. “I am excellent!” I revised my dance.

“Hey, nice hips. You learn that in stripping class?”

“I most certainly did,” I continued, then sang, “I am excellent, no matter what they say.”

“Hey, you can carry a tune, Mona Lisa.” Mike smiled.

“Come on and shoot the puck, Dog. This thing is on a timer and I want a nice wide margin of victory so you can’t piss and moan about how you almost beat me. I want to make it perfectly clear—when it comes to air hockey and Mona Warren—you
couldn
’t have been a contender!”

* * *

That Sunday, Vicki came to my house in the morning to pick me up to watch the Kickin’ Chicks game, starring Greta as goalkeeper. Mike said he would “try” to make it, but that nine was awfully early for him on a weekend. Vicki stopped at the entryway and scanned the foyer, slack-jawed. Taking mental inventory, she let slip, “Is this place yours?”

“No, I’m the governess,” I said with what I thought was obvious sarcasm. When she accepted it, I had to correct her. “I’m kidding, of course it’s my house. It was my grandmother’s, but it’s mine now.”

“Your grandmother’s.” She scanned again. “Okay, that makes sense.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Oh, no offense. Don’t get me wrong, this is one sweet crib to be sure. It’s got that, you know, old person feel to it. I’m sure you’ll do it up with your own style soon.” She caught my reaction and apologized for what she assumed was offending me. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. The place is beautiful, really. Very elegant.”

“It’s okay,” I assured her. “I’ve been thinking about redecorating. This is going to sound weird, but I kind of feel disloyal changing things. Like I’d be erasing my grandmother’s memory from her own house. That probably sounds bizarre.”

She walked in and sat on the same area of couch her brother took just before Christmas. “No, Mona. But she died and left it to you. That means you can do whatever you want with it. Don’t you think she’d want you to make the place your own?” She scanned the new room. “Jesus, Mona. Do you know what I’d give for a place like this?”

People always ask that question and have no idea of their own answer. If Vicki knew what the house really cost me, I doubt she’d trade places.

“What would you give?” I asked.

“A lot!” she laughed at the absurdity.

“Like what? What would you give up for a place like this? Your parents? Two brothers? Your first love? Your youth?”

“Yeah, I’d definitely give up my first love,” she said. “He could fuck off if I could have a place like this. Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” I lightened up. “So how’s the dancing going?”

“Okay,” she dragged out. “Not really what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“I guess I thought the guys would be more, more attentive,” she said. I loved Vicki’s candor. Not only was she willing to admit that she craved adoration, she wasn’t afraid to confess that she wasn’t getting it. “Sometimes they watch sports games and look right past my practically naked body when I’m dancing. I’m like, you think I color my hair, tweeze my eyebrows, wax my bush, go to the tanning booth, and put on six coats of lip gloss so you can ignore me?!”

“I will not be ignored, Dan,” I said in my best imitation of Glenn Close in
Fatal Attraction.

“What?” Vicki asked.

“Never mind, go on.”

“Most of the guys who come in are pretty nice.” She perked up, “Then there are the losers who want to save you and take you ‘away from this life.’” She giggled, apparently remembering a recent knight. “Every now and then there’s a drunk guy who gets grabby. That only lasts a second before they get their asses kicked out, but it’s still annoying.”

“It sounds awful,” I commiserated.

“Sometimes,” she said with a lilt. “But other times I feel really powerful, like my body is casting a spell over these guys. Like my boobs are cash magnets.” She laughed. “This is going to sound crazy, but sometimes I feel like a superhero.”

In a damsel in distress voice, I called, “Help, Naked Girl! The bank is being held up by armed robbers. Eeeeek!”

“Okay, maybe not a superhero,” she said. I ran to the couch to hug Vicki. “No, sweetie pie, I’m just kidding. I’m glad you’re finding it empowering, too. Really. I was just teasing. It’s my way.” As the words came out, I realized that they were true, but the notion was newborn. I’d never been the intimacy-through-insult type. I’d only been to New York once.