Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love (16 page)

“I agree,” says Matthew. “Which means our next experiment is going to happen—now.” He sounds awfully sure of himself. I want to tell him, Look around. It’s happening already, everywhere you turn.

He lowers his voice. “There will never be a better time for me to tell Jess that I like her. I’m gonna do it tonight. On the boat, in the Romantic Setting.”

“Wow,” I hear myself say. “What a great experiment.”

Poor Matthew! Not only is Jess not interested in him, but right now her X-receptors are so clogged with Dmitri-X that not even Clearasil could help.

My mind races. What will happen when Jess says no thanks? Matthew’s X, till now safely fixed on its target, will be suddenly cut free, like a kite that breaks its string. In a Romantic Setting like this it’s bound to land somewhere. What if, even for a moment, even if only on the rebound, it bounces off ME?

Me, Felicia! Would I be able to resist a morsel of rebound X with Matthew, despite my budding boyfriend-bliss with Randall? Would I even try?

“But how will I ever get her away from that gross Russian guy?” Matthew ruminates. “He’s talking her ear off.”

I know that now is the time to tell him Jess is a lost cause. Save him the heartbreak. I know what the right thing to do is. I open my lips to reply.

But my inner devil, perhaps wishing for just such a rebound effect to be put into play, overrules.

“I think I can help” is what I say.

“Oh, JESSica!” I croak a little while later, as I sidle over to where my X-addled Kittenpal is standing much too close to her never-gonna-happen fantasy man.

Dessert is
finis,
and Jess and Dmitri, with Randall and me tagging along, have gone upstairs to get some fresh air and check out the view. Lower Manhattan may be a forest of glass and steel, but the top of the island is a forest of actual trees, and the
Betty Johnston
is now passing through the narrow canal that separates Manhattan from the Bronx. Randall waves and hollers to the families having their sunset picnics on the grass and the kids playing softball on a waterfront field, but my chest is rapidly filling with guilt and I can hardly speak.

Here, right at the watery corner where the Harlem and Hudson rivers meet, as the East Side morphs into the West, we see the first stars of the evening twinkling over the Palisades.

“Randall, Jess and I are out of champagne!” I say, desperately exploiting my new status as one of the boyfriended. “Would you and Dmitri mind getting us some more?”

“I’ve had plenty, thanks,” Jess says.

“We’d reallyreallyreally love some, thanks thanks THANKS!” I say, sounding loony. Randall gives my hand a squeeze and ushers Dmitri down the steps.

They’re gone. “Jess,” I begin. “We need to talk.”

“What a life!” Jess sighs. “He’s been telling me all about his terrible childhood, and the conservatory in Odessa, and coming to America, and the pain and torment and struggle. Gosh, it’s FREEZING up here!” Jess rubs her bare arms, shivering.

It’s always chilly on the water, for the innocent, but I feel hot and flushed. I lend Jess my black lambswool sweater. “Yes, he seems very brooding and tormented,” I say nervously. “If he were fictional he’d be perfect for you. Listen, Jess—”

“You mean like Mr. Rochester?” Jess asks. “That’s intriguing. OH! We talked about Kat’s recital. Dmitri says—”

“Jess!” I interrupt. “Matthew really, really wants to talk to you.”

She stares at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. “About what?”

Should I go through with my evil plan? Send Matthew to his romantic doom and hope to catch a little X on the rebound, or run back and tell him the truth, or what?

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something big and black dive-bomb out of the sky and smash into the water, emerging a moment later with a fat, waggling fish in its beak. It’s way too big for a duck, too dark to be a seagull—it’s just a really big, black bird, with a neat white cap on its head that looks weirdly familiar—

A bald eagle! There used to be hundreds of them living in the Hudson River Valley, till the river got too polluted. But now things are much better; the fish are running and the eagles are slowly coming back. Jess doesn’t seem to notice it at all.

“You could mind your own beeswax!” says the eagle, landing on the railing of the
Betty J
with a slow flopping of its broad wings. The eagle has a strange but oddly compelling voice. Like a combination of my mom and Mr. Frasconi, but “beeswax” is definitely a Charles word—

“Who CARES whose voice it is?” says the eagle, spitting seawater and wrapping its curved claws around the rail. “I’m just saying, you could butt out of Matthew’s X-business, wish him well, and get on with your life!”

Let go of my Matthew obsession FOR REAL and get ON with my LIFE? Easy for you to say, strange but compelling voice emanating from a bird!

“You have to admit,” comments the fish, twisting around in the eagle’s beak, “that obsessing about Matthew is not exactly the same thing as caring about Matthew.”

“And what Matthew wants right now is the chance to lay his X on the table and roll the dice, risk his heart, and be fearless and foolhardy in the name of love,” the eagle agrees.

“So if she REALLY cares about Matthew,” reasons the fish, “shouldn’t she help him take the risk he’s ready to take?”

“Maybe,” says the eagle. “Dunno, that’s up to her.”

“Ouch!” yelps the fish. “Careful with the beak!”

“Sorry!” says the bird. And then, very carefully, the eagle swallows his dinner and flies away.

Jess is still waiting for me to answer.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Apparently, there are some forces in the universe more powerful than one Kitten can understand or control, talking wildlife being one and the Romantic Setting being another. Who am I to say what might or might not happen if I stop scheming and obsessing and just step aside, letting the current and the tides, the moon’s gravity and the salty breeze carry this Ship of Love where they may?

I make my decision. I take another deep breath and speak.

“Jess, Matthew REALLY likes you. And I think you should give him a chance.”

“Fee, have you lost your MIND?” she almost shrieks. She is a fine one to talk about losing minds.

“Matthew is a great guy,” I say, fast. We don’t have much time. “He’s smart and nice and he likes you. I think you should stop wasting your energy on this fantasy man and hear him out.”

She stares at me. Is a light dawning in her eyes? I can’t tell. “I really, truly mean it, Jess,” I say.

And here comes Matthew. He’s at the top of the stairs, right on cue.

Matthew Soon-to-Know-Heartbreak Dwyer! Full of tender hope, an X on his heart, his heart on his sleeve, the Kitten he loves in absurd infatuation with someone else.

I cross my fingers for him. Maybe the Romantic Setting X-mojo will prevail. Maybe a spark will fly between him and Jess. Maybe Dmitri will jump into the Hudson and swim back to Odessa.

Inwardly I wish Matthew luck, I truly do, and then, before I start to cry, I dash away as fast as my kitten heels can carry me.

I want to make it clear that I didn’t see any of what happened next. I didn’t see Matthew’s shy but earnest entreaties of love. Or Jess’s kind, impatient face, or the way her eagerness to get back to Dmitri made her want to cut this short, so she took Matthew’s hands in her own and leaned close to him, saying what a nice guy he was and that she valued him as a friend, but that’s all.

And I didn’t see how Matthew (who, let’s face it, had never encountered this kind of data before) was not prepared for how shaky and upset her words made him feel, or how Jess, sorry for his pain, put her arms around him and gave him a long, supportive hug.

Jess, who’s wearing my sweater, over her near-identical-to-mine dress, in the cool night air that’s now lit only by stars. There is no moon tonight.

Nor did I see Randall watching all this in the semi-dark from the top of the stairs, a glass of champagne in each hand. (Dmitri had refused to come back up once he got down to the cabin. What Dmitri really wanted was to talk to Trip’s mother about making his Carnegie Hall debut, and he’d simply been waiting for the champagne to kick in sufficiently to give him the courage to approach her. This had taken longer than expected, but now the time had come. Dmitri had forgotten all about Jess, who, let’s face it, was just another precocious teenage girl to him.)

Of course, Randall couldn’t hear what Jess and Matthew were saying, but he saw the hands taking hands, the leaning in close, the long, emotional embrace.

And all the while, he knew for certain it was me.

I had no idea any of this was happening, because I’m already back inside the cabin, trying to act normal, feeling hollow as a chocolate bunny but strangely relieved, too. The last of the coffee cups have been cleared, and Kat, after many entreaties from Junior, Betty, Trip, Deej, and Jacob, is taking out her violin. Dmitri is in the back of the cabin, looking pouty and cross.

(Only later would we learn that Trip’s mother had gently refused his offer to audition for her right there, citing both the inappropriateness of the occasion and the lack of a piano on board the
Betty J
as reasons, and suggesting he send a tape and packet of press clippings to the program director’s office at Carnegie Hall. Poor Dmitri found himself tangled in the Möbius strip of frustration all artists face: he had no reviews because he had not yet made his debut, and yet Carnegie would not consider him till he had reviews to send. Hence, his foul temper.)

Kat is ready to begin. Randall’s not here, and I’m ashamed to say that for the moment I’ve forgotten all about him, because my mind is too busy trying not to think about Jess and Matthew, directly above us.

“Is that goth?” asks Betty, puzzled by Kat’s somber attire.

“I think she’s Amish,” quips Trip.

“She is like Masha!” Dmitri blurts, a bit drunken-sounding, from the back of the cabin. “She mourns for her life! As we all should!
Bleepsky bleeping bleep
!” he exclaims, looking at our uncomprehending faces. “Do you not read Chekhov?
The Three Sisters?
Never will they get to Moscow! Never never never never never—”

Trip’s dad moves next to Dmitri and talks to him quietly. Kat, eyes flashing, speaks. Her voice fills the cabin, strong and bitter as a double espresso.

“This piece was prepared for the most important recital of my life, which now cannot happen. Enjoy!”

And she launches, unaccompanied and with brooding torment, into her Rachmaninoff. I’m sure I hear Dmitri weeping by the end, but I don’t dare look at him. We all clap like maniacs when she’s done. She sits down, her point made.

“Brava!” yells Trip. “We have so much musical talent here tonight I don’t know where to begin!” He turns to Deej. “How about a song, Deej?”

The rest of us clap and cheer, but Deej shakes her head, laughing, and covers her face. It’s cute to see her being so shy.

“Maybe later!” Trip says, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Luckily for all of you, I seem to have misplaced my ukulele—”

“Boo! Boo!” we yell.

“So I’ll go ahead and introduce—the amazing Shashti! You’re on, Jake!”

Modestly, Jacob takes out his sitar and prepares to play. “This music can get really spiritual,” he says as he gives the tuning pegs a twist. “So don’t be surprised if you start seeing visions and whatnot. Just keep breathing and relax.”

Duly warned, we breathe and relax, except for Kat, who is fascinated by the sitar and sits up quite straight, watching intently. I see Betty and Junior cuddling close. Trip sips more bubbly out of a fluted glass and wraps his arm around Deej. The way the two of them look at each other seems to give off actual sparks.

Jacob starts to play, and I let my eyes close so I can look for visions, but not a bird or a fish this time. A pony would be more fun. Anyway, it’s magical, so magical that all of a sudden I wish I were holding hands with Randall. He’d love this.

But Randall is nowhere to be found.

Music, as Mr. Frasconi observed, is an essential component of the Romantic Setting. Which might explain why, after the impromptu concert is done and I wander the
Betty J
looking for Randall, I spot Kat and Jacob in a secluded spot on the main deck, holding hands and talking. I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying, but my head is still swirling and it’s easy to imagine their conversation:

“Your fingering is amazing, Shashti.”

“Yours, too. And please call me Jacob.”

“Don’t you hate when you practice and practice and still make mistakes?”

“There are no mistakes.”

“I hate memorizing.”

“So don’t. Improvise.”

Whatever it is they’re really saying, it’s at that moment that Jacob leans forward in an unmistakably prekiss move.

Poor, poor Jacob. If only he had on a life preserver he might survive the unforgiving currents of the Hudson, which will soon consume him when Kat throws him overboard. But he’s not wearing a life preserver, just a vintage suit jacket and narrow tie, and thus ends the promising career of a budding world musician. I dread to think of the histrionics that will ensue when Mother Thespian learns how Jacob met his watery end at the hands of an outraged violinist, and all because of X.

But what’s this? Kat is not throwing Jacob overboard. She’s not even screaming Russian swearwords at him.

I have to rub my eyes a minute.

They’re making out.

Yup, Katarina No-Thanks-I’m-Allergic-to-Dawgs Arlovsky is making out with Shashti, I mean, Jacob, smooching
avec
tongue on the aft deck of the Love Boat, as one by one the stars turn up their twinkle power and the New Jersey Palisades fade to black in the west.

Bow down, O mortals, and tremble at the mighty X-power of the Romantic Setting!

As I make myself scarce, I could swear I see a shooting star high above New Jersey, drawing a happy exclamation point of light in the freshly darkened sky.

After the dinner spent watching the X-sparks fly off Trip and Deej (not to mention Junior and Betty, though theirs are dimmer sparks of the inferior grown-up variety, to my eye, at least), then the surprise of finding Kat and Jacob making an X-discovery of their own, and the effort of not thinking about the conversation that is none of my beeswax between Matthew and Jess, topped off with the mystery of the Disappearing Cupcake—add it up and I’m feeling a little lonesome and strange, loitering solo on the front deck.