Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love (9 page)

And that would have been the end of it, as far as she was concerned. Unfortunately, while I was out getting my face kicked by the boy who may secretly love me, my dad called and left a message that tomorrow was the only day he could do lunch, and that Matthew and I should meet him at one o’clock at La Trattoria Ristorante Something Italian blah blah blah, and to wear a dress please if I could since it was a fancy joint and ask what’s-his-name-who’s-not-my-boyfriend to bring a tie if by some miracle he owned one.

Without even discussing it, Mom and I both knew that nobody’s life would be made better by me showing up at a five-star restaurant in a pretty dress with a black eye, trying to get Dad to talk about love while his gazillion-dollar clients dined at nearby tables, watching and wondering if he beat his kid.

In fact, I was in favor of not mentioning the eye thing at all. All we had to do was postpone any Felicia-Dad contact for a couple of weeks by claiming I had the chicken pox (I felt sure he would forget I’d already had it). But Motherdear, invoking the O word, would have none of this.

“Better to be open, honey. I’ll talk to him,” she said, resolutely dialing the phone.

After brief ex-spouse pleasantries, she got right to the point:

“Felicia is not going to have lunch with you tomorrow—no, she’s not, because—”

Pause.

“No, Robert, it’s not ‘my doing.’ She’s fourteen years old, she can form her own opinions of what you do with your expense account, she doesn’t need me to point out the materialism and hypocrisy—”

Was that necessary, Mom? Big pause. She inhales, as if to speak. Exhales. Another big pause.

“Robert—” she says, trying to get a word in. “Robert, please! Would you please listen? She doesn’t want to see you because she has a black eye and she thinks you’ll freak out.”

Pause.

“Yes, a black eye. She’s fine, it was an accident—”

Pause.

“Well, he was there, but it wasn’t him, it was this other boy—”

At this point, Mom’s end of the conversation goes quiet. Too quiet, as they say in the Westerns.

She says little else, in fact, until they’re ready to hang up. And then all she says is “I think you need to cool off, is what I think. Let’s talk again tomorrow. Goodbye.” She clicks off the phone, expressionless.

“What happened?” I ask, my face shiny with ointment. “What did he say?”

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” she says, suddenly very preoccupied with an invisible spot on the kitchen counter. “You can have lunch with your dad another time.”

Mom offered to let me skip school the next day, but I really didn’t want to make a drama over this black eye situation, which looked worse than it felt. And I didn’t want Randall to feel more guilt-stricken than he did already. After seeing his display of precision ass-whupping with Sensei, I have no doubt that Randall was more than capable of NOT kicking me in the face had I given him half a chance.

I was expecting people to ask questions and make sympathetic noises when they saw me, and I had prepared myself by practicing several short, whimsical explanations for my appearance. Polo accident, fighting off an alien abduction, that sort of thing.

What I wasn’t expecting is what really happened, when I arrived at school that morning and found Kat and Jess buh-REATHLESSLY waiting for me in front of the Pound.

It’s an overcast day, but they’re both wearing sunglasses.

“Oh my GOD!” Jess cries, grabbing me by the shoulders. “We just ran into Randall and he told us what happened, you poor thing! But Fee! You will never, EVER believe this.”

Slowly, Jess tips down her sunglasses. So does Kat.

Jess has a black eye, too.

So does Kat.

9

The First Experiment
Is Unleashed!

“M
y dad found the letter,” Kat begins, once we’ve finished screaming and gone inside the Pound, fixed our morning beverages (black decaf coffee for me, plain tea for Kat, and coffee with steamed milk, two shakes of cinnamon, one shake of cocoa for Jess), and sequestered ourselves in the Red Room, ignoring the many, many indescribable looks we received from various Free Children along the way.

“What letter?” I say, confused, having recently suffered a blow to the head.

“The letter from Dmitri!” Kat and Jess cry, in stereophonic Black-Eyed Kittensound.

I am dumbstruck. I know Kat’s dad is a melancholy man, not terribly happy with his life as a building superintendent in Washington Heights, with a wife who refuses to leave her dying mother in Moscow and a dying mother-in-law who, since her diagnosis, has so far lived eleven years and shows no signs of expiring anytime soon. I also know (from many late-night, tell-all Kittentalks) that twice a year, once on his wedding anniversary and once at Christmas, Mr. Arlovsky is likely to consume an entire bottle of excellent vodka by himself and then sleep for two days straight. But the rest of the time he is a doting if stern father, and Katarina is his angel, his princess, his reason for living.

“After I read the card,” Kat explains, “I was so flustered, I must have left it on the kitchen table with my books.”

“I still can’t believe your dad read your personal correspondence!” declares Jess. “I’m almost POSITIVE that is a violation of the United Nations Directive on the Rights of Children, and I plan to look it up as SOON as I get home!”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Kat says. “He was going through the mail and the card was lying there. Once he started to read it, obviously it was addressed to me, but by then it was too late.”

“Was he angry?” I ask, rather stupidly, since the girl is sitting here with a black eye.

“Furious!” says Kat. “But not at me. At Dmitri! Papa is so protective, you know, he’s told me so many awful things about the way things are in Russia, especially for women.” She sighs. “He wanted me to be a great musician, not some mail-order bride. That’s why we left Mama in Moscow and came here to New York to begin with.”

Before continuing Kat gives her hair a little shake, as if to shake off the sadness of missing her mom. Sensei Reynaldo was right. People from everywhere do leave their hometowns to come to New York, and often for good reason. But they have to leave an awful lot behind.

“Anyway,” Kat goes on, more softly, “he didn’t even know I was home, because I was in my room studying. I heard noise from the kitchen and went in to see. He was in a rage, throwing things. A can of peas went flying through the air and
bam!
hit me right here.” She taps her purple cheekbone. “Poor Papa! When he saw my face he was beside himself. I’ve never seen him so upset.”

“Tell her about the recital!” urges Jess.

Kat’s expression darkens. “He says I must have nothing whatsoever to do with Dmitri. He wants me to cancel my recital. Find a new accompanist, try again in six months, maybe a year.”

“No! I’m so sorry, Kat!” I know how hard she’s been working. “You must be really disappointed.”

Kat hands me a piece of paper. “I can’t cancel, Felicia. Look at this.”

It’s a letter, on beautiful engraved stationery that reads “Argosy Records” on top. I skim the contents:

Dear Miss Arlovsky,

Thank you for your invitation. Please know that my
sta f have been following your career with interest and I am
rearranging my travel plans to be at your upcoming
recital . . . one of the most promising young artists I’ve
heard about in a long time . . . eager to see firsthand if the
rumors are true . . .

Et sweatera.

“It’s from Edgar Chorloff! The head of Argosy Records! I’ve been trying to get him to come to one of my recitals for two years!” says Kat.

“What if you told your dad about this Chorloff guy?” I suggest. “Wouldn’t he change his mind?”

Kat rolls her eyes. “It might make it worse! He thinks I’m not ready. But he thinks I’m not ready to cross the street by myself, either.” A strand of butter-colored hair has worked its way into Kat’s mouth, and she chews it idly for a second before she realizes what she’s doing and spits it out.

“The thing is, when my dad calms down he’ll change his mind about the recital, I know he will,” says Kat firmly. “But by then it’ll be too late. If Dmitri and I don’t keep practicing I won’t be prepared. And this HAS to be the best recital of my life!”

A group of Free Children wander into the Red Room. They see us. Their mouths drop open in horror. They whisper to each other and back out of the room, looking rather smirky if you ask me. One black eye deserves sympathy. Three, apparently, are nothing but grist for the rumor mill.

And speaking of black eye number three—it doesn’t take me long to guess the source of Jess’s shiner. But I guess wrong.

“Nope! It wasn’t D. J. Amberson this time,” laughs Jess. “Though she did give me a bad set of skinned knees last week. I knew she tripped me that time, but I just pretended it was an accident.” She points to her eye. “THIS was from those girls at her school! The ones she was singing with. They jumped me in the bathroom and said, ‘Deej doesn’t need any new friends’ or something like that. Then one of them punched me and they ran away.”

“That’s horrible!” I say. “Are you okay?”

“It was a little scary,” concedes Jess, before perking up again. “But guess what? Now Deej wants to hang out with me, because she’s so mad at these other girls for trying to chase me off!”

“But I thought she didn’t like you?” I ask, confused.

“She doesn’t!” crows Jess in triumph. “But they only hit me because they didn’t want me hanging around Deej, so now she’s pissed at them and INSISTS on being friends with me!”

Kat and Dmitri. Jess and Deej. I’m sensing a pattern here, but what is it? It’s out of focus, a blurry vision stoked by incense and twangy world music. “The thing is,” adds Jess in a low voice, “my parents want me to cancel the peer tutoring program now! I know they’re worried. But I’m finally getting close to Deej! I can’t let her down.”

“Isn’t it strange?” says Kat. “I thought Dmitri was gross until my dad said I couldn’t see him, but now I have to find a way to meet with him behind my dad’s back! And Deej ignored you until these other girls tried to keep you apart, and now she wants to be your friend! I don’t understand it.”

But I do. I see it clearly now. It’s the Romeo/ Juliet Thing!

Thanks to some airborne peas and a ticked-off home-girl, Experimento Numero Uno in the Search for X is off to a rollicking start!

I can’t wait to tell Matthew about my amazing insight, but on my way up to the lab I bump into none other than the Champion Head-Kicker himself. Actually, I almost don’t notice it’s Randall, because he’s carrying the hugest box of donuts I’ve ever seen and it blocks most of his face.

“Oh! There you are! I thought you might be, you know, up in the lab,” Randall stammers as we try to pass each other on the narrow stairs. “These are for you.” He pushes the box at me. “There’s a note inside. I’m really sorry, Felicia.” And before I can speak, down the stairs he races, leaving me with six dozen donuts and a head shaking with bemusement.

I lug the box up to the lab, but it turns out Matthew’s not even there. The genius rabbits are out of their hutches, though. A few of them seem to be working on one of those big alphabet floor puzzles that are made for preschoolers. In fact, I’m pretty sure Charles has the same puzzle, with a colorful illustration of an animal next to each letter. The bunnies are up to J for Jaguar, and Frosty is holding a puzzle piece in his mouth, looking very intense for a rabbit as he stares at the array in front of him.

“That’s a corner,” I say, plopping my butt on the floor and forgetting he can’t really understand me. “Z for Zebra, see? It goes on the bottom.”

At the sound of my voice, Frosty drops his puzzle piece in almost exactly the right place and hops over to me. He rubs his cold pink nose on my sore cheek in a gesture of concern.

“What a sweet bunny you are,” I say, scratching his silky head. “Do you eat donuts?”

Frosty all but nods as I open the box. I break off a piece of a black-and-white twist for him, which he nibbles greedily. Then he hops into my lap and licks the stray icing off my chin as I savor a Boston cream and read Randall’s heartfelt letter of apology.

Which, to my great surprise, is in the form of a haiku.

Like rain into snow,
A foot to the eye becomes
Arrow to the heart.

In other words, I’m sorry. Maybe you’ll show me some of
your
poems sometime?
Randall

I notice Randall’s inclusion of a seasonal reference with grudging admiration. As Frosty rummages on my shirt for crumbs, it dawns on me: Randall has given me a present! Of food, no less, which is not exactly the same as cooking, but even so. A present of food AND a poem.

I feel something strange inside, and I think I know what it is.

It’s the power of my own X, launching itself into the world, seeking a target, aiming squarely at Matthew—

And hitting Randall by mistake.

“I will pay for Brearley” is what I hear my dad saying as I lock the door behind me. My dad, who should be at work, is taking up approximately one third of the Living/Dining/Home Office/Multipurpose Space. Mom sits across from him, her lips pursed to the point that they have actually disappeared.

“It’s a traditional, all-girls school. That’s where Laura went, and she says—”

“Robert, please, Laura has nothing to do with—”

“—she says it’s the best school in the city. I think it’s obvious that this”—he gestures around—“is out of control.”

“Out of YOUR control, maybe,” Mom ripostes. “You are blowing this incident WAY out of proportion. Felicia is very happy at MFCS, it’s a wonderful school, and that’s where she’s staying. Now I have to get back to the store, I can’t leave Gabriella alone at the cash register all afternoon.”

That’s when they see me standing there in the doorway. Mom is used to my eye by now, but Dad is getting his first look at my new purply-blue facial fashion accessory.

“Look at her!” he says. “You see what this hippie school and this hippie lifestyle and all this do-your-own-thing nonsense leads to?”

Mom turns to me, icy calm. “Felicia, would you please tell your father, in your own words, how you got the black eye?” She talks very clearly, like there’s an idiot in the room. “I’ve told him what happened, but maybe if he hears it from you—”

But all I hear is that he wants to take me away from the Pound. No Kittens, no Dawgs. No Matthew.

Felicia’s Private Kitten Directive Number Ticked Off: If You Try to Take Away My Catnip, Claws Will Come Out.

“Sure,” I say, giving Fatherdear a full view of my Petey face. I’m mad enough to throw a can of peas, or worse. “The truth is, Dad, it was a polo accident.”

At times like this I must remember to say thank you, Mom, for making sure I have a room of my own to stomp off to (insert sound of Angry Door Slam HERE!).

It’s only when I press my ear to the door and hear my parents’ hushed, unintelligible voices in the other room that I understand what’s truly happening.

Banished from the Pound? Torn from the Kittens and Dawgs? Forbidden to see Matthew?

Forbidden!

It’s the Romeo/Juliet Thing! AGAIN!

WHAT HAVE WE UNLEASHED?

A
très
disappointing news flash: Mr. Frasconi was supposed to be our next interview but he’s left the country, which is sucky timing because now my WORLD is falling apart and he’s the wisest person I know. He sent me a note in the old-fashioned snail mail (Mr. Frasconi says e-mail has no soul), but I didn’t get to read it till later, after Dad left and I had a good cry and pretended to be asleep so Mom wouldn’t come in and be all “What are you feeling, honey?” and tell me dumb old Buddhist stories about empty boats.

Dear Felicia,

My deepest apologies at having to postpone our eagerly
awaited discussion of love. I will be in Berlin for the next
two weeks; an award for my poetry is being given and the
organizers have planned such an abundance of celebrations
in my honor, I feel I must attend.

In the meantime, let us both ponder—love. No topic
could be more suitable for exploration by poets. For to be a
great poet, one must grow a vast heart, big enough to
embrace all humanity, and even, ultimately, oneself!

Be well and be brave, love and be loved. Until I return,
I remain,

Your fond fellow poet,

Frasconi