Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (15 page)

“It’s the truth.”

“I guess the truth hurts.”

“Only if you have a soul.”

Mac stopped walking, forcing Marjorie to stop too. “You’re missing the point: I
like
you.”

It was like being awarded a crummy watch for retirement, now that time no longer mattered. “Great. Thanks.”

“That’s it?”

“What else do you want? Over the years, I’ve heard you tell a million girls that they were ‘the one,’ the subtext being ‘for the night.’ It’s your great gift to make people feel special, until you lose interest. You have the attention span of an ADD goldfish.”

He shook his head firmly. “No. Not this time, Madge. I’ve been trying to talk myself out of wanting you for years. A decade, even. This is for real. Why won’t you believe me?”

“Because I know you!”

“Fine.” He kicked at a loose granite pebble with the toe of his oxford. Then, eyes sparkling anew, he looked up. “How about you?”

“What?”

“I know you know that there’s something with us.”

“I don’t even know what you just said, let alone what it meant.”

“You’ve been there with me all these years, sensing the same thing.” Mac was so indulged that unrequited feelings were not on his radar. “Tell me you don’t know what I mean. Admit it. You think about me sometimes.”

“Not really. Nope.”

“You never think about me?”

“The answer is no. Remember? I said it like two second ago.”

“You’re lying.”

“You’re right. I do think about hating you.”

“That’s a start.”

“Seems more like an end to me.”

“Madge, cut me some slack! Can we just have an honest conversation?” A pigeon strutted by and eyed Mac distrustfully.

“I don’t know. Can we?”

“This is your life. It’s not worth being stubborn.” He tugged at his ear in frustration; the familiar gesture broke her resolve.

“Fine!” she choked. “Yes, I have thought about you once or twice
that
way. I have. But it’s been at my worst times, when I’m in a terrible place. Don’t you see? You’re my quiet desperation guy!”

“You’re going to have to translate that.”

“You’re the guy who pops into my head when life gets unbearably lame. When I walked to school on winter mornings at seven thirty, dreading the day, I’d think, ‘Maybe Mac will be entertaining today.’ When I flunked a college midterm and felt like a failure, I’d think, ‘I bet Mac could distract me right now.’ At bars in my early twenties, when I was bored with the same stupid people telling the same tired stories, I’d think, ‘Maybe I should text Mac to liven things up.’”

Encouraged, Mac ran a hand through his coiffed hair. “See? Isn’t that some version of love?”

“No, Mac. It’s masochism. I only want you around when I feel low, to wallow with you, make bad decisions and feel worse.”

“That’s the most fucked-up, ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“Take a moment, just one second, and imagine that maybe there’s another reason why I pop into your mind at your most hopeless moments—which, by the way, sound pretty pathetic.”

“Funny.”

“I’m not being funny.”

“Agreed. Look, Mac, it doesn’t matter because it’s all a fantasy. It’s not
real.
In real life, we’d fight about what time to go to bed, what movie to see, who should buy the paper towels.”

“My housekeeper, Wanda, buys the paper towels.”

“Mac!”

“Madge, I want that. I mean, not
that.
But our life doesn’t have to get tired like everyone else’s. And, if it does, we’ll handle it.”

“You don’t even know me!”

“I know you.”

“Don’t even bring up Aunt Gladys again.”

“Aunt Gladys?”

“You always ask me how she’s doing like that’s supposed to demonstrate that you
know
me. I’m not an idiot. You do it with everyone. You asked Vera about her dog! He’s been dead for years!”

“So? How was I supposed to know?”

“I’ve heard you ask her three times before!”

“Look.” Mac sighed. “I won’t pretend I know every detail of your life. But same here: You think you have me figured out, but you don’t know who the real Mac O’Shea is.”

“Someone who talks about himself in the third person.”

“You’re impossible!” Color rose to Mac’s cheeks. “Look, I’m going to say one last thing, and then you’re going to give me a chance—because you know you want to, because your life looks pretty sorry over here, and because I trekked to motherfucking Brooklyn and I don’t cross bridges unnecessarily.”

You’re going to give me chance.
Wasn’t that what he’d said to her when they were fifteen, before he kissed her, then sauntered away? In that moment, Marjorie realized that she would. She sighed. Mac could see that he’d won her over.

“I may not know your aunt Gladys or your favorite board game or even your college major—which is probably meaningless because you went to General Studies at NYU—but I know
you,
Madgesty Plum. I’ve known you from the moment I met you. And that’s the truth.”

Marjorie said quietly, “I need to know why you did what you did in high school.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Why did you kiss me, then tell everyone that you didn’t like me?”

“Oh, that.” They resumed walking. After a silence, he said, “I knew you were into Bryce. I couldn’t handle you picking him; I figured I’d save face. It was stupid.”

Why had that never occurred to her? They arrived at the bodega, but instead of going in, they settled on a bench outside in unspoken agreement. Mac grunted, as he sat.

Marjorie smiled. “Was that a creak? Could Mac O’Shea be getting old?”

“Never! I’m just sad. I still can’t believe old Grinch died.”

Marjorie laughed and whacked him lightly in the arm.

“Hey! Don’t hit me. I’m in mourning.”

She sat back. “You’re an incorrigible person, Mac O’Shea. But I guess I am too.”

“So, you’ll have dinner with me this week?”

“Yeah. I guess. But not at DIRT.”

“Done.” Mac smiled, placing a proprietary hand on Marjorie’s thigh. Feigning nonchalance, he added, “So, who was that guy you were talking to, anyway?”

Marjorie’s memory of earlier that evening before Mac’s arrival was blurry thanks to the vodka she drank and also the marijuana that Roberta had in fact baked into the brownies. But also because it officially became the night not when Marjorie sobbed into a stranger’s lap but when the wrong guy, who might just be right, fought to win her back, though she wasn’t his in the first place. It was the night she elected to give Mac a chance.

17

On Monday, Gatherers was crowded with worker bees, who had rebuffed home offices and taken their laptops, like so many 1950s secretaries, out on the town.

Belinda walked in wearing a T-shirt that declared
I LOVE MUSIC!
above a cartoonish electric guitar, shorts, and brand-new Doc Martens. When her eyes rested on Marjorie, a shy smile spread across her face; she waved. How incredible, Marjorie thought, that anyone could be so happy to see her.

“I’ve decided I want a nickname!” Belinda slung her backpack across the chair’s rungs and flopped into her seat. Apparently, there would be no performance of skepticism this time.

“You do, do you?”

“Yes. And not ‘Four Eyes.’”

“Someone called you ‘Four Eyes’? When? In 1962?”

“This boy Johnny Snarlson, who the kids at camp call ‘Snarls.’ We don’t usually play coed sports, but they combined us for softball. Lord knows why!”

“Lord knows indeed.”

“Anyway, I missed a pop-up fly because, really, I don’t even know what that is! That’s why they put me out in right field in the first place. So he called me names.”

Marjorie cringed. “Did you cry?”

“What? No! Are you crazy? Johnny Snarlson is an idiot. I told him to shut up because he’d be working for me one day.”

“Ha! That’s my girl! Are all eleven-year-olds like you?”

“Not really. Anyway, our counselor Becky didn’t find it funny. She made us both sit out for the rest of the game. As if skipping sports is a punishment.” Belinda rolled her eyes.

“Is Johnny cute?”

“Snarls? Ugh. No.”

“Like, ugh, no, boys are gross?”

“Like, ugh, no, Snarls looks like someone squished him.”

“Got it,” Marjorie laughed. “So, down to business! What are we having for snack?”

“The usual!”

Marjorie placed their order at the counter with Bandana Girl. When she returned, Belinda’s spiral notebook was open before her, a pink pen idling beside it.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you walked here by yourself today,” said Marjorie. “How’d you swing that?”

“I told Mom H. that I’d text when I got here, which I did. She probably followed me anyway.” Harriet was indeed now clomping toward her chiropractor’s office and away from Gatherers, having confirmed that her daughter arrived without incident.

“Good. The best way to gain your parents’ trust is to be reliable. I learned that the hard way.”

“Why hard?”

“Because I forgot a lot and then my parents would ground me or make the phone off-limits. I messed up so many times that they finally made me wear a reminder bracelet that said
CALL
.”

Belinda’s mouth dropped open. “They did not!”

“They did.”

She considered the idea. “Was it cute?”

“Sort of. Like a pink and blue friendship bracelet.”

“Some girls in my grade wear those—Sabrina Wilkinson, who is, you know, the girl the boys all like.”

“But you don’t?”

“I think they’re cute. I like the rubber ones with words even better, but I don’t know where to get them. Also, there are other things I want more.”

“Like what?”

“Like books. And these shoes.” She stuck her leg out from under the table to show off her electric blue combat boots.

“Very cool. I definitely approve.”

“Oh, good. I was hoping you’d like them.” She blushed, too obvious. “The kids at camp mostly wear Converse and Keds, but the urbs wear these.”

“‘Urbs’?”

“The older kids who wear band T-shirts and skinny jeans and tattoos and stuff.”

“Ah. We called them ‘indie.’ I had a pair just like those in eighth grade, Belly.”

“Belly? Is that my nickname?”

“Could be. Let’s see if it sticks. Anyway, it’s good that you do your own thing. Don’t worry about kids who are popular in seventh grade. It’s not an indicator of future success. I know, firsthand. Jimmy Snarlson probably
will
work for you one day! And so will Sabrina whatever.”

“Sabrina is actually really really rich. Her dad like owns Staten Island. She probably won’t work for anyone.”

“Lucky Sabrina. But the point still stands. In fact, here’s another assignment: Watch the movie
Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion.
” Belinda scribbled dutifully. “Now, let’s
really
get down to business.”

“Okay! I’ll review last week’s assignments.” Belinda’s expression grew serious, as if she was addressing a board meeting agenda. “The headband is gone, as you can see. Mom H. wouldn’t budge on the allergy list, but she did agree to add an addendum, explaining that I don’t have allergies. (She also taught me the word ‘addendum.’) And she agreed to strike diarrhea from the list of symptoms, so it’s less humiliating.”

“No fecal matter. Always a win.”

“What else? Mom D. downloaded the Liz Phair song for me when she got home from her corporate retreat while Mom H. was at book club. I figured she was the safer bet to ask. She’s kind of clueless about what’s age appropriate, and some of the songs had curses.”

“Why is Mom D. clueless?”

“Oh, you know. She works all the time, so she’s home less. And when she is, I guess she’s tired, so she mostly reads the newspaper on her iPad.”

“Does Harriet, um Mom H., work?”

“She has hobbies … besides harassing me. I heard them fighting last night, though, about how they don’t have ‘shared interests.’ Mom H. is big on quality time, but sometimes it’s less stressful with Mom D. She even lets me call her ‘Dinah.’
And
she doesn’t make me eat bean curd. We order pizza and go out for ice cream. It’s a secret.” The household sounded pretty traditional, not unlike Marjorie’s own. “Now that I’m older I can go to pizza myself with friends for lunch sometimes. But it’s still a special thing.”

The barista arrived with their iced tea and cookies. “For Belly, right?”

Belinda giggled.

“So, did you like the song ‘Girls’ Room’?”

“It reminded me of our school. We also have a couple girls who wear super tight clothes.” Belinda took a big bite of her M&M cookie, dropping crumbs on the pad. “They didn’t have
He’s Just Not That Into You
at school and, I gotta say, the librarian looked at me like I was insane. I’ll try the public library. Oh. And I tried to make my hair wavy like yours, but it didn’t work.”

“That definitely wasn’t an assignment, Belly. Everyone wants shiny straight hair like yours! As we speak, women are shelling out thousands of dollars to poison themselves with keratin treatments for it.”

“But I want it wavy. And Mom H. won’t get me a curling iron.”

“Just let your hair dry in a braid.”

Belinda copied the instructions down. “So, that’s it for last week.”

“Um. You left one off.”

“Did I?”

“Belinda! Tell me you made the list of experiences for the actual writing assignment!”

“I tried.” She frowned, turning a page and handed the notebook over.

5 Things I’ve Done in My Life

By Belinda

1. Nothing interesting. Ever.

2. Went to Arizona to visit Nanny and Grandpa. Made a friend at their country club, who was cool and older and swore she’d smoked a cigarette before, but she left the next day.

3. Met a dog and a chicken who were friends in Mom H.’s friend’s backyard in Greenpoint.

4. Saw an actress from some TV show in front of Franny’s (favorite pizza place, where you have to wait two years for a table).

5. Saw a bicyclist get hit by a car.

“Okay, well, good job. But you need to replace #1 unless you want to write about a boring character.”