Smart vs. Pretty (14 page)

“Can we sit down and eat?” Matt asked. “I’m starving.”

They picked a bench in direct sunlight midway down the promenade. Amanda faced west toward New Jersey to look at the Statue of Liberty. “Avocado,” Matt said, taking a green oval from his shopping bag and placing the fatty fruit on the bench between them. He removed each item from the bag. “Italian bread. Brie. Plastic knife. Brooklyn Lager. Mustard. Tiny pickles. Lemon juice. Mint Milanos.”

His selection was charming. “Vegan?”

“No,” he said as he sliced into the cheese. “I’m more into textures than flavors—the no-sense-of-smell thing—and the texture of meat is kind of disgusting. Have you ever bitten into a big Texas rib, with the slimy fat and the grease? Revolting.”

Amanda watched him. Matt wouldn’t have made the Mr. Coffee competition cut. He was cute and scrappy, she guessed, like a dog with short, scruffy hair and wide eyes. She was only five years older than he was, but his antigovernment rants made him seem even younger.

“What’s with your whole anarchist-nomad thing?” Amanda asked as Matt sliced into a pickle.

He handed Amanda a piece of bread with a schmear of Brie on one side, a mushed slice of avocado on the other. “Mustard and pickles with the cheese, lemon juice with avocado,” he instructed. “I can see life going two ways: toeing someone else’s line, or toeing my own. I choose to do my own thing.”

Amanda bit into the Brie side. She felt her body react instantly to the food—she must have been hungrier than she thought. Between bites, she said, “Even if that means sleeping on a dirty floor in the basement?”

“Especially that.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You do, Amanda,” he said. “I know the idea of roughing it isn’t for you, but you follow your own heart no matter where you are or what you’re doing.”

The younger sister quietly ate her lunch. She had quite a fan in Matt. Perhaps he’d start a club. She was flattered by his assessment, but she wasn’t as sure as he was of her integrity, especially after she’d thrown Benji’s keys down the sewer and told that girl to screw herself. That was sticking to her love-and-understanding principles?

“Do you know that guy?” Matt asked, pointing over Amanda’s shoulder. She turned to look at a man leaning on the railing of the promenade just a few dozen feet away. She stood up when she recognized him. Paul McCartney saw her see him. Then he bolted.

“Paul, wait!” she called to him.

Matt sprang off the bench and went after Paul. Matt was wiry and quick enough to catch the Heights Cafe bartender before he’d gone far. Amanda ran after them. Matt grabbed Paul around the middle and threw him against the wrought-iron guardrail that ran along the edge of the promenade.

“Matt, take it easy!” said Amanda. To Paul: “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I know how you feel. Your secret love for me. It’s best to get this out in the open.”

Paul looked at her as if she were insane. “Let go of me,” he snapped at Matt. Matt looked to Amanda for instructions.

Amanda said, “I know everything, Paul. Sylvia told me that you’ve been secretly in love with me for years. Looking back, I can see the signs. I want you to know—this might hurt—even if you were free, I don’t think it could have worked between us, Paul. I think you should make another go at it with Sylvia. For the sake of the girls.”

“What are you talking about?” Paul asked as he struggled with Matt. “I’m not in love with you.”

“You didn’t have a nervous collapse on Saturday morning when the
Post
came out with me on the cover? Your boss Todd Phearson and Sylvia both told me in person that you freaked out when you saw it.”

Paul started to cough so hard that Amanda thought he might throw up. Matt said, “He’s been watching you, Amanda. I saw him outside the store today, too.”

“I haven’t been following you!” Paul protested.

“So it’s a coincidence,” Matt said.

“I do live around here.” Paul began sneezing uncontrollably. No one had a tissue. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. Amanda tried to touch his forehead to see if he had a temperature. He shooed her away and said, “Don’t come near me!”

“Is my touch painful to you because of your secret love?” she asked, feeling a bit miffed that he was pretending not to have feelings for her.

Paul groaned. “Sylvia was lying. I don’t love you. I hate you. I hate what you’ve done to my life. And I especially hate this…this…juvenile delinquent.”

Matt, not liking the insult, said, “You’d better stop following us or I’ll graffiti your house.”

“You and this idiot are an ‘us’?” Paul asked Amanda. “It’s just one loser after another for you, isn’t it?”

“You’re the loser, dickwad,” Matt defended himself artfully.

“I’m trying to help you, Paul,” Amanda offered.

“You can choke on your help,” he said, and, with a burst of energy, Paul knocked Matt on his keister and fled down the promenade. Amanda started after him, but stumbled on some flagstone. By the time she got back on her feet, he was gone.

Matt was right behind her. “He hasn’t gone far. Let’s go.”

“No,” she said, putting a hand on Matt’s arm. “Leave him. I’ll visit him at his home later.” They went back to the bench to pack up their lunch. Her appetite was gone again.

Matt said, “Talk about mood killing.”

“Do you think Paul meant it when he said he hated me? I know there’s a thin line between love and hate. But he seemed so angry. And scared.”

“I don’t buy this secret love stuff,” said Matt.

“Why not?”

“No guy could be secretly in love with you,” he said. “A guy wouldn’t be able to keep it in. He’d have to let you know how he felt.” Suddenly—and awkwardly—Matt lunged at Amanda, taking her in his arms. She felt his breath on her ear. He was going to kiss her.

And then he let her go. Amanda reeled back a quick step. He was grinning, part guiltily, part sheepishly. The sun bounced off his winter white cheeks. She said, “I like you, Matt. You’re passionate. You have ideas. But I don’t want you to grab me like that ever again.”

He said, “I’m getting to you. I can tell.”

E
vening. The sun had disappeared hours ago. Frank had been serving up the brew at Romancing the Bean all day, worrying. But instead of worrying about business, she could devote the tornado force of her anxiety to her personal life (dating Walter, offending Clarissa, reeling from Piper Zorn, weirded out by Matt and Amanda’s lunch date). She supposed it was a good break from her usual daydreams of poverty and ruin. “But is this easier?” she asked herself.

“Pardon?” said the customer she was serving.

Frank scrutinized the woman. She was around forty years old in a wool overcoat and a skullcap, baby wrinkles bunched around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Her face was chubby but friendly. She smiled uncertainly at Frank and asked, “You were talking to yourself, right?”

Unsure what to say, Frank mumbled, “Here’s your change.” Amanda would have seen that friendly, sympathetic face and spilled the secrets of her soul. Frank had always marveled when people unloaded on strangers. Was a complicated personal life license to gather input from a wide pool of advice givers? Frank could almost see the conversation between herself and the crow’s-footed customer unfolding. They’d sit down at one of the new Formica tables and discuss: Should Frank develop a new friendship, or try to embark on a risky relationship with a man she hardly knew, or stay safe and cozy in an emotional cave with no windows?

The woman said, “Have a nice day,” took her cup, and left.

Another missed opportunity, thought Frank. The soul of discretion had to be pretty lonely indeed.

Amanda and Matt returned in the early afternoon, and the three of them worked steadily until evening. Business slowed around sixish.

“Clarissa should be coming in soon,” said Amanda. “And Walter.”

Frank detected a hint of teasing provocation in her “and Walter” remark. “What do you mean by that?” Frank asked.

Amanda said, “By what?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” said Frank, avoiding eye contact by furiously scraping grinds out of a gold coffee filter.

“You’re jumpy,” said Amanda, fishing.

“I couldn’t be more relaxed and confident.”

Amanda smiled at Frank in an annoyingly coy way. “You Capricorns,” she said. “Such surefooted goats. Sometimes even you slip on the climb. I can help, you know.”

“With what? My footing?” asked Frank.

“Yes, actually.”

Frank turned around to face Amanda, and for a hair of a second, she thought she saw a fuzzy blue haze around her sister’s head. Was that an aura? Frank said, “Your all-seeing, all-knowing third eye is getting quite a workout today.”

“Every day,” said Amanda.

What does she
know?
wondered Frank. She’d never divulged a word to Amanda about Walter, his vague interest, her confusion, anything. Could Amanda really pluck clues out of the ether? Frank said, “Okay. I do need help. But I’m not sure you’re the person to ask.”

“Who’d be better?” said Amanda. “Not Clarissa. I think there’s a conflict of interest.”

On cue, Clarissa jingled in, the fur collar of her coat nestled high on her neck, tickling her chin and cheeks. Her hair was swept up in a wide bun, blond spiky bangs grazing her forehead. Frank had to smile at the sight of Clarissa and the way she swept into the store—into anywhere she went, probably—as if she deserved a round of applause.

Amanda rushed to join her at the door. They exchanged a few whispers, giggles. Frank felt hot and cold at the same time, like the quiet girl in the school cafeteria jealously watching the cool table. This repeat of adolescence had to end. Popularity? Frank had adult concerns—money, childlessness—to worry about. She wouldn’t be cowed by the in crowd. Frank walked over to Clarissa and Amanda, a welcoming smile plastered on her face.

Clarissa greeted her. “Francesca, how can you look so serious when business is booming?”

More self-consciousness. Just what she needed. Frank said, “I look serious?” For some reason, this made Amanda and Clarissa giggle.

Amanda said, “Clarissa, you don’t mind if Frank and I disappear for a few minutes?”

Clarissa asked, “Where are you going?”

“We need to go over some accounts. We’ll only be upstairs for a few minutes. Matt can handle the counter. Just hang out.”

Frank let Amanda lead her outside and upstairs to their place. Once Frank closed the apartment door behind her, she said, “When you and Clarissa put your heads together and laugh like that, what are you talking about?”

Amanda took Frank by the wrist and led her back to the younger sister’s frilly pink bedroom. “I told her she looked lethal. She told me I was full of shit,” said Amanda.

“That made you laugh?”

“It’s not what was said, but the spirit of it.”

“The spirit of what?”

“Of mutual appreciation and understanding,” said Amanda.

“You get that from ‘you’re full of shit’?” Frank would never understand. No wonder she was emotionally stuck in junior high.

Amanda said, “Walter should be here soon. We have to get you ready.”

Frank sat down on Amanda’s ruffly bed and watched her sister throw open the double doors of her closet. “Just stop for a second,” said Frank. “How do you know—”

“I can’t explain how I know,” said Amanda. “I’ve seen you and Walter talking. I’ve watched you look at him.” The younger sister began rummaging. “I think one of the reasons you went to confront Piper Zorn today was to test yourself. Zorn was a substitute. You really wanted to see if you could challenge Clarissa. For Walter.”

Frank said, “I went to see Zorn to get him to stop defaming us in the newspaper.”

Amanda said, “If I had to bet, I’d say Walter likes ankles. Half-calf to above-the-knee hemlines. And, as you know, your ankles are perfect. So let’s start with this.” She pulled a red sleeveless cocktail dress off a hanger and said, “Put it on.”

Frank stripped. Despite the fact that the sisters had bathed together in a tub until they were eight and twelve, Frank hated to undress in front of Amanda. Frank was a bony stretch of desert highway compared to her sister’s tropical lushness. Amanda sensed Frank’s modesty and busied herself in the closet while Frank tried on the size-ten dress.

It hung on Frank like a sack. She examined herself in Amanda’s full-length mirror and said, “I look like I’m playing dress-up.”

Amanda appeared behind her. She cinched the waist of the dress and fastened it with alligator clips. “Not for you,” said Amanda. “I might have to dig to find some of my skinny clothes.”

“Don’t bother. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But this isn’t me. Dresses. Makeup. I can’t do it.”

Amanda stopped rummaging in her closet and sat down next to Frank on the bed. “A tube of lipstick can’t hurt you, Frank,” she said. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”

Completely incorrect. Frank was full of fears. Among them: disease, death, violence, drunk drivers, microwave poisoning, small places, large places, tainted food, aneurysms, emotional attachment, being laughed at by children, being barked at by dogs, senility, loneliness, being locked in a room with the .001 percent of the population who’d tested higher than she had on IQ and SAT tests, and being locked in a room with the 99.999 percent of the population who had scored lower than she had. The idea of dating a man mushed several of her fears into a solid ball of fret: While eating dinner (tainted food) in a cozy restaurant (small place), she might start to like the man (emotional attachment). Then, as they walked back to her place late at night (threat of violence), he could reject her (loneliness), leaving her blood pressure to skyrocket (aneurysm) which could make her die (death).

Frank said, “It’s torture, really.”

“What?” asked Amanda.

“Self-awareness.”

Amanda said, “Someday a man is going to surprise you.”

“How do you know?” demanded the older sister.

“You have to ask?” Amanda responded, tapping her mystical third eye.

Frank tried on another dress, a gunmetal gray silk sheath with spaghetti straps. Frank felt naked in it. She said, “Why do women who buy into this fashion and beauty obsession believe that women who don’t are afraid of men? That’s just the most abhorrent assumption. It spits in the face of individuality, morality. Honesty. Makeup is really a grand deception.”

“Let’s try a game,” Amanda said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Just listen. Close your eyes. Visualize you and Walter on a date. At dinner. You’re talking, drinking some wine.” Amanda looked at her smirking sister on the bed. “Come on, Frank.”

“This is getting more and more surreal.”

“I’m trying to change your frame of mind,” said Amanda.

“Tell me your flirting secrets,” Frank said, embarrassing herself for wanting to know.

Amanda said, “What works for me won’t necessarily work for you.”

“Are you saying I’m flat chested?” asked Frank.

“Is that what you think works for me?”

“Are the hills alive with the sound of music?”

Amanda laughed. “Walter doesn’t strike me as the big-jugs type.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Frank said. “Give me that blue dress.”

“This?” Amanda grabbed a long-sleeved navy empire-waisted rayon dress off the rack. “It’s too cutesy for you.”

“Let me try it.” Frank slipped on the dress. It was big, but that was okay. She did a spin. The dress lifted on air. She liked the sensation. The mirror was kind. Frank thought the dress was casual enough to be something she threw on. She didn’t want Walter to think she’d gussied herself up for his benefit.

Amanda nodded at Frank. “I never would have thought to put you in that dress, but I’ve got to say: you look adorable.”

Bang
. The broom handle pounded the apartment floor/café ceiling. Matt needed help. Amanda said, “Two minutes to put on makeup and then we go.”

She smeared Frank’s face with foundation, blush, mascara, eye shadow, and lipstick in mere seconds. The rest was fine-tuning. Amanda arranged Frank’s straight hair into a French twist with some strands hanging down around her face. The bobby pins dug into her scalp. Frank slipped on black tights and Dr. Martens. Amanda suggested heels, but Frank shook her head. Heels would be too much. She was worried enough that the change in hairstyle was a screaming advertisement for Trying Too Hard. The sisters threw on their coats and ran downstairs.

Romancing the Bean was crowded again. Amanda immediately went to help Matt behind the counter. Frank entered the café and took off her coat slowly, awkward in her pretty-girl costume. She saw Clarissa holding court by the condiment island, several women transfixed by her retelling of what’d happened the night before, the fireworks, the police. There was another, larger cluster of customers in the rear of the café. Frank wandered toward them and heard his voice. Walter’s.

She edged her way to the front of the group of a dozen-odd women surrounding a table. Walter was sitting at it, his flannel-trousered legs crossed, his long fingers encircling a coffee mug. Frank picked up the string of his monologue: “So there I was, on the beach in Bermuda in the middle of January, wearing nothing more than madras shorts and Teva sandals. The girls were all wearing bikinis, you know, those Lycra cotton separates from J. Crew, the pink tops and orange bottoms? Very sexy.” As he waxed vacuously, Walter’s eyes traveled up and down Frank’s outfit, appraising her and moving on. He seemed neither pleased nor disappointed. He didn’t recognize her.

Frank shrank away from the table, her breath stuck under her sternum. She couldn’t believe she’d let her hopes float for that man back there. She felt deflated, mortified, like she wanted to tear off her dress and scrape off the makeup. As she backed away, not seeing where she was going, she bumped into someone.

Frank spun around to apologize. Clarissa stood before her, a beaming grin on her face. She said, “Well, Francesca. Look at you! I can’t believe my eyes. What’s the occasion? Big date?” As each word exited Clarissa’s bowlike mouth, Frank felt more like a fool. She thought she might throw up.

Instead, she blew up. “You know what, Clarissa? You can have him. He’s all yours. The two of you will be very happy together in your plastic lives.” Her voice cracked.

Clarissa batted her eyelids. “Where did that come from?” she asked.

Frank wasn’t sure why she’d insulted Clarissa. Not the best way to win her friendship. “We could never be friends,” Frank heard herself say. “We have nothing in common. Not a thing. There isn’t one single tiny thing we could ever do together or talk about.”

The blonde was cool. “Calm down, Francesca,” said Clarissa. There wasn’t a degree of warmth in her voice. Not half a degree.

“I’m beginning to wonder if you have Romancing the Bean’s best interests at heart,” said Frank.

Amanda was at her sister’s side in a flash. She whispered in Frank’s ear, “Deep breath, in, out. In, out.”

“Shut up, Amanda.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” barked Clarissa.

“Please don’t bark at my sister,” said Amanda to Clarissa. “She can say whatever she wants to me.”

“Francesca?” It was Walter. The argument broke up the crowd in back.

Frank heard the voice behind her. She couldn’t turn around or flee. The weight of her disappointment immobilized her. She’d have to stand there and take her mortification like a woman.

“Francesca,” he said again, now in her line of vision. “I hardly recognized you.”

“Obviously.”

“You look great!”

“Drop dead.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Afraid she would cry, Frank just shook her head.

“Can I have a moment alone with Francesca?” Walter asked Clarissa and Amanda. The two women backed away. Frank knew the customers were watching this scene of her own making. She closed her eyes and tried Amanda’s trick of visualization. She pictured herself, upstairs, alone, under her covers.

Walter leaned close and spoke softly. “Clarissa knows I’m interested in you, Francesca. She’s just a friend.” He smelled like soap and sandalwood.

“I could never be interested in you,” she said.