Things I can’t Explain (21 page)

“My pa-
rents
ran into your pa-
rents
at the C-
VS
buying Coricidin PM,” she says, painfully articulating every word as if English was our second language.

“Wow, she even abbreviates her abbreviations,” Rodgers comments. “That's impressive.”

“But where does Genelle come in?” I ask.

“Genelle's mom was there, too,” Jody says. “Jan told them that she and Marsh met your BF, but later, at JFK, saw some betch snogging him at arrivals and they were like WTF.”

“My mom said ‘WTF'?” I ask, astonished.

“IDK. Maybz. I think.”

“Well, the icing on the cake is that Genelle Fucking Waterman has invited my parents to the wedding, too,” I add, pouring salt on my own wounds.

Honestly, I haven't a clue what to think about it all when I notice Rodgers giving me a knowing nod. That means that the algorithmic formulas she's been calculating all this time in her highly advanced frontal lobe have all fallen into place.

“Pretty sure we're talking about Roxie.”

“Roxie?” The name sets off a little warning bell in my brain. “Roxie …
Buggles
?”

“Yep, you've heard of her?” Rodgers nods gravely. “The chick makes Courtney Love look like a pet gerbil.”

As I suspected, Nick's girlfriend is the rocker from the website that I saw in the red plaid pants in all her glory outside HeadSpace the other day.

“She doesn't seem like his type,” I say in what may be the understatement of the century. “Look, is this her?” I tap the screen on my phone and pull up the photo of Roxie I was looking at earlier.

“Okay, that's cray-cray,” says Jody, “we're just going to pretend it's not at all creepy that you have this girl's picture on your phone.” I can tell she's alarmed—she's talking normal.

“Don't worry, C, you're way prettier than she is,” says Piper. “And I bet you have a much shorter rap sheet.”

“Listen, Nick is always complaining about Roxie,” Rodgers says. “They have that on-again, off-again thing. I know for a fact that he's tried to get out of it altogether but keeps getting sucked back in somehow. She has a knack for throwing scenes and for some reason, he falls for it. It's like his fatal flaw or something.”

“Maybe they were in an off-again when he almost kissed you,” Piper adds hopefully, “or maybe they're in an off-again right now?”

I feel like my face is an open book when she says that. I know they can all see what I'm feeling.

Jody puts her hand on mine and turns solemnly to address the others.

“I say C goes back to that coffee cart ASAP and spills the wedding sitch to CCG all cajj.” It only takes the rest of the girls a second first to translate what she's said and then to consider.

“Right, then if he's still with Roxie, he'll say no,” Piper reasons. “If they're over, he'll say yes.”

“That solves everything,” Rodgers adds.

“Ya think?” I ask, cringing as my heart perks up.

The advisory board nods in agreement.

 

CHAPTER
21

Relieved to be alone with my thoughts, I walk back toward FiDi down Bowery, which is surprisingly well lit and still busy this time of night.

So Dad and Mom saw Nick kissing Roxie at the airport. That amazes me not only for the obvious reasons, but also because I know how hard it is to find someone at JFK when you're actually looking for them. By sheer coincidence, my parents just happen to stumble across my pretend boyfriend without even trying. It's an occurrence that's so damn unlikely, I have to make up a new word just to describe it:

serendumpity
(n.) the inevitable discovery of what we would rather not know. Coined in the present by Clarissa Marie Darling.
seren
+
dump
+
-ity
the antithesis of
serendipity
, 1754: coined by Horace Walpole, which was based on the Persian fairy tale “The Three Princes of Serendip,” whose heroes “were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of.” See related synonym
zemblanity
William Boyd, 1998.

My folks must be devastated knowing that the guy I was supposedly mad for is cheating on me with a rocker girl who looks like Alice in Wonderland on acid. It kind of begs the question, why the hell didn't they call me the minute they disembarked in Ohio and warn me that my guy had gone astray? But then again, Janet and Marshall Darling have a lot on their plates right now.

It's still early enough for me to call home. So as I throw my keys on the table by the door, I decide to “grim up,” as Aunt Mafalda used to say, give Mom a ring and just come out with it. All of it. Everything—from the demise of the
Daily
Post
to the lie about Nick being anything more than my former caffeine dealer. Then if there's an actual chance for Nick and me to be together, it won't be based on this circuitous nightmare.

“Hello, Darling residence.” I can't believe she still answers the phone that way. It's so old-fashioned.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Clarissa!”

“Listen, Mom, I want to—”

But that's the last word I manage to get out of my mouth. Mom starts talking a blue streak about how worried she is. Marshall's so completely down on himself that she can't take it anymore.

“Do you have any idea how hard it has been to live with someone who is
always
depressed?” she says. It makes me depressed just thinking about it.

Apparently they've been going to therapy with some new doctor, an Austrian woman named Dr. Leisl Lyman, which is helping a little.

“He's finally admitted he can't get past the fact that his wife is earning three times the money he ever made,” she vents with some relief. “I love your father, and I know how proud he is, but he and I didn't exactly sleep through the entire women's liberation movement.”

“But Mom, isn't Dad—?” I begin again, but she talks right over me.

“Don't defend him, Clarissa. I understand you and your dad are close and that's fine. I love him deeply. But Marshall and I marched for the Equal Rights Amendment in Washington when we were still in college. We watched the ‘Gloria Discovers Women's Lib' episode on
All in the Family
and even the
Maude
abortion episode together. I remember Marshall crying when he saw that. And this is the man who gave me an official U.S. Treasury mint condition Susan B. Anthony coin for Christmas!”

I can see and hear that this has been building up for quite some time between them. I guess it's good that the issue is on the table.

“Well, I can see how you feel,” I say, “but I don't think you should give up hope.… I mean, it's probably tough for Dad not to have a—”

“I do have hope, Clarissa,” Mom interrupts again. “In fact, the good news is that we've been invited to Genelle Waterman's wedding, and Marshall wants to go!”

“I know,” I say glumly. “So have I.”

“Wonderful,” Mom says. “Weddings are such happy occasions. They have a way of helping people rekindle their romantic feelings, don't you think? It's the ‘wedding effect.' People can't help believing in love when they see a blushing bride.”

I try to picture Genelle's cheeks turning pink. Considering her new physiognomy, I'm guessing her bashful blushing days are long gone.

“Weddings are about hopes and dreams and promises,” Mom tells me, channeling her inner Hallmark. “It's just what our relationship needs.” She pauses.

I wonder if I might be able to change the subject. I wait a fraction of a second to see if this is a real opening for me to speak.

“Speaking of relationships…” I begin timidly.

“Yes, speaking of relationships, I think it will be good for you and Nick, too,” she says firmly. “I hope to see you both there.”

This is my opening, my chance to tell her the truth: that what they saw in the airport doesn't really qualify as cheating because Nick and I were a scam from the start. This is my opportunity to admit that I made the whole relationship up on the spot, out of the blue.

I hesitate.

And why, you might ask?

Which is worse: Letting my parents think my boyfriend is a two-timer, or telling them the truth about me? I lied straight to their faces not only about my love life, but also my employment situation. Mom's already worried about Dad and his struggle to reinvent himself in the job market; I don't want to add to her burden. And then there's Genelle F. Waterman to consider. Genelle would be more than delighted to hear that I'm a bigger fake than she is, and the thought makes me want to scream.

Finally, where would that leave me with Nick? I mean, if he's
on-again
,
off-again
, isn't there still some hope? This wedding might represent a chance for that little spark that was ignited down by the Brooklyn Bridge to be rekindled.

I sigh. “I can't wait to see you, too.”

Let's admit it: I'm a wimp.

“Listen, honey,” Mom says abruptly, “I've got a batch of brownies in the oven. I've got to dash.”

We say good night and I head straight for the bedroom and face-plant into my pillows.

I can't help wondering where Roxie is tonight. Is she with Nick?

“Off-again, or on-again
,
”
I whisper into the darkness.
“Off-again, or on-again. Please let it be off-again
.
”

 

CHAPTER
22

He's a bit startled when he looks up from Frankensteam and sees me standing there. I'm a little shocked, too. It took me three times hiking around the block to gather enough courage to walk through the revolving door. Before I dashed inside, I was seized with the thought that this whole plan was hatched three martinis south of common sense. Rodgers's elegant algorithmic formulas from the night before seem a distant memory. I can't remember a single reason this was a good idea, but I've come this far, and there's Nick, the scent of Colombia brewing, and my favorite old haunt, the
Daily Post
building, so I take the plunge.

“Hey, Clarissa.”

“Hey, Nick.”

Okay, so we have now officially ritualized our departure from the micro-zone. Names have been spoken aloud and cannot be retracted. It's super early and there're only a few other people milling around the lobby. Clearly, I'm not here on a whim.

“Great to see you,” he says, a little surprised. “How've you been?”

“Good,” I say. “I got a job.”

“Wow, awesome! Then this is on the house,” he says, preparing my usual. He looks a little shy, but genuinely happy for me.

I take the cup and his hand lingers, our fingers touching.

“I didn't think I'd see you again,” he says, getting to the crux of it.

“Neither did I,” I admit. “I mean, think … I'd see
you
again … either. But then I realized that the other night was all kind of weird and wacky and you were honest with me.”

“Yeah, about that…”

I flinch, fearful of what he's going to say, but he's interrupted by a customer who orders a grande dirty soy chai, no water, extra foam. I notice the trust-fund hipster in his dark-frame glasses and pomade hair is carrying a bag from the Anarchist Bookstore on First Avenue. When the guy and his overly complex drinking beverages are gone, I take the opportunity to change the subject.

“Have you ever been to that place?” I ask. “The Anarchist Bookstore?”

“Been there?” Nick laughs. “I used to practically live there. The Gotham Book Mart in Midtown, too, before it closed.”

“Oh yeah, I remember the old Gotham,” I say, sipping my coffee. “It was the second thing I fell in love with when I moved to New York.”

“What was the first thing?” he asks.

“You'll laugh.”

“No, I won't.”

“You'll think I'm silly.”

“Nothing wrong with silly.” He gives me a half grin.

“Okay, I am a die-hard devotee of the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island. It was one of the first things I ever went to when I moved here. Aunt Haddie took me every year, she loved it.”

I see the smile of recognition percolate up from inside him and I have to admit, it totally turns me on how his face comes to life and his eyes brighten when he's thinking about something.

“That's hilarious,” he says. “Me, too.”

“Okay, you're just saying that.”

“Clarissa, really, what guy would say that if it weren't actually true? I'm sure I've already compromised myself by admitting it. I used to play drums for the fun of it in a band that marched in the parade behind the Singing Crustaceans—you know, the girls with the blue lobster bikinis? The guys had to paint our chests blue and wear blue wigs as we marched playing ‘Rock Lobster.' I think they called us the Blubbery Mermen of the Deep.”

We both laugh. God, he's adorable. And there's a total lack of weirdness happening. I've been sulking about the missed kiss, the airport thing, and all the disappointment, but now that I'm standing in front of him, I'm not feeling anything but good. I decide that before I lose my nerve, I better get on with it. I take a deep breath.

“Look, I've got to go to this wedding.”

“Friends getting married?”

“Actually, my archenemy.” He crooks a grin waiting for the punch line.

“No joke. For reasons I'd rather not discuss, I have to go and I really, really don't want to go solo. And on top of that, my parents are going to be there, and…”

“Your parents? The ones who think you and I are madly in love?”

Shit. Why did he have to say it that way? I know he's being ironic, but he's looking at me with the softest eyes and it gives me a kick in my stomach—or is it my heart? It makes me want to kiss him or run away or maybe both. I don't know what to say.