Confessions of a Not It Girl (11 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rebecca and I had prepared for Josh and Sarah's coming over as if we were the FBI and dinner was the War on Terrorism. Sometimes it is an excellent thing to have an It Girl for a best friend because she knows a lot of things about entertaining that I would never have guessed. For example, the rules and regulations of hostessing:

1.
A good hostess always devotes herself to the least-popular guest.
(That meant, since Sarah would be talking to my mom about how much fun life had been back in the seventies, and Josh's cousin would be talking to my dad about Columbia, it was clearly
my
job to entertain Josh.)

2.
A
good hostess never overdresses, yet always manages to look comfortable and sexy.
(That was why I was going to wear my see-through shirt with a lacy tank top under it.)

3.
A
good hostess is relaxed; she does not spend the evening jumping up and down to bring things in from the kitchen and clear the table.
(That explained why it was my mom's job to serve and clean up.)

In addition to educating me about being a perfect

111

hostess, Rebecca lent me her new lipstick, lip liner, and eyelash curler. Even when she has a big date at The Madison, a friend knows when you need MAC help way more than she does.

The problem is, there's only so much the right outfit and makeup can do when you're in the world's least-seductive setting. I mean, the bar at The Madison Hotel is a classy Midtown institution. It's got modular furniture covered in crisp white cotton, and the only people there (besides underage drinkers like me and Rebecca) are models and power brokers, who sip ice-cold martinis as they discuss their latest transatlantic flights. Everyone's dressed in Armani, Prada, or Versace, and there's no sound but the tinkling of ice cubes in metal shakers and the subdued laughter and sotto-voce conversation of the rich and the beautiful.

In contrast, when you first walk into my house in Brooklyn, you are greeted by our one-hundred-and-twenty-pound Labrador retriever, who lunges at your chest barking hysterically until you bend down to scratch his stomach.

The furniture in my house isn't white--it's covered with pet hair.

There is no Armani, Prada, or Versace as far as the eye can see.

The only thing that tinkles here is Brueghel, who sometimes gets so excited about being scratched that he has an accident.

On Friday at T minus two hours and fifteen minutes, I finished my physics homework. At T minus one hour and

112

fifteen minutes, as I was trying to drown my jealousy of Rebecca and my anxiety over what was about to take place in my living room in a
Seinfeld
rerun, my mother stomped downstairs like a pro wrestler. She was wearing the black turtleneck sweater I'd worn to Richie's party.

"Yahn, have you worn my sweater?"

"Um, I don't think so."

"You don't
think
so?"

I didn't say anything. I've found if you ignore them, sometimes parents will eventually disappear.

"Hello! Do not ignore me when I am speaking directly to you." She stepped between me and the TV.

And sometimes they won't.

"Let's just say it's not impossible," I offered.

She put her hands on her hips. "What's the rule on wearing my things?"

"Yahn can wear Mom's things, but only if she asks first." I said it like I was reciting something I'd memorized for school.

"So what's wrong with this picture?"

"Um, I take it the answer is not that you're standing between me and the television."

"Yahn--" My mom has this voice she gets that's kind of like Brueghel's growl when a strange dog wanders onto our Cape Cod property. If you had to translate it into words, it would probably come out as, "Don't make me kill you."

"Okay, okay," I said, standing up and throwing my hands in the air. "I wore your sweater without asking. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

113

"That's all I wanted to hear," said my mom. She moved away from the television and started counting out napkins to set the table. "You can watch your show now."

But I had no more time for television.

The time had come to launch Operation Josh.

When the doorbell rang I was upstairs prepared to wait. I know it can be a bad idea to plan a dramatic entrance when you're as klutzy as I am, but Rebecca and I had decided it would be smart to make Josh suffer alone with the parents for a few minutes. (Actually, it was Rebecca's plan. I wanted to keep Josh and my mother and father as far away from each other as humanly possibly so he wouldn't start having doubts about the stability of my genetic makeup, but Rebecca insisted my parents probably couldn't do anything too humiliating in just a few minutes. She said the benefits of forcing Josh to suffer alone with the parents for a little while--which would make him incredibly grateful and relieved to see me when I finally did come downstairs--far outweighed the risk that after spending a few minutes with my mother and father, he would run screaming into the night.)

Rebecca said I should stay upstairs until there was a lull in the conversation and then go down. The problem was, I couldn't really hear whether people were talking. Not only was Brueghel still barking like crazy, my dad had put some music on and everyone seemed to have gone into the kitchen, which is at the opposite end of the house from my room. I was just getting ready to sneak to

114

the top of the stairs and await a moment of awkward silence into which I would glide, effortlessly rescuing my guests, when my mom shouted up, "Yahn, come down, everyone's here."

Just one more thing that never happens at The Madison.

I made it down the stairs without tripping, which didn't actually matter since nobody could see me. Then I turned the corner to go into the kitchen. Rebecca wanted me to say something funny and flirtatious right off the bat, just to establish "energy" with Josh. I liked her idea, but so far nothing funny or flirtatious had presented itself to me. Plus, how flirtatious can you be with your parents standing a mere two feet away? Rebecca kept saying how attractive and
transgressive
it would be if I just flirted up a storm and acted like they weren't there, but I'd pretty much settled for just saying, "Hey," and trying not to slide down the stairs on my butt. It's always a good idea in these situations to keep your expectations on the low side.

And then I was in the kitchen and it was suddenly clear that no matter how low my expectations were, they weren't low enough.

"Where's Josh?" I hadn't meant to say it quite so loudly. My mom, dad, Sarah, and some guy I'd never seen before looked up at me.

"Hello there, Jan," said Sarah. "Josh isn't coming. He's at a soccer tournament. That's an absolutely
beautiful
shirt!" My dad took one look at my shirt and promptly looked away. He walked some plates of

115

appetizers over to the coffee table while Sarah gave me a hug.

I felt numb all over, but not the way my leg had felt numb when Josh rested his foot on it. Imagine you had an operation where they were supposed to amputate your arm, only when you woke up the surgeon told you they'd amputated the wrong one by mistake.

That's the kind of numb I felt.

"Hello, Jan." Josh's cousin looked and dressed nothing like Josh. He was shorter than I was and had horrible greasy hair he kept touching. He was wearing a suit and
white
sneakers.

"Jan, this is Henry. Henry, this is Jan, Josh's friend." Henry came over to me and stuck out his hand. When I gave him mine, he shook it very formally. Up, down. His palm was sweaty, but I had to wait until he looked away to wipe it on my skirt.

I felt like I was underwater. My dad said something to Sarah, and Henry said something to my mom, and then we all moved into the living room. I sat at the end of the sofa looking at everyone and trying to figure out why the gods were so desperate to punish me. I think I'm a good person. I mean, maybe I don't spend all my free time fighting to end world poverty...but I recycle!

Can't the universe give me a break?

"Jan?" Suddenly everyone was looking at me.
Well, folks, check it out, because this is something you'll want to remember: how I looked right before I jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge.

"Sorry?"

116

"I was just asking you if you were interested in Columbia as well." Henry's voice squeaked. He stopped touching his sticky hair long enough to pull at the knot of his tie.

"Oh, ah, no. Maybe Wesleyan."

"Josh likes Wesleyan, too," said Sarah.

"I didn't know Wesleyan was your first choice," said my parents in unison.

"I'm not saying it's my first choice," I said, trying not to snarl. "I just said I'm
interested
in it."

"Wesleyan has an excellent reputation," squeaked Henry. "But I think I'd find Middletown just a tad provincial."
Provincial: of the provinces; not sophisticated or fashionable.
Henry wasn't the only one who'd studied for his SATs.

I shrugged. In his white sneakers Henry didn't exactly strike me as the most sophisticated, fashionable person I'd ever met. Unless he meant he needed to find someplace that was sophisticated enough not to ostracize poorly dressed midgets with acne.

"Are you hoping to stay on the East Coast?" my mom asked Henry.

"I feel my personality is more suited to the East, yes." Was it my imagination or was Henry checking out the see-through of my see-through shirt? I folded my arms over my chest and glared at him.

Why was this happening to me? Right about now, Josh and I were supposed to be giving each other knowing looks, rolling our eyes about how boring this whole "family dinner thing" was turning out to be.

117

JOSH:
(Walking over and sitting on the floor next to Jan's chair.)
Are you as bored as I am?

JAN:
(Whispering.)
Oh, definitely. I don't know how I'm going to make it through this.

JOSH:
(Smiling up at her and taking her hand.)
Well, I know how I'm going to get through it. JAN:
(Puzzled.)
Really? How's that?

JOSH: I'm going to think about being alone with you later.
(He smiles up at her and brushes a stray curl out of her eyes.)

CURTAIN

"... say that Harvard doesn't have its advantages." Henry looked over at me. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Like I cared about Harvard. Like I cared about
Henry.

Like I cared about anything.

"I wouldn't know," I said.

Clearly Henry was too
provincial
to understand something as subtle as sarcasm. "Well, I think I can safely say the statistics will bear me out. Not that theirs is the best business school anymore. I'd have to say it's a toss-up between Columbia and Wharton." He turned to my dad. "I'm planning to be an economics major."

My dad nodded. He was wearing a pair of gray pants and a blue button-down, and he looked surprisingly normal. Just my luck, the whole family was looking its best for Horrible Henry and his Harvard Hopes.

"Last time I talked to Josh, he said he and Leslie were both applying early to Brown," said Henry.

118

Whatever you do, do not ask who Leslie is. Do not ask who Leslie is. Do not ask who Leslie is.

I turned to Sarah. "Who's Leslie?" I hoped my tone didn't betray my growing inner hysteria. I sounded light. Casual.
What's in this delicious soup? Have you noticed the weather's been unseasonably warm lately? Is that a new haircut? Who's Leslie?

"She's a friend of Josh's," said Sarah. "From Seattle."

Henry got a sly look on his face and raised his eyebrows at me, as if we were both in on some extraordinary secret. "Well, I guess you
could
call her a
friend."

On the coffee table with the hors d'oeuvres were about half a dozen metal toothpicks for spearing the roasted peppers my dad had made. I was seriously considering taking one and stabbing Henry in the eye with it.

"Really?" asked Sarah. "I guess the mother's always the last to know."

"I guess," Henry said, still looking at me.

"But I'm pretty sure Josh isn't applying anywhere early," Sarah added. "I think I'd know
that"

"Well," said my dad. "Why don't we start on the soup?" As my mom and Sarah started gathering up the plates from the coffee table and my dad headed into the kitchen, Henry followed me into the dining room.

"That's quite a shirt you have on there," he said. No wonder he'd been eyeing my chest--it was practically eye level for him.

"Mmmm," I said.

"Is that how all New York girls dress?"

119

"I wouldn't really know," I said.

"Because I can tell you right now, Columbia's
definitely
becoming my first choice." Henry gave a little cackle, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

No, not the eye. I've read the eye has surprisingly few nerve endings. It's the ear that's really painful. I'd go for the eardrum.

120