From Butt to Booty (20 page)

“His girlfriend,” I answer.

“Heather,” Mike says, like there’s only one Heather in the world and Charming must know her.

“Splendid.”

Who says “splendid”? Really, who says that?

She taps her perfectly manicured hands on the glass. “Sometimes it helps to know if the young lady works? What are her hobbies? What type of accessorizing does she prefer?”

I start talking to Charming to take the pressure off Mike. “She’s a preschool teacher. Likes kids and wants kids.” I glance at Mike to see if he’s agreeing with my assessment of his future wife. “She doesn’t wear a lot of jewelry, I’d say a few tasteful pieces. She prefers accessories that aren’t flashy.” I add this last knowing full well that Charming gets a commission on the size of the bill. Flashy takes out a few of the larger, more heavily secured tables of gems.

I’d also like to mention for the record that there are no price tags visible. Frankly, I think they should be color-coded so you know what you’re falling in love with before you get socked in the stomach with the bottom line. It’s sneaky, I say. Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky.

Charming Lady nods. “That gives us a starting place. If you’ll allow me to suggest a few?”

Mike nods jerkily. It’s even air-conditioned in here. It’s February and they air-condition the place. I don’t think it’s because diamonds sweat. I think it must be the average condition of men walking through those doors.

She pulls out a couple more trays. “These are our most popular pieces. All are one to three carats total weight.”

“That’s nice.” Mike points at one. “So’s that one. That, too.”

Okay, this is going to take forever.

“Are you focused on a solitaire?”

“Why do you ask?” I raise my eyebrows. I can tell she wants to
say something but she’s still sizing us up. “Well, if the young lady—Heather, is it?—works with children? Presumably she’ll want to wear this every day? Perhaps she’d prefer a few small stones, even a band of small stones, rather than a single larger stone. Our professional clients tend to stay away from large single stones.”

Yeah, some of these could permanently maim small children. I see blind preschoolers running around.

“I think she’d like those two.” I point to a couple of heart-shaped diamonds. Smallish.

Mike gasps. “Heart-shaped. Yes, that’s her.”

“Good, we’ll stick with rings that have a heart-shaped stone in them. Might I ask what your profession is?” Charming directs the question toward Mike. I guess she doesn’t think I look old enough to have a profession.

Mike jumps like she’s pointed a gun at him. Obviously, cogent thought is beyond him at the moment.

She sends me a small smile and quips a brow in question. “He’s a professor at Simon Randalph,” I say.

“Oh, that’s a very well-respected private university.” She beams. I guess it pays more than the local community college.

“Green!” Mike shouts this last word like he’s got Tourette’s.

“Green?” Charming and I ask in unison.

“Her eyes are green. Green’s her favorite color.”

“Uh-huh.” I shrug. News to me.

“Okay, that’s good. Let’s look at diamond and emerald combinations.”

“H-heart,” Mike stammers.

“Yes, in heart shapes. Of course.”

I wonder if she does this all day long. Trying to distinguish gibberish from the mouths of terrified buyers and finding a ring to
match. I feel the need to apologize to her on Mike’s behalf. “He’s normally very articulate,” I say.

She smiles at me, a twinkle finally warming her gaze. “They all are until they walk in here. Even the most sincere groom gets a little giddy at the prospect of buying an engagement ring.”

Interesting. I wonder if brides all hesitate before saying yes, or if the hesitations come at night, in the dark.

A very painful four hours later, Mike selects a banded ring with three stones representing past, present and future. They’re small enough that they won’t injure Heather’s kids and large enough that you can tell they’re heart-shaped. They even have her size in stock.

I had to steer Mike away from the rings only worn in rap music videos or down the Red Carpet. Rings where he’d be dead before he’d had the chance to pay them off, even with the very nice finance package offered by the store.

Velvet box in pocket, we walk out into the brisk snowy air. Cupids dangle from the Plaza’s streetlights.

“Thanks, little sis.”

“You’re welcome. Are you doing roses and candles and moonlight?”

“I can’t really control the moonlight thing—forecast is cloudy. You think I should do roses and candles?”

I hesitate, as his color is just starting to return to normal. “What were you planning?”

“I don’t know. One knee after dinner.”

“Do you have reservations?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Where?”
Please don’t be Chuck E. Cheese
.

He names the “it” romantic restaurant.

How clichéd!

“What?” he asks.

Dude is a Mensa boy. You’d think he could be more creative than that.

I don’t say anything.

“I’d rather do it at home, but she’s not going to wait in the car for me to light all the candles and I’d never concentrate worrying about burning down the building while we were at dinner.”

It’s not like my Valentine’s Day is going to be anything worth saving the date for. “Why don’t I come over and light all the candles, turn on the music, et cetera, et cetera?”

“And then be there? Thanks, but this is scary enough without an audience.”

“No, I’ll watch out your window and sneak out. I can hide around the corner from your apartment door when you go in, then ride the elevator down and drive home.”

“You’d do that?”

“Well, yeah. You’re my brother.”

He looks pleased. Touched, even. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, have it all there. I can just set up. You do the shopping. It has more meaning if you’ve bought all the stuff.”

“You’re probably right. But it’s tempting to give you permission to use my Visa.”

“I can order you stuff, but she’ll ask. You know she’ll ask.”

We are women, we’re genetically programmed to find this type of tedium out.

He nods. “You’re right.”

“On one condition, though.”

“Oh no, what?”

“Just call me and tell me what she says.”

“That I can do.” He smiles and hugs me to his side.

Clarice catches up with me in the hallway and tugs on my arm. “Are you going to the girl-ask-guy dance?”

The posters are everywhere. I see cute hearts and Photo-shopped girls flirting with boys and I get the stomach pit of dread. I’ve been avoiding the heck out of this conversation. “That means I’m asking someone to go, right?”

She shakes her head. “Not necessarily.”

News to me. How’d I miss the meaning of this one? “Oh?”

“Well, it’s girls’ choice, right?” Clarice’s expression gets all hidden and blank.

“Right.” I so do not follow.

“Can’t we choose to go alone?” she hedges.

“You’re not going with Spenser?” I ask. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. They’ve been hooking up while studying for weeks.

Her eyes get all swimmy. She whispers, “No, he thinks that’s too much of a relationship.”

“Really?” Does dancing equate relating? I’ve never known the correlation, but then, guys hate to dance and most don’t really like relationships, either.

She’s studying the cement floor and poking at a black wad of last year’s gum. “Hmm.”

I take a deep breath and put on my best empowered-woman-go-get-’em persona. “You should ask someone else. Just to prove to him he’s not the only roach in the kitchen.”

“Huh?” She’s confused.

I shrug. “I’ve just never liked the fish-in-the-sea thing,
especially now, since there aren’t many fish in the sea anymore. So I’m trying on a few other sayings.”

She giggles. “Roaches?”

I tamp down any defensiveness I feel. “They’re fairly indestructible. It’s not the insult it first appears.”

“Whatever.” She can’t stop laughing. At least I’ve cheered her up.

“Are you going to ask someone else?”

She sighs. “Gert, I like Spenser.”

“I know you do.” I’m not blind, challenged or stoned.

She rolls her eyes. “No, I mean I
like
him. I don’t want to go with anyone else.”

“Oh. That’s a problem.”

“Is it? I mean, he could have thought that he just wanted to be benefriends and now that we’ve spent time together, maybe he’s just waiting for me to tell him how I feel.” She’s all hopeful and puppy like.

How to explain that the bronze statue of the school mascot knows how she feels about Spenser? We’re all pretending she’ll get over it. Especially Spenser, who is going to take an Oscar for his portrayal of obliviousness. He’s given it new life.

“I really hope he does like you as much as you like him,” I answer.

The bell rings. Holy-Mother-of-Chiming, I’m saved.

We do not celebrate Valentine’s Day in this school. I wish I could say it’s because all the girls have risen up and demanded we be left alone instead of judged on couples’ day. But no. It’s our school board. The same school board that collectively weighs two hundred pounds more than it should but still thinks it’s a good idea to make us stand on scales and get physique grades. This same group of rejects got together and decided that Valentine’s Day promotes sexual behavior. They passed a board policy outlawing any mention, decoration or celebration of a holiday promoting sexual feelings or behavior. They even went so far as to suggest that the pressure to be in a couple on Valentine’s Day leads to promiscuity among students and staff and therefore leads to an unhealthy workplace.

A bunch of Giggles and Pops are wearing black armbands in a show of solidarity and grief with the mighty Aphrodite.

Sex taints learning, basically. According to the school board, Cupid isn’t shooting arrows, he’s shooting his wad. And chocolates? They are aphrodisiacs. Flowers? The sex organs of plants.

Really. Maybe they have a point, but it’s been lost in the absurdity of their politics and frankly, it doesn’t curb the pressure I feel for not getting aphrodisiacs and floral genitalia. I’m not the biggest fan of the holiday. Mainly because I’ve always wanted the bubble bath with rose petals, candle light, amazing kisses and lots of action.

I’m not really sure what my fantasy is beyond the kissing part. I know I want more, but I need to figure that out before I start the cameras rolling in my head. Seriously, nine-tenths of the being-ready-for-sex equation is actually having an idea of what to expect. I don’t have a clue. I mean, I’ve seen movies, but I’ve also heard horror stories of girls who rip and bleed and pain and stuff. Which could very well be propaganda to keep my panties on, but I’d like to think the man I’m with would stop if I was bleeding and screaming, and I’m not terribly confident I’ve met him yet.

But that leaves me home alone without the parentals, knowing there are people all around me getting kissed tonight, and the best I can look forward to is a little CPR (Covert Privatalia Resuscitation) for Maya provided by yours truly.

Am I as pathetic as I feel? Huh. No good answer to that one.