How to Ruin Series Part 43

My dad turns to me and says, "Did she just say meditation room?" in his deep, manly voice. I swear he's making it sound deeper than usual.

Once inside the white silk-draped room with scented candles and soft music, he looks nervous. I don't think a retired Israeli commando has ever been in a place like this. He'd probably look more at home in the desert. Or in a war zone.

There are no other guys in the room, just a lady in a terry cloth robe. I bet she's got nothing on underneath. She's reading one of the complimentary magazines and doesn't pay any attention to us.

"Sit down," I tell my dad while I sink into the plushy, soft, cream-colored chair and breathe to the rhythm of the slow music.

"I'd rather stand," he says tersely.

My eyes close as my mind drifts. "Suit yourself."

After a few minutes, two women dressed in long, white coats call out, "Ron and Amy Barak."

"That's us," he says, then clasps his hands together and rubs them back and forth. The sound is making me cringe and everyone is staring at him. Real smooth, Dad.

When we're sitting down next to each other, the nail technician takes my dad's hand and places it in a small container of soapy water.

"I don't want a color," he tells the woman right away.

I want to groan. Does he honestly think they're going to make his nails a brilliant red or fuchsia pink? "Aba, guys get clear.

Or just a buff." Duh.

"Oh. Okay ... I think."

Seriously, take a guy out of his element and he gets all confused and insecure. My own nail technician, Sue, is expertly ma.s.saging my wrists, palms, and hands as they turn to Jell-O under her skilled touch.

"My daughter made me come here," my dad tells the women, but he says it loud enough so everyone in the small salon can hear him. Go, manly man! Yes, tell all women you a strong warrior man. Spare me.

"Aba, you've got calluses and your skin is all dry and cracked. I swear you look like a dinosaur. Right, Sue? Just look at his paws."

Sue is extremely non-committal as she glances at my dad's hands. She smiles sweetly at him, then continues to work magic with my fingers.

I can tell when my dad's nail tech starts his own hand ma.s.sage. His shoulders, for the first time since we got here, slump into relaxation mode.

His hair has curled from the dampness in the air, making him look younger and vulnerable. I wonder if he was ever insecure. As a teen did he go through an awkward stage or was he hard and manly and confident since the day he was born?

My dad looks Middle Eastern with his dark olive complexion, dark features, and strong chiseled nose. If he was a stranger, I wouldn't immediately think he was Jewish, though. I wonder if he ever wanted to be something other than what he is.

Because I never thought I'd want to be any religion, but now I feel different. Being Jewish isn't a choice; it's a part of me. A part I just discovered, but it's significant in any case.

"After I convert I want a bat mitzvah," I tell my dad, bringing him to attention.

"With a big party?" he asks.

Thinking about it more, I decide I don't want a big shindig. "I'd just like Jessica and a few other friends to come over afterward. And Mom and Marc. You know, if it's okay with you."

"It's fine. In fact, it's great."

He's watching intently as his cuticles are cut and fortified and his nails are shaped. I think he's enjoying it as much as I am, but I'm not sure if my "manly man"

dad will admit it.

I pick a French manicure while he picks out a sheer, almost invisible bottle of polish.

When we're done, the nail techs lead us into the drying area and instruct us to place our wet nails under ultra-violet lights to get them to dry fast.

I put my hands under the lights while my dad picks up his ultra-violet light machine and examines it.

"Put that down before you get us in trouble," I whisper.

"Before I stick my hands under something, I'd like to know exactly what it is. Don't be so trusting, Amy," he advises, going into Homeland Security mode.

I chuckle. "Yeah, the nail technicians are the enemy. Be afraid. Be very afraid."

He puts the machine down but still doesn't stick his hands underneath the fluorescent blue light. "Let's talk about Avi," he says, still refusing to put his hands under the light.

"Why?"

He shrugs. "I just want to know if you're still an item."

"Dad, the word 'item' went out in the seventies but yes, I still like him. I mean, we haven't been able to see each other but I'm hoping in the summer when we go back to Israel he'll get time off." I take a sideways look at my dad. "You know he's my non-boyfriend, right?"

"What exactly does that mean?" he asks.

"I've heard you and Jessica using the phrase, but I don't get it."

I check my nails to see if they're still tacky and need more ultra-violet rays but they're as dry as my stepdad's liquor cabinet. I hop off the stool I've been sitting on, trying to explain the relationship label Avi wanted. "It means we can see other people because we obviously can't physically be together.

There's no commitment. We're casual, great friends.

Get it?"

He nods. "Got it."

"Speaking of casual friends, I have a surprise for you."

"It's not another online date, is it?"

"Oh, no," I say, shaking my head vigorously. "It's a bunch of dates. Tonight.

Speed dating at the Blues Bar on Chicago Avenue and you have to be there in fifteen minutes. Don't worry about impressing anyone. You only have three minutes for each date. It's all about making a connection."

15.

Israel is tiny, yet everyone fights over it.

I guess it's true that the biggest and best things come in small packages.

My manipulation skills obviously need help, because my dad refused to even step one foot inside the bar for the speed dating night.

Standing in front of the bar, I wait until the bouncer is preoccupied and slink inside without him noticing.

"He's not coming?" Marla is there, wearing a black scooped-neck dress. She got so excited when I told her about the speed dating she decided to sign up, too.

She and my dad aren't compatible. She's into mushy romantic guys and my dad is ...

well, he's not. He's Israeli.

I walk up to the guy running the program, a balding guy with a ring of red hair around his scalp. He's got a nametag on his chest with the word LARRY in big black letters. "My dad couldn't make it," I tell Larry, looking over his notes. The bar is crowded. I refuse to cancel my dad's reservation to date twenty women in an hour and a half.

Larry looks up at me. "Your dad?"

"Yeah, I kind of signed him up."

"You can't do that. Did you read the rules?" The guy doesn't even question what a seventeen-year-old is doing in a bar in the first place.

Umm ... "I'm not a rule kind of person."

"What's his name?"

"Ron ... Ron Barak."

My mouth opens wide as he takes a big red pen and crosses off my dad's name from the list.

"You can't do that!" I say, totally upset now. I paid thirty-five dollars to sign my dad up for the speed dating night. Okay, to be completely honest Marla paid and I'm working it off. It's a little side business arrangement I made with her.

Marla takes a seat next to Larry and makes her lips all pouty. "Is there any way you could help her out?"

The guy shrugs. "What do you want me to do?"

Marla looks to me for an answer.

"Let me go on the dates in my dad's place." I admit it isn't the most brilliant idea, but it does have potential. If I could find the perfect woman for him, screen her personally ...

Before the guy comes to his senses, I pull a nametag and scorecard off the table.

"Women, please sit at your a.s.signed places. Men, you'll go around to each woman, marking off either a 'yes' or a 'no'

on the card. Women, you'll do the same for the men. Just write their number on your card and mark it with a 'yes' or 'no.' If you get two matching 'yes' marks, we'll e- mail you each other's contact information.

Everyone got it?"

Nope. But I can't say anything because I'll be kicked out of this ridiculous shenanigan. Right now I'm not blaming my dad. I'm so nervous, as if I'm going to be judged for my looks and brains and ...

"Start!"

I head to the only open seat in the place.

I'm sitting across from a woman with the name Dru on her nametag. She looks really confused. It takes me a minute to explain myself. "Hi, I'm Amy. My dad was supposed to be here, but couldn't make it.

Well, actually he didn't want to come. It's kind of a long story, but ultimately I'm looking for a wife for my dad. What kinds of qualifications do you-"

"Switch!"

Before I finish my question, I'm being rushed out of the chair. I take another empty seat and find myself across from another single, confused woman. She's looking a little old to be set up with my dad, and her gray roots need to be touched up. "How old are you?" I ask.

"Forty."

"Have you tried nighttime moisturizing face cream?"

"I beg your pardon? This is a speed dating function, not a cosmetic consultation."

"I know. I'm trying to find a woman for my dad, but-"

Oops, the lady is raising her hand, getting the attention of the organizers. I crane my neck to find Marla deep in conversation with a guy at the other end of the bar. At least one of us is having luck tonight.

"Switch!"

Larry stands over my chair. "Miss, you can't be here. This is a private function for adults only."

I stand up, defeated. "I'm going, I'm going," I say, then give a little wave to Marla and head outside.

In our condo, my dad is sitting at his desk, working.

"I'll have you know I went on two three- minute dates for you."

"How were they?"

"Terrible. You know how they say there's a pot for every lid? I think you've got a pot in the shape of a trapezoid."

"Is that bad?" he asks.

To be honest, the jury's out on that one.

Being unique and different is good. But I suspect there's a fine line between being unique and needing major therapy.

16.