Shrimp. Part 7

I had just woken up on a Sat.u.r.day morning and was heading downstairs to make a coffee when the front door opened. Helen doesn't bother to knock anymore, she knows the security code to get into the house. She was carrying a take-out tray filled with beverages, and she buzzed past me with Autumn in tow. Helen said, "Ya still got bed head, CC."

I followed them to the kitchen. Fernando was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Spanish-language newspaper. Helen handed him one of the bubble teas with the tapioca b.a.l.l.s at the bottom of the cups from her take-out tray. "Here ya go, Ferdie," she said. "The bubble tea store on Clement Street has a D.WA. drive-up window."

Fernando didn't look up from his newspaper, but he took a sip from the bubble teacup straw. He said, "You mean, the Driving While Asian drive-in window for when you crash your souped-up Honda with the hot-rod racer wheels into the storefront window?" Fernando chuckled. 'Asian driver," he said, and Helen finished off his statement in unison with him, "No survivor." Helen and "Ferdie" all but high-fived each other.

I think Helen's mother loves Helen spending time at our house more than Helen does, because then Helen isn't home to abuse her mother about having no fashion sense or to scream at her mother that's she going to ART SCHOOL not to COLLEGE, even if she has to pay for it her G.o.dd.a.m.n self. Helen has two older sisters--one a first-year law student at Stanford and the other an engineering major at Cal, so Helen's mom must suspect there was a baby switch at the hospital when Helen was born, because Helen is just not conforming to the family's expectations of a nice Chinese girl. Helen smokes and loves beer--and Irish soccer night at 126.

the pub. She's really smart but her grades are only so-so. She has a temper--hence "alternative" school. She refuses to work in her family's restaurant. (Helen a.s.sures me her mother is relieved on that count.) But Helen has never pretended to be a "nice" Chinese girl. She's just...Helen.

Maybe Helen and I were switched-at-birth babies, because she's a natural in my household whereas I am a probable freak of nature here. I could totally groove on living in a cramped flat over a Chinese food restaurant in The Richmond, with a mom who would teach me to make pot stickers and pork buns and tell me brave tales of how she escaped a brutal Communist regime.

"Where's Mrs. Vogue?" Helen asked. "She promised I could look at her old modeling portfolio today. I need to take some photographs for my art school portfolio, and I want to see if I get any ideas looking at some '80s relic flashback."

Mrs. Vogue joined us in the kitchen, holding a grocery list in her hand. She was fully Gucci'd out for her big trip to Safeway. "Good morning, girls!" I think Nancy loves H&A hanging at our house more than they do. She actually likes Helen's nickname for her in tribute to Nancy's favorite pathetic magazine of anorexic bimbos, and Nancy claims I am less pouty and unreasonable when my peers are present. Maybe Nancy oughta worry about getting herself an actual college degree, not me, so then she could stop spouting self-help-books pop psychology, "peers are present" blah blah blah. "I'm on my way to the grocery store. I'm making meat loaf and green bean ca.s.serole for dinner! Can you stay for dinner tonight?"

Sid and Nancy have made up since he returned from his business trip, but Nancy is still working extra hard (for 127.

someone who hasn't had a job in almost twenty years) to prove to Sid-dad how much she cares for him and how she really can survive without a Leila (she can't). The unfortunate consequence of Nancy's efforts is that our family is being subjected to horrible Midwestern cuisine, the only cuisine in her cooking repertoire, which means dry meat loaf and ca.s.seroles made from frozen vegetables and soup mix.

"No, thanks," H&A both said. Like I said, smart girls.

"Fernando," Nancy said. "Sid is at the office until this evening. I'm taking Ashley with me as soon as she finishes getting ready. She needs to be picked up from her birthday party at one, and Josh from his sleepover at two. Here are the addresses."

"Si," Fernando said, taking the slip of paper from Nancy. Fernando said, taking the slip of paper from Nancy.

Helen handed my mother a bubble tea. "Mrs. Vogue, will you show me your modeling portfolio before you leave?"

Nancy's face brightened. "Yes! Gosh, I haven't looked at that thing in years. n.o.body in this household has ever shown an interest, if you get what I'm saying." She looked in my direction. "Come with me."

I'm so gonna get Helen back for this.

Fernando got up from the table. "Tell Sugar Pie 'hi,'" I told him. He didn't acknowledge me as he left the kitchen. Their romance may be out of the closet, but he's a very private person and doesn't like that when he has a few hours to spare, we all a.s.sume he'll be at her place. Because he will be.Autumn sat down in the chair Fernando had vacated.

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"Can I use the computer in your family room today to check out some colleges and scholarship programs?" she asked.

"Duh," I said. Autumn lives in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in The Sunset with her dad, who is a poet--that is, broke all the time--and has a c.r.a.p computer.

"How come you didn't come to the party at Aryan's last night?" Autumn asked.

"Why do you think?" We're at two weeks since I told Shrimp about the A-date: Week one he ignored me at school, and week two he simply didn't show up at school. But I knew he would show up at Aryan's party, so no way was I going.

"He wasn't there," she said.

"Oh." THEN WHERE HAS HE BEEN! "How was the party?"

"Your basic beer, booze, and girls-sticking-out-their-b.o.o.bs situation."

"So why did you go? It's not like you would meet somebody you'd be interested in with that surfer crowd." Autumn's Shrimpcapade was the experience that made her decide she was gay for sure, but she's not rushing to jump into a relationship. I envy her that--she has that first time/first love to look forward to, but by the time she finds it she'll have really earned it. The waiting may make the payoff better for her.

"To watch over Helen," Autumn said.

"What does that mean?"

It means: Given enough beer, Helen doesn't exercise the best judgment when it comes to doling out, er, certain s.e.xual favors, and not of a reciprocal nature. No wonder she knows tons of guys but has no boyfriends. What does she 129.

expect? Maybe I need to have another conversation with Helen about the Madonna/wh.o.r.e boy complex. We chicks don't have to like it, but the fact is it's there, and if Helen wants Aryan for real she better wise up. I am all for s.e.xual liberation, but fooling around when it's not an even exchange is just a raw deal, especially if it's with a guy she really likes, someone she wants to know in more than a casual sense. Has Helen learned nothing from my whole Shrimp debacle?

"NO!" we heard Helen shriek from the living room. Autumn and I hustled to the living room, where Helen was poring over a large black notebook/briefcase type thing with pages of photographs inside. Helen saw us and said, "Your mom is the coolest, CC." Helen held up a black-and-white picture of my mother, about my age, standing on a gritty New York street of graffitied tenement buildings. Nancy was skinnier even than she is now, wearing a short black leather dress and dancer tights with cowboy boots, her blond hair moussed high in front, and eye shadow--dark on one side, light on the other--applied in a rectangular shape from the bridge of her nose across her eyes to the edge of her head, like sungla.s.ses. She looked like a freaking Blondie Debbie Harry new wave G.o.ddess.

"Holy s.h.i.t!" I exclaimed.

Helen pulled out a picture from behind the Debbie Harry photo, a strip of photo-booth shots of my mom laughing and kissing some stubble-faced James Dean-looking stud.

"What's this?" Helen asked.

"Yeah!" I said. "Who's the hot guy?"

Nancy looked uncomfortable and surprised, like she'd 130.

forgotten about the photo-booth shots hidden behind the portfolio shots. But she acknowledged, "Brace yourself, CC. Your mother had a life before you were born. That was my first boyfriend. We ran off to New York together as soon as we'd finished high school. We were barely eighteen years old. I was going to be a dancer; he was going to be a photographer."

"What happened to him?" Autumn asked.

Nancy hesitated a moment before answering. Then: "He died about six months after those pictures were taken. Heroin overdose." For heavy words, her tone was light, but her face had gone pale and her eyes blank.

Talk about a downer on the Nancy past-life discovery. If you had quizzed me yesterday, I would have said Nancy, from her privileged perch lording over Pacific Heights, would have no clue what heroin looked like, she wouldn't even know the diff between a needle user and a pipe user.

I can't imagine how devastated I would be if Shrimp died. I don't know how I could go on. How did she?

Some mental time line calculations fired off in my head. She must have met bio-dad Frank right after her first love died. All my life I've been kind of ashamed that I am the product of my mother's relationship with a married man, not because of the so-called illegitimacy aspect (anyone who cares about that is an idiot), but from feeling that my coming into the world was the cause of pain for a lot of other people. But if it were me and I had just lost Shrimp, I probably wouldn't make the best choices about the next person I jumped into bed with either. I might just want someone to take care of me. Maybe that's what Nancy thought she would get from Frank.

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The doorbell rang and we saw Ashley run past us wearing her birthday party velvet frock, white tights on her legs, and Mary Jane patent leather shoes. She shrieked, "I'll get it!" Ash returned to the living room, holding Shrimp's hand.

Nancy had said he would come around, and she was right.

132.

Chapter 18

Ash must have sensed the girl-power-solidarity wave of resentment toward Shrimp coming from me, H&A, and Nancy, because after she saw the expressions on our faces she dropped his hand like he had cooties. sensed the girl-power-solidarity wave of resentment toward Shrimp coming from me, H&A, and Nancy, because after she saw the expressions on our faces she dropped his hand like he had cooties.

Shrimp's dirty blond hair was loose and curled from the rain outside, and he was wearing khaki cargo pants, flip-flops, and a black T-shirt emblazoned in red with a single word : : feminist. feminist.

Since when does Shrimp go for the whole Old Navy look?

"Hey," Shrimp said.

One more hey hey from him and I might turn violent. from him and I might turn violent.

You'd think a fire was raging in the house for how quickly everyone else got outta there. Nancy hustled Ash outside for her b-day party, while Helen and Autumn suddenly had to take a walk over to Union Street to get some moisturizer.

Without speaking, Shrimp and I both headed toward the kitchen, and then we were out on the outdoor deck again, sitting in the same positions as the last time he'd been in the house, oblivious to the light rain splattering our faces. Fernando had moved Shrimp's painting and materials to the garden shed, but the tarp still covered the painting and we still didn't know what it was.

Moisturizer?

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"Where've you been?" I asked him.

"I went up north with Iris and Billy for a week. They had some business up in Eureka, and I needed the fresh air so I went with them. I went camping in the mountains by myself. Needed some time alone."

"What about school?"

"I'm so far behind already, since coming back from PNG. What's it matter? I'm never going to catch up."

"So taking another week off was the answer to that?" Even by my antischool philosophy, his logic was twisted.

"I had stuff to think about."

"What things?"

"What you told me. Having Iris and Billy back home. That I've been eating meat just to aggravate my mother, even though being a vegetarian is a core part of who I am-- or who I thought I was. Being back in school when I'm really not feeling it after a few months of getting to do what I wanted to do.- surf and art and travel. The fact that the last girl I was with, after you, decided she was gay after we got together."

I hadn't thought about it that way. My head might also need a fresh-air breather if that much was swirling around in it at once, but I would never go outdoor camping for head-clearing R&R. I would go to a spa where beautiful bronzed boys wearing togas would bring me poolside fruity drinks with little tiki umbrellas floating inside.

'And what did you figure out?"

Shrimp may be small but he is all man. He didn't avoid my eyes, flinch, lower his voice, or do any of those shallow-guy maneuvers when they know they're busted. His deep blue eyes looked right into mine, and because he is all heart 134.

I knew he meant what he said. 'About most of that stuff, I still don't know. But when it comes to you...I acted like a jerk when you told me. I was wrong to ask if it was Justin's. The question just came from my mouth and then I couldn't take it back. Then I got embarra.s.sed on top of being really surprised and uncomfortable with what you'd told me. So I just up and left. I choked--I admit it. I'm not proud of it, but that's what I did."

"Why were you uncomfortable with what I told you?" I needed to know: because it's a reminder that I've been with another guy who's not him? When I know for a fact he's been with more girls than I have guys.

Shrimp mumbled, "I know I wasn't your first, but it's just weird knowing you were pregnant by your ex."

I pointed to the shed at the rear of the backyard garden. "I can go pull a shovel out of there in case you want to dig any deeper."

Shrimp continued his soul-sucking stare into my eyes. "I didn't say it's right, how I feel. It's my issue to get over, not yours."

That's true.

"Do I look different to you?" I asked.

"What do you mean? Since from when you told me about what happened with Justin, or since I first met you?"

"I don't know. Just generally."

He looked completely different from when I first met him. Was that because I had changed, or he had changed? Aside from being bigger, his face was broader, hardened, less pretty-boy handsome and a lot more interesting, especially with the two little zits on his chin. I realized that the first time I had seen Shrimp, at the nursing home with 135.

Sugar Pie soon after being kicked out of boarding school, I had seen him in a shroud of perfection, wanting to escape the memory of Justin. Now I saw him for who he was: just a guy, albeit a beautiful surfer punk guy.

Shrimp said, "Honestly the thing I like about you most, is you never stop looking different to me. I never know what to expect from you. It's aggravating sometimes, but more times just...s.e.xy."

Alright, ya got me.

I took Shrimp's hand and we both stood up. We had the huge house to ourselves, which rarely happens, considering how many people either live or work here, but I led him away from the house, down the deck stairs leading to the garden. I opened the tool shed and pulled him inside.

"Your painting is here, whenever you're ready to finish it," I said. I shut the door to the shed. It smelled like rusty tools and oil. The only light in the shed came from a burst of sunlight creeping underneath the shed door. Shrimp pressed me against the shed wall and our lips, already wet from the rain, picked right back up with getting to know each other again. The smell of him, the taste of him--it was like my mouth couldn't get enough of him. His fingers did their familiar dance through my long hair, and he pressed into me at the groin as we kissed, indicating to me the feeling was mutual.

And yet. I've never been a girl who was a tease--if I want it, I'm going to take it--but as good as the kissing felt physically, my brain separated itself out at the same time, remembering him dumping me, and how he reacted about Justin. My brain asked, Can I trust him not to hurt me again? Can I trust him not to hurt me again?

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I pulled back from him, breathing hard. My hormones desperately tried telling my brain to back the f.u.c.k off, but in an unprecedented underdog victory, my brain prevailed. "Maybe you were right," I whispered. "Maybe we should just be friends for now."

137.

Chapter 19

War has broken out at the house again. Seems like old times! out at the house again. Seems like old times!

Frank Commune Day is ruined. In our family we celebrate the sacred day of December 12, the birthday of Frank Sinatra, Sid and Nancy's mutual hero (aside from the real Cyd Charisse, natch). Nancy was raised Lutheran and Sid-dad Jewish, and neither of them cares about religious education or G.o.d holidays, so December 12 is all-important at our house.

Our ritual begins at breakfast, when Sid-dad translates the newspaper for us as Frank News. For example: "Kids, Frank Weather today is foggy and overcast till late morning, with the sun expected to burn off the fog around noontime, highs expected to be in the midsixties. In Frank Sports, the Niners have blown another shot at the NFC playoffs; no wild card slots for them this year. Frank Traffic--construction on the 101 means longer than usual delays at the Golden Gate Bridge on the Marin side." Round-the-clock Frank tunes play from every stereo in our house--the good stuff, with Count Basie and Nelson Riddle, not that cheesy "Start spreading da news" c.r.a.p--and at night we exchange gifts after a huge dinner catered by Sid-dad's fave Italian restaurant in North Beach. The Frank celebration usually ends with Frank movie time in the family room. Guys and Bolls Guys and Bolls and and On the Town On the Town are Josh and Ash's favorites, but if the day are Josh and Ash's favorites, but if the day 138.

has left them too hyper, then we get to watch my fave, The Manchurian Candidate, The Manchurian Candidate, because then they'll be so bored they'll fall right asleep and Nancy will be so creeped out she'll fail to notice that I've eaten the whole tray of cannolis myself. because then they'll be so bored they'll fall right asleep and Nancy will be so creeped out she'll fail to notice that I've eaten the whole tray of cannolis myself.

I was particularly looking forward to this year's Frank Commune Day, because last year I had just come back home after being expelled from boarding school and there was so much tension in the house we barely bothered to celebrate. We ate Frank dinner, and then Nancy and I got into a fight over a certain postexpulsion shoplifting incident, door slams, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, the usual yadda yadda yadda. The two celebrations before that I was exiled to New England and didn't get to partake of the December 12th ritual in Pacific Heights. the usual yadda yadda yadda. The two celebrations before that I was exiled to New England and didn't get to partake of the December 12th ritual in Pacific Heights.

So this December 12th I was fully ready to par-tay. I woke up that morning eager to get downstairs for breakfast to hear Frank News, as Sid-dad had promised he would branch out into Frank Astrology this year. Nancy stood at the doorway to my room as I was getting dressed. She said, "I'm going to Nordstrom this morning while you all are at school. Do you need me to buy you a heavy winter coat? You'll need one for Minnesota. I've booked us to leave Christmas Eve morning and return a couple days after New Year's. Happy Frank Birthday."

"Happy Frank Birthday to you, too," I said. Some people might celebrate Frank Commune Day by wearing hipster tees picturing fedora-wearing Ol' Blue Eyes, but I chose to celebrate him another way: by dressing like his one true love, Ava Gardner. My Frank tribute ensemble included a tight-waisted, black vintage A-line fifties skirt falling to 139.