The Makedown Page 11

  Who knew Ben Reynolds was such a popular name? There are nine thousand Ben Reynoldses in the United States alone. I remain undeterred; a few hours of research can’t stop me. In Boston, Massachusetts, a cute nine-year-old named Ben Reynolds was recently appointed captain of his soccer team. Ben Reynolds of Hampstead, North Dakota, is a sad man with a face of broken capillaries. Lay off the drink, Ben. Moving on, I find a link to a Brown University student on the crew team. Brown University’s newspaper includes a photo of my Ben and his crew team after rowing their way to victory. He is shirtless again. Modesty is not one of Ben’s defining characteristics. Not that I am complaining; his body is porn for me. I could stare all day, mesmerized by each indentation.

  Logic crushes my lust abruptly. I will never see him again. Although that may be a good thing, since I could easily descend into inappropriate licking. That’s right; I want to lick his chest. I am gross. I must look away. No more smut!

  The phone rings, saving me from my impure thoughts.

  “Hello?”

  “Mingster’s preggers,” Barney announces casually.

  “Mother told me. How come Dad didn’t call us?”

  “He called me last week, asked to meet at the food court.”

  “Why didn’t he call me?”

  “He wanted me to tell you since we’re so close.”

  There is a pause, a very long pause. I decide to let this one go.

  “And you waited a week to call me?”

  “It takes nine months to have a baby. What’s five days?”

  “Okay, Barney,” I mutter. “How do you feel about the baby?”

  “I’m holding off on forming an opinion until the thing can talk. Most likely won’t have a verdict for at least two years.”

  Long pause.

  “I think Mother is heading for a breakdown.”

  “Most accurate, but I can’t discuss now. Mother and I have reservations at Le Jardin d’Olive.”

  “You looked up how to say that on the Internet, didn’t you.”

  “ 10-4, Anna.” Click.

  Barney is clearly my parents’ child. I recognize his inability to connect emotionally as a family trait. As kids, Barney and I used to play the most mundane of imaginary professions. While other children played doctor, lawyer, or vague rich person, we had no such aspirations and were content to play The Wherehouse (the Blockbuster of its time) or post office. We spent hours pretending to check out videos or deliver mail to each other. The mail consisted of old birthday cards from our grandparents and junk mail our parents threw away. In the case of videos, since we didn’t actually own any VHS tapes, we used books. It wasn’t conscious, but in retrospect, I recognize a desire to keep our expectations manageable. In the Norton house, no one dared dream big for fear that we would bottom out at below average. Well, at least I’ve hit my mark.

  I decide to call Janice to fill her in on the rest of the evening’s events and, right after I hang up, the phone rings again. I ignore it and crash onto my bed. I don’t have the energy to listen to the details of Mother and Barney’s meal at Olive Garden.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Brushing my teeth is especially important after dreaming that they crumbled to dust upon biting into an apple. I am embarrassed by how often I fall asleep without brushing. This is a by-product of never sharing a bed with anyone. It’s easy to let the plaque and halitosis build up when alone. Who cares if my breath stinks? It’s not as if anyone kisses me goodnight. To compensate, in the morning I perform an exceedingly thorough job of brushing and flossing.

  This morning I thrust my toothbrush forcefully along the ridges of my tongue. While gagging myself, I punch in my voicemail password, prepared to learn how many breadsticks Barney hid in Mother’s purse.

  “Anna, it’s Ben Reynolds.”

  “Holy,” I say, accidentally releasing frothy toothpaste water from my mouth. “He called!”

  “Are you free for dinner tomorrow? It’s last minute, but I thought I would check. Let me know.”

  What is going on? I think with a mouth full of toothpaste. Unable to brush and concentrate on the events at hand, I spit my foamy liquid into an old coffee cup. Should I call Janice to get her advice? Should I erase the message? I can’t. I want to believe in him again. I shouldn’t, but I do. I want to believe that I did see something in him the first time I spotted him across the bar. Dialing Ben, my heartbeat echoes in my eardrum.

  “Hello?”

  “Ben, it’s Anna.”

  There is a long pause.

  “Um, Anna Norton.”

  There is another pause.

  “You called me last night.”

  Total radio silence.

  “Sorry, I just got this phone and I keep muting myself by accident.”

  “Oh, how funny,” I say maniacally. “Gee, that is really, really . . . funny.”

  “How are you?”

  “Um, I would say I’m . . . good.” Okay, keep it short. I need to wrap this up as soon as possible to decrease my odds of humiliation. “I’m running out to meet friends, but I would love to grab dinner tonight.”

  “I thought I would cook for you.”

  Silence. Why does he want to cook for me? Is he embarrassed to take me out in public?

  “It was pretty loud the other night, so we didn’t really get a chance to talk.”

  “Oh, of course,” I say, thinking what a load of crap. Our lack of conversation had very little to do with the band.

  “How about 7:30 at my place?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Sounds like a plan” is such a nerdy response. It is something Barney would say. I must learn to speak like a grown woman before tonight. I hang up and immediately dial Janice.

  “Janice, it’s Anna,” I say in a voice so calm it’s almost catatonic.

  “What happened? What’s the matter?”

  I’m silent not because I want to torture Janice but because I am tongue-tied with shock. “Is it your mother? Did she hurt your father? Or the Chinese girlfriend who’s not really Chinese? I had a feeling this was coming. She didn’t sound right in the head.”

  “Mother is still working up to physical violence. This is about Ben.”

  “Oh, no! You didn’t do anything violent, did you?”

  “He called.”

  “He called?” Janice repeats. This is clearly not an outcome she had prepared for.

  “And asked me to dinner . . . at his apartment.”

  “Will you be offended if I say I am surprised?”

  “Not at all,” I respond truthfully.

  “I thought that peck on the lips may have been a ‘sorry I hurt your feelings but I am a good-looking asshole’ kiss. I love that I am wrong. The man is insanely sexy!”

  “I know. That’s what makes me so nervous. Ben is the first handsome man I’ve ever had dinner with— ever— in my whole life, including friends and relatives.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll do a dry run at my place. I’ll be Ben. I do great impressions.”

  “That would be helpful but, see, the date is tonight.”

  “What? Did he get a last-minute cancellation?”

  “Janice,” I yelp in frustration.

  “Sorry. Let me think. The best advice I can give you is to look him in the eye and try not to talk much. The less you say, the less you’ll have to regret tomorrow.”

  Having digested Janice’s advice, I indulge my fantasies of the impossible. Could Ben actually want to be with me?

  Hello Fatty,

  Don’t be a slut. Sex on the second date does not a couple make.

  —Anna

  Regardless of what isn’t happening in my pants, it’s vital for my mental state that my body be properly maintained. I don’t care if all the hard work stays hidden beneath my clothes.

  Tonight’s ensemble consists of a simple low-cut black cardigan over a black tank with pencil jeans and ballet flats. I toyed with putting my hair up but decided having it “ flip-ready” would be bette
r. As a child in the 1990s, I envied popular girls from across the room as they flipped their hair from side to side. This unfortunately etched hair flipping onto my psyche as a sign of cool.

  As I try to concentrate on my makeup application, noting with pleasure the smoothness of the skin beneath my custom-blended foundation, a nagging voice remains in the back of my mind.

  Hello Fatty,

  You are making a terrible mistake. The man is going to use you like a Kleenex, then toss you in the gutter. Whatever odd nerd fetish he has will inevitably pass. Then what? A long, slow dive off a high-rise in Midtown? Or you will remain an emotional wreck who spends the next forty years talking about the man who broke her heart on the second date. Good luck with all your endeavors.

  —Anna

  Even with knowledge of a possibly negative outcome, I simply cannot say no to Ben.

  I exit the L train at Sixth Avenue and walk down to Spring Street in an effort to calm my nerves. By the time I ascend the stairs to Ben’s building, I am slightly less anxious. I perform a quick breath test and armpit sniff before heading toward Ben’s door. Funky nervous-girl breath and malodorous pits can derail even the greatest of dates. Luckily, I pass both tests. Standing in front of Ben’s door, I put on an exaggerated smile and raise my hand to knock. Before I can make contact, the door flies open.

  “I thought I heard you out here,” Ben says with a warm smile.

  “You must have 20/20 hearing or whatever the equivalent is,” I say meekly.

  “Something like that.”

  He kisses my cheek politely, making me wonder if this is just a friend thing. Is he trying to apologize for the other night? Confusion and teenage hormones overwhelm my body as I enter his apartment.

  “Can I get you a glass of wine?”

  “Yes, please,” I say as if I were an English child visiting her grandmother.

  I follow Ben to the kitchen, where he reaches for wineglasses. I suck in my breath as his shirt rides up, exposing the crevice that separates his abdomen and legs. I make a mental note to find the technical term for this area so I can accurately refer to it while speaking with Janice.

  “Red or white?”

  “White, please.”

  “So what did you do with your friends?”

  I forgot about my outing with friends. What would a normal girl do with her girlfriends? “We did some . . . shopping and . . . grabbed a bite. Pretty regular girlfriend stuff.”

  “What did you buy?”

  “Um, you know . . . things . . . like makeup. Girls love makeup, or so I’ve heard. No, I mean, I haven’t heard, I know. Girls love makeup . . . and we are no exception,” I babble.

  “What are their names?”

  “Who?”

  “Your friends?”

  “Um, well, you know Janice, and the other two are . . . Donny and Marie.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why? Do you know them?” I ask him, panicked.

  “Donny and Marie? The brother and sister with the variety act?”

  Oh my God! No wonder that rolled right off my tongue. Donny and Marie! Where the hell did that come from— I never even watched their show!

  “I always forget about them. These are two random, unrelated women. Donny is actually a nickname for Donna.”

  Silence. Great, here we go again. Another weird freaking evening of stilted conversation.

  “You know, about the other night,” Ben says solemnly, “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  Here we go, the “sorry I kissed you, let’s be friends” speech. He brought me all the way over here to ease his conscience over some nerd he pity-kissed.

  “I should have asked you first. I got a little carried away.”

  Is he serious? I don’t have a clue how to read him. Where is the damn periodic table of male/female conversation? I missed it in all my years of studying. I’ve never been so profoundly confused.

  “Don’t be silly, it was . . . lovely,” I say with slight embarrassment.

  “Yeah, it was,” Ben agrees sweetly before pulling my hand toward the living room. There are appetizers on the table. I would forgive him grand theft auto, burglary, or a variety of other misdemeanors for being considerate enough to put out olives and cheese.

  “I thought a lot about what you said, about my mother making my father want to be a better man . . . inspiring him to want more for himself, from his life.”

  “You’re blessed to be the product of that kind of love. Most people aren’t inspired when they listen to their parents discuss their relationships. They’re depressed, or at least I am.”

  “But that’s the thing. I’ve never really been inspired by their relationship. In fact, I’ve hardly ever thought about it. It wasn’t until you said that the other night that I started thinking about it.”

  Ben presents dinner on his modern table, clearly illustrating how he maintains his physique. The meal is a nutritionist’s wet dream: tofu, steamed vegetables, and brown rice. I thought people only ate like this at ashrams and fat camps. I hide my shock so Ben will think I also eat healthy.

  “I hope you like tofu.”

  “I love tofu! I eat tofu pretty much any time someone else would eat meat. I actually sent that to the board of tofu to use as a slogan— Eat tofu when others eat meat!”

  The board of tofu? I have completely lost my mind.

  Ben smiles at me as I stand.

  “I’m going to wash my hands before I eat . . . the tofu.”

  The tofu? I’ve forgotten how to speak English properly.

  Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I am face to face with the woman whom Ben Reynolds has cooked dinner for. How the hell did I get here?

  I lean over to turn off the faucets when something in the wastebasket catches my eye. It’s a crumpled photograph. I grab it and unfold it quickly. It’s her— the blonde from the Stanton Social. She’s even more beautiful than I remember. Apparently, curiosity killed not only the cat but the nerd. Looking at this woman’s features reminds me what a second-class citizen I am in relation to Ben. The only good news is that if her picture is in the trash, they’re probably over.

  I return to the table with a forced smile, and Ben picks up right where we left off— tofu.

  “How long have you been a vegetarian?”

  “It’s been a while. I can’t even remember. You?”

  This isn’t technically a lie, since I don’t remember if I last ate bacon the day before I met Ben or two days prior.

  “My parents are strict vegetarians, so I was raised with it. I had a rebellious period in my teens. Big Macs and Whoppers. The whole fast food thing. Then we took a family vacation to a slaughterhouse, and that put an end to it,” Ben says morosely. “Now my mom asks all the girls I date if they’re vegetarians. I think she wants to make sure I’m not tempted off the path of the righteous.”

  “That’s okay,” I say, feeling oddly protective of Ben’s mother.

  “And if they say no, she describes a chicken’s last hours of life in excruciating detail. She even has pictures. Gela, my ex, barfed right at the table.”

  Anna destroys Gela in my imaginary name contest.

  “I don’t think she will ever show her face at Cipriani again,” Ben says seriously.

  Think of your father naked, I tell myself. Don’t laugh. He’s being serious. Unfortunately, nothing can stop the roar of laughter within me. I explode, giggling hysterically the way kids do when teachers tell them to stop. The more I try to stop, the more I laugh.

  “I guess it is kind of funny,” Ben says with a laugh.

  I finally manage to get myself under control, wiping away the tears from my eyes. “Sorry . . . I . . . um . . . I’m just happy I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Me, too.”

  Our eyes lock. Am I in a Hallmark movie? This is re- markable. Well, except for the mention of his ex-girlfriend Gela.

  “That story really doesn’t make my family sound too normal,” Ben says with a hint of self-
consciousness.

  “Oh, please! My family belongs under a circus tent compared to yours. My older brother, Barney, is a chronic masturbator who lives at home with Mother. He claims to have some sort of Internet job, but I’ve yet to see a pay stub or any proof whatsoever. Mother doesn’t mind because she’s retired and now spends all her free time shopping off QVC or bad-mouthing my father and his girlfriend, Ming, who used to be his secretary until he left Mother for her. Oh, and now Ming’s having his baby, and Mother has named it Bastard Won Ton.”

  “Bastard is a hard name to pull off,” Ben muses.

  “I don’t know. Bastard Won Ton Norton has a certain ring to it,” I reply.

  He places his hand on mine and laughs. His hand electrifies my body, sending a tingling sensation to my feet.

  “Let’s have coffee in the living room.”

  My legs wobble, but I manage to place one foot in front of the other, keeping my eyes firmly trained on Ben’s back. I lower myself onto the cream-colored, modern, and unquestionably expensive couch. It fits Ben’s sophisticated image, but this isn’t the hemp couch I expect from a vegetarian. Having grown up in Ohio, I imagine vegetarians as hippies with tie-dyed shirts, VW buses, and carob chip cookies. I never dreamed they could come in the package of a wealthy, stylish New York lawyer.

  Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark” plays in the background. Up until this moment, I never paid much notice to Springsteen. Now his voice will be a quintessential reminder of the dawn of happiness in my life.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to call anyone a bastard again. Not without thinking of some cute little baby, and that kind of ruins the whole thing.”

  Ben delicately puts his coffee cup down on the table, then runs to the stereo. The music reverberates off every piece of furniture in the apartment.

  “Um, are your neighbors . . . ,” I mumble to myself.

  Ben, oblivious to my internal debate on noise control, rocks out on air guitar. I am both pleased and horrified to note that he looks silly, even ridiculous. After all, he is a grown man in a very fashionable apartment playing air guitar as if it were his parents’ garage in 1986.