Dixieland Sushi Page 12

  I went with the more direct approach, deciding now was no time to be timid. I sealed the little envelope and the next morning looked for an opportunity to deliver it to Kevin Peterson’s bag.

  Unfortunately, Kevin Peterson’s bag was already full to bursting with notes from Strawberry Shortcake (“You’re Sweeter Than Strawberries!”) and Cabbage Patch Kids (“We’re a Match Made in the Cabbage Patch”). It looked like some of the girls in the class may have put in more than one. Apparently they had the same idea I did. Still, I found room and stuffed my envelope down one side of the bag and hoped for the best.

  After I’d delivered the valentine, I started to panic. Was it too much? Was I being too forward? I considered digging my valentine out of Kevin Peterson’s bag, but then he wouldn’t get one from me at all and, even worse, I’d look like I was trying to steal from his pile. No, what was done was done.

  I sat at my desk, butterflies in my stomach, too nervous to eat the Valentine’s Day cookies that Kevin Peterson’s mom brought to class. I watched our teacher, Miss Gordon, pass out our respective Valentine’s Day bags. She took forever to get around the room. It didn’t help that she was pushing seventy.

  Kevin Peterson got his bag first, and he looked like a rock star sorting through fan mail. I half expected to see a few training bras stuffed in his sack, but when he turned over the paper bag, only envelopes flew out. Envelopes and the occasional messaged lollypop.

  I still did not have my bag, so I watched as Kevin Peterson casually went about opening cards. I saw him open two Bugs Bunnies and a Strawberry Shortcake, and then came what looked like mine.

  Yes, there was Garfield, orange hand-paws extended, offering a big red heart. Kevin Peterson read it and put it down. I watched as he opened the next Valentine, and again—there was Garfield, hands extended, asking, “Will you be mine?”

  I watched as Kevin Peterson opened five straight identical valentines. The valentine I had so carefully chosen had been the exact same one chosen by four other girls in class.

  Miss Gordon finally got to my desk, where she plunked down my valentine bag. There was still hope that all was not lost. Kevin Peterson could have given me a valentine. Hastily, I began ripping through my envelopes.

  The one I longed for—hoped for—was the last one I opened, addressed simply “from KP.” I ripped open the tiny envelope, and pulled out the tiny paper card. It was a Transformers theme. It had Optimus Prime, the transforming red semi truck on it and below the picture, typed in big block letters, was “You’re Optimal!” Kevin Peterson had signed it simply with his first name. No hearts, no declaration of love. I read and reread it.

  What did that mean? Was he trying to tell me I was his soul mate, or was he trying to tell me he barely even knew who I was? “You’re Optimal.” It sounded like something I’d read on a poster in the dentist’s office. My stomach hurt and my mouth went dry, like I’d eaten too many of those message candy hearts.

  And as I watched, Kevin Peterson swept most of his valentines—even his Garfield ones—into the trash bag Miss Gordon offered. My valentine, along with the hope of making Kevin Peterson mine, was soon buried under crumpled napkins and sticky Valentine’s Day cupcake wrappers.

  —Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid III

  It’s okay to lose to opponent. Must not lose to fear.

  Iwake up in the heart-shaped bed, my head throbbing and my mouth tasting like glue, with Riley’s arm around me. I am wearing Riley’s Smiths shirt and nothing else. I take a second to soak in the cozy warmth of Riley’s body next to mine. Then I remember the night before.

  I sit up in bed. Well, more like spring up in a panic. Oh.

  Dear. God.

  I love you. I dropped the L-bomb and then passed out. This is what happens when I drink too much. I start playing free and loose with my emotions. I’m not the sort of person who EVER says I love you, at least not first, and certainly not two seconds after rolling off a guy who has said nothing about his own feelings.

  I don’t have to read Cosmo to know that the fastest way to get a guy out the door is to use an indiscreet L-bomb. I might as well have asked him to pick out china patterns.

  The key thing here, I think, is not to panic. Jason, who has his own share of one-night-stand stories—including the time when he locked himself out of a guy’s apartment when he mistook the front door for the bathroom door—always says not to panic. He, after all, found himself in the hall naked, and he had no idea what the guy’s last name was.

  “If you act as if you’re supposed to be where you are, then you are supposed to be there,” Jason says of how he marched into the lobby of the apartment building naked and asked the doorman to ring apartment 21B.

  Riley shifts next to me. He’ll be awake soon. What was I thinking? First, jumping into bed with a guy who is only “on break” from his girlfriend, and then saying, “I Love You,” the three most terrifying words in the English language to the male species next to “I am pregnant.”

  Don’t panic, I think. Slowly, cautiously, I extricate myself from Riley’s arm. Maybe, I think, he didn’t hear me. That’s a distinct possibility. He didn’t shout “Dear GOD!” when I said it, so maybe, he didn’t hear me. In fact, what did he say? I can’t remember.

  Riley groans and comes awake, peering at me through one open eye. “Bollocks. I feel like shite,” he says, grabbing his forehead. “I need coffee. You?”

  Riley and I have breakfast in total silence, since I am having problems looking him in the face. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m too embarrassed about the L-bomb, or if it’s because Riley is wearing a neon yellow rugby jersey and my hangover makes it difficult to stare too long at bright colors.

  My phone starts beeping. It’s trying to tell me I have new voice mail. I don’t bother to check them. The very thought of hearing Michelle’s voice makes my head feel it’s going to explode.

  “Your blasted phone is chirping.”

  “I know,” I groan.

  We fall into a silence, both staring at our coffee cups. I realize we’re in that delicate part of a new relationship. It’s like the first five minutes after takeoff in an airplane. Statistically, most plane crashes happen shortly after takeoff. If you last through the first part, chances are you’re going to make it to your destination. Now is the time you start to think: Is this going to be a relationship, or are we going to make an emergency landing in a cornfield? You just don’t know.

  “Are you going to wear those sunglasses through the whole meal?” Riley asks me. He’s referring to the gold plastic Elvis sunglasses that I picked up from our karaoke adventure. They’re the only sunglasses I could find in the hotel room, and since my head is throbbing and I feel like my pupils can no longer dilate by themselves, I figured there are worse things than wearing Elvis sunglasses in Memphis during Elvis Week.

  “I’m just trying to fit in,” I say.

  The breakfast diner is full of Elvis impersonators, even though it is not yet eleven. The singles counter is the Rainbow Coalition of Elvis.

  “I appreciate your newfound affection for the King,” Riley says. “But I can’t talk to you seriously when you look like that.”

  I stroke one of the fake muttonchops hanging from the glasses. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Stop that! You’re supposed to be the stoic, conservative one. I’m supposed to be the wild and crazy one.”

  “That sounds like an insult.”

  “I’m just saying you’re the one who’s petrified of getting up in front of people on camera or anywhere else, and suddenly you’re getting drunk, doing karaoke, and wearing Elvis glasses in public. It’s a lot to process at once. Not to mention that the fake facial hair is a bit disconcerting.”

  “What? You don’t like a woman with muttonchops?” That’s right, I think. Be Light. Airy. Pretend that you did not just jump into bed with him last night, declare your love, and then pass out like a college coed. I’ll be just like Grandpa Frank, who never acknowledged anything awkw
ard, including the time he opened the bathroom door when I was eleven only to find me trying to learn to operate his beard trimmer on my new underarm hair growth.

  “You look a little too much like the King for my own lik-ing,” Riley says.

  “Fine,” I say, taking off the glasses. I squint like a mole seeing sunlight for the first time. “Are you happy now?”

  Riley makes a face. “You look terrible.”

  “I told you so,” I say, putting the glasses back on.

  * * *

  I can’t seem to shake the blanket of shame that’s covered me since I woke up that morning. I wonder if Riley can sense it. I feel like I’ve just woken up after a night of tequila shots to discover that I’ll be featured in one of the “private hotel scenes” in a Girls Gone Wild video. Why did I say “love”? Why? Why? WHY?

  I wonder if this is what happens in your late twenties. You stop feeling guilty about sex and you start worrying about emotional indiscretions.

  “I think we should talk,” Riley says next.

  This conversation is heading dangerously close to that conversation I’d been dreading the moment I met Riley. The one that starts out with “You’re a great girl … but I have a girlfriend, and I’m in love,” and blah, blah, blah … Except that this time it’ll be “You’re a great girl, but I’m on the re-bound,” and blah blah blah or even worse, “You’re a great girl, but it turns out that break with Tiffany is over.” Blah. Blah. The end.

  This is what you call relationship turbulence. I can almost hear the ding as the fasten seat belt sign comes on just as there’s a loud clanking sound over by the right wing.

  “Look, I’m not sure what happened exactly,” I say, cutting him off at the pass.

  “You were so turned on by the thought of shagging me for a second time that you fell asleep,” Riley says.

  Clank. Clank. Clank. Our flight has just lost the right engine somewhere over O’Hare International Airport and the plane lurches dangerously to the left. Put your tray tables in the lock-and-stowed position.

  “I was drunk!” I exclaim. “I didn’t fall asleep. I passed out. There is a small but important difference.”

  “You snore, by the way,” Riley tells me.

  I’m glad I’m wearing the muttonchops, because my face turns bright red.

  “I do not snore.”

  “Like a bloody chainsaw. You kept me up half the night.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have given me so many martinis.”

  “You were the one screaming for another one. Right after you started the Elvis conga line last night.”

  Assume crash position, I think.

  “Forget last night,” I say. Yes, this is my only option. I have to jump in, end things first, and then walk away with whatever pride I have left. “I just want you to know that I don’t expect anything from you. It was a crazy night, okay? It was all some crazy mistake that we can both chalk up to Elvis Week.”

  Okay. Now, this is some way to make up for the L-bomb. I’m telling him it’s a one-night stand. Nice, I think. This is what’s called parachuting out of a plummeting 747.

  But is this what I mean? I’m not so sure. Am I in love with Riley? It’s a thought I’ve not fully considered before.

  “Oh,” Riley says. He looks disappointed. Sad, even. “Right. If that’s how you feel.”

  The pang of disappointment I feel at hearing him agree with me so easily makes me think that I’ve made a terrible mistake. Maybe it was something more than a postcoital brain malfunction. I think I do have feelings for him—strong ones that are shouting at me to quit being such an idiot and say something before it’s too late.

  “You’re right. It’s probably best this way,” he says, but he doesn’t look at me.

  And in that moment, I want to say something. To take back the one-night stand provision. To be honest about my feelings. But I can’t seem to form the right words. And before I have a chance to try, my cell phone lights up and starts playing the Dixie Chicks again. I know without answering that it’s probably Michelle.

  “You’d better get that,” Riley says. “I’ll go pay the bill.”

  By the time I finish my phone call with Michelle, who is upset because she claims another reporter stole her investigative story about reckless pizza delivery drivers, Riley has gotten us a cab to take us to the mechanic’s. And whatever chance I had to share feelings with him has passed.

  He’s got on the Elvis sunglasses and he’s back to his goofy, nonserious self. “Look on the upside,” Riley says. “A day that starts with checking out of Heartbreak Hotel has got to be a good one.”

  “What do you mean you can’t fix my car?” I ask the stoned mechanic, who is staring intently at a spot somewhere above my left ear.

  “You are really wigging me out,” the stoned mechanic says.

  “No. You are really wigging me out. I need my car.”

  I am hungover and in no mood to deal with another setback.

  “Dude,” he says, putting up his hands. “I’m just the messenger, all right? One or two days, tops, I’ll have it fixed.”

  At this point, the only way to feasibly make the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night is to fly. I know it, and Riley knows it.

  “I can’t do it,” I say, as we stand before the automatic sliding glass doors of the Memphis airport.

  “Of course you can,” Riley says, taking me by the elbow and guiding me into the air conditioning.

  “You don’t understand. I nearly threw up the last time I got on a plane.”

  “Well, you’re in luck then, because I hear they have air sick bags right on board.”

  “Riley, that isn’t funny.”

  “You know, you spend so much time telling me that I’m not funny that I’m beginning to think you actually do think I’m funny.”

  “Look, let’s not do this,” I say, digging in my heels a little before we get to the ticket counter. “I mean, I’ve made a good faith effort to get to this wedding. It’s not my fault my car broke down. I’ve done everything I could to get there.”

  Riley keeps pulling me. “Bollocks. You haven’t done every-thing.”

  “You’re going to make me do this, aren’t you?”

  Riley nods. “It’s for your own good. Besides, it’ll be two hours that Michelle can’t call you—doesn’t that sound nice?”

  On the plane, I sit with my eyes squeezed shut trying to visualize a calm and soothing place, like my sofa at my apartment during a marathon weekend of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

  There’s a horrifying clatter against the side of the plane, and my eyes fly open.

  “What was that?” I cry.

  “The luggage,” Riley says, pointing outside the small circular window to my right. “We haven’t taken off yet, you know. They’re just loading the luggage.”

  “Oh.” I relax a bit.

  “You really weren’t kidding, were you?” Riley asks me. “You really are scared of flying.”

  “Why would I lie about something like that? Of course I am.” It’s times like these I wish I were Catholic and carried around a rosary.

  I open the little side window shade and then shut it again. There’s an announcement over the PA from a disembodied voice that tells us to stow our luggage and prepare for takeoff. I double- and triple-check my seat belt. I let out a long breath and try to remember the calming techniques I once read about that are useful in staving off a panic attack. Was taking off your shoes and pushing your toes in the carpet one of them? Or was that only in Die Hard?

  “Here I thought you just wanted to get me away for a romantic road trip,” Riley says.

  I turn to look at Riley. I can’t believe he’s said that.

  “What in the world are you talking about?” I demand.

  “Well, it’s clear to anyone with eyes you fancy me.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say, but my face is turning bright red.

  “Last night you were the one who kissed me first if I recall.”

>   “I was drunk. I would’ve kissed a seal.” Please, I think. Please don’t let him mention my L-bomb.

  “As much as it pains me to hear that, I have to tell you that I’ve noticed you’ve been flirting with me for weeks,” Riley says.

  Now, I’m really starting to get angry. Just because this may be true doesn’t mean he should point it out. “Look, I’m sure some women like the whole ‘I’m related to an earl’ come-on line, but I for one don’t. Besides, you were flirting with me, too.”

  “I was just being polite,” Riley says. “We royals are taught to be appreciative of adulation.”

  It occurs to me suddenly that we’re moving, more than moving, booking it down the runway. We’re about to take off.

  “And, I don’t think I need to remind you,” Riley says, “but just in case, you were the one who told me you loved me last night. Which I could have predicted, since no woman can resist my karaoke skills.”

  My mouth drops open. “I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying. And besides, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  “I think it does matter.”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “You can try to take it back if you like, but you said it and we both know you said it.”

  “Your ego is completely out of control.”

  “I think it’s sweet,” Riley says, and then he starts to sing the Beatles’ “All you need is love…. Love, love, love …”

  “Stop that,” I say, looking around the plane. “People are starting to stare.”

  “Still worried about what everybody thinks?” Riley asks me, shaking his head. If possible, he starts singing louder. “There’s nothing you can sing that can’t be sung … There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done …”

  “SHH.”

  “But you can learn to be you in time … it’s easy …” He winks at an elderly woman from across the aisle who sends him a puzzled look. “All you need is love …”

  “I am going to call the flight attendant.”

  “All you need is love …”

  “I’m seriously never going to speak to you again.”

  “All you need is love, love. Love is all you need.”