Dixieland Sushi Page 15

  “You could always save the toilet paper you use and use it over again,” I suggest.

  “Don’t be gross,” Kimberly says. “Double ply!” she wails, looking at the roll of toilet paper in her hand. “This one roll of toilet paper could have housed a whole family of tree monkeys in the rain forest.”

  Just then, a tall, handsome Asian man walks into the room. “I can go get Second Generation bathroom tissue if you need it,” he says. This, I think, must be Matt Chang.

  “Don’t bother. They don’t sell it for another four counties, at least,” Kimberly says.

  “I don’t mind, really,” he says. He looks sincere. Poor Matt, I think. He’s probably going to be yet another one of Kimberly’s admirers too eager to please. Kimberly never falls for men who show her too much attention.

  “Hi, I’m Matt Chang,” he says, extending his hand to me. “You must be Jen. Kimberly’s told me so much about you.”

  “Uh, nice to meet you,” I say, taking his hand.

  Riley appears at the stairs then, his dark hair ruffled, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans, looking every bit like his nickname, The Colins. Even though we’re not really dating, I find myself dreading introducing him to Kimberly. She is always supercritical of men. She’s the first one to seize upon a flaw and not let it go. When I introduced her to my prom date, she told me she thought his nose was too big.

  “Morning, luv,” he says, coming near me and giving me a peck on the cheek. I’m surprisingly glad for that.

  “This is my sister, Kimberly.” I watch as she takes in Riley, assessing.

  “Nice to meet you,” Riley says, shaking her hand.

  “Ditto,” Kimberly says. Riley yawns and then turns to me.

  “And this is her …” I trail off, wondering if “boyfriend” is the correct term here. Chances are the very word would throw Kimberly into a feminist fit. “Uh … friend, Matt Chang.”

  “Good to meet you,” Riley says. He stretches and adds, “I hate to be a pest, but is there only one loo in the house? I believe the upstairs one is in use.”

  “Jen didn’t tell me you were from England,” Kimberly says.

  “She probably didn’t want you to think I had bad teeth,” Riley jokes. “Now, about the loo?”

  “It’s over there, by the kitchen,” I say.

  “Thanks,” he tells me and squeezes my shoulders.

  When he’s out of earshot, Kimberly grabs my elbow. I expect her to tell me that I shouldn’t be dating a British guy because Brits were responsible for the subjugation of the population of India, as well as half the globe at the height of the British Empire. Instead, she says, “Not bad.” This is as close as Kimberly gets to giving her approval.

  “You think so?” I say, not sure.

  “If he’s a pity date, I’d like to see one of your real dates.”

  I shrug.

  “JEEN! KIIIMBERLY,” shouts Lucy from the top of the stairs. She looks down at us. “Good Lord. Why aren’t y’all dressed? We’re late for our appointment at Lulu’s Bridal Wear.”

  “What about the boys?” I ask her, referring to Riley and Matt.

  “Bubba is taking them fishing,” she says. “Now come on. We’re LATE.”

  Lulu’s Bridal Wear is the only bridal shop in Dixieland. It’s been on the square since the fifties, and its mannequins, with their fifties style coifs and slightly yellowed hues, are still in the windows.

  “Well, I don’t believe my eyes. Is that Jen Nakamura Taylor?” cries the woman behind the counter at Lulu’s, Miss Maggie Lane, who bears a frightening resemblance to Minnie Pearl. She lacks only a straw hat with the price tag still on.

  “How are you, Maggie?” I ask her.

  “Jen, I’ll be damned, but you sound like a Yankee,” she says.

  In the South, anyone failing to use the word “ya’ll” and to stretch out their vowels is automatically labeled a foreigner.

  Like Kimberly, I’ve spent years trying to shed my accent, a deliberate decision to leave behind my Dixieland roots. When people in other places tell me I don’t sound like I’m from the South, I take that as a compliment.

  “And is that … Kimberly?” Maggie asks, tentative. Kimberly’s nose ring, her red Kabbalah bracelet, and her tattoo of Buddha above her left ankle might go unnoticed in California. But in Dixieland, she might as well be traveling with the circus.

  Maggie is temporarily speechless. “Good to see you again, darling,” she finally says.

  “You first,” Vivien tells me, handing me my bridesmaids’ dress and sending me back to the dressing room.

  “Why me?” I whine.

  “Because I said so.”

  Once on, the dress is even worse than I feared. I’m covered from head to toe in frosted pink tinfoil like some sort of human Hershey’s Kiss: Special Pink Valentine’s Day edition. If I raise my arms, I suspect that I might be able to pick up Satellite XM Radio.

  “Have you gained some weight?” Lucy says, frowning and stepping back and studying my reflection in the mirror.

  There are so many ruffles and poofs in this dress that it would make even a chopstick look like it was putting on weight.

  “I don’t think I’ve gained any weight.”

  “You have,” Lucy declares, sounding ever more alarmed. “You’ve clearly gained more weight.”

  My sister and I exchange glances. Kimberly rolls her eyes.

  “I’m going to have to take offense at the word ‘more,’” I say.

  “We’re going to have to let it out.” Lucy sighs, shaking her head and rubbing her temples with her fingers.

  “It’s fine,” says Vivien.

  “Aunt Viv. It is NOT fine. She looks like a sausage in tin-foil,” Lucy mutters.

  “She just needs some nice control-top hose,” Grandma Saddie offers.

  “I’m still here,” I point out. “I can hear you.”

  “They have full body suits at Victoria’s Secret,” Grandma Saddie says.

  “How do you know what they have at Victoria’s Secret?” Kimberly asks her.

  “Ya-shee, I may be old but I’m not dead,” Grandma Saddie says.

  “I heard duct tape might work,” Vivien is musing.

  “That’s only for better cleavage,” Lucy corrects.

  “I can hear you, ya-shee,” I sigh.

  “Did you just say ‘ya-shee’?” Kimberly asks me.

  I shrug. Desperate situations call for desperate measures.

  “It’s your turn now,” Vivien tells Kimberly.

  “No way am I wearing that,” Kimberly declares.

  The shop bell dings. “Yoo-hoo,” calls a familiar voice. It’s Aunt Bette, the top saleswoman for Mary Kay in southwestern Arkansas. She’s the one responsible for introducing Grandma Saddie to bejeweled jogging suits and for getting most of the women in the family hooked on coral lipstick. Aunt Bette often says she’s just a few cases of blush away from winning the coveted pink Cadillac, which, in her mind, will mean she’s arrived. Bette has on her weight in makeup and her signature color of pink. She’s a long way from her Material Girl phase.

  “Kimberly—beautiful as always,” Aunt Bette says, passing inspection.

  Then she turns to me. She gives me a tentative hug, careful not to break her French-manicured acrylic nails. She studies my face, putting her hand on my chin and turning it back and forth. Aunt Bette has been doing this since I was eight.

  “I have something that will help reduce the size of those pores,” she tells me. Her silver eyeshadow on her almond-shaped eyes glitters under the gleam of lights at Lulu’s Bridal.

  “Aunt Bette,” I whine.

  “I’m just saying, you’re so pretty, sugar,” she says. “Why not take it to the next level? I’ve got some great new spring shades of eye shadow, too.”

  It’s comforting that no matter what the occasion, Aunt Bette is always ready with a sales pitch. It’s clearly why she’s the largest single retailer for Mary Kay in southwestern Arkansas.

  Still, I
owe Aunt Bette quite a debt. She’s the one, after all, who introduced me to Nair, eyebrow shaping, and tampons. Kimberly did not have the inclination or the patience to try to teach me about the female arts. In high school, she was too busy trying to raise money for Amnesty International.

  There’s something quite different about Aunt Bette. It takes me a moment to realize she’s blond. “You’re blond,” I exclaim, before I can help myself.

  “Do you like it? You know Picasso had his blue period. I’m going through a blond period,” Aunt Bette says.

  “Did you just quote Hugh Hefner?” I ask her.

  Aunt Bette waves her hand, dismissively. “So what do you think?” she asks me.

  She looks like a forty-something Asian woman who is wearing a blond wig. I have flashbacks of Vivien dressed up like Princess Di.

  “Um, nice,” I say.

  “Your mother says I look just like Michelle Pfeiffer, but I like to think I’m more of a Pamela Anderson type,” Aunt Bette says. The Nakamura racial amnesia at work, I think. Kimberly rolls her eyes.

  “Definitely Pamela Anderson,” I say. Aunt Bette doesn’t have the D-cup boobs, but she does have the penciled-in eyebrows and the collagan-injected lips.

  “I thought so,” Aunt Bette says, and beams. “So? I hear you have a boyfriend. Is it true?”

  Why is my love life the topic of such widespread family discussion?

  “We’re all so proud,” Aunt Bette says, as if I just announced I’d won the Nobel Prize. “Your mother thought you might be a lesbian like Cousin Gillian. Not, of course, that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian.”

  “I never said that,” Vivien says, giving Aunt Bette a stern look. Aunt Bette ignores it.

  “But I’m nothing like Gillian!” I exclaim. Gillian is a California Nakamura cousin who shaved her head when she was fourteen, pierced her tongue, became a Sid Vicious groupie, and then went through a series of identity changes, including becoming a Hare Krishna, then a Scientologist, and most recently, a follower of Wicca, which is some version of modern-day witchcraft.

  Five years ago she announced she and her life partner—her roommate, Paula—were going to have a commitment ceremony on the solstice, where everyone in attendance would be required to shed their clothes and participate in some sort of ritual under a full moon. Being gay is fine, but being like Gillian—that’s an insult.

  “Well, you just never know,” Aunt Bette says.

  “Vivien really thought I was gay?” I ask. This is very clearly another failing of Nakamura Telepathy.

  “You don’t talk much about your boyfriends,” Aunt Bette says.

  “Just how much time do you guys spend talking about my sex life?” I ask.

  “Did you just say ‘yose guys’?” Aunt Bette asks me, putting on her best mobster accent. “You sound like a Soprano. I guess up North you don’t use ‘ya’ll’?”

  “If she visited more often, maybe she wouldn’t sound like a stranger,” Vivien says, giving me a pointed look.

  I sigh.

  “Praise Jesus!” I hear Grandma Saddie emerging from the back of the store. “Bette’s here to do our practice hair.”

  “Practice hair?” I ask Bette.

  “You wouldn’t go into the vaulting competition for the summer Olympics without practicing first, would you? Same with wedding hair. I even brought you some falsies,” Aunt Bette says, whipping out from her shopping bag what looks like a small schnauzer, only it’s fake hair.

  “You will not put that on me,” I say.

  “How about these?” Aunt Bette says, showing me two silicone pads shaped like boobs. “They’ll bring you up a full cup size.”

  “No way,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Let’s see what the bride says.” Aunt Bette winks at me.

  An hour later, I find myself standing in front of the three-way mirror at Lulu’s Dress Shop. My hair is enormous and at least three-fourths fake, my eyelashes are fake, my nails are fake, and even my boobs are fake.

  Aunt Bette is now beaming at me. So is Vivien. Kimberly is looking at me and silently thinking, “sucker.” Kimberly has refused even to try on the dress, and since Bubba isn’t around, there’s no one to make her do it.

  “My lovely granddaughter!” exclaims Grandma Saddie.

  “Definitely an improvement,” Aunt Bette remarks.

  I frown at my reflection in the mirror. If possible, I look even less Japanese than Aunt Bette with her streaky blond hair.

  “Why are you taking off your eyes?” Grandma Saddie cries, when I begin tugging at my fake eyelashes. “They’re so pretty.”

  “Grandma,” I sigh. “They itch.”

  “Beauty,” Aunt Bette tells me, “is always worth suffering for.”

  Aunt Bette, it should be said, sometimes wears a light layer of makeup to bed just in case her house catches on fire in the middle of the night and she has to run out with no time to put on her face.

  The bell on the front door of the shop dings again, and I look up, praying it isn’t Riley. He’d never let me hear the end of my fake hair.

  But the visitor to the shop isn’t Riley. It’s much worse than Riley.

  I find myself staring at an adult Kevin Peterson.

  —Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid II

  Lie become truth only if person want to believe it.

  1986 AND THE TEMPLE OF DOOM

  The summer between sixth and seventh grades, Kevin Peterson grew five inches, therefore becoming one of only a handful of boys eligible for dating in Dixieland Middle School, where most of the girls had outgrown the boys. So now, if possible, Kevin Peterson had even more admirers, as the populations of Dixieland Elementary School and Robert E. Lee Elementary School (in the neighboring town of Noxville), merged into one middle school for grades seven and eight.

  I, however, had fate on my side when I landed a locker five down from Kevin Peterson, where I could hover and work up the nerve to say hello. By November, it was clear Kevin Peterson was headed toward the sort of superstardom popularity reserved for the Brat Pack and middle school football stars. His locker was jammed with notes from admiring girls, covered in pink hearts and smelling like Exclamation perfume. Every day after fifth period, I’d watch him come to his locker, pocket the four or five admiring notes without even looking at them, tend to his spiky hair (which he seemed to be modeling after Simon Le Bon) and if I was very, very lucky, he’d see me, nod his head in my direction, and simply say, “Hey.”

  If I didn’t have much of a chance of winning Kevin Peterson in grades fourth through sixth, I really had a less than zero chance of getting his attention in seventh. Kevin Peterson’s list of ex-girlfriends soon became larger than MC Hammer’s group of backup dancers. His basketball letterman’s jacket was passed through the population of cheerleaders faster than frosted lip gloss.

  In the South, cheerleaders and drill team girls were the royalty of the popularity hierarchy. Girls trained for years in gymnastics only with the hope of becoming a cheerleader in middle school and then high school, because it was a well-known fact that you couldn’t be homecoming queen without being a cheer-leader; and homecoming queen was the highest honor a girl could hope to achieve in her entire life if she lived in Dixieland.

  One mother once told Vivien at a PTA meeting that she was “ruining my life” because she had not insisted that I take gymnastics lessons at age three.

  Cheerleaders were worshipped in Dixieland Middle School. They were given the best table in the cafeteria; hordes of honor students rushed to do their homework for them, and even teachers would give them passes out of class without question.

  I resented cheerleaders, because I couldn’t understand why the ability to do the splits in two ways meant you were somehow better than everyone else. At age twelve I didn’t understand the power of sex appeal, obviously.

  There were emergency tryouts held midyear after Christi Farnsworth broke her leg falling down from a cheerleader pyramid, and nearly a hundred girls tried out for
the one spot. I was one of them, but only because Kevin Peterson had, in a roundabout way, asked me to.

  One afternoon at the lockers he’d said, “Hey, you trying out for Christi Farnsworth’s spot?”

  And while I had no desire to do so—after all, I am not at all athletic (see Presidential Fitness Challenge)—I decided maybe Kevin Peterson was trying to tell me something.

  With my twelve-year-old ears, I heard “Hey, Jen, if you became a cheerleader, maybe we could date.”

  So that’s how I ended up wearing flannel boxer shorts, standing in a group of one hundred girls who were trying out for the same position, trying to figure out how the hell I was going to manage the splits.

  I was at a distinct disadvantage. Some of these girls had been to cheerleading camp and knew all the ins and outs of the drill team voice (like every single routine began with “READY? O-KAY!” and a loud clap) and many of them could do back-flips, front and side splits, and a series of cartwheels ending in a double flip.

  I, on the other hand, didn’t even know the proper vocabulary.

  I didn’t know the difference between a “Half T” and the “Liberty Position” much less how to go about doing a “side hurdler” jump or a “toe touch.” Every other one of the one hundred girls at tryouts seemed to not only understand these commands but also talked about the perfect “form” based on some summer cheerleading camp trainers I’d never heard of. Apparently cheerleading was an art form, even though up until then I’d thought it involved nothing more complex than shaking pom-poms and then, at the end of the routine, throwing your fists in the air and shouting, “GO, TROJANS, GO!”

  The first leg of the competition was called “Show Your School Spirit.” This involved running down a padded mat and doing a cartwheel and some kind of combination of hurdler jumps and a backflip and shouting some version of “Go, Trojans, Go! Yeah!”

  Kevin Peterson and his friends wandered up to watch, probably because Kevin was scoping out new girlfriend material.

  When my turn came, I stood at the end of the mat trying to figure out what I should do. I sucked in my stomach and tried to think peppy, cheerleading thoughts. I closed my eyes and tried to summon the spirit of Tawny Kitan doing cartwheels and splits on the hoods of cars in White Snake’s “Here I Go Again” video. I opened my eyes and started running, hoping that my body, despite a complete lack of training, might somehow curl itself into a backflip naturally, without any sort of instruction.