Dixieland Sushi Page 7

  I drain my wineglass.

  Eventually, when it seems Paul manages to exhaust the topic of himself in the third person, he excuses himself to get another drink, leaving me standing in the living room with my empty wineglass. I watch him trail after Tiffany.

  Riley appears at my shoulder a few seconds later. “Would you like a stuffed mushroom?” he says, offering me one from a tray. “I think we also have some that are laced with arsenic if you’d prefer.”

  “Do I look that bored?”

  “Well, it’s more like he looks like a big fat wanker. I just assumed you were bored.”

  “He talked about himself in the third person.”

  This makes him laugh. “Only bastard cousins of the sons of earls are allowed to do that.”

  “You know your lineage gets thinner and thinner every day.”

  “It’s only because I’m trying to practice humility. If you’ll excuse me, there are some friends of mine in the far corner who look like they’re about to starve,” Riley says. “Hold that thought and I’ll be right back.”

  Riley slips over to the other end of the room, and I’m left holding my empty wineglass. I walk over to the kitchen, which is empty. I decide against another glass of wine, as I set my glass on the counter and glance at the clock above their refrigerator. It’s 10:30. I should probably be getting to the station, I think.

  I glance around the living room, looking for Tiffany to say goodbye. I walk back toward the bedroom, where I discover two people standing close together. Not kissing exactly, but about to or perhaps having just.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, backing out of the room. That’s when the man and woman spring apart, and I realize I know them. Paul and Tiffany. If there were a record player playing, now would be the time the music would screech to a halt.

  Tiffany and Paul? I can’t quite get over what I’ve seen—or think I’ve seen. Are they …? Did they …? I feel dirty, as if by witnessing them I’m somehow culpable.

  I must look as surprised as I feel, because Tiffany reaches out to me. “Jen-wait,” Tiffany says, at the level of a whisper.

  My only coherent thought is I need to get out of here. “I’ve got to go to work,” I say. I’m out the door, down the stairs, and on the sidewalk before I realize that my hands are shaking and that I left in such a rush, I didn’t say goodbye to Riley.

  —Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid II

  Never put passion before principle; even if you win you lose.

  1984

  Seeing Tiffany and Paul together makes me think about fourth grade, the year of the Great Betrayal. It was two months after the Roller Rink Debacle of my tenth birthday, and I had only just recovered from the humiliation of Vivien and Grandma Saddie scaring off Kevin Peterson.

  My best friend at the time, Christi Collins (proven by our matching baby blue baseball T-shirts with the unicorn on the front and “Best Friends” spelled out in blocky, baby blue velvet iron-on decals) convinced me that perhaps Kevin Peterson had forgotten about the roller rink. After all, it was dark. He might not have even really realized it was me, even though it was highly unlikely that any other family but mine in Dixieland would be consuming sushi.

  Christi convinced me by having me consult the paper oracle (a piece of notebook paper folded into a square that could tell me what kind of car I would drive as an adult and what kind of house I’d live in) that Kevin Peterson was my true love.

  We both went to see The Karate Kid and papered our walls with posters of Ralph Macchio. We also both signed up and subsequently quit karate lessons when we found out that actual physical exertion was involved.

  Christi Collins was the only girl in fourth grade claiming not to be in love with Kevin Peterson. She was pining for, depending on the day, either Ralph Macchio or Ryan White, the boy who contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion and was banned from school. Like Kimberly, Christi gravitated toward big social causes. This was why her book covers were plastered with “Save the Whales” stickers.

  We exchanged friendship bracelets to solidify our friendship. I made a pink-and-purple braided bracelet for her, and she made a pink-and-yellow one for me. They were made out of needlepoint thread and done usually covertly during math or reading lessons.

  Like friendship pins, friendship bracelets were a coveted playground item. Kids worked harder than rug weavers in Pakistan to make dozens of the bracelets. You didn’t want to just wear one, which would imply that you had only one friend. You wanted dozens. And wearing them was a commitment. You tied it on with a double knot, and then there was no getting it off unless you cut it off.

  It was Christi’s idea that I make a special “friendship” bracelet for Kevin Peterson. Granted, boys didn’t usually wear the bracelets, but Christi still thought it would be a good idea.

  We made the bracelet at her house, because Kimberly was on a rampage. She had only just discovered, after being frustrated by months of attempting to solve her Rubik’s cube, that I had been switching the colored square stickers when she wasn’t looking to thwart her efforts.

  I worked for a full hour on Kevin’s bracelet. It was red and black, to match his Members Only jacket and his Michael Jackson “Beat it!” T-shirt. Eventually, the time came when I would have to hand it to Kevin Peterson. I decided to fold it up in a note that said:

  Do you want to go with me?

  Yes ____

  No ____

  (Check one)

  Of course, I was too chicken to give the note to Kevin myself. That’s when Christi volunteered to do it for me. She handed Kevin Peterson the note during recess, and I watched, hiding behind the seesaws.

  I saw Kevin Peterson shrug his shoulders, and then attach the friendship bracelet to his arm. I couldn’t believe my eyes! He’d accepted! He’d checked “yes.”

  Then something terrible happened. Kevin Peterson took Christi’s hand, and led her away.

  I watched them walk, hand in hand, and the cold, hard truth became clear to me. Christi Collins had stolen Kevin Peterson right under my nose. She’d pretended the note was from her.

  Our matching “Best Friends Forever” unicorn T-shirts, our two halves of the same heart charm on our Best Friends bracelets, and the endless rounds of late Friday night Pinkie Swears—all, in that instant, meant nothing. Christi Collins broke the First Commandment of the Girl Code: Thou Shalt Not Brazenly Steal Away My Crush Since I had Dibbs on Him First.

  I watched as the two walked hand in hand to the swing sets, and I could almost feel my little heart crumbling to the beat of Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

  —Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid II

  In Okinawa, honor have no time limit.

  The fact that I caught Tiffany in a compromising situation haunts me through my whole shift at News Four and into the next day. Should I tell Riley? Should I not? The Girl Code is distinctly murky on this point. I want so badly to tell Riley, but for all the wrong reasons, namely because I want him to (a) become outraged, (b) break up with Tiffany immediately, and (c) fall in love with me.

  This, however, is not what would happen if I told Riley, I’m sure. He would probably not believe me, and even if he did, he’d probably blame me somehow. You never want to hear a person could be cheating on you. Besides, I know what betrayal feels like (Christi Collins/Kevin Peterson). Would I have believed it if I hadn’t seen them holding hands with my own eyes? Probably not.

  Not to mention, what would I tell him? I think your girlfriend kissed an obnoxious Australian bloke? I don’t even have any real proof that something happened, other than a dark feeling at the pit of my stomach that something just happened or was about to. Clearly, something was going on or Tiffany wouldn’t have been so quick to distance herself from Paul when she saw me, would she?

  An instant message pops up on my computer.

  RUGGER9: Do I smell?

  JEN76: What?

  RUGGER9: Your disappearing act. You didn’t even say goodbye. I spent the rest of the night wondering
if my deodorant gave out. It was very embarrassing sniffing my armpits while trying to talk to our guests.

  JEN76: Sorry. I had to work.

  RUGGER9: You don’t have to lie!

  Great. Does he know? Damn Instant Messenger. If he were here, I could try to read his facial expression, or get clues from the tone of his voice. Tread carefully, I think.

  JEN76: What are you talking about?

  RUGGER9: The Australian Wanker.

  JEN76: What about him?

  RUGGER9: Tiffany told me.

  JEN76: She TOLD you?

  RUGGER9: She told me he tried to maul you in the bedroom, and that you only just got away.

  I read and reread Riley’s instant message. So this is how she’s getting around it. She’s using me as an excuse.

  JEN76: Wait a second. She said he was coming on to me?

  RUGGER9: She said that’s why you left in such a hurry. Anyhow, you don’t have to worry about that arse. I’ll smack him in the head if he tries any more of that bollocks with you.

  I am simultaneously touched that Riley would come to my defense and horrified that Tiffany has used me to lie to Riley. I consider telling him the truth. I type, and then delete, and then type again. I take so long Riley thinks something is wrong.

  RUGGER9: HELLO? You there?

  JEN76: Sorry—it’s crazy here. I’ll talk to you in a bit.

  RUGGER9: K. Don’t work too hard. You’ll put the rest of us to shame.

  My phone rings. It’s my friend Jason, sounding far too excited. “Listen, I have found the perfect replacement for me,” Jason tells me.

  “Jason, it’s four in the morning. What on earth are you doing up?”

  “You know that a man of my busy social circle never sleeps.

  Besides, you’re up and at work already so who am I hurting by calling?”

  “You have a point,” I say. “So what’s this about a replacement?”

  “I found your gay date for your cousin’s wedding. You remember Thom, right?”

  “You mean Tom-With-An-H who used to be Cher at the Baton Show Lounge?” The Baton is a notorious female impersonator revue in Chicago.

  “He’s also willing to go with you, if you pay him five hundred dollars.”

  “I am not paying anyone five hundred dollars to be my date. Least of all, Cher.”

  “Look, Thom does a great impression of a straight guy. He’s an actor, for heaven’s sakes.”

  I believe, even in my love life, this qualifies as a new low.

  A note on my past boyfriends:

  Longest relationship to date: Four years, with my college boyfriend, David, who spent almost all the time we dated convincing me that he didn’t believe in the institution of marriage—only to go and get engaged six months after we broke up. It turns out he did believe in matrimony, just not with me. Then there was James, who grew up in San Antonio and had a thing for J Lo. I think he often pretended that I wasn’t half Japanese at all, that I really was Latina. He liked salsa and listening to Los Lobos. He got really drunk once and told me that he had never liked the idea of dating an Asian chick because he worried that other people would think he had a small dick. My other boyfriends didn’t technically even make it to the “boyfriend” milestone, our relationships dissolving before the three-month mark.

  I realize that my sordid dating history should not be a point of embarrassment to me, and that I should not care whether I show up at my cousin’s wedding alone, facing my childhood love with only my career accomplishments to impress him. I should, as my women’s studies professor in college said, “Let your own inner goddess be your soul mate.” But the fact is I do care about showing up alone to this wedding. It’s about self-preservation, really. If I don’t come up with a date, Vivien will. And I am not about to let my inner goddess be escorted by glue-eating Billy Connor.

  “I’ll consider Thom,” I tell Jason.

  “That’s about two octaves away from enthusiasm,” Jason says. “Why don’t you ask The Colins?”

  “Riley has a girlfriend. He’ll say no. Besides, it seems wrong to ask him. Even if I think I caught his girlfriend kissing another guy.”

  “Stop everything. Rewind the Ticker. WHAT did you say?”

  “I may have caught his girlfriend with another guy.” I look at Riley’s empty desk. He’s not due into work for another several hours, but still I feel he could be listening.

  “What do you mean ‘may’?”

  I explain last night’s fiasco.

  “That relationship is headed straight to Häagen Dazs,” Jason says. That’s his way of saying it’s not long for this world.

  “That still doesn’t mean I should ask Riley to be my date.”

  “Sometimes you’re far too honest for your own good.”

  I met Riley on my second day at work—a Saturday—during my first weekend shift at News Four. Riley came in after a tough game of rugby by the lake, wearing a soiled jersey and shorts, smelling like gym socks, with a cut on his nose and mud on his legs.

  It’s not at all the sort of thing you’d expect from someone raised in Great Britain—homeland to James Bond. I assumed men with British accents all wore suits. Even the cad-playing Hugh Grant is always seen in a collared shirt. The accent seems so formal, and it doesn’t go with jeans.

  “You the new bird?” Riley asked, perching on my desk.

  “Did you call me a ‘bird’?”

  “British slang. The new girl?” he clarified.

  “Yeah.”

  He stretched his legs out from under the table. They were thick and braided with muscle, “Let me tell you something that I wish someone had told me when I started,” he said, leaning in. Riley was wearing a baseball cap, with what looked to be a mime on it—a rope-jumping mime.

  “Whatever you do …” Riley paused.

  My eyes trailed back to his hat. Was that a clown? Then, his brown eyes drew my attention.

  “Don’t, for the love of God …”

  “Yes?”

  “You paying attention? Because you don’t look like you’re paying attention.”

  “I couldn’t be paying more attention.”

  “Ever, and I mean ever …” Riley leaned forward, almost as if putting his hat on display. The mime—and yes, I was pretty sure by that point it was a mime—was staring me in the face.

  “Yes?”

  “Leave your email open on your computer,” he finished, tilting back his hat. “I did that, and before I knew it, someone logged on to my account and sent out emails to everyone at the station saying how I was proud of my ability to fart out the alphabet.”

  “Can you fart out the alphabet?” I asked him.

  “My arse! Do you think I’d be stuck in this dead-end job if I had the talent to fart out the alphabet?” Riley said. “God, no.”

  “By the way, is that a mime on your baseball cap?”

  “YESSSS,” Riley shouted, putting one fist in the air.

  “That’s ten bucks you owe me, Larry,” Riley said to one of the camera operators sitting in a chair by the coffee machine.

  “You bet to see how long it would take me to notice your baseball cap?”

  “No, I bet him I could make you say ‘mime’ in under a minute.”

  Riley, as it turned out, was wearing a baseball hat for his favorite rugby team, the Harlequins.

  After that, we became fast friends. It was only a few months later that I discovered he had a girlfriend.

  * * *

  Anne swings by my desk looking anxious thirty minutes before we go on air.

  “Chewbacca is stuck on the Kennedy,” she says, alarmed.

  Peter Mayhew, the actor who played Chewbacca, is our six-fifteen interview and apparently is caught in traffic. We have to find another guest to fill a two-minute spot, and we have only a half hour or so to do it.

  “Why don’t you call Tiffany?” Anne suggests. Tiffany, as in Riley’s girlfriend, is the last person on earth I’d want to call at the moment.

&n
bsp; “I’ll take care of it,” I say. One way or another.

  An instant message pops up on my screen.

  RUGGER9: What’s happening, hot stuff?

  I consider ignoring Riley, but the more you ignore him, the louder he’ll get. He’ll fill up my screen with IMs until I answer.

  JEN76: If that is a reference to Sixteen Candles’ politically incorrect foreign exchange student, nice work.

  RUGGER9: Long Duc Dong. My new cinematic hero.

  JEN76: You are disturbed.

  RUGGER9: Members of the royal family are called eccentric, not disturbed.

  JEN76: I’ve got to go. Chewbacca is stuck in traffic.

  RUGGER9: What? Did the Millennium Falcon break down?

  JEN76: Ha. Ha. Chewbacca was supposed to be on the show this morning.

  RUGGER9: One guest short of an asylum, eh? I can help you out. Let me get Tiffany.

  Even though I protest, Riley insists on involving Tiffany. She manages to land not only a guest but a local celebrity: Rick Bayless, chef and owner of Frontera Grill in Chicago, who normally appears only on national morning shows like Good Morning America. Somehow, Tiffany has gotten him into the Daybreak studio, on thirty minutes’ notice.

  Tiffany and Riley stand together next to me as we watch Rick’s interview with Michelle, who is a bit starstruck herself.

  “I’m going to go to Frontera Grill every Friday from now until the day I die,” I say. “Rick’s so good to do this.”

  “He’s an old friend,” Tiffany says, giving me a winning smile. “He owed me a favor.”

  She’s trying to bribe me, I can’t help but think. She’s trying to win me over with grand gestures so I don’t tell Riley what I saw.

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Paul,” Tiffany is now saying.

  I can’t believe she has the audacity to bring him up. Before I can say a word, Riley speaks.

  “What a wanker,” he says.

  “He’s not a wanker,” Tiffany protests.

  “He is so a wanker. The very definition of a wanker,” Riley says. “Anyway, you’re better off going alone to your cousin’s wedding.”