“Pip, pip, cheerio.” Stephen follows my lead, pretending to doff an imaginary top hat. His black, spiky hair doesn’t move when he bows.
(Mental note: he and I need to have a conversation about his rampant gel abuse.)
“That stopped being funny, like, three days ago,” Simone says with a big grin. Stephen is vibrating with excitement, just being in her presence.
I like what she brings out in him. I’ll say it again—she’s good for us.
“What’s that all about?” Mallory asks Simone, as though we’re not standing here. How rude is that? I would hate her if I weren’t desperately in love/profoundly afraid of her. She narrows her eyes. “And why don’t you sound more British? I only hear it here and there.”
Simone smiles at all of us, making it clear that she considers this is a four-way conversation. “Because I was born in the US and we’ve lived all over. Plus, my mom’s an American and she never really picked up the accent.”
Mallory waves a slim hand at us. “Then what’s their problem?”
Acknowledged!
Yeah, I realize that as someone who scored a perfect 36 on the ACTs, I should be smarter than this, I should expect more for myself, I should not consider terror analogous to erogenous. And yet when she raises her arm to wave it dismissively at us, her field hockey uniform reveals a sliver of golden side-boob, so you can see my dilemma.
Simone says, “They’re mocking me because of my expressions.” Mallory looks confused, so Simone clarifies. “I use a lot of British idioms and those two crack up over them. They keep accusing me of secretly being Mary Poppins.”
Mallory rolls her eyes. “They’re such nerds.”
“They’re standing right here,” Stephen says with great indignity, shooting me an incredulous look, like, Can you believe this bitch?
It’s awkward.
Yet I maintain this interchange is less awkward than when we first talked to Simone on Wheelie Bin Day. Plus, that turned out well, especially after we met her parents. Her dad’s kind of a trip—he tried to give us beer! Her mom was all, “Let’s not ply minors with alcohol, Angus.”
I didn’t even want one, but was psyched that someone finally, finally put the beer option on the table.
Simone insisted on giving us a tour of her place, which wasn’t new to us. I remembered everything about the house—from the two-story Christmas tree in the entry hall every December to the powder room where Mrs. Barat perpetually burned cinnamon candles to the screening room in the basement where we’d watch the movie Cars again and again. As I looked around, I noticed not a single thing had changed, not even the paint colors. So I mentioned that we’d been in her house before, but I didn’t explain the context. Figured that was the easiest thing to do.
Once we went upstairs, I was glad to see she’d picked Anna’s room and not Paulie’s, because that would have been too weird for us. I wouldn’t know how to tell her that once upon a time, we’d logged a million hours lying on the floor of her new room, playing “PaRappa the Rapper” on our PSPs with our old friend. So I was glad we could avoid that conversation.
Sometimes it’s easier to gloss over what’s happened around here.
Anyway, Simone was way proud of her jewelry-making setup, and, really, she should have been. She owns more tools than either of us and we build robots! She explained, “I have this habit of imagining jewelry designs for people when I meet them.”
“Yeah? What do you see for us?” Stephen prompted.
Personally, I’m not a jewelry guy, but I was so thrilled that he was being himself that I wanted to let out a goddamned cheer. I’d assumed that Paulie’s house would throw him off his (practically nonexistent) game. I’d gladly go the full Liberace if it meant Happy Stephen and not Crappy Stephen.
She grabbed a pad and a pencil and with a few graceful strokes, sketched out a design. “Here. Look at this. I envision you in silver Tuareg crosses, looped with a leather tie.” She gestured toward a couple of wide circles with arrow points on the end. “You see? They’re quite masculine. The Tuareg tribesmen believed these amulets possessed magical powers and wore them as talismans.”
While we were looking at her design, this blur of tan-and-white muscle came bursting into the room, underbite on full display. Took me a second to figure out what was even happening.
“Hold up, you have a pit bull? In North Shore?” I couldn’t help it, I started laughing all over again, even though I’d never met a pit bull before and I was worried he would eat my face before I ever had a chance to grow a beard, which would suck.
“No, he’s a Staffordshire Terrier,” she replied. “Do you not have them here? They’re everywhere in the UK.”
Her puppy Warhol bounded from person to person, unsure which one of us to lick first. He was so friendly! I appreciated that when he wagged his tail, his whole body got involved, from the top of his square head to the tip of his fat butt. He seemed too cute to maul me.
“They’re the same breed, basically. Staffys are actually pit bulls and they’re everywhere here, too,” I said, trying—and failing—to avoid being French-kissed by Warhol. (How sad is it that that was the most action I’d seen all summer?) “Just not in North Shore. People here have fancy dogs with AKC-registered papers, like Labs and poodles and springer spaniels. Not us, because both our moms think any pets are filthy, but everyone else.”
Stephen ran a palm over his crunchy hair and said, “I’m sorry in advance when my mom gives you shit. Not only is she the self-appointed neighborhood watchperson, she’s a Realtor. That means she’s, like, obsessed with property values in our hood. Goes full-on, banana-sandwich anytime anything poses a threat to them. Remember when the Bernardis wouldn’t re-blacktop their driveway? We thought she was gonna send some guys. She’s gonna be furious to see a pit bull.”
“Staffy,” she corrected.
“Again, same difference,” Stephen said.
I added, “She’s especially gonna hate him because she’s convinced any dog that weighs over twelve pounds is dangerous. Let’s just say she’s not a fan of danger.”
We glanced at Warhol, who had since left my side to chew on one of Simone’s clogs.
“Warhol, release,” Simone said, snapping her fingers.
The dog not only immediately let go of the shoe, but also rolled over on his back. I suspect if he had thumbs and the ability to spell, he’d have written a heartfelt apology note. I rubbed my new BFF’s belly while he squirmed in my lap, his tail thumping so hard, it would likely leave a mark. “Who’s a neighborhood terror, huh? Who’s a big, scary brute?”
Anyway, how is it that I can be fearless upon making out with a strange pit bull but I don’t have the balls to defend myself when Mallory’s just insulted me?
Especially when I know that showing courage and confidence is absolutely attractive to the opposite sex?
I swear I’m as bad as Stephen sometimes. Maybe worse. He’s had his act together lately.
(Mental note: work on confidence/courage.)