My Most Excellent Year
I’m sorry. This is supposed to be the season for giving thanks, not for maligning an amoral dead president—although on Thursday, the only thing I was grateful for was that I didn’t know how to speak Nigerian. Papa and Mamita had planned a quiet cocktail party for 200 of their most intimate titled friends, which meant that I was expected to circulate amongst the diamond tiaras and ruby-studded cufflinks in our gold and white living room while wearing an ivory lace gown from the president of Greece, with a décolletage that would have made a nudist blush. Happy Thanksgiving. What’s wrong with this picture?
“Alejandra, tu es ravissante.”
“Merci, Mme. Alphand.” The French ambassador’s wife is a par-ticular thorn in my side. She’s been attempting to arrange a marriage between me and her evil son Philippe since we were both four years old and playing in the same sandbox on Massachusetts Avenue in Washington. As I recall, Philippe’s most enduring adjectives, in no particular order, included venal, selfish, ignorant, petulant, narcissistic, malicious, and (by way of summary) ghastly. So as his mother and I made small talk over canapés and sparkling cider, I lied through my teeth at the first opportunity and mentioned that I already had a boyfriend—but I was sure that Philippe would make someone a very special husband (which is entirely true, given that one of the key synonyms for “special” is “abnormal”). Mme. Alphand didn’t accept the news with much grace; the third degree that followed made me suspect that she was determined to find out who the miscreant was so that she could drag the guillotine out of cold storage.
“Tst, tst, tst. Un autre beau? Quel dommage.”
“Oui.” I smiled, both demurely and insincerely.
“Et il s’appelle—?”
“Anthony,” I blurted automatically, horrified at myself. Where did that come from?
Fortunately, in putting together such a glittering and exclusive R.S.V.P. inventory, my parents had forgotten that Carlos collects stray consul generals the way other people collect homeless cats and failed to allot the square footage necessary to accommodate this little quirk. In fact, having gone out for cigars twenty minutes earlier, he returned with a box of Havanas and half the Nigerian embassy. Nobody knew quite where to put them. It was just the diversion I needed to sneak up the back stairs to my bedroom, change into my jeans and sweatshirt, flop face-first onto my pink bedspread (God, I hate pink), and listen to Carly Simon on WQSX. As I saw it, I had two options for the remainder of the afternoon, and both involved climbing out the window: (1) stopping by the Kellers’ to see if Augie needed any Andy support; or (2) running away from home and joining a circus. Any circus.
Instead, I fell asleep and dreamt about Anthony.
Amory Park, late afternoon. I’m on my way home from school when I pass the baseball diamond. It’s empty except for a lonely figure seated in the front row of bleachers. Anthony. His head is down and his shoulders are hunched. Since I’ve never seen him bereft before, I cross over the base line and sit down next to him.
“Are you okay?” I ask hesitantly, putting a hand on his forearm. When he looks up, his face is streaked with tears. (Oh, my God. He cries??)
“I can’t find my mother,” he sobs. “She was supposed to meet me here. What am I going to do?” I search for the right words to comfort him because he’s breaking my heart. But when I realize there’s nothing I can possibly say, I pull out my cell phone and flip it open. (Reliably practical Alejandra—she doesn’t hug, but she’s always got a plan.)
“Don’t worry,” I promise him, punching 4-1-1 on the keypad. “We’ll track her down.” I call the airport, Tower Records, and Nikita Khrushchev, but nobody’s seen her. In despair—since Anthony is staring at me with such hope lighting his face—I try Phyllis at The Word Shop. She knows everything.
“Anthony’s mother?” she confirms matter-of-factly. “She’s working the register, honey. It’s Tuesday, remember?” Since by now her voice is coming through the speakers attached to the backstop, Anthony hears every word. He’s overjoyed. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me to my feet, and we race across Mexico City together before it gets dark. After all, he wants to be able to see her.
“Say ‘Kenmore Square,’” I insist.
“Kenmaw Sqway-ah.”
“Say ‘Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina.’”
“Nothing could be finah than to be in Caroliner.”
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“I’m not. I sway-ah.”
I woke up startled, wondering why I felt such an unusual (for Alejandra) longing. Then it hit me. What an idiot I am! Anthony was right. The “um” didn’t have anything to do with it. He hooked me on the “sway-ah.” It was so spontaneous, so genuine, so vulnerable, and so endearing, he caught me with my left flank unguarded. The entire United States Marine Corps couldn’t have defended against it, even if they’d been on the dance floor with us. Jacqueline, did you ever have a similar epiphany with Jack? When something as simple as a twisted verb made you forget everything you thought you didn’t like? Because it was the gold medal 10 of all possible boy-moments, especially for Anthony—and it instantly made me wonder whether there were any other qualities equally worthy of a Cole Porter lyric that I might have misjudged.
ANTHONY STATUS REPORT—SEPTEMBER
THINGS I HATED
THINGS I COULD TOLERATE
THINGS I LIKED
His hideous accent
His gray T-shirts
His confidence
His stubbornness
Most of his opinions
Things he liked
He’s cute
Things he hated
ANTHONY STATUS REPORT—DECEMBER
THINGS I HATE
THINGS I CAN TOLERATE
THINGS I LIKE
Some of his opinions
His gray T-shirts
He’s cute
His stubbornness
His hideous accent
Things he likes
His confidence
Things he hates
When he’s embarrassed
I knew I was in deep trouble during American history yesterday, when Anthony and his father brought their diorama to school. (At first it appears to be a study in obsessive-compulsive disorder: They included valet parking in front of Union Station.) Since it has six legs and takes up a good third of our classroom, we had to spend fifteen preliminary minutes rearranging our desks before they could get it through the door—so I used my downtime to remember one reassuring fact: Just because you discover that you may like somebody after all, it doesn’t necessarily mean there’s any attraction. That’s a whole other hemisphere. Then Anthony crouched down and bent over to plug in the diorama. As it happens, he was wearing his favorite pair of worn jeans, which, from the back, fit so well that they leave nothing to the imagination. Like a witness to a natural disaster, I was physically incapable of turning away from the view. I may even have gasped. Now, that’s Louvre-worthy art. To my left, of course, I could feel Lee’s eyes boring into me, but I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of boring back. If I need a Butt-Junkies Anonymous sponsor, I’ll ask for one.
Fondly,
Alejandra
P.S. I terrorized Augie into a dance lesson he didn’t really need, because it was supposed to be his penance for pulling a fast one on me. Instead, he learned the tap break in ten minutes flat, asked Mrs. Salabes to teach him two more of them, and then began improvising a pair of Gene Kelly routines from An American in Paris. I’ve created a monster.
Alé,
I happened to notice that you couldn’t keep your eyes off of you-know-who. It kind of reminded me of fifth grade when we put on a couple of scenes from the musical Brigadoon. Quita sang a song called “Almost Like Being in Love.” Would you like me to print out the lyrics for you? It looks like you might be needing them. And not for the Kiss Me, Kate audition either. Passion, thy name is Anthony.
—Lee
Lee,
Assuming you’re not inventing a
ll of this as you go along (which is so like you), I’m trusting you to keep your mouth shut. The last thing I need is for Anthony to find out. I feel like I’ve caught the Ebola virus and there’s nothing I can do about it.
—Alé
Alé,
Don’t worry—some people develop antibodies. I would have grabbed him myself when we were eight, except by then we liked each other too much to fall in love.
—Lee
Lee,
Remind me again. Why doesn’t he impress me?
—Alé
Alé,
Because you’ve still got it in your head that you’re supposed to marry a prince. Know what? The only thing T.C. doesn’t have is a sword and a battleship named after him. Everything else is Royal Family. Think it over.
By the way—am I the only one who’s noticed that Andy Wexler’s turned into a walking anxiety attack? Half of him may be in love with Augie, but the jock half is freaking out. Maybe Augie should tone down the Mary Martin routine until Andy drops back to Defcon 5.
—Lee
Lee,
Yes. You’re the only one who’s noticed. Do you enjoy cackling?
—Alé
INSTANT MESSENGER
AlePerez: Stop hyperventilating! You survived your first day on the swim team with Andy, didn’t you?
AugieHwong: Barely. We sat next to each other in our black-and-white-striped Speedos with our legs dangling over the edge of the pool, and my body managed to behave. That was the best I could have hoped for.
AlePerez: I can’t imagine why anyone would choose to be male. It’s just so unsubtle. Women only have to deal with breasts, which are what they are. They don’t suddenly stand up whenever they feel like it and begin pointing at something they want.
AugieHwong: You SO don’t know what you’re missing.
Andy hasn’t said much to me since we held hands. And whenever the other guys are around, it’s almost like we never met before. Dad says it’s because the one who makes the first move always gets scared until the other one makes the second move. Is he right? I mean, in the minute and a half between my brother asking you to dance and you saying yes, did he look afraid?
AlePerez: Wait a minute. That didn’t qualify as the first and second moves—did it?
AugieHwong: Duh.
By the way, I tried on my Kiss Me, Kate audition costume and ran through “Too Darn Hot” for Mom and Dad. (Dad made me do it again so he could videotape it for Grandma Lily.) Am I really cute?? Or was Mom just saying so because she had to?
AlePerez: You mean you didn’t know that?!
AugieHwong: Thank you for the italics and the exclamation point. My self-esteem issues just kissed my ass. Sort of. I mean, why does he pretend he doesn’t know me in front of other people?
Dear Jacqueline,
I’m a little dazed and confused, but I know all of the lyrics to “So in Love With You Am I” in sign language. This has been a very peculiar day.
I stopped off at The Word Shop to pick up my copy of Voices of the Civil Rights Movement that I’d asked Phyllis to order. Usually she’s handling two phone lines and the register, but that never stops her from seeing right through me.
PHYLLIS:
Good Lord, more civil rights? Honey, even Dr. King had a hobby. Here. Read The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. On the house.
ALEJANDRA:
I’ve already read it. Maybe I’ll just browse the New Fiction table and—
PHYLLIS:
He’s in the café.
ALEJANDRA:
Who’s in the café?
PHYLLIS:
Alejandra, your face may be pointing straight ahead, but your eyeballs are looking for Anthony Keller.
Naturally, I laughed it off as though this were the most implausible scenario I’d ever heard—then I thanked her, picked up my bag, and left the store. Besides, the café has its own entrance on Babcock Street.
Anthony was seated in the rear booth seemingly by himself, but that was only because Hucky is so short, it takes a while to notice his little blond head sticking up over the table. Judging by the foam on the end of his nose, I took it that Anthony was introducing him to that most unsavory of diets, hot cocoa and chocolate chip cookies. (Why he and Augie haven’t come down with rickets is an enigma far beyond me.) Since late afternoon is the café’s busiest crunch time, it took me ten minutes to work my way through the crowd and find an empty stool at the counter—but once seated, it was easy to keep an eye on them through the mirror on the wall behind the cappuccino machines. Perfect. I might as well be invisible.
“Are you Alejandra?” asked a harried café manager, tapping me on the shoulder.
“Uh—yes,” I replied, startled. “Why?”
“Gentleman in the back booth wants to know if he can buy you a drink,” he said impatiently. “And I could really use the stool.” I turned around to glower at Anthony. His chin was in his palm and he was shaking his head as if to say, “You know, it really doesn’t have to be this difficult.” Why was everybody ganging up on me??
“The only thing T.C. doesn’t have is a sword and a battleship named after him. Everything else is Royal Family.”
So I gave up the stool. I figured I could handle a walk on the wild side. And I wasn’t wrong:
When I sit down next to Anthony, he teaches Hucky how to spell “Alejandra” and “Alé,” and he teaches me how to say “I live near the park” and “I sing and I dance.” I learn that when I speak, I have to do it slowly so he can read my lips. I say “square” and Hucky draws one on a napkin. Then I make Anthony say it too. “Sqway-ah.” Hucky draws another square.
“He can read accents,” says Anthony proudly. Maybe, maybe not. But he can definitely read Anthony.
Hucky wants another cocoa. Anthony says no. Hucky sticks out his bottom lip and looks sad. Anthony says no again. Hucky draws a picture of a cup of cocoa with Anthony’s head popping out of it, then glances up disarmingly with a calculated smile. It’s so obviously manipulative, I can barely keep a straight face. But Anthony still says no. Hucky figures out who’s boss. He also figures out that there’s a weak link in the chain of command, because he turns to me with an angelic twinkle and twists his fingers into a pair of gestures that Anthony translates as “Please?” and “Pretty please?” I had no idea I was such a pushover.
“Why can’t he have another one?” I demand of Anthony, charmed off my feet.
“Because it’ll ruin his dinner,” he grumbles, like it’s the dumbest question on earth. “I’m surprised at you.” I decide it’s time to bring in the heavy artillery.
“You know you’re talking like a parent, don’t you?” I retort accusingly. That does the trick.
“EWWW! GROSS!!” Hucky gets his cocoa. Then he makes me come around to his side of the booth and sit next to him. I’m his new best friend.
We leave the café and turn down Harvard Street toward Amory Park. Anthony and Hucky are both carrying their gloves, but Hucky is also holding Anthony’s hand as well. Since Anthony is preoccupied with walk signs, green lights, and crosswalks, he doesn’t notice that Hucky is staring up at his face, oblivious to anything else in his world. I’m ashamed of myself for once thinking he was using Hucky to catch my attention. Get over yourself, girl!
As it’s 31 degrees outside by the time we reach Amory Park, we have the diamond all to ourselves. I deliberately sit in the bottom row of bleachers, where Anthony was sobbing in my dream, because an exorcism is definitely in order. Meanwhile, the team has taken the field. Anthony lobs a couple of easy tosses to Hucky, who only drops one of them. But when he does, he puts his hands on his hips and glares.
“That’s his mad face, Alé,” calls out Anthony. “You’re getting it for free. He usually charges admission.”
“Dish it back!” I shout. “Kids love it when you do that!” So Anthony puts his hands on his own hips and glares at Hucky, who promptly turns around so Anthony can’t see him losing the battle not to smile. He also sho
ots me a six-year-old wince that needs no translation at all. Did you tell him to do that? Did you? I thought you were on my side!
But Hucky gets even. When it’s his turn to throw, he pitches the ball straight up in the air as though it were a pop foul. In all honesty, it’s the kind of catch that Augie’s grandma Lily could probably make with her eyes closed, but Anthony frantically races back and forth underneath it as though it had been hit by Willie Mays. Finally he takes a belly dive by third base and goes skidding on his stomach toward the outfield with his gloved hand outstretched—while the ball drops harmlessly to the grass ten feet behind him. He pounds the ground in mock anguish as Hucky raises a triumphant fist. He’s invincible.
We detour by Toy Mart on the way home to find Hucky his Gold Glove present. (Requirement: under $2.00.) He heads directly for the rabbit’s foot bin, but once there he can’t decide whether he wants a blue one or an orange one.
“He’s playing us,” warns Anthony. “He thinks that if he can’t make up his mind, we’ll buy him both.”
“He’s right,” I reply. “I’ll get the blue one.”
“I’ll get the orange.”
We take Hucky back to the Children’s Residence, but since it’s still early, we go up to his room to watch Mary Poppins. His roommate Mateo hastily turns down our invitation to join us, though his eyes light up when Anthony hands him a blue rabbit’s foot. Then he hesitates nervously.
“Was this a real rabbit?” he signs.
“No,” says Anthony, shaking his head for emphasis. “Just pretend.” Relieved, Mateo races downstairs to show off his brand-new present, while Anthony and I sit on the bed with Hucky in the middle, as he scrutinizes Mary Poppins powdering her nose on a cloud. A good forty minutes passes in silence, but somewhere during “It’s a Jolly Holiday With Mary,” Anthony reaches out to hold Hucky’s right hand—checking on me out of the corner of his eye to see if I’ve noticed. I have. So I grab on to Hucky’s left one. According to certain principles of algebra and math, this means that Anthony and I are holding hands as well.