7
Zip Your Fly

I don’t need an alarm clock. I’ve got Dolly’s cello.

Every weekday, my sister is up, out of bed, and starting in on a half hour of practice by 7:15 a.m. On Saturdays, she waits until eight thirty, which my mom seems to think I should consider a major blessing.

People believe the cello to be this soothing, mellow instrument, but if you live underneath one, you won’t think of it that way first thing on a Saturday morning. You’ll think some insane doom-metal band has suddenly arrived to play a concert right in your house. Dolly’s room is in the attic, directly above mine, and I can hear the cello vibrations shake her wooden floor, inches from my ceiling, as soon as the bow hits the strings. Plus, there’s a vent that runs between our rooms. I can even hear her breathing. It’s horrible.

I’ve been complaining to my mom for two years, but she says that with Dolly’s mountains of homework, morning’s the only time she can practice. Dolly practices two hours a day, manages straight As, and is going for a scholarship at Juilliard, while I’ve got almost no musical talent, and a B is cause for major celebration. So I can complain all day, but my sister’s going to play whatever she wants, whenever she wants. This morning, it’s Bach’s Cello Suite no. 1, which I’ve heard approximately sixteen thousand times.

Since I’m obviously not getting any more sleep this morning, I decide to give Dolly a hand by helping her keep the beat. It seems like a fair trade-off to me; if I have to wake up before the sun does, I should at least be allowed some entertainment. I pick up my basketball from the floor and start bouncing it against the ceiling in time to the Bach. After ten seconds, Dolly’s glorious music comes to an abrupt halt, and the basketball takes a solo.

“Alex, come on,” she says, her volume no louder than if I were sitting right next to her. “It’s not like I want to practice. I need to. I’ve got a recital coming up in three weeks.”

“I’m trying to help you, Doll,” I say between basketball bounces. “You were slowing down in that one section, so I thought I could be like … what do you call it? A metronome!”

“Fine, I guess I’ll stop for a while and go eat breakfast with Mom. There’s all kinds of stuff we need to catch up on. Your new love interest, for example.”

I stop bouncing the ball, and she laughs. “Forgot about that, didn’t you?” she calls out before starting to play again.

It’s probably for the best. I’ve got a dance to get ready for, and it starts in just ten hours. I’ve got to study up on some French vocabulary, and I’ve got to put my outfit together.

Girls think that guys don’t stress out about what they wear. I can’t speak for all of guykind, but for us Episcopal schoolboys, who spend roughly 70 percent of the week (that’s five days) in uniform, getting dressed for a dance is a big deal, and there’s nothing easy about it. We might not want to admit it, but it’s true.

Three hours later, Nomura calls and informs me he’s wearing what I call his “second uniform,” the outfit he has on 99 percent of the time he’s not in school: white button-down shirt, khaki pants, brown dress shoes instead of black. I’ve given Nomura solid wardrobe advice before, but he ignores it; he wants to look like the captain of some debate team. He even claims it’s an intentional strategy to find a real, genuine person, not just a pretty face; if a girl can’t see past his clothes, he says, nothing good will happen between them anyway, so why bother spending money on trendy clothes that will be out of fashion in six months?

“I’m wearing black DKNY jeans, light-blue polo shirt, black Converse,” I say.

“No jeans at Spring Fling,” Nomura reminds me.

“You don’t think I can get away with black ones? You have to look pretty close to even tell they’re jeans.”

“Why risk it? Remember Fall Ball? Chris Donatello was kicked out for wearing jeans. No questions asked. You don’t want that.”

“Christianity makes no sense. I mean, Jesus walked around barefoot all day, and I can’t even wear jeans to a dance?”

“Put on some black dress pants and get over yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So, do you have a game plan yet?”

“Just what we talked about. The cards.”

“Excellent. I think it can work.” I notice that he says “can,” not “will,” work, but I let it go.

“Thanks. I’m on it. But did Ira do his part?”

“Relax. The deed is done.”

“Sweet.” Okay, I’m really, really starting to get nervous. I try to remember what Rocky said about staying relaxed. But can I pull it off?

“Oh, and last but not least: zip your fly!”

The zipper reference is no joke. Last October, during Fall Ball (my first St. Cat’s dance ever), I went to the bathroom and must have forgotten to zip up afterward. Totally clueless, I had my fly down for at least five songs. Nobody noticed until Jenna Minaya pointed at me and yelled, “I see London, I see France” from across the gym. Angela Gudrun and a bunch of other girls burst into an endless fit of laughter. Needless to say, it was the end of my evening; I mean, how could I ask a girl to dance after exposing my shorts in public?

But Nomura isn’t just literally reminding me to zip up. He’s also warning me that, as much as the dances fill our heads with a thousand images of our future girlfriends, there are risks involved, too. By talking to Bijou, I could either succeed in presenting myself as somebody she might actually find interesting, or I could ruin my chances of ever getting another St. Cat’s girl to so much as look at me.

Dances are dangerous.