“Come on, Amanda, you must know some decent single men.”
It was a rainy Saturday morning, and Phoebe and I were talking to Amanda in the knitting shop she owned on Main Street. It was called Wild and Woolly and was just a couple of blocks away from the William Berto School of Hair Design. Mom and Amanda had met when Mom signed up for Amanda’s first-ever “Stitch and Bitch” workshop five years ago. As far as I could tell, this meant a group of women got together in her store after hours and did ten percent knitting, thirty percent drinking, and sixty percent complaining about men. They’d been good friends ever since.
“If I did, don’t you think I’d have introduced them to your mom by now?” Amanda answered, as she stocked a shelf with balls of emerald green angora wool. “Besides, your mom tells me this new guy is different.”
“She said that about Paulo, too,” Phoebe said.
“And Jonathan, and Alphonse, and Guy,” I added.
Amanda sighed. “Yeah, I know. But maybe she’s right this time.”
“Please. I’ve met him. He looks like Mole Man.”
“Who’s Mole Man?”
“I don’t know, I made it up. But that’s what he looks like – part man, part mole.”
“And his name is Dudley Wiener,” Phoebe added.
“Now, girls. Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Amanda said, as she headed back to the counter, Phoebe and I trailing behind her. “Remember, my boyfriend’s name is Cosmo.”
“True,” I replied, “but Cosmo is hot.”
“Totally,” sighed Phoebe.
Confession: I might be a love cynic, but Amanda and Cosmo were the one couple I rooted for. They’d been seeing each other for almost two years and were perfect for each other, like a right shoe and a left. When I saw them together, my heart did like the Grinch’s when he heard little Cindy Lou Who sing that day … it grew.
“Cosmo must have some friends,” I said.
But Amanda just laughed as she tucked a piece of her long red hair behind her ear. “He has plenty of friends. And I wouldn’t wish any of them on your mother.”
“They couldn’t be any worse than Guy. Or that drunk Karen set her up with,” said Phoebe.
“Carl,” I said.
“True,” Amanda replied. “But they’re still not good enough for your mom. Besides, it’s not all about looks and names, and you know it. Maybe Dudley’s got a great personality.”
“Highly doubtful,” I said. “But I guess I’ll find out tonight.”
“Tonight?” Amanda raised an eyebrow.
“She’s invited him to dinner.”
“Wow. That was fast.”
I nodded glumly. Usually we were spared that unique form of torture until after she’d had at least a few dates. And since Mom hadn’t even mentioned her first date with Dudley afterward, I kind of figured it was over before it had ever really started.
Last night, I found out I was wrong.
What happened was this: Mom arrived home shortly after six, carrying a DVD and a take-out bag full of Thai food from Sawasdee, just like she did every Friday night. Rosie placed a blanket in front of the TV, and I arranged the food on top of the blanket while Mom grabbed a cold beer for herself and glasses of milk for Rosie and me. Then Mom popped in the movie, and we all sat down on the blanket and started to eat.
It was the same routine week after week, and I loved it. See, Friday night is the official Gustafson Girls’ Night. It’s the one night of the week that Mom keeps free and clear for me and Rosie. No dates, no company – not even Phoebe or Karen or Amanda. Just the three of us.
Anyway, last night we were about half an hour into Ocean’s Eleven, a caper movie starring George Clooney, when the phone rang. We aren’t supposed to answer the phone during Gustafson Girls’ Night. But when Mom saw the number on call display, she picked up, blatantly breaking one of our rules.
“Hello?” Mom said, like she didn’t already know who it was. “Dudley, hi …” She left the room, clutching the portable phone to her ear. She was gone for almost half an hour. I know because Rosie and I watched a whole episode of “Jeopardy!” while we waited.
When she returned, I said, “You do realize you are in violation of a number of official Gustafson Girls’ Night rules.”
“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “I hope you girls don’t mind … I’ve invited Dudley to dinner tomorrow night.”
“What? You’ve only been on one date,” I protested.
“Well, yes and no. We’ve had coffee every morning this week.”
“Really.” It bugged me that I hadn’t known this. “What kind of job does he have that he has time to sit around drinking coffee with you every morning?” I asked. “Or is he ‘between jobs’ like Jake?”
“He owns a bath shop. It doesn’t open till ten.”
“A bath shop. Like, he sells tubs?”
“No, items for the bath. Towels, shower curtains, soap dishes –”
“Toilets?”
“No, Violet.”
“Toilets for pooping in,” giggled Rosie.
“Anyway,” Mom continued, “he’d like to meet you both.”
“Why? Is he a pedophile?”
“Violet!”
I was getting on her nerves, and it felt quite satisfying.
“What’s a pedal file?” asked Rosie.
At that point, Mom just grabbed the remote and restarted the movie, and that had been the end of that.
“You’re sure Cosmo doesn’t have any friends?” I asked Amanda again.
“For the last time, I’m sure. And might I point out, it’s not really your job to find a man for your mom.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “But since she’s so dead-set on having a man in her life, and since her choices affect us, too –”
“Yeah, remember the rock-throwing incident?” Phoebe interjected.
“I’ve made it my mission to find someone more suitable,” I concluded.
“And I’m her sidekick,” Phoebe said. “The Watson to her Sherlock. The Gayle to her Oprah. The Robin to her Batman –”
“I get it,” Amanda said. “So you don’t think Dudley’s The One?”
“God, no.”
“I think Dudley’s nice,” Rosie announced as she joined us from the back of the store, where she’d been checking out the bins of buttons.
“You think everyone’s nice,” I reminded her. “And you met him for five minutes.”
“He liked my crown,” she said, like that was somehow significant.
The bell jingled over the door to the shop and Cosmo entered, followed by a couple of customers. “Hey, girls,” Cosmo said when he saw us. “Hey, gorgeous,” he said to Amanda. When his eyes met hers, his expression went all soft and goopy. Then he took her hand and kissed her fingers one by one, and she smiled, and it was like they were the only two people in the world. I could feel my heart expanding.
“We’ll go,” I said.
“Bye, girls. Go turn some heads,” Cosmo said. And even though we knew it was just Cosmo being Cosmo, Phoebe and I both giggled like a couple of dorks.
Amanda walked us to the door. “Violet?” she said. “Give Dudley a chance tonight, okay? Don’t get up to your old tricks.”
“What old tricks?” I asked innocently as we stepped outside.
The three of us walked a couple of blocks farther down Main Street to the Liberty Bakery. Mom had given us some money to buy ourselves a treat, like she did every Saturday, so that she could shop at Costco in peace. The sidewalks were slick with rain, and we had to dart our way in and out of a sea of umbrellas.
The bakery was bright and warm and smelled like yeast and sugar. I bought a Nanaimo bar, and Phoebe and Rosie got fudge brownies. We were just about to leave with our treats when a boy walked in. Phoebe grabbed my arm and pinched me, hard.
Then I saw what she saw. It wasn’t just any boy, it was Jean-Paul. He was wearing jeans and a dripping-wet bomber jacket on his lanky frame, and his dark wavy hair was plastered to the sides of his head. It accentuated his nose, which was rather large.
“Oh my God,” I murmured. “He’s adorable.”
“This from the girl who’s vowed to never have a boyfriend,” teased Phoebe, who took every opportunity to let me know that she thought my vow was ridiculous.
I shrugged. “It doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the opposite sex on a purely aesthetic level.”
He’d spotted us. “Hi, Phoebe. Hi, Violet,” he said.
“Hi,” Phoebe and I replied in unison. I tried to think of something more to say. “This is Rosie,” I said, pointing at my sister.
“Hi, Rosie,” he said. Then to me, “Nice shoes.”
I was wearing my new Converse high tops with the skull and rose motif.
“Thanks.”
“I’m just buying some bread for my mother,” he said.
“Oh,” I replied.
Silence.
“Well,” Jean-Paul said eventually, “see you in school.”
He was about to move past us into the lineup when I blurted, “Parlez-vous français?”
His face lit up. “Oui, bien sûr, je parle français. Mon père vient de Québec. Et toi?”
I stared at him blankly. “Pamplemousse,” I replied.
He looked at me like he was trying to figure out if I was making a joke. He must have decided I was because he gave a halfhearted laugh before he joined the lineup.
Phoebe, Rosie, and I stepped outside, pulling up the hoods on our rain jackets.
“Why did you call him a grapefruit?” Phoebe asked.
I groaned. “I thought I was saying ‘fantastic.’”
“That’s fantastique.”
“Great. Now he thinks I’m an idiot. Or a French-hater.”
“So? What do you care what he thinks of you?”
“I don’t.”
“Liar. Besides, I think he likes you. He spoke actual words to you!”
I rolled my eyes. I appreciated Phoebe’s belief that a guy like Jean-Paul would even look twice at a scrawny and forgettable girl like me. But seriously. As if.
The three of us turned toward home. We came to Phoebe’s house first. It was new, but designed to look like the other older homes in the neighborhood. Phoebe ran inside to tell her mom that she was heading to my place. A couple of minutes later, she came running out, clutching a Tupperware container.
“Günter’s apple strudel,” she said. I was pretty sure Phoebe’s parents thought Rosie and I were undernourished because they were always sending Phoebe over to our house with large amounts of homemade food.
Eight houses down, we arrived at our place. It was painted aubergine, which is a fancy word for eggplant, which is a fancy word for purple. The paint was peeling. The grass was ankle-high. One of the gutters was broken and dangled over the front porch. The railing leading up the front steps wobbled dangerously. An old love seat that we’d meant to bring to the Salvation Army was still sitting on our porch a year later, its insides hanging out, torn up by a family of mice.
The neighbors were walking to their car. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Bright,” I said, even though I was pretty sure they wouldn’t respond. And they didn’t; they just gave me the hairy eyeball.
The Brights used to talk to us, when my dad was around. They’d even given me a box of musty old books when they found out how much I like to read, and there were a few treasures in there, including an early edition of Stuart Little by E.B. White. But once Dad left, Mom couldn’t keep up with the home repairs. The Brights dropped subtle hints. Then not-so-subtle hints. Then, last year, they called city hall. We knew this because a man came around to our house to follow up on their complaint. He told us that the Brights had called our property “a disgrace to the neighborhood.” Mom lit into the guy, telling him that she’d like to see him try to maintain an older home as a single parent raising two kids on a limited budget. He backed right off.
Inside, Phoebe, Rosie, and I peeled off our rain jackets and dumped them in a heap on the floor. Mom was still at Costco, so we sat at the kitchen table and devoured our Liberty Bakery treats and Günter’s strudel all in one go. When we were done and I’d made Rosie have two glasses of milk because her bones were growing, I sent her to the basement to watch a video. That’s right, a video. We had a DVD player in the living room, but Mom had bought the VCR at a yard sale for ten bucks, and since then she’d picked up hundreds of videos for as little as twenty-five cents because no one wanted them anymore.
“Okay,” said Phoebe, belching softly. “Let’s make a list of every single man we know.”
I grabbed a pen and a pad of paper.
SINGLE MEN WE KNOW
by Violet G. and Phoebe S.
Mr. Patil, our teacher. Rumor has it he still lives in his parents’ basement and spends all his money on his model train set.
Daryl, the guy who runs the local pet shop. Nice guy, but weighs about three hundred pounds and smells like gerbil poo.
Mohamed Karami, a student at Mom’s hair design school. Handsome and hilarious; also gay.
Donald Somebody-or-other. Works with Phoebe’s dad. Nice enough, but pretty ancient and supposedly has had both hips replaced.
Frank, the homeless guy. Sometimes hangs out on Main Street and writes poems on scraps of paper.
We both agreed it was a pathetic list. Finding a good man for my mom was clearly going to be a daunting task.
“Hi, Phoebe. Hi, Violet,” Mom said as she lugged bags of groceries into the house.
“Hi, Ms. Gustafson,” said Phoebe as she nonchalantly folded the list and slipped it into her pocket.
“Violet, I need you to help me bring the groceries in from the Rust Bucket.” The Rust Bucket was the name she’d given to our ‘95 Mazda. “Then I need you and your sister to help me clean up the house. Dudley’s supposed to be here in an hour, and I haven’t even showered yet.”
Phoebe got up. “I should get home, anyway. Cathy and Günter are taking me to a poetry slam tonight.” Phoebe’s parents were always introducing her to new cultural experiences.
I walked her to the door.
“Have you got your questions memorized for tonight?” she asked.
I tapped my head. “It’s all up here.”
“I wish I could watch.”
“Me, too. But it’s better if you don’t. I might need you for down the road.”
“Do you think there’s going to be a down the road?”
I took a deep breath. “I seriously hope not.”