that I like him now.
I mean
I do like him,
but I don’t like him.
AND SPEAKING OF REGRETS
I didn’t mind so much
when he gave me his phone number.
But why did I have to give him
mine?
When he asked me for it,
I could have just said that my mother
doesn’t let me get phone calls from boys,
even if they’re only friends, like he is.
That would have made it
perfectly clear to him
exactly where I stand
romance-wise.
But I didn’t.
I just gave it to him.
Like an idiot.
And now I freak out
every time the phone rings.
HE DIDN’T CALL LAST NIGHT
And he didn’t call this morning.
Poor guy.
He’s probably trying
to work up his courage.
Anyway,
I didn’t want to
just hang around the house
watching my mother watch TV,
so after lunch
I came over here
to Pearl’s Art Supplies
to spend some of my Hanukkah gelt.
I just bought one of those
real serious sketchbooks
with the black leather cover
that I’ve always wanted.
And some
professional drawing pencils,
with this super-soft lead,
that I’ve been lusting after.
I bought a few for Murphy, too.
For Christmas.
From a friend to a friend.
Purely platonic.
He’ll understand.
Won’t he?
MURPHY FINALLY CALLS
My mother answers the phone.
Her eyes narrow.
But she hands it over to me
and I take it into my bedroom
for some privacy.
That’s when Murphy asks me
if I want to go out
to the movies with him tonight.
There’s something about
the way he phrases this,
I think it’s the “tonight” part,
that worries me.
So I say,
“You mean go out out?
Like on an actual date?”
He’s silent for a second.
And then he says,
“Well, yeah. I guess.”
For a minute
I think about using the
“brother I never had” routine on him.
But it doesn’t feel right.
So I take a deep
I-don’t-want-to-hurt-him-
but-I-have-to-tell-him breath
and then I say that I think
he’s an amazingly cool
and fun to be with guy,
but I just want to be friends.
There’s a second silence,
and then Murphy says, “Good friends?”
and I say, “Great friends.”
“Okay, then,” he says.
“That works for me.”
And without missing a beat,
he asks me if I want to go over
to the library in Copley Square
this afternoon
and do some sketching, instead.
He says it’s great there
because all these old people
are sitting around reading
so they barely move
and they’re really fun to draw
because they have a million lines
on their faces.
I tell him I’d love to,
because now that I know
that he knows
exactly how I feel about him,
I don’t have to worry anymore.
WHEN I GET OFF THE PHONE
My mother wants to know
who it was.
So I tell her.
“Who’s Murphy?” she says.
“Just a friend.”
“From where?” she wants to know.
“From art class.”
“Are you sure he’s just a friend?”
she says,
folding her arms across her chest.
“One hundred percent sure,” I say.
“If you saw him,
you’d believe me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he’s not exactly cute.”
“Well,
I want to meet him anyway,” she says.
“No problem.”
“Before you go to the library.”
“Whatever.”
And I head to my room feeling all mixed-up,
because there’s a part of me
that resents her for being so nosy,
but another part of me
that’s glad she cares.
MOM MEETS MURPHY
I’ve never seen her be so friendly
to a boy before.
She’s almost acting like he’s
a long lost relative or something.
It’s sort of sad,
but I guess it’s because he’s so—
well,
he’s so challenged in the looks department.
She doesn’t even object when I bring him up
to my room to show him my drawing table.
Even with Zak or Danny,
that would have worried her.
But I guess she figures there’s no way
I’d be tempted to fool around with Murphy.
Too bad none of my boyfriends were homely.
I could have gotten away with a lot.
AT THE LIBRARY
I’m thinking that I could easily spend
the whole rest of my life
right here
in this peaceful room,
drawing all these ancient faces
and these gnarled hands,
only taking breaks to eat,
and maybe to sleep,
when I glance up from my sketchbook
and see Murphy smiling at me.
“I knew you’d like it here,” he whispers,
“’Cause you’re a real artist.”
This is the first time anyone’s ever
called me an artist, let alone a real one.
I feel like a whole new part of me
just got born.
ON THE BUS HOME
I end up telling Murphy
that when we bumped into each other
in the museum that day,
I was in the middle
of taking myself on a vacation
without leaving town,
and he says
he can’t believe what
an inspired idea that is,
and right away he starts rattling off
all these places I should go
the next time I do it,
like this really funny gallery
he just discovered last week
called the Museum of Bad Art.
He says it’s full of these fantastically
awful paintings with names like
Two Trees in Love and Nauseous.
But his favorite ones are
Burger on the Beach
and Sightless Dog with Ear Infection.
He says
I’ve just got
to see them.
And before I know it,
we’re planning a stay-in-town vacation
for two.
PAINTING THE TOWN
The Museum of Bad Art is just as funny
as Murphy said it would be.
Where else you could see
Any Fruit in a Storm
and Tinkerbell in a Time Tunnel
on the same wall?
From there, we go to the aquarium,
down on Central Wharf,
to sketch the electric elephant-nose fishes
and the bluestriped grunts.
We start inventing
our own ridiculous names
for every fish that swims by,
and dissolve into hysterics.
Next we go
to the Golden Palace in Chinatown,
and order pan-fried chicken dumplings.
(It turns out they’re Murphy’s
favorite food in the world, too!)
He starts “dubbing in” the voices
of the people sitting at the other tables,
like they’re in a foreign movie,
and I can’t stop laughing.
After that,
we feed the squirrels in the Public Garden
and Murphy gets one of them
to climb right into his lap
and eat out of his hand.
Then we ride the elevator sixty stories up
to the top of the John Hancock Building
to see how Boston looks
from 740 feet in the air.
And just as the sun
slips into the Charles River,
I realize that I can’t remember
a day in my life
when I’ve had more fun.
And when I turn
to look at Murphy
I see that he’s watching me
instead of the sunset.
HEADING HOME
Walking with Murphy
through the bone-freezing chill
towards the bus stop,
I start shivering.
And somehow,
when he slips his arm around me
to warm me up,
it feels right.
Righter than anything ever has.
BUT WE’RE JUST FRIENDS
Aren’t we?
And that’s how I want it to stay.
Don’t I?
That’s how it has to stay.
Doesn’t it?
I mean,
we’re talking about Murphy here.
He’s not exactly boyfriend material.
Is he?
I could never be attracted
to someone like him.
Could I?
That wouldn’t make any sense.
Would it?
I mean,
he’s Murphy.
We’re just friends.
And that’s all we’ll ever be.
Right?
I’M DREAMING
I’m dreaming
of the man in Le Bal à Bougival,
of him kissing me,
again and again.
I’m dreaming of his lips
sizzling all the cells in my body,
of wishing he would remove
every stitch of my clothes.
I’m dreaming of him
slowly unbuttoning my blouse,
the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds
of buttons on my blouse.
But just as the last one is undone
and he reaches out to do
what my eyes are commanding him to do,
he turns into Murphy.
And in my dream,
this only makes me
want him
more.
His fingers move towards me
in slow motion and I’m burning to know
how his hands will feel
cupping the lace of my bra—
but there’s suddenly
this invisible force field between us,
and his palms go flat and white against it,
as if he’s a mime.
Murphy looks shocked for a second,
then bewildered,
then he just shrugs with an accepting grin
as my alarm wakes me.
Now I’m lying here,
breathless,
with a tidal wave of confusion
crashing over me.
A POSTCARD
I step out onto the porch
and notice it lying there
on the welcome mat.
On the picture side
he’s drawn a caricature of himself waving,
wearing a Hawaiian shirt,
Bermuda shorts and slinkster cool shades,
with three cameras around his neck.
It says: “Greetings from Boston.”
And he’s even drawn
a tiny Le Bal à Bougival stamp.
On the message side it says:
“Having a wonderful time.
Wish you were here.
Wait a minute.
You are here.
And it’s a lucky thing for me.
Love,
Murphy”
I take it up to my room
and read it.
Seventeen times.
A SECOND LOOK
I just dug out the old sketch
that I did of Murphy
in art class.
I distinctly remember thinking at the time
that I’d really captured him.
But looking at it now,
I see that it isn’t
a thing like him.
I didn’t get
that impish gleam
he has in his eyes,
or that kid-like wonder.
And I didn’t catch any of his
goofy sense of humor.
And he has this way
of gluing his eyes right onto yours,
and zoning in on you so totally
that he makes you feel like you’re
the most fascinating person in the world.
I missed that completely.
It’s like I was looking at him
that day in class,
but I wasn’t really seeing him.
I CHECK MY E-MAIL
There’s one from Grace:
Dearest Fee,
Now we’re on Sanibel Island. The seashells here are just
about knee deep! I must have collected at least a million of
them. I decorated a frame with shells for Henry. I made
something for you too, but it’s a surprise. I can’t wait to
see your sperm panties and show you my tan. I miss you,
but not as much as I miss Henry (no offense).
Love, Grace
P.S. Met any hot guys?
And one from Rachel:
Fifi dahlink,
The lifeguard’s name is Jason, but it turns out he has a total babe girlfriend, which is probably a good thing. Now I don’t have to drown anymore. Besides, I’m finally starting to miss Danny. But not as much as I miss you.
Is that a bad sign? Can’t wait to show you my tan and see your sperm panties. Has it been lonely there? :(
Or did you finally meet Mr. Right? :)
xxxooo, Racie
I don’t feel like e-mailing
either of them back just now.
Maybe tomorrow.
Or the day after.
AN INVITATION
I call Murphy to thank him for the postcard.
He says he wishes we could spend
some time together today,
but he has to go Christmas shopping
with his mom.
And then he and his dad are buying a tree.
I’m amazed at how deflated I suddenly feel,
sort of like a day-old helium balloon.
But I tell him it’s no problem.
Then he says he knows I’m Jewish,
but would I like to help him
trim his Christmas tree tomorrow?
My stomach does this little flip-flop
and I say,
“How do you know I’m Jewish?”
“Because you didn’t invite me
to your Bat Mitzvah in seventh grade,”
he says with a soft laugh.
“Only because I didn’t know you,” I say,
and when Murphy doesn’t reply,
I add,
“Well, I knew you,
but I didn’t know you.”
“So, do you want to then?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say.
“If your parents won’t mind.”
“Are you kidding?” he says.
“They’re dying to meet you.”
And my stomach does another
little flip-flop.
WHEN MURPHY INTRODUCES ME TO HIS PARENTS
His father takes both my hands in his
and beams at me with the warmest eyes.
They’re Murphy’s eyes.
He says,
“Thank goodness you’re here to help us.”
The first thing Murphy’s mother says
(after “hello” and
“it’s so good to meet you”) is:
“My son tells me you’re Jewish.”
“That’s right,” I say,
while all the blood in my entire body
rushes to my face.
But then she says,
“I am, too,”
with the nicest, most welcoming smile.
It’s Murphy’s smile.
“I used to have the worst
Christmas tree envy,” she says.
“That’s probably one of the reasons
I married my husband—
so I’d finally get to have
a tree of my own.”
We all laugh at this.
“And I get eight extra days of presents,”
Murphy’s dad says,
“plus all the chocolate coins I can eat!”
We laugh again
and then they lead me into the living room
to get started.
IT’S A BEAUTIFUL TREE
So tall and full,
with all of its arms