As Seen on TV (24 page)

“He came right up to me and asked me where my pretty friend Sunny was.”

“What did you say? You didn’t tell him about Steve, did you?”

“Are you crazy? Erin and Brittany were following me around all night. I told him you had other plans that you couldn’t get out of, but that you said you were sorry you couldn’t make it.”

That sounds good. “Thank you.” Wait a sec. Did he flirt with her? She’s gorgeous. Why didn’t he hit on her?

“He didn’t hit on you?”

“Me? No. I told you, he likes you. I’m not going to hit on your guy.”

“He’s not my guy.”

“Yes, he is. I saw the way you two were eyeing each other. He told me to tell you to call him. He gave you his number?”

“He gave me his card at Carnival. He didn’t hit on Erin or Brittany either?”

“Are you kidding? They’re nothing compared to you. They were so annoying at the bar. Honestly, you’re not allowed to abandon me like that anymore. So, you going to call him?”

I can’t. Can I? “I have a boyfriend.”

“So what? It’s Matt Rowler. There are certain people you should be allowed to sleep with.”

“I doubt Steve would agree.”

“I thought he was into the kinky stuff.”

I probably shouldn’t have told her that.

“I don’t think that’s what Steve has in mind.”

S
teve has another funny look on his face. He’s either constipated or is thinking about my father.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

We’re sitting on the living room couch and his feet are on my lap. The credits for the latest episode of
Party Girls
are rolling.

“Something’s bothering you or you wouldn’t have that ridiculous look on your face.” I gently rub his big toes with my thumbs. He closes his eyes, obviously enjoying the sensation.

“I’m thinking about you with that TV guy,” he says.

Matt? Does he know I’ve been fantasizing about having sex with Matt? Not that I would actually have sex with Matt. I’m in love with Steve. I live with Steve. “Huh?”

He sighs. “Don’t you think you were a little harsh with that Cory guy?”

Oh, Cory. Harsh? How was I harsh? I stop massaging his
feet. “Can you tell me what’s really bothering you so we can move on?”

He rolls his head behind him, in a semicircle. “If we broke up, would you tell the entire world about some horrible deficiency I have? Was it really necessary for you to embarrass him on TV with that story?”

I cross my arms over my chest. Hmph. “First of all, I told that story weeks and weeks ago in a totally different context. I didn’t even use his name. Furthermore, if he hadn’t been stalking me, they wouldn’t have used it.”

“He wasn’t stalking you,” Steve says with a dry laugh. “He probably had no idea you were going to be there, never mind with cameras.”

“Of course he knew I was going to be there. The TRS Web site announces what bar we’re going to. When you came did you not see the line outside? Do you think you could have gotten in without being on the guest list? You have to RSVP at least a week in advance.”

“He just wanted to say hello. I wouldn’t call that stalking. I think you’ve started to take yourself a little bit too seriously and it’s making me nervous.”

Taking myself too seriously? Please. “Yeah, I’m flattering myself, that’s it. I wanted to have an ex-boyfriend show up so that I could embarrass him on television. That was my master plan.”

He sighs and rolls his head again. It cracks. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What are you doing to your neck?”

“It’s just tense.”

“Why are you so tense? You’re mad at me because I’m a snobby bitch?” I look away from him because I can feel my eyes fill with tears.

“I didn’t call you a bitch. I’m just a little disappointed that you weren’t nicer to him. That’s it. I’m not mad at you, okay?”

I’m still staring at the wall.

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Sun, look at me.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and gently turns me toward him.

I’m crying. I hate that he thinks I’m capable of being so mean.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess I was a bit of a bitch.”

“You weren’t a bitch.” He wraps his arms around me. “Why are you so upset? We’re just talking. It’s nothing to get upset about.”

“I don’t know,” I say. I can’t stand the idea of him thinking I’m not perfect.

The summer I was twelve, I did a terrible thing.

Every summer counselors were required to assess each camper: her personality, how she gets along with others, any incidences of homesickness, whatever the counselor found relevant. These “evals” were for Marcus, the owner and director, and were never shown to the campers or their parents. Although the campers weren’t supposed to know about these evaluations (what kid wants to think that her counselor thinks she’s a loser?), by the age of eleven every one of us knew what “can’t go out tonight, gotta finish my damn evals” meant.

I was sitting in the counselors’ room (they had their own roped-off section of the bunk) with another camper. Pretty and used to getting what she wanted, Jill was the type of girl who wouldn’t think twice before calling a heavier girl fat, right to her face. On at least two occasions I had seen her bring younger girls to tears.

I noticed a pile of papers on Carrie’s bed, next to her pillow. When she left the bunk to get our mail from the office, leaving Jill and me alone in her room, I motioned to the pillow. “Evals,” I said. The action felt illicit, like saying
penis
at a slumber party.

Jill’s eyes widened and she bent over to pick them up. “Should we read them?”

I nodded. I wanted to know what Carrie thought of me. We
leafed through the evaluations. I grabbed mine and Jill grabbed hers.

Sweet and considerate, Sunny is one of our favorite campers in the bunk. Not only does she participate in all the activities, she’s always the first one in the water, the first one to make her bed in the morning, and the first one ready to go to the next activity. She relates to all the girls in the bunk, and manages to be a part of every clique without excluding anyone.

Always friendly, Sunny has a deep sadness within her. Severely scarred by her mother’s death, she often breaks down in tears. Hopefully, in time, she’ll heal.

Although I was pleased that my counselor thought so highly of me, I was also mortified that she thought I was emotionally stunted. And what she had written was a downright lie. The only time I had ever cried in front of her was when David didn’t want to go to the camp social with me.

Jill was furious with her eval. Apparently she was a “vicious child who had no regard for anyone else’s feelings.” She wanted to show the rest of the bunk their evals, so we brought them out and passed them around. After everyone had read theirs, Jill piled them back up and put them back where we’d found them.

At around one in the morning, when I was already in bed, I heard Carrie and her co-counselor whispering outside. My bunk bed was up against the window and I could often hear conversations that weren’t meant for me.

“What little bitches. Let’s ask Sunny. Maybe she saw them.”

They came into the bunk and stood by my bed. “Sunny? Sunny? Wake up.” Carrie sounded desperate and sad.

I pretended to be asleep.

“Sunny, I really need to talk to you.”

I opened one eye.

“I think someone in the bunk read my evaluation sheets. Did you hear any of the girls talking about it? Was it Jill? Carly? Please tell me, Sunny, I’m going to get into huge trouble for leaving them out.”

“What?” My heart was pounding, and I pretended to not understand. “What sheets?”

“Never mind,” she said. “I don’t think she knows anything,” she whispered to the other counselor.

I spent the next week crying in the bathroom. Partially because I felt bad about what I’d done, but mostly because I was terrified they’d figure out it was me who did it and no longer consider me one of their favorites. They never found out.

I can’t stand the idea of someone not liking me.

When Steve leaves for work the next morning, I spit my teeth bleach trays into the sink (two more nights) and then head straight to my redecorated Internet room, which includes a beautiful oak computer desk.

I dragged Steve to the furniture department of Stark’s for an entire afternoon. He whined the entire time and I picked everything out. I bought a new oak desk and chair for the new office, a new queen-sized bed and new soft, two-hundred-and-fifty thread count sheets.

I’ve done a lot of redecorating since my stuff arrived from Florida. I’ve added a feminine, homey touch with my velvet beige couch, lots of blankets, towels, dishes, vases, pillows, candles, night-lights and picture frames. I changed most of the pictures when I packed them—I thought pictures of Millie and me in front of the Eiffel Tower should be replaced with more couple appropriate shots. Steve and me on the beach. Steve and me in Central Park. Steve and me at the Passover Seder at his parents’ house last April. I put the pictures of Dana and me, of my mother and me and of Mickey Mouse, my father and me up on the new bookshelf I bought at Stark’s. Steve gave me a shot of his parents and one of his nieces and nephews to put up. I’ve never met his sister’s kids, but they look sweet and cute, with puffy cheeks and big brown eyes. She had five. Steve calls them at least once a week and tries to see them whenever he can. They live on Long Island and Steve wants us to plan a day where we go visit.

“I want five kids, too,” Steve said once. I’ve always wanted a big, cozy family, but five kids seems like an awful lot of months to be pregnant.

I put my feet up on the computer desk and type my name into Google. It’s amazing how much time you can waste looking for articles about yourself on the Internet.

Sometimes they say I’m “pretty,” “smart” and “responsible.”

Sometimes they say I’m “unattractive,” “Goth” (?), “moronic.”

When I see the former I’m filled with love and happiness. I love these people. I silently thank them for taking the time out of their busy schedules to share their cherished thoughts with the world.

When I see the latter I fantasize about kicking the crap out of the assholes who are so lame and pathetic that they have nothing else to do with their useless lives than spend their wretched time criticizing me.

A bitch? I’m a bitch? What if someone who hasn’t seen the show reads this? What if someone judges me solely based on what they read?

I decide to tilt the conversation in my favor, and make up a pseudonym to say nice things about me.

I chose the pen name, Alex, for no reason except that it pops into my mind.

Next, in order to join the community, I have to describe myself, so others have the option to read About You. I should probably leave this blank to reduce the risk of being discovered, but I worry that having no bio might arouse suspi
cion—I imagine angry women pointing fingers at their screens, screaming “Who is this woman and why is she saying nice things about Sunny? If she has no bio she must not exist! It must be Sunny impersonating a fan!” I decide to create a bio. I don’t want to be from New York or Florida—too generic and fake-sounding. No big cities. I decide to be from Illinois. I thought Chicago sounds too big-city forged, so I search for a map of Illinois and hunt for Alex’s hometown. Springfield? Nah. Peoria? Better. I type it in. Wait. What if someone asks me what it’s like to live in Peoria? I change the city back to Chicago. At least I’ve been there. Naturally, the community mafia doesn’t let me sign up until I tell them my e-mail address. Should I just make one up? No, what if they e-mail me something and it bounces back to them? They’ll
know.

I go into Hotmail and create a fake e-mail address with my fake name. And now I have to remind myself to check this e-mail address because what if someone e-mails me and I don’t answer?

Then I head back to the link about me and write, “I definitely think Sunny deserves to be on the show. She’s nice, she’s smart and she’s very attractive. I love her hair. I wouldn’t watch the show if it weren’t for Sunny!”

Send.

Now I feel better.

Kind of.

My arms are jiggly?

I have been feeling a bit bloated lately. I have my period again. (“Again?” Steve cried, a bit incredulous.) The last time wasn’t a real period, it was a fake one triggered by the missed pills. This one is the real one.

Anyway, back to my bloatedness. I’ve cut down on carbs, but I haven’t done any weights. Maybe I should take advantage of that Hardbody free gym membership. Maybe I’ll take one of those kickboxing classes. So if I ever run into Sas or Big M I can beat the crap out of them.

“Let’s start with some chin-ups,” the instructor tells me later that afternoon. She had a cancellation and was able to see me right away. She’s short, compact and mean-looking.

“No problem. This is all new to me.” I like the idea of me being a boxer. I’m tough. I’m dangerous. I can kick your ass.

I’ve never done chin-ups. Which is probably why I have jiggly arms. I step into a contraption that involves footrests, weights and a metal bar.

When I told Michelle I was coming for kickboxing, she promised I’d love it. She says she does it every day. No wonder her arms are so firm.

“Do twenty,” she tells me.

I pull myself up once. No problem. Hah! Twice. No sweat. Three times. A bit more difficult but still no sweat. By my sixth up, my arms are on fire.

“I can’t do any more,” I say, and stop upping.

“Yes, you can,” she says. “Fourteen more.”

Ooh. Ah. Ooh. Ah. What a miserable gym. No wonder it’s free.

After the chin-ups, the Gym Nazi transforms the exercise machine into another mechanism of torture and makes me do four rounds of various incarnations of pull-ups. When I’m finally done, I follow her into an empty spot in front of about twenty people running on treadmills. “Skip,” she says, handing me a rope. “Three hundred.”

Skipping I can handle. Please. That’s all I ever did at recess. And eat peanut butter cups. I loved those things. No more. Too fattening. I can’t have people on the Net calling me fat, can I? “Then do we get to box?”

She shrugs. “We’ll see.”

I position the pink rope against the back of my ankles. Over and jump. And again. My mother, your mother, lived across the lane. Again.

Oops. I step on the rope by accident.

“Sorry.” I position the rope against my ankles again. My mother, your mother…

Crap.

I start over again. One. Two. Three. Four. This time I’m on a roll. Wohoo! Six, seven, eight times! Nine! Ten!

I am the world’s best skipper. No one can skip like I can skip.

Ooops.

Isn’t this supposed to be a kickboxing class? How about less skipping, more kicking? “Can I do something else instead?”

She rolls her eyes. The treadmillers roll their eyes, too. “Three hundred!” she barks.

Twenty minutes later, I’m finished. Then I’m told to do jumping jacks, then sit-ups, then more sit-ups.