Some Girls

Keith was the name of Allison’s first high school boyfriend. He was Japanese and wore suits to class. When he ran for student body president, he passed out lollipops with the tag, “Kandy for Keith.” She should’ve known, but didn’t.

In college, he wrote speeches for Arnold when the former Terminator was governor and Californians had briefly lost their minds voting for an Austrian body-builder, a Republican one no less. When Keith came out officially the year after graduation during his own mayoral race, he had only this to say to her on Facebook, “You should’ve trusted your gut.”

*

Allison’s husband is writing a play. His co-writer likes to wear sherpa-lined jackets and eat peanut butter with a fork when they meet for matcha and to plot. The other guy is a sophomore in college.

“He’s very precocious,” her husband told her when the partnership first began.

“Don’t use ‘very’ in front of a word like precocious,” was her reply. “It makes it sound like you’re trying too hard.” She did not mention anything else; did not worry about what to do next.

*

Edwin was Allison’s best friend—still is. When he talks, he uses his hands, which are big and brown, like the rest of him. Once, she saw him play volleyball during a mission’s trip to Hawaii, shirts versus no-shirts. He was no-shirts; it was a bad idea. She could never like him after that, which proved to be useful.

At the end of the trip, he broke up with Charlene, her roommate, when she picked him up at the airport. Next came Bernice, who had self-esteem issues.

“Every girl has self-esteem issues,” Allison told him, whenever he complained on her couch.

“Not you,” Edwin said.

“That’s because we are not dating,” she replied.

“You’re the only one that meets my standards,” he said, then added. “You and Mai.”

Then he ended things with Bernice. Before Allison had time to wonder if her turn was up, he went ahead and asked Mai out. That too, ended promptly after a year.

Six months later, he married a girl who had an overflowing rack and talked with the demeanor of someone who saw everything, but felt very little. At the wedding, when asked why, Edwin said, “Why not?” These days, when he talks about his marriage, he says, “I could’ve married anyone, and it would’ve worked.”

*

Allison befriended Seth in geometry class at the start of sophomore year, when he still talked with a downward gaze and she still had a beard. Still, she wore the raciest thongs, the kind that laced up in the back and had bows in the front, made from tarp-like material that shone against her dun-colored ass.

“Aren’t thongs uncomfortable?” Charlene would ask during laundry nights.

“Yeah, but Seth says they help,” Allison said. She didn’t say with what, and before Charlene could ask, the moment had passed.

These days, Allison still gets an email every time Seth visits VictoriasSecret.com, or Redtube, or any website with more than one “X” in its address. They set this up years ago, in the name of keeping each other accountable.

“Why bother with Victoria’s Secret?” Charlene said.

“What do you mean?”

“Why look at almost-naked women when you can go straight to the fully naked ones?”

Allison shrugged reluctantly. For a moment, the light behind her eyes flickered, as if caught in some impending revelation. But then she seemed to turn right back around.

“Maybe he is just warming up,” she said.

“Didn’t you say he really liked thongs?” Charlene asked, trying to be helpful.

Allison nodded, unsure of what that meant anymore.

“Why look at almost-naked women when you can go straight to the fully naked ones?”

*

At Intelligentsia Coffee, all the old men wear Converse and the young men wear smoking jackets with loafers, as if Venice was caught in some wrinkle in time. Seth dis-identifies with both, choosing instead to be enrobed in the most unopinionated outfits possible—earth tones, slack jeans. His nineteen-year-old partner affords more editorializing—trucker hat, flavor-savor.

So far, over matcha, all they’ve decided is that Barron James, a self-identified gay man, has just slept with his best female friend. They are only two hours in, but already character development is posing to be an issue. There is no formula, only scene: ugly condo, Men’s Health, flavored waters, Frederick’s of Hollywood.

“What’s up with the Frederick’s,” the co-writer asks, more of a protest than a question.

“It’ll make him more interesting,” Seth answers.

*

“It wasn’t the sex, was it?” Charlene asked, years later.

No, it wasn’t that; that would’ve been too obvious. At least, Allison didn’t think it was the sex, although how could she have known? Keith held her hand and let her listen to the sound of his heartbeat while they watched My Sassy Girl, over and over. Edwin was an almost-somebody, but almost never counts. Once, she made out with a stranger on Lafayette Street, outside the Public Theater in Manhattan. He tipped her head back and reached down, down, underneath her puffy jacket until the pressure against her body subsided and he gave her a funny smile before letting go entirely. She could never figure out what made him stop, why he didn’t invite her home that night, or even follow through on his own hatched plan of fingering a nobody in public.

*

Seth and the nineteen-year-old discuss the enigma that is Barron James. If Anne (Heche) could marry a man after Ellen, if Ricky (Martin) could break gringa hearts everywhere when he wrote a memoir to reveal he prefers Jwans over Rebeccas in the days pre-Twitter, then we have nothing to explain, they decide. This leads them to wonder if all writing is autobiography. This last question is asked only by Seth, but intended for his partner to hear.

*

Some women attract deadbeats; others, their fathers; still others, serial killers, Wall Street guys, beta males, teachers. Isn’t it possible, then, for some women to attract gay guys?

*

The epilogue opens with Female Best Friend standing on a plane with a melon of a belly sitting on her lap. She is discussing the fjords of Norway with a blonde flight attendant whose skin is the color of figs.

“How good is their English?” Female asks.

“Everyone speaks English,” the flight attendant answers. “And probably four other languages. I’m learning Croatian.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’ve been to Croatia a bunch of times. It’s a gem. Do not tell anyone,” she says, looking around, pretending to be nervous.

From a seat in the last row, a man moans, “Sweetums, sit down already, please?”

Question: Is this man Barron, or someone else?

Answer: What about autobiography?

*

Mr. Roulette always swayed in front of the chalkboard as he worked out derivatives by hand. For an AP Calculus teacher who wore dad jeans, he maintained a disgusting amount of rhythm. Just as he closed in on the final answers though, he would spontaneously turn around and call on the first person his fish eyes landed on. Usually this was Seth, for reasons unknown to the rest of the class.

“What comes next?”

Seth looked down, mumbling something that sounded like Elvish. Mr. Roulette drew closer to him, closer, then closer still, until his lips were bent over the swirl of hair on top of Seth’s head.

“Can’t hear you,” he whispered, so sensual it was sick.

“Tell us the answer already,” Allison demanded. Gratitude at her intervention turned into being classroom friends that exchanged conspiracy theories about the secret content of teachers’ water bottles. Classroom friends turned into walking to the 7-Eleven after school, which turned into pretend-dates with Netflix DVDs at each other’s houses, which turned into real dates to get dumplings.

The theater boys, who used to always hit on Seth—tackling him in the middle of rehearsal, touching his hair in the hallways, locking him in urgent hugs every time the bell rang—simmered down; it was unclear whether there were amused or irritated by the smirks they threw at the unusual couple.

It was unclear whether there were amused or irritated by the smirks they threw at the unusual couple.

The first time they kissed, he pecked her first on the cheek, then looked intently on her mouth, as if making up his mind. She looked back at him obediently, wondering, is he going to do it? Their skin and muscles touched, like puzzle pieces being forced together. He seemed to be squeezing her torso, until finally it was her who unlatched first.

Afterwards, they both agreed: No more kissing. It was too tempting, each of them said out loud. Only Allison thought they both meant the same kind of temptation—the kind of kissing that begs for foreplay and then demands penetration. Seth knew differently, of an alternative temptation—the kind that involved turning around, and going in another direction.

*

When the play finally came out, the co-writer called to say, “Congratulations,” to which Seth replied, “It’s all autobiography.” The co-writer forgot to ask, “Which part?” But then again, destiny is defined by the roads we decline to take.

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