Teenage Waistland Read online

  Char turns, and miraculously shifts to being all grins again. “Hey, Bobby—up for a little adventure after group tonight?” She giggles and gives him this playful shove. I’m ready to vomit blood on my dumb navy and white striped sailor shirt.

  “What?” Bobby says.

  “Hi,” I blurt stupidly. I’m an idiot.

  Bobby doesn’t even notice. Char is chatting his ear off as I follow them into the building and onto the elevator. Betsy says, “Just in time,” as I trail them into the room. Everyone is already there, and we take the three open seats left in the circle. Char grabs the middle one of course.

  “Okay, everyone. Before we go through our meal sheets—wait, everyone has them—your recording of meals and snacks—right?” Betsy says looking around. Bobby’s working his hand in his front pocket and pulls out a folded square. It looks like one of those paper fortune-tellers Char and I used to make. You pick a number, move the points, then pick another number, until you open a flap to reveal one of the fortunes you made up. You will kiss Bobby, I say to myself, and visualize it for a second. This is a ridiculous baby thing to be thinking. I’m embarrassed about my own mind sometimes.

  “Hold on to them for a second,” Betsy says. “I’ve got your surgery dates!” She’s waving a sheath of paper like it’s a victory flag.

  Everyone claps, but not Char. No, she’s shimmying! “Bring it,” she shouts, and gets everyone into another round of clapping and laughing. I lean forward to glance at Bobby. He’s laughing too, of course, but his eyes are, like, glued to Char’s jiggling chest. I think Marcie’s also catching this. She’s got a smirk on her face. Marcie’s okay, but I don’t see why Char’s getting so cozy with her. They exchanged phone numbers at Chow Fun House two weeks ago, after the first group session.

  Char’s really focused on everything changing. Lately, all her sentences begin with “After we get the bands …” I’m not sure if I can change. I’m not even comfortable not wearing black. It’s like I’m falling further behind. When Char was blabbing away with Marcie and Lucia in the restaurant, I just sat there. Same thing with Bobby. I just sat there while they were giggling up a storm. It’s like she’s this champagne bottle and I’m a cork. She’s the one transforming before we transform. I mean she’s sociable enough in school, but here it’s like a Char Gone Wild video.

  “Most of your surgeries are scheduled for the third week of July,” Betsy says, startling me out of my thoughts. “And—this is critical, folks—make sure you confirm your date and time with your parents and bring back this form signed.” Betsy passes the surgery schedules to Coco, but before Coco can take hers and pass them on to Lucia, everyone is out of their seats grabbing for a copy. Char and I have our surgery on the same day. I’m in the morning, seven-thirty, and she’s at three p.m. This is already backward: Char leads, I follow.

  “Marcie and Bobby are two days before us,” Char whispers.

  “I can read,” I say, and she makes a face at me.

  Coco raises her hand and Betsy nods at her. “Is it possible to switch dates?” Coco says.

  “Why? Is there a problem?”

  “It’s my birthday. My father’s closing down his restaurant, Sunday, July twelfth, for the party.”

  Betsy looks at her sheet. “Oh, I see you’re that first surgery the Friday before, Coco.”

  “Your dad is closing his restaurant for your birthday party?” Char interrupts. “Way cool.” It sure beats closing his life for it, anyway.

  “It’s a big thing,” Coco responds. “The fifteenth birthday, it’s called a quinceañera. It’s like a bat mitzvah or a sweet sixteen, but Mexicans do it at fifteen. I have family coming in from California and all over.”

  “So it’s like a debutante ball?” Jamie asks. Marcie rolls her eyes at Char and Char grins back.

  “Yeah, I guess.” Coco shrugs. “Oh, and everyone here is invited.”

  “Anyone want to switch with Coco?” Betsy says, surveying the circle.

  Bobby’s hand shoots up, but Ms. Lip Ring—this is what Char and I named her last week—calls out, “I will. I don’t do those kinds of parties.”

  “Bobby, you’re one of the first as is, so let’s let Tia switch with Coco,” Betsy says. Bobby mumbles something about football practice, but Char leans into him to whisper. All I can make out is the word waste.

  Bobby seems to like whatever Char said to him, because he’s smiling and nodding. Then he leans into her and whispers something back. Char jumps out of her chair like she’s just been lit on fire and shrieks, “Hey, everybody, we can all celebrate Coco’s birthday at her party and have a final presurgery blowout commemorating the initiation of our group here as—are you ready?—Teenage Waistland! W-A-I-S-T-land!”

  Dead silence. Could Char have bombed? I feel guilty for the little surge of glee I feel forming in my stomach. “Well, maybe we could call ourselves Blub Busters,” I suddenly hear myself say in an almost-whisper. I’d like to think it was to try to save Char from the embarrassing silence, but I did come up with the name after Char’s Teenage Waistland tirade on the train. There are a few murmurs in the room, but then I hear it—singing:

  It’s Alex—the one Marcie calls Geek Olive. And he’s singing the Who’s “Baba O’Riley”! And then Lucia. And Tia. Now Marcie. They’re all singing it! By the time they get to “It’s on-ly teen-age wasteland,” the whole room is belting it out, Char and Bobby the loudest. I don’t even know all the words to that stupid old song, but it doesn’t matter—all everyone’s howling now is “Teen-age Waist-land,” over and over until the inevitable laughing and fist-bumping breaks out.

  Betsy, totally red, claps her hands loudly. “Enough, Teenage Waistland. We’ve got important things to get to. Char, I need you to stay after group for a few minutes.”

  After the meeting breaks, Char emerges from the room looking a little solemn, but she lights up when she spots Bobby down the hall heading back from the watercooler. “Teenage Waistland, yeah,” he says loudly, putting his fist in the air. She waves her fist back at him.

  “Teen-age Waist-land,” she chants again. “Right, East?” She elbows me.

  “Teenage Waistland, for sure,” I sputter, hoping this time to be more than the silent partner in this duet. Bobby joins Char, Marcie, and me as we head to the elevator.

  “Are you guys still going to grab a bite?” he says, mostly to Char.

  Marcie giggles.

  “But of course,” Char says. “Just as soon as we run a little errand for Marcie.” Marcie clears her throat. “I mean, for Marcie’s sister. And then we’ll hit Chow Fun House. Hard.”

  I groan softly. She was serious about the stupid dildo thing.

  Char puts her face in mine. “Lighten up. And stop adjusting your damn shirt. You so look fine.” I’m about to ask her what Betsy said, but she skips ahead to walk with Bobby. Char’s happier than maybe I’ve ever seen her and Bobby doesn’t even know I’m alive. As Char glances back over her shoulder and motions for me to pick up my pace, I realize that I’m not a tagalong at all. I’m deadweight.

  13

  A Gift for Liselle

  Friday, July 10, 2009

  Marcie (−3 lbs)

  We’re tromping south on Lexington to Come Again Erotic Emporium. I’m in front, East is dragging a bit behind me, Char and Bobby are pulling up the rear. I’m marveling at the epic genius of Char Newman. Jen listened to me rip into Liselle and this ridiculously excessive graduation party Abby’s throwing for her. For like an hour, we came up with hillarious schemes to embarrass Liselle and destroy her gala, but then in the end Jen said seriously, I should just get her a nice pair of earrings.

  “Liselle’s not nearly as bad as you say. Stop with this mighty vendetta of yours and chill out,” Jen said. I growled that not only has she lost her feminist balls but she was also selling out to the forces of evil—she had borrowed a shirt from Liselle when she stayed over. There’s no way I’m blowing my allowance on something nice for that witch—no way, no how. But C
har—it took her, like, two seconds, right outside group last week, to assess the situation and come up with a graduation gift for Liselle that guarantees utter humiliation for her—and a one-way ticket back to Boston for me.

  A dildo.

  “Look, it’s not healthy for Liselle to be humping every guy in a ten-mile radius. You’ll be doing her and the world a favor by slowing the spread of STDs,” Char explained while I stood gaping like an idiot. “It’s the charitable thing to do.”

  It took about another two seconds for me to imagine a bikini-clad Liselle, presiding over her society of numnuts on the patio, opening gifts: First, Liselle’s peeling back the tissue paper on her gift from June. It’s a cute little beach hat, and she puts it on so the morons can coo over her for an hour. Then comes the David Yurman diamond bangle from Ronny and Abby, and she gasps—the ooohs and ahhhs reach fever pitch. Her attention still on her new diamond booty, she unwraps my gift and holds it up. The guys are hooting, the girls screaming, and the look on Liselle’s face—once she realizes she’s got a big plastic dick in her hand—is priceless.

  I examined Char’s face to see if she was screwing with me, but she didn’t even blink. I threw my arms around her, told her she was very sick, and made her promise to go dildo shopping with me—and, of course, join the fun on Liselle’s big day. Jen’s coming too, but when I told her about Char’s dildo plan, she was a total buzz kill. “Marce, stop! We hate all prejudice—against race, religion, whatever. But here you are imposing this whole ‘slut’ thing on Liselle merely because men find her attractive. It’s not right, it’s not even true, and it’s not who you are.” After we hung up, I ate almost a whole box of Double Stuff Oreos.

  I turn around to ask Char what colors dildos usually come in, but she’s busy gabbing with Bobby, so I wait for East to catch up to me.

  “So, you and Char go dildo shopping often?”

  East reddens, naturally. She’s a little winded by the walk and wisps of her black hair are sticking to her face.

  “Uh, no. This is our first time.” She looks back toward Char, as if she’s annoyed at being stuck with me. Oh. Like it’s a big party for me.

  I’m about to ask East some inane question about her family or something to break the ice, when Char shrieks, “This is it!” We cluster around a store window filled with whips, edible underwear, and various other items I can’t begin to identify.

  East starts laughing hysterically like she’s having a nervous breakdown. “I’m not going in there!”

  “Yes, you so are,” Char says in a monotone. She slips her arm through East’s and drags her to the window. Bobby steps back toward the curb and fumbles with his cell phone so it looks like he’s not with us. The scene is a little freaky—three huge girls with their faces pressed up against a porn-store window like it’s Godiva or something.

  “This is an adult store, Char. Eighteen and over, it says,” East whines.

  “Like they’re going to card us,” I say. “They won’t, will they?” I turn to Char.

  “Don’t be silly. Bobby has a fake ID anyway.”

  “Oh, right,” East says. “You’re going to send him in to buy a dildo?” Bobby’s still holding his cell phone like it’s his ticket out of here. Char walks over to him and whispers something in his ear. He starts laughing and puts his phone away.

  “Okay, ladies. Let’s go shopping,” he says, and saunters over to the door. Char’s right behind him and I’m behind her. East is still sulking by the window.

  “Grab her,” Char orders, and she follows Bobby in.

  “C’mon, East. This’ll be a scream. I promise—no one will get arrested,” I say. But the door closes behind me.

  Char and Bobby have already made their way past the racks of bright red satin lingerie to the counter. They’re pointing at items behind the glass and laughing. “No clue. I’m going to have to look this up on the Internet,” Char is saying.

  “Over here, Char,” I say. I’m standing before a dazzling array of flesh-colored penises twirling around in a large rectangular glass display case. Bobby is trying to be cool about it as Char guides him over, but his face is flushed and he mutters something about finding East and takes off.

  “There goes our expert,” Char says, and we giggle. A guy in tight black leather pants clears his throat.

  “Ladies?”

  “Oh, hello,” Char says with a hint of an English accent. Like she’s a freaking duchess or something. “We’re looking for, um, one of those, sir.” I’m dying to laugh out loud, but manage to make my choking sound like a coughing fit.

  “Any particular size and color preference?” the man asks coolly, as if we’re discussing bathroom tile.

  Char and I look at each other.

  “We’re looking for the biggest bang for the buck,” Char says, completely straight-faced. I turn away in peals of laughter. “Hey, how much do you want to spend, Marcie?”

  I fumble for my wallet. “Thirty dollars?”

  The man snorts. He opens the case and pulls out a large shiny penis and flicks the switch at the bottom. It starts to rumble, and it’s all I can do not to start howling again.

  “Basic version—no bells and whistles. Fifty bucks. Cheapest one here. Batteries not included.”

  Char pulls out a small slip of paper from her back pocket. She hands it to me. “It’s a coupon. Ten dollars off any fifty-dollar purchase. I got it off the Internet.”

  “Done,” I say, and hand the man the coupon and Abby’s credit card—the one she gave me for emergencies. This is an emergency. If I don’t get out of this store immediately, I’m going to pee in my pants.

  14

  Chow and Fun

  Friday, July 10, 2009

  Bobby (−3 lbs)

  Last time at Chow Fun House, Freddie Kawasaki wanted to squeeze eight of us into a booth for six. Char had taken one look at where Freddie was heading, made a sharp left, and guided us straight to a table for twelve with a Reserved sign on it like she was the maître d’. Char and Freddie stared each other down for a few tense seconds, then Freddie took away the sign and brought back some tea.

  This time, he takes one glance at Char swinging her curls and surveying the room and gives us a nice, roomy round table for six. She laughs and says, “Perfect, Freddie, thanks!” Dad would get a kick out of Char; he also firmly believes that a group that eats double its head count should call the shots in any restaurant.

  Char plops down next to me, Marcie takes the seat next to her, and East, who was heading toward Marcie’s chair, looks bummed to be on my other side. The girls go to the bathroom right after we place our orders. Guys don’t make taking a whiz a group activity, but I guess the girls also want to blab on about this dildo thing in there.

  The dildo thing. I’m thinking how to play it for MT. Sex in the city, dude. Hanging with a group of babes I met in Manhattan. There’s even a Charlotte, except she goes by Char and she’s blond with a major rack. Exotic Asian chick too. Went shopping with these girls for some sex toys. MT would cream over that. I’ll close with, Teen tour boy—I can’t handle them ALL by myself—wish you were here. And leave out the little fact that Char and her friend might outweigh our whole offensive line.

  Truth is, though, these girls are fun. Especially Char. She was cool when I was acting like a loser at first in front of Come Again. She whispered, “C’mon, Bobby. Show us girls how it’s done.” And suddenly I wasn’t a needledick anymore. Because of something a fat girl said to me. Which, I guess, makes me even more of a loser. If MT or the other guys get wind of me with them and this whole situation, I’ll have to move out of state.

  I’m watching the girls pile out of the bathroom and weave carefully, single file, through the tables toward me. East’s hip bumps into a chair and she makes a great save before it crashes. She hangs her head so her hair covers her face, and I dump three more packets of sugar into my tea so she thinks I didn’t notice. Really shy, that girl. We didn’t say much to each other when I blew out of that store.
Her back was to the window and her arms were crossed, and I went up to her and said something like “Char’s looking for you.” She got all uncomfortable and mumbled that Char knew exactly where to find her. So we just stood there staring at the pavement until East said we were blocking the view for window-shoppers, and we moved to the edge of the sidewalk. Then Char and Marcie came running out of the store together all giddy. East said, “Can we just go now?” and we headed over here.

  Freddie Kawasaki is making his way across the room with a big steaming platter. I’m thinking we’re all thinking the same thing: please be our order. Sure enough, he opens a folding stand and sets down his tray right behind East. Freddie delivers the soups and puts each appetizer in the center of the table, whipping off the metal covers like he’s a magician making a rabbit appear, and announces, “Fried pork dumpling, shrimp spring roll, chicken teriyaki, double-order barbecue sparerib,” and like three other apps. Then he says something to East in what I figure is Japanese, and she shrugs and gets all red. Char, Marcie, and I order even more dishes than last time, and once Freddie finishes broadcasting our feast to the entire restaurant, we look at the food and then each other. Marcie makes the first play.

  “Next week, after we get the surgeries, we’ll be licking postage stamps for a rush. Let’s do it while we can,” she says, and dumps a sparerib on her plate. “Who’s got the duck sauce?”

  After that, hands are flying all over the table and the appetizers are gone. Freddie’s back in no time, chuckling, with another steaming tray, and I’m halfway done scarfing down my lo mein and some of Char’s chicken katsu before I realize I’ve never eaten so much in front of any group of people but my family. And I’m having a blast doing it.

  “Send over that tempura platter stat,” I say to Marcie, and she passes me the dish. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.”

  15

  Coming of Age

  Sunday, July 12, 2009

  East (−6 lbs); Char (−3.5 lbs)