Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love Read online

  “You guys look like garden gnomes,” says Matthew, laughing. Trip hunkers down and makes comical gnome-like movements. Kat struggles not to smile and fails. We start to walk along the gravelly path.

  The past sunny week has deslushified the ground, leaving only the glittering remains of melting icicles dripping off the tree branches. Now that it’s March, little nubs of green crocus tips are pushing up through the dirt, right on schedule.

  “All right,” says Matthew as we walk. “We have a few basic questions for all of you. First: What is your experience of love?”

  “Whoa there, youngstah!” Trip exclaims, turning around. “What do you mean? Second base, third base, all the way?”

  “He said love. Not baseball,” says Kat, with the tiniest shade of Violin Kat edge in her voice.

  “It’s all sport, beautiful Katarina!” says Trip, throwing his arms wide. “A competition, with winners and losers. And some lucky dude takes home the gold medal! All shiny and golden, just like your pretty hair.”

  “That’s fascinating, Trip,” I say. “But what we really need to know is, have you ever been in love?”

  “And if so,” Matthew continues, “what qualities in the environment, or circumstances of meeting, or in the actual object of your affection—”

  “—meaning, the person you fell in love with,” I add, to clarify.

  “—right, which of those factors caused or contributed to the actual ‘falling in love’ experience?” asks Matthew.

  “And,” I go on, “if there was a subsequent ‘falling out of love’ experience, exactly what change may have occurred in said environment or circumstances—”

  “—or object of your affection—” says Matthew.

  “—right, to precipitate that happening?” Whew! Matthew and I high-five. We are good at this.

  Trip and Kat and Jess are staring at us like three bobble-heads from those quarter vending machines, trying to keep up.

  “You know,” says Jess, “I’m NOT being critical, but that is actually kind of complicated.”

  “But they’re asking about love,” says Kat. “Love is complicated. People do terrible things for love.” This is the sort of thing her dad often tells her. I feel the Russian melancholy wafting in, pooling like fog around her feet.

  “You crazy kids today,” says Trip. “When I was fourteen we didn’t care about love. We just wanted to make out!”

  We’re approaching the center of lovely Gram. There are few people here besides us: an overdressed woman with her overdressed dogs, a businessman in a trench coat talking on his cell phone. There is someone who’s always here, though, and as we reach the central circle he looms in front of us, black and imposing and always just about to speak. It’s the statue of Edwin Booth.

  Edwin Booth, says the plaque at the base of the statue, was the greatest American Shakespearean actor of the nineteenth century. He was also the brother of John Wilkes Booth, a less talented actor who ended up far more famous than Edwin because he assassinated Abraham Lincoln. However, I don’t think there are any statues of John Wilkes Booth in New York City or elsewhere, so the moral is, it pays to come by your fame honestly.

  “Let’s cut to the chase here,” says Trip as we reach the statue. “What is this project? What is it that you kids wanna know?”

  “To BE, or NOT to BE?” replies Edwin Booth, with really impressive diction. But I think I imagined it. I mean, duh, of course I imagined it.

  “The secret of love,” Matthew says.

  “Why some combinations of people fall in love, and others don’t,” I explain.

  “It was Felicia’s idea,” Matthew adds helpfully.

  Trip turns to me. “And how much Canadian hydroponic monster weed did you smoke to come up with this notion?” he asks, sounding more friendly-teasing than mean-teasing.

  It occurs to me that I’m going to have to explain this over and over again should we actually make it to the science fair, so I might as well get thick-skinned about it. “Well, I’ve had this big crush on Matthew since, like, September,” I begin oh-so-casually. “And it made me wonder what exactly is the reason for things like that happening.”

  “You devil!” Trip smacks Matthew on the arm.

  “People sometimes call it chemistry. We’re calling it X, since we don’t know what it is.”

  “Yet,” Matthew adds.

  Trip looks at me with a fresh appreciation that seems totally genuine. “That’s fearless,” he says. “I think you are the coolest chick I ever met.”

  “That’s because she IS,” says Jess, hugging me fiercely. Kat nods her endorsement. Is Matthew getting all this? I look at him, but he has his scientist face on.

  “Bummer that we lost Randall, though,” Matthew says. “We sure could use the data points. I wonder what’s up?”

  Trip snorts, the ways of the world so obvious to him. “Read the writing on the wall, people!” he says, striking the same dramatic pose as Mr. Edwin Booth, Shakespearean Actor! “Randall doesn’t want to answer your probing questions about love because he’s in love! And I think it’s with the Marie Curie of romance here!”

  It takes me a minute to realize he means me.

  Now everyone is looking at me. Even Edwin Booth is looking at me.

  Me! You know, the coolest chick ever?

  Love objet of the Randinator?

  ME????

  6

  Two Brownstones, Two Interviews, Too Much Information!

  As their wanderlust reaches critical, a conga line of photons say “¡Mañana!” to the sun and go partying across the solar system till they hit the Earth’s atmosphere, curving ever so slightly before whooshing across the Pacific Ocean; then California, the Rocky Mountains, and the flat Midwest to fragrant New Jersey; they skitter across the Hudson River, wait impatiently for the light to change on Broadway, and, finally losing speed, slant through the west-facing windows of the Moonbeam Diner to make strange, late-afternoon patterns of light and shadow on our table as Matthew and I sip chai tea and review what we’ve learned from our interviews so far.

  For one thing, we’re ditching the questionnaire. When it comes to love, multiple choice does not cut it.

  Also, we concede that the Kittens and Dawgs, much as we worship them, have disappointingly little useful data to offer about love. To wit:

  Jacob: The L-train girl. ’Nuff said.

  Trip: Sees a girl, falls in love. Five minutes later the feeling’s gone and he’s on to the next girl. He has no explanation for this and suspects it’s related to his ADD. (“But you can get into a LOT of trouble in five minutes!” he chortled.)

  The Randall-Loves-Me Thing: Sacre bleu! Too much for my Kittenbrain to process, not to mention this is the last thing I want to sit here discussing with Matthew! Both of us have tactfully neglected to bring it up.

  (By the way, Randall turned in a completely bogus questionnaire, filled with insightful responses like “No comment” and “I don’t know.” However, in the part where we ask for suggestions of other people to interview, he put down that we should meet with his sensei— that’s his martial arts instructor. Matthew and I agree that this sounds intriguing. So now, in addition to our parents, the Miscellaneous Adults list includes Randall’s sensei, Mr. Frasconi, and Miss Dervish Greenstream, sitar teacher to the stars.)

  Jess: She hung out with a boy from her synagogue briefly last year, but it was mostly a by-product of the peace rally she was organizing. Once the posters were finished they didn’t have much in common. She also admitted to warm feelings of admiration for Gandhi and a true schoolgirl crush on Mr. Rochester, that brooding, tormented stud-muffin from Jane Eyre, but Gandhi is dead and Mr. Rochester is fictional, so that’s not too helpful.

  Kat: As expected, Kat claimed to steer clear of Dawg action, because of her music-mindedness and also because her dad has no intention of allowing her to date till she’s like, thirty. However, after much flirtatious prodding from Trip she confided that there’s some weird vibe going on with
her new accompanist, Dmitri, a gross old guy who is giving her the creeps. More news as it develops!

  And don’t forget Matthew and his pal, his pardner, his ol’ buddy, me. Felicia. Insert a Sigh of Unbearable Frustration HERE.

  And that is the Moonbeam roundup. We are hoping our interviews with the grownups will provide juicier material. Without some specifics it’s going to be hard to design our experiments, which Matthew says is our next task.

  “Based on your observations, you might notice, say, that plants seem to need light to grow. That’s your hypothesis. But now you have to prove it. So you design an experiment where one plant is in the light and one plant is in the dark, and you chart their growth, keeping all other variables the same, and soon you have lots and lots of data! And that’s doing science!” Matthew is never so happy as when he’s explaining something tedious like this to me. But I don’t mind. I watch the way his lips move over his teeth as he talks. I wonder if he’s more of a wet kisser or a dry one? I wonder if he’s ever kissed anybody who wasn’t a rabbit? Would that I could find out!

  Matthew goes to pay for our chais at the cash register, leaving me alone for some private pondering. It’s pretty easy to see when X is in the room, but what the borscht is it? Some thoughts:

  I can see that Trip definitely gives off X, but not the kind that would work on me, for instance.

  And it’s obvious that Kat has the kind of X that works on many Dawgs, like Trip, for example, but if it only lasts five minutes then it’s not really X, is it?

  And, okay. This business about ME having X, except it’s only visible to Randall’s bespectacled eyes? That makes no sense. How could I give off X for Randall but not for Matthew, when Matthew is the Dawg of Dawgs, my soul mate of soul mates?

  Earlier, after we left Gram (through the gate this time, moseying out after the cell phone/trenchcoat/businessman guy with a key, who gave us quite the dirty look) and the Kittens and Dawgs went our separate ways, I asked Kat and Jess what they thought of Trip’s insane proclamation that Randall was in love with me. I mean, Randall? Please.

  “Oh my GOD! I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before!” exclaimed Jess. “Randall is ALWAYS so nervous around you! It explains a LOT.”

  “But, but but—” I sputtered. “But RANDALL?”

  “He’s very smart. And not a show-off, like other boys,” murmured Kat. Was she thinking of Trip?

  “And he’s CUTE! But of course, you’re SO not interested! I mean, you’re in love with Matthew. So put it OUT of your mind!” said Jess, neatly solving this problem, as she does all others.

  Oh! It was my turn to look like a cartoon of a surprised person. Did my Kittenpals think Trip was right? And do they actually consider Randall to be potential LovahDawg material?

  I mean, please! RANDALL?

  Randall’s X is obviously misfiring, that’s the explanation. His signals are getting crossed and confusing everyone. Or maybe Trip really is a spoiled thug and was teasing me, and the Kittens are mistaken. It could happen.

  I decide to follow Jess’s advice and put the whole Randall thing out of my mind, which is already TOO FULL! With thoughts of Matthew, of course. Now that we’re spending so much time together, the flame under my krazy Kittencrush has been turned up, up, up. What was a steamy simmer is now a constant, rolling boil. Not that he’s given me the least sign of encouragement. He doesn’t have to. He’s Matthew Dwyer, and that seems to be all it takes to put my X-receptors into overdrive.

  “Hello!” Mrs. Dwyer says brightly when I arrive at Matthew’s apartment—whoops, I mean house, in Park Slope, Brooklyn, on Friday evening. I had suggested we interview Mère and Père Dwyer together at a time when his dad would be home from work, and Matthew, though a bit lacking in enthusiasm, agreed.

  “You must be Matthew’s friend! Come in!” she titters. Brownstone houses in Park Slope, for those who do not know about these things, are nice, very nice, MUCH nicer than where my mom and I live. I start to kick off my shoes, because we never wear shoes inside at home, but then I see that Mrs. Dwyer is in a pair of beige pumps. When in Rome, keep your shoes on.

  “Matty!” his mom sings out. “Your friend is here!” She walks backward into the dining room, smiling at me, making little follow-me gestures with her hands. I follow.

  There’s a tray already set out on the huge mahogany table, with a silver pitcher of juice and three glasses.

  “What a nice home you have,” I say.

  “Yes,” she agrees, pouring me some juice. “Do you and your parents live in Park Slope? It’s such a lovely neighborhood!”

  “No, my mom and I live in the East Village,” I say. She’s looking at me in a funny, intense way. “And my dad lives in New Jersey.”

  Her smile takes on a twist of sympathy, but whether in response to the divorced parents or New Jersey I can’t tell.

  Matthew appears in the doorway. He looks damp, like he just got out of the shower. “Hey,” he says. “Mom, this is Felicia.”

  “What a lovely name,” Mrs. Dwyer says. She keeps looking at me. I wonder if I’ve got bird poop in my hair or something.

  “Where’s Dad?” says Matthew.

  “Oh!” says Mrs. Dwyer. “He had to work late.”

  “Right,” Matthew says. “We should get started, then.”

  “There’s no rush, Matty!” says Mrs. Dwyer. “I like chatting with your friend.” She takes a huge, heavy photo album off one of the bookshelves and hands it to me just as I’m about to sip my juice. I put my glass down so I can hold the album.

  “Mom—” Matthew says, sounding annoyed.

  Mrs. Dwyer ignores him. “You might enjoy seeing these!” she says to me. I flip open the book. Baby pictures! I’d recognize Matthew anywhere.

  “Bald as an egg till he was three,” Mrs. Dwyer confides. I flip the pages forward. Now Matthew is in kindergarten. He’s holding a trophy that’s nearly as tall as he is.

  “Such a serious little face,” she says. “And he won! Imagine his face if he’d lost! But Matthew always won.”

  “We just have a few simple questions,” Matthew mumbles to the table.

  “So how do you like the MFCS?” Mrs. Dwyer asks me. “We think it’s such a lovely, progressive school. I wish Matty would tell us more about what goes on there!”

  “Can we get this over with?” says Matthew.

  The phone rings. Matthew pops up like a piece of toast and scurries out of the room to grab it. Mrs. Dwyer is still smiling at me. “So how long have you and Matthew been . . . friends?”

  “Oh, six months, I guess,” I say. “Since school started, more or less.”

  “REALLY?” she says, as if this were important news. “Would you like some strudel?” she offers.

  In a flash, I realize: she thinks I’m Matthew’s girlfriend.

  But how bizarro is that? I mean, if I were Matthew’s girlfriend, for six months, wouldn’t she have met me before? And didn’t Matthew tell her about our science project?

  Matthew comes back into the room. “It was Jacob. Our meeting with Miss Greenstream is confirmed for tomorrow. He gave me the address. One o’clock, right after his lesson.”

  “Great,” I say.

  “Miss Greenstream? Is she a teacher at school?” asks Mrs. Dwyer. She’s still smiling, but it’s starting to look a little strained.

  “She’s Jacob’s sitar teacher,” I say.

  “Who’s Jacob?” she asks.

  “A kid at school,” says Matthew blandly. “We have to ask a few questions about you and Dad.”

  “How come you never bring your friends over?” says Mrs. Dwyer to Matthew.

  “We would love to know how you and Mr. Dwyer met!” I chime in.

  “Oh, such a long time ago! I can barely remember,” giggles Mrs. Dwyer, though it’s not clear what’s funny. “It was at work. Matthew’s father and I used to work together.”

  Data! At last! I decide to press ahead. “Would you say it was love at first sight?”

  “More l
ike forbidden fruit!” She giggles again, nervously. “The grass is always greener, something like that.”

  I’m not following this. “Why was it forbidden? Because you worked together?”

  “My dad was married before,” says Matthew to me. He turns to his mom. “So you mean he was still married, when you—”

  “Such a long time ago,” Mrs. Dwyer says. “Really, it’s hard to remember.”

  Matthew’s face has an expression I’ve never seen before. Totally calm in a way that’s the opposite of calm.

  “I think we’re done,” says Matthew. “I’ll walk Felicia to the train.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Thanks for the juice.”

  “You’re welcome!” chirps Mrs. Dwyer. She pats my hand. “I hope you’ll come by again!”

  Matthew and I don’t say anything at all till we’re crossing Seventh Avenue, approaching the corner where I have to catch the subway back to Manhattan.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” he blurts suddenly. “Too much information, right?”

  Too much? I don’t think I’ve ever been part of a conversation where so LITTLE information was shared! But it seems like Matthew and his mom are both pretty good at keeping secrets.

  “Maybe the data will be useful,” I say, kind of embarrassed for him but wanting to put a positive spin on things. “Maybe we can form a hypothesis out of that ‘forbidden fruit’ idea—”

  “Nope,” Matthew says. “See ya tomorrow. Quarter to one, I’ll meet you by the subway, at the southwest corner of Eighty-sixth and Lex.”

  “See ya,” I say. And Matthew lopes off.

  As I watch him go, I have a brand-new and unprecedented thought about Matthew, which is kind of amazing, when you consider the amount of Matthew-thinking I’ve done in my young life.

  My thought is this: Matthew’s not—you know. Perfect.

  Even on a Saturday, crossing Lexington Avenue is a task that requires a person’s full attention. With the grim determination of paratroopers leaping out of an Air Force jet into enemy terrain, Matthew and I step into the crosswalk, on our way to the Upper East Side brownstone of Miss Dervish Greenstream.

  A yellow cab turns through the intersection way too fast, skidding through puddles six inches behind us. Matthew shouts over the street noise, “Are you getting wet?”