My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [9]
“Excellent. I was worried because the only boots I could find to fit over my stupid calves are pleather, and they usually reek after I stand around in them for a while. I’m just hoping their funk doesn’t permeate the room.”
Stacey gives me a wry smile. “No worries.”
“Although I’m probably one of the only ones in here who won’t lose a toe to frostbite tonight.” Then I suddenly remember why we came in the first place. “Hey! Where’s your boyfriend?”
She stands on the balls of her feet and scans the crowd. “Not here yet.” Stacey recently reconnected with a high school crush via Facebook, and it turns out they’re both friends with our hostess. Stacey hasn’t seen Crush in twenty years, but still remembers how she’d swoon every time he walked into geometry class. Having transferred schools and lost credits, Crush found himself the only senior in a roomful of freshmen, of which Stacey was one. She says she spent the entire semester gazing at him the same way Samantha Baker stared at Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles.
“I have no idea if I’d even want him as a boyfriend. Adult Stacey may have very different taste than Young Stacey. I’m not wearing Love’s Baby Soft anymore. I’m also not into slap bracelets or white Ray-Bans or asymmetrical haircuts.” Stacey shrugs and looks around the room again. “It’ll just be fun to see him again, though. Hey, wait—there he is!” Crush spots Stacey and jogs over, practically picking her up with the force of his hug.
This? This guy is Jake Ryan? But where are his plaid shirt and work boots and forward-brushed haircut? Is his Porsche out front? And what of his sweater vest? I mean, this dude’s a perfectly normal-looking forty-year-old guy. I suppose he’s handsome enough, but nobody’s heart is exactly going to skip a beat at the prospect of sharing a birthday cake with him on a glass-top table.17
Stacey introduces us. Interestingly, Crush shares a name with a famous department store. While we shake hands, Stacey briefs me on Crush’s life and various accomplishments. I learn about his advanced degrees and his big-deal job in human rights law and how he leads a weekly discussion group in an upscale gastro pub about the various ills befalling our fair city, to which I reply, “Your blueberry muffins kick ass.”
His expression is guarded. Maybe it’s a lawyer thing? “Heh. Yeah. You must have grown up on the East Coast.”
“I lived there till I was ten!” I exclaim. “Anyway, are you any relation?”
He gives me a crinkly smile that may have been what fueled Stacey’s crush twenty years ago. “Afraid not.”
“Bummer. I bet you’d get all the blueberry muffins you could eat if you were a department store scion.”
Except I don’t think I said “scion.”
I might have said “cyclops.”
He and Stacey give me odd looks and begin to chat when I’m struck by another thought. “Hey,” I bark, “how funny would it be if your name were Marshall Field? Wouldn’t that be hilarious? You could get all the Frango Mints you want! HA!”
They politely nod and begin to reminisce about high school. Since this is a reunion of sorts, I find it’s the perfect time to recount my favorite scenes from the WB’s series High School Reunion, but neither of them saw it, so no one laughs when I shout K.K.’s famous line, “I want to peel my skin off !”
Damn.
They continue to chat, occasionally grinning in my direction—whether out of genuine pleasure for my company or an underlying desire that I keep my piehole closed, I can’t be sure. I stay really quiet for fear of saying the wrong thing. My Achilles’ heel has always been my mouth. I’m the person who says every single thing she thinks, sometimes to others’ amusement, and almost always to my detriment.
Before I was a writer, I had slightly more control of my mouth, at least in important professional settings. To keep myself from blurting out whatever crossed my mind in crucial client meetings, I’d make cheat sheets. I’d prepare myself for the social-niceties portion of the gathering by researching the company and their top brass. Whenever possible, I forced