Too Late Smart

My chin rested on the windowsill, eyes fixed on the entrance of the cul-de-sac, waiting anxiously for Michele’s mom’s royal blue Saturn to round the bend. The late afternoon sun, fractured by shadows, tried its best to finish off the last of the thinning snow. Michael Hutchence, sultry on the stereo, was reminding me that something about my pudgy-yet-rapidly-developing eighth-grade body makes him sweat.

Finally, she arrived! As Michele slammed the car door and headed up my lawn, I sprinted to the front door. Breathless (any bit of physical exertion was bound to wind me), I swung it open and announced, “Entrez, s’il vous plaît!” Michele gave me a blank stare and pushed past me toward my room. “Do you have any Steak-umms?” she asked—her form of ‘hello.’

“Sure, I’ll get some. MOM! CAN YOU MAKE US STEAK-UMMS?!? THANKS!”

From the threshold of my room, I watched Michele cradling the glorious and groundbreaking technological marvel of the Swatch phone in her arms like a baby. I glanced around my room slowly, hoping she would notice the Cure poster on my closet door, and the super-awesome collages I’d made. Didn’t she want to appreciate the Claudia Schiffer Guess ads I’d carefully curated for my headboard? This wasn’t how I imagined things going.

Instead, she was completely fixated on the phone.

“This is so cool!” she gushed, turning it over in her hands, admiring its slimness and the standard late-80s, early-90s teal and pink color palette. I noticed that she’d kicked off her Tretorns. She was making herself comfortable. I beamed.

“So, look,” I said, jumping onto the bed and grabbing the phone from her still-clutching hands. “Here’s how it works.” I proudly demonstrated how you could talk and listen using either the base or the receiver, exclaiming, “We can both be on the call at the same time!” Immediately realizing I’d better tone down my enthusiasm, I added, “If you want.”

“Of course I want to! Who should we call first? Let’s call Ryan so you can find out if he likes me,” Michele suggested, rubbing her toes back and forth in the gray shag carpet. The strong odor of frying meat had crept under the door, and my mouth involuntarily watered.

“Do you like him?” I asked.

“Of course I do. He’s the hottest guy in the school. Who doesn’t? You’re soooo lucky to be on the tennis team with him, you have no idea.”

I actually did have an idea. At practice, I had to stop myself from drooling all over the court every time I looked at him.

“You absolutely can never tell him that I like him,” she said, her voice suddenly serious. “That would be like, the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to me. He cannot ever know that I was here and we did this. Pinkie swear?” She held out her pinky, and I wished I was Irish so I could wear a Claddagh ring too.

I twirled my noticeably thicker pinkie around hers, like a sausage gripping a pencil. “It’s a plan, then?” she asked, her voice deceivingly sweet.

 “Sounds good,” I offered, though this idea didn’t sound good at all. It sounded mortifying. Still, I grabbed my suddenly-super-babyish Snoopy address book and began thumbing through. Michele was so close I could smell her Giorgio Beverly Hills perfume. I absolutely have to nail this, I thought. If I impressed her enough, I might just get an upgrade to “best friend.”

“Okay, I’ve got his number,” I said. “You’ll have to put your side on mute so he doesn’t hear you breathe or something,” I instructed.

“Are you saying I breathe through my mouth or something?” Michele’s tone and flat look released a full cascade of adrenaline through me. My cheeks flushed, and it felt like a hatch had opened in my stomach. Desperately grasping for a way to explain my blunder, I managed to stammer, “What?”

“I’m just kidding,” she said, looking at me with the kind of disgust and pity she probably reserved for people who breathe through their mouths. I chuckled anxiously and began dialing.

My nerves were electric, my tongue a fat worm in my mouth. I stared intently at Robert Smith, willing him to give me strength. As the line rang a third time, my doughy stomach unclenched, and I was able to release a breath.

“Guess he’s not home.” I reached for the receiver, but Michele yanked it away.

“Wait,” she hissed, almost noiselessly.

Ryan’s weak outgoing message, “Yo, I’m not home, leave your message at the beep,” was nearly drowned out by his Beastie Boys soundtrack.

“Yep, he’s not there.” I held out my hand, shrugging sheepishly.

“Leave a message,” Michele commanded. Her eyes had a feral quality, the green almost matching the wide stripe on her Benetton rugby shirt. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was as dry as the Gobi. When I finally croaked, “Hi Ryan, call me back,” it was borderline unintelligible.

At last, Michele passed back the receiver, but it was clear she was unsatisfied. “What the heck was that? You sounded like a white cap. He’s going to call his great-grandmother back and ask for money for socks.”

I stammered, hiding my hands in my sweater sleeves. “I guess I need a drink. Want anything?” I took the opportunity to head for the door. Suddenly, the room felt like it had been drained of air, my usually safe sanctuary now an enemy territory.

“Yeah, I want the Steak-umms you said you were getting an hour ago.” I glanced at the clock. She’d arrived precisely eight minutes ago, but I dared not challenge her. Our tenuous friendship was already skating on very thin ice.

“Right on,” I managed, before slipping out the door. In the hallway, the smell of overly processed meat was overwhelming. My stomach dropped and rolled, and tears welled up in my eyes as I headed for the fridge. When I got there, not even the googly-eyed walnut magnet could summon a smile.

“Everything okay?” My mother’s soft voice startled me. It was as if the whole world had become static TV. She was leaning against the counter, McDonald’s collector glass of tea in hand. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You look a little green.”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I said, trying to reassure her. But Mom wasn’t having it.

Softer now, she said, “I don’t know why you spend time with that one. She’s not very nice to you. You deserve nicer friends.” My anxiety about upsetting Michele instantly transformed into aggravation toward my mother. This wasn’t helping. She just didn’t get it. I opened the fridge, snatched out an RC Cola with as much overt annoyance as I could muster.

“Why’re the Steak-umms taking so long?” I snapped. As if on cue, the Wonder Bread popped out of the toaster, and Mom told me to grab the ketchup; they were ready.

As she left the kitchen, she offered, “My mom used to say, ‘Bad friends are like clouds, once they disappear, things look brighter.’” With that absolutely useless tidbit of trash, she left me alone, thank god.

She’ll never understand.

“Michele!” I called as I sat down at the counter, squirting ketchup on my bread. The heap of grayish paper-meat looked about as appealing as eating the sole of my Ked. Michele slid onto the stool next to me, greedily grabbing slices of Steak-umms between her fingers and plopping them onto the toasted bread.

Between bites, she filled me in on her next big plan. “Remember how you said Alicia was talking crap about me?” Before I could protest, she added, “You need to call her, with me listening, and get her talking. I want to hear what that little brat has to say about me.”

The rest of her instructions took on the quality of Charlie Brown's teacher’s voice, and my eyes landed on the plaque above the cabinets. We Get Too Soon Old, and Too Late Smart, it read. It was like a bell chimed in my mind. Before, it was just a phrase, but now, for the first time, it made perfect sense.

“Are you even listening to me?” Michele whined, snapping me out of my epiphany.

"Yes, of course I am. Alicia, cool, cool.” It was official—telling Michele that I’d gotten the Swatch phone for Christmas had been a terrible idea. My fantasies of her calling all her cool cheerleader friends and introducing me as her best friend were obliterated. The image of us all laughing together, talking about last night’s Saturday Night Live episode evaporated. They’d never get to hear my uncannily accurate Ed Grimley impersonation.

“Let’s go then,” she said, burping loudly as she walked back toward my room, leaving her dirty plate for me to clean up. As I rinsed the dishes, I took one last look at the plaque: “…and Too Late Smart.” 

Every clink of the dishes as I loaded the dishwasher rattled me to the core. For a moment, I considered heading out to the garage, grabbing my bike, and hightailing it out of there.

Focus, I thought. Do you want to be popular or not?

I decided that I did—even if it meant losing Alicia as a friend. And wouldn't you know it? When I returned to my room, Michele was admiring one of my collages, no doubt astounded by the sheer breadth of my interests.

“I didn’t realize you liked Motley Crue,” she muttered, turning to pick up the address book.

“No, no, I don’t. That’s old—I made that, like, a long time ago.”

“Oh?” Her face registered real surprise. “They’re my favorite.”

Why did the world feel like it was spinning both faster and slower since she arrived? I’d been on a boat once, and this felt the same—like no matter what I did, I couldn’t find solid ground. Eager for a distraction, I grabbed my records. I yanked Theatre of Pain from its sleeve and placed it onto the turntable.

Before I could drop the needle, she impatiently pulled me over to the bed and handed me the address book. “Why isn’t Alicia in here?”

Alicia had been my best friend since second grade. I wouldn’t forget her number if Wile E. Coyote dropped me off a cliff. But I wasn’t about to admit that—especially since Alicia was terminally uncool. “It’s programmed in,” I said.

Michele held out the phone. “So, you talk bad about me so she will too.”

Surely she could see the beads of sweat on my upper lip. My armpits felt hot, and I immediately worried I might start to smell—something I’d only just noticed for the first time. Well, something my brother had pointed out, I should say.

I took a deep breath and smoothed out my comforter. Usually, when the geometric shapes aligned perfectly with the headboard, I felt calm, but nothing could soothe me now. Michele was studying me intently, her lips pursed into a tiny, pink heart. She was impossibly pretty, and I was such an oaf. That observation steeled my resolve. I dialed.

After one ring, Alicia picked up and lazily inquired, “Yo, what’s up home slice?” Embarrassment bloomed across my face like the world’s fastest spreading rash. 

“Nothing. Just hanging out. What are you doing?”

Her reply was half yawn, half English, “Nada. Just watching Mannequin on channel 11. It’s the Sunday movie. It’s so stupid, like an Egyptian princess would be interested in Andrew McCarthy.”

“I know, right?” I lost myself, “Like some Cleopatra would lust after a poor, ugly, dork.”

As Alicia giggled, Michele glared. She motioned at me to get going with the plan. Uneasily, I drained a sip of my now warm RC, the aftertaste was horrible. I gulped and ventured, “Michele G. is such a slut.”

Alicia burst out laughing, “The cop is a wastoid! And why is this guy even worried? No one is going to believe a mannequin came to life!” 

I risked a glance at Michele, she motioned, “Again.”

I cleared my throat, “Michele G. is such a slut. Don’t you think?”

“Honestly, I don’t think about Michele at all.”

I darted my eyes to the foot of my bed. Michele was hunched over, her teased, feathered hair concealed her eyes. I had no way of knowing how that had landed, or how to proceed.

“Yeah, you totally do. Last week, you said that she probably got an A in Mr. Mende’s class because she gave him a blow job,” I baited.

“So? She probably did. She’s dumb as a rock.”

Michele’s head jerked up at that, her green eyes fiery. “Is that right, you little bitch?” she snarled.

Other than the faint sounds of comedic shenanigans from the TV, Alicia offered nothing.

My body had finally had it. Warm spit pooled in the back of my mouth, and I gagged.

“You’re going to be sorry,” Michele warned, and she threw the phone receiver on the bed. 

“Is that….?” Alicia whispered.

“I’m sorry, Lichi,” I ventured. After an endless moment, the phone clicked, and the dial tone answered.

Michele’s self-satisfied grin was the icing on my puke cake. I lurched for the door, but only made it halfway before my partially-digested Steak-umm flew from my mouth, splattering across Robert Smith’s beautiful, pouty face.

“Oh my god, that is DISGUSTING,” Michele recoiled, stretching out each syllable. She was dialing the phone now. As I pulled a dirty towel from my hamper to wipe up the mess, I heard her demand, “Mom, come get me.” Then, her voice spiked into a near shriek, “I don’t care what I said! Come get me now!” Again, the receiver went flying—this time into my mound of stuffed animals. My big pink Gund teddy bear stared lifelessly up at me as I reached over to hang it up.

Despite its abundance of pastels, the room felt black. My mind raced, frantic, trying to find just one reassuring thought to plug the drain of its downward spiral—but nothing came.

On the bed, Michele was rifling through her pocketbook. Although the silence hung thick, like a fog of discomfort, every word I considered felt even more clumsy. Realizing I might be wearing some vomit I decided to wash up.

In the bathroom alone, I finally found a sliver of relief. As the water trickled into the white porcelain basin, I stared at myself in the mirror. “Who the hell are you?” I wondered aloud. As punishment, I violently splashed ice cold water onto my face. The shock of it woke me from my stupor, the cold forging a backbone of ice. I marched back into my room with purpose.

Ignoring the stench of bile and Steak-umm, I stood over Michele, my hands on my hips. “That wasn’t cool. Alicia is going to hate me now.” I almost couldn’t believe the words were coming out of my mouth. The shock on Michele’s face fueled the fire. “Seriously, she might never forgive me. Why’d you do that?”

“What do you care? She’s a total loser anyway,” Michele shot back, standing up, so that our eyes were level.

We stayed like that for a beat. The intensity of her gaze made me forget I had at least 20 pounds on her. I felt small, weak, and, suddenly, rightfully friendless.

Like AC Slater, I was saved by the bell, the Saturn’s horn honked faintly outside. 

“Gotta jet,” Michele announced, grabbing her purse. As she left the room, I finally exhaled, able to breathe freely again. It felt like her presence had been a storm cloud, raining ash on everything around her. I plopped down on the rug, my mind racing with how I was going to get out of this pickle.

Just then, the phone rang, and I snatched it up, ready to pour my heart out to Alicia, begging for her forgiveness. “Hi,” I led with, hoping my voice sounded as pitiful as I felt.

“Hey,” came a male voice. It took me a second to place it.

“Ryan,” I responded, immediately cringing at how eager I sounded.

“What’s up? You called me,” his voice oozed effortless cool, and I felt a tingle deep in the soft space below my belly. I paused for a moment, pulling myself together, determined to match his level of smoothness.

“Well, I called because Michele G. was here, and she made me call you. She likes you soooo much, like, she’s practically in love with you. She begged me to call you with her on three-way to see if you liked her too.”

A wave of relief washed over me as I realized the cloud had finally lifted.