Holding Out for a Hero Page 4

  She nods again.

  ‘This is how you score me a date?’

  She flinches. ‘Technically it’s not exactly a date per se, it’s . . .’

  My stomach dips. I look over to Finn, then back again, afraid to ask. I do anyway. ‘It’s what, Dora?’

  ‘A consult.’ She sits up, speaking fast. ‘But don’t get mad, I can explain—’

  Snort-thud. Finn disappears behind the breakfast bar in hysterics. My mouth hangs open as I stand frozen in disbelief. Dora shields herself behind a throw pillow. Her eyes have rounded, the pupils a mere pinprick.

  I don’t even know what else to say, except . . . ‘I’m not going.’ I’m unbuttoning the shirt, heading for my bedroom to change into my own clothes, which are perfectly fine.

  Dora waddles after me. ‘Libbs, Libby, Libby, Libby . . . he’s super-shy, never dates, is maybe a little too focused on work, so I just thought—’

  ‘He could cure me? Forget it.’ I spin, jabbing a finger near her face. ‘First, he can’t cure a brain infection. He’s an anesthesiologist.’ Movement from the corner of my eye grabs my attention, I glance over and . . . ‘Really, Finn?’

  His hands are clasped round his phone, balanced on the counter. It’s shaking from laughter. He’s still on the floor. He’s recording this? I charge at him. That phone’s going—

  The doorbell rings. Shit. ‘He’s here.’ I step left, then right, and then smack into Dora’s bump. ‘Tell him I’m not going!’

  Knock-knock-knock.

  Finn has my handbag, and shoves it at my chest; Dora’s right beside him. They’re pushing me towards the door, whispering commands.

  ‘Remember, you’re breaking from your rut.’

  ‘He’s just like Anthony Michael Hall.’

  ‘You need a date for your party.’

  ‘Wait.’ I stop and turn. This is ridiculous, insane. I’m a mute? I have a brain infection? Dora’s a nut-job, a nutter, she’s completely lost it. ‘No way. I can’t do this.’

  Knock-knock-knock.

  ‘You have to. Please.’ Dora says, flustered, on the verge of major hormonal tears. ‘Look, I didn’t mean for it to go this far or to sound so bad, I promise. I’m so so sorry. It started just that you were shy and then, well, he’s always working . . . But you’re fantastic and brilliant and he’ll really like you, Libbs. I just know it.’

  ‘He can’t like me,’ I say in whisper-shout, an inch from her face. ‘I don’t have a tongue.’

  CHAPTER 4

  The Brain

  We’re at Katz’s Delicatessen, the iconic When Harry Met Sally cafe on East Houston. That’s how tourists know the place, and you can always spot them. They hover round the infamous table and lean across the bar to admire the framed celebrity photos that fill the wall. But we New Yorkers know what the deli’s really renowned for: legendary, mile-high pastrami on rye.

  I could eat here every day. Many people do. Of course, then my backside would expand substantially, and I’m pretty sure it’s already bigger than Theodore’s, which I have a problem with. Finn was right: he does resemble Anthony Michael Hall in the Eighties, and just like him, Theo’s a tad on the thin side. This makes my normal size feel hippo-sized. I don’t need any new reasons to be at war with my body.

  Right now, I’m at war with my mouth. It’s an epic battle to not say anything since, you know, I’m mute and all. The napkin in my lap is rolled into a strange wand from my constant hand-wringing. Maybe it’s magical, and with one swift abracadabra, I could make myself disappear . . . or him, or all of them.

  He brought friends.

  Dr Theodore invited Dr Weaver – a neurologist, which actually makes sense for a brain-infection consult. He also invited a translator woman. Since I can’t talk, he figured I signed. There’s only one sign I can think of, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t require an interpretation.

  We’ll call bringing an entourage Strike Two. The first being, he thinks I’m a mute with a brain infection and only here for a consult.

  I planned on telling them right away that Dora made a mistake, and it was all a strange and unfortunate misunderstanding because obviously I do have a tongue and can talk; but they’ve been bombarding me with questions, and I’m hungry. Katz’s takes thirty days to cure its meats, and oh my God, yum. This is what Meg Ryan was really going on about in the movie, trust me.

  ‘Stiff neck, headaches?’ Theodore asks too loudly. He’s been doing that all along. For a Brain, he’s kind of daft; not only can I talk, I can hear just fine.

  I take another bite, and shake my head.

  ‘What about night sweats?’ Dr Weaver asks. He’s roughly in his sixties with white-peppered hair, and has already downed two chili dogs and is working on a third. He also talks with his mouth full. They should’ve brought a dentist. I think his crown’s chipped. Before I can answer, he leans in and adds, ‘Have you noticed any severe mood swings?’

  If they don’t knock it off, they’ll witness one. Are they quizzing for menopause or a brain infection? I head-shake no and swallow, then quickly take another delicious bite. Dora and Finn’s words are niggling at me. Am I really that opinionated and gobby? And is that such a bad thing? I just know what I like – which isn’t this shirt. I push up the starchy sleeves and scratch, noticing my poor forearms are a bright red from the constant rubbing. And so is the shirt sleeve, since I just smudged ketchup from my steak fries on it.

  ‘What about fevers, Libby?’

  Taking a drink of water, I watch translator-woman wiggle her fingers, then shake my head as if I understood. So far, aside from being awkward, this is a piece of cake; which I may actually order. Katz has a double-layer chocolate one that is pure sin and bliss. I deserve at least that much after this whacked mime performance.

  ‘Can you explain your symptoms, Libby? Maybe that will help.’ Both doctors turn to Miss Busy Hands, then back to me.

  My insides go wibbly. That’s not a yes-or-no question. They expect me to sign? I look down thoughtfully at my fingers and consider my choices: spontaneous jazz hands, paper-rock-scissors, or an enthusiastic rock on. This is when I notice my shirt’s still halfway unbuttoned, revealing my ‘Vogue’ cone bra. Gah.

  This is humiliating. It’s like a Revenge of the Nerds reunion. They’re the nerds, and I’m planning my revenge on Dora. I clear my throat and start to explain. ‘Er . . . right, I’m afraid there’s been a horrible cock-up. I’ve only a touch of the laryngitis, you see, but horses for courses, I suppose, eh?’ No clue why I have a strange accent. Yeah, I’m not really sure what happened there.

  Taking a drink of water, I watch all three exchange worried glances.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t feel warm?’ Dr Weaver asks, then looks to Theodore and lowers his voice. ‘Fevers most definitely cause delusions.’

  ‘I’m not delusional! Dora’s deranged, OK? It’s just a sore throat!’ I blurt and cough twice to make my point and redirect the conversation. ‘Anyway . . . are you divorced, then?’ He must be, or Dora wouldn’t have set me up with him.

  ‘Uh . . .’ Confusion flashes across Theodore’s face. ‘Yes, I am; why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason, just making chit-chat. I’m divorced, too.’ I scratch at my arms and, without thought, give the dreamed-about fibbing answer. ‘It’s been a few years, but Rupert and I are finally on good terms. Which is super-duper important, don’t ya think?’ I haven’t had enough to drink, so my fictitious past is tame. ‘But my parents are still together, and going strong, God bless ’em.’ I throw that in to show I’m grounded, in spite of the upset. Let’s not analyse.

  For whatever reason, the translator lady is still signing. Maybe that’s the only way she gets paid?

  ‘Libby, are you sure you’re OK?’ Dr Weaver asks with obvious concern.

  ‘Suuuper, just grand!’ I say, with an overabundance of enthusiasm. I pare it down and try again. ‘Really, I’m perfectly fine.’ My own words cause a déjà vu prickling. I’d said almost the exact same thing before, but n
ot to Dr Theodore and his Weird Science crew. It was to the EMTs inside the ambulance after my teenage car accident.

  I shake the memory away, scratching again at my irritated arms, and notice them staring. ‘How’s your bun?’ I ask Dr Theo, trying to spawn a real conversation, even if it’s lame and about a bun.

  ‘Great, thank you,’ he says slowly, eyes narrowed and wary. He blinks. I blink. The translator lady signs. This is scintillating. Time to change tactics.

  ‘So, Dr Theo . . .’ That sounds creepy, just to note. ‘Don’t you find it all a bit wonky, this knocking-people-out business? Have they ever woken up?’ Now we’re talking. I lean on my elbows and look from Dr Weaver to the translator woman, who strangely hasn’t said anything. Maybe she’s hearing impaired? No, that wouldn’t make sense.

  ‘I saw this documentary once where, right in the middle of removing a massive tumour, I mean dead in the middle of surgery, bam!’ I smack the table, causing the ice in the glasses to rattle, which rattles Dr Theo. ‘The woman’s eyes popped open. Has that ever happened to you?’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ he says, furrowing his blonde brows and taking a quick drink of water as if the mere idea was too much.

  I sit back, my momentary rush all but drained away. So much for fun conversation.

  He wipes at his mouth with his unrumpled napkin, then throws it down like a gauntlet. ‘An anesthesiologist monitors and controls the patient’s vital life functions . . .’

  ‘. . . heart rate, breathing, body temperature, blood pressure, body fluid balance . . .’

  ‘. . . pain, the level of unconsciousness . . .’

  ‘. . . no possibility of waking . . .’

  When they’ve finally finished, I give a nod with an impressive, ‘Wow, that’s quite a responsibility.’ My version of that conversation was much more appealing. At least he’s good at his job. He’s definitely putting me to sleep.

  ‘The hives, Libby, is that a new symptom?’

  Hives? Dr Theo nods to my – oh.

  ‘Can I see your arm?’ Dr Weaver reaches and turns it over. They’re inflamed and swollen. Huge blotches of red cover every inch of skin. What the –

  Sign-language lady motions to my jaw. A sign I understand to mean, you have food on your face. Reaching up self-consciously, I . . . whoa. My lip is ginormous. What’s going on? I fumble inside my bag for my Goody pocket-brush-and-mirror combo, unfold and . . . ‘Oh. Oh . . .’ I start coughing. It’s a dry tickle. Ugh, I seriously can’t clear my throat. In fact . . .

  I can’t breathe.

  ‘Do you have any allergies?’ Theodore smacks my back as I hunch over in mini-convulsions. ‘Has this happened before?’

  I’m wheezing now. He smacks me again. My throat’s constricted and people have turned to watch. I’m creating quite a spectacle. Or he is. Or the interpreter lady is. Why does she keep signing? And stop smacking me!

  ‘Oh, I bet this is a re-enactment of When Harry Met Sally!’

  I have no idea who said that or how that even fits, just that it was super-loud, and I’m seeing spots. Maybe I do have a brain infection.

  ‘Are you choking on something?’ Dr Theo doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead he wraps spindly arms round my ribs, forms a fist and –

  ‘Aaunk!’ The force causes me to honk like a goose. He starts to position his hand for another go and – ‘Aaunk!’ I panic, squirming this way and that. Oh my God, let me go! For a skinny guy, he’s surprisingly strong. I thrash left, then right, to no avail, leaving only one thing to do. I lean forward, then rear back in one swift movement.

  ‘Ow!’ Dr Theo says, rubbing his forehead.

  I’d apologize, but really, I only clonked him hard enough to bruise his ego and – cough-cough-cough. Ugh, I hate this. And Dora. And her –

  Oh, the shirt!

  I stand and wildly point to myself, trying to hack out the words.

  A pudgy fellow with unfortunate sideburns shouts, ‘Oh, she’s doing the Harry Met Sally bit where Billy Crystal fake-signs, remember?’

  I don’t, and seriously, people, get over When Harry Met Sally. I cough my objection, and again point to my sleeve.

  ‘I think she’s trying to tell us something,’ sign-language lady says. ‘You? You, what?’

  Now she speaks? I wave to erase, in between wheezing coughs, and hold up one finger.

  ‘One word?’ everyone from surrounding tables yells simultaneously.

  I nod-cough, while continuing to yank on the sleeve.

  Dr Weaver leans in. ‘Oh, arm? Your arm hurts?’ He looks to Dr Theo. ‘Well, that’s understandable. It’s inflamed, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think she’s saying sleeve,’ says Theodore drily, still rubbing his head.

  Oh my God, now I really do need an interpreter. I hop up and down with breathless frustration. People start shouting guesses.

  ‘Arm’s length?’

  ‘Is it a colour? White?’

  ‘Yes, she’s saying white.’ The man two tables over confirms.

  I’m hacking, pointing, apparently playing the worst game of charades of my life. Should I tug my ear, sounds like . . . I beat my fist on my chest for air, then wring the shirt in my hand as I gag.

  ‘Shirt? It’s shirt! Oh! Allergic reaction to the shirt!’ Sign-language lady claps as if she’s won a prize.

  So does everyone else. Apparently the entire restaurant, including the staff, is playing.

  With enthusiastic thumbs up, I dash, but not before swiping some Benadryl from a helpful nearby patron. Outside, the shirt’s ripped off as I strike the standard pose to flag a taxi, which, considering I’m now exposed in nothing but cones of shame, is easily attained.

  We’ll call this Strike Three.

  I’m curled up on my couch with a freshly scrubbed, normal-sized face, and my hair pulled back in a sparkly purple scrunchie. I’ve downed half the bottle of Benadryl while waiting for Dora to call me back. She has Duncan tonight, so it may be a while; I guess he had a nightmare, and she’s tired ’cause she’s pregnant, and blah blah blah.

  Serves her right, what happened to her shirt.

  And since Finn didn’t answer, I’ve resorted to talking with Ollie. I glance at the photo of us on my shelf as I do. In it, he’s wrapped round me so his chin’s tucked over my shoulder and we’re laughing with big open mouth smiles. It’s my favourite.

  ‘Was it that bad?’ Ollie asks, the syllables raspy with a hint of sleepiness.

  ‘Worse.’ I snuggle down into the couch and blow out a breath. ‘It was a group date, and . . .’ Running fingers through my hair, I tell him everything, from the brain infection to the shirt catastrophe.

  He’s laughing. Hard.

  God, I love his laugh. I used to do anything to make him crack up. This time, I’m not even trying. ‘Really, utter disaster, I mean what was your sister thinking, telling him all that? Oh, and he’s already called to make sure I’m OK, which I guess is kind of nice, but he wants to reschedule with the team. He thinks I’m underplaying my condition. My condition. I mean, God, right?’

  ‘Did he kiss you?’ He moves, and his voice gets louder from the new position. ‘I mean, with your super-sized plumped and ready lips, how could he resist?’

  ‘Shut up, Ollie.’ Now I’m laughing, too. ‘And no, Dr Theo missed his chance, I’m afraid. Not that he ever had one.’

  ‘Hmm, guess he didn’t have the moves.’

  ‘You mean like yours? What was it, Twizzlers?’ I’m smiling. I can’t help it.

  ‘Hey, not only was it original, but it worked. So don’t knock the Twizzlers, Shortcake.’

  My stomach flips and I sit up, my smile even wider. He hasn’t called me that in forever.

  But God, it feels like yesterday.

  Ollie and Finn had been forced to drag us along to the movies. He had to be sixteen or so, which would place Dora and me at about fourteen or fifteen. Ollie glanced at Dora and me in the rear-view mirror while he drove. Alanis Morissette’s ‘Ironic’ blared from the fro
nt speakers of his little red Camaro. Unlike Prince’s Corvette, it wasn’t much too fast. It was used and sometimes didn’t run, but it was red, and that upped our cool quota when we were seen in it. Being seen with us lowered Ollie’s and Finn’s considerably, or so they said. Repeatedly.

  ‘We may be stuck with you guys, but there’s some rules, got me?’ Ollie said over the music. His hair was gelled back like Johnny Depp. So was Finn’s, but being blonde, he looked more John Taylor new wave than Jump Street bad boy.

  Dora rolled her eyes. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘First, we don’t know you and you don’t know us.’

  Dora mimicked him, making me laugh. She slid open her gloss tin, dabbed her index finger in and rubbed it over her lips. ‘Want some? It’s strawberry,’ she asked me, holding it out.

  ‘You think some lip gunk will trick some dweeb into kissing you?’ Finn turned round and smirked, and before I could react, he swiped it.

  ‘Hey . . .’ Dora lunged, swinging wildly over the front seat for his arm. ‘Ollie, tell your geek friend to give it back.’

  Finn was still out of reach, practically on top of the dash. The car swerved as Ollie tried to shove Dora away.

  Finn sniffed the tin, then applied a gob with a series of lip smacks. ‘Huh, it even tastes like strawberry and oh my God, it does make me want to kiss you.’ He turned, grabbed Dora and went in for the kiss, while she squirmed and shrieked.

  Ollie swerved again, and I laughed hysterically. When Dora safely retreated, Finn chucked the gloss at her. ‘Bet neither of you have ever been kissed.’

  ‘Have too,’ Dora said, diving for the gloss under the seat. And it wasn’t a lie if you counted Danny Stansky. He had just gotten his braces off and Dora was his first official metal-free smooch. Apparently it was a good one, ’cause they went together for three whole weeks after.

  Finn readjusted his T-shirt sleeves so the second colour would show in the roll, then lit a cigarette, making Dora dramatically gag.

  Ollie glanced in the mirror. ‘What about you, Shortcake? You been lip-to-lip?’

  I hated the nickname. One, I wasn’t short, and two, Strawberry Shortcake was a doll I hadn’t played with since I was, like, ten. Dora and I had all the characters. We loved their scented hair and dessert-named pets. One year for Halloween, I even dressed up as her. But now? Yeah, not cool. And I was desperately trying to be cool in front of Ollie.