Stuck in the 70's Read online

  I back away to the rear wall of the booth, but she follows me.

  “How much time, dear?” Mom asks.

  “Uh . . .”

  Debbie M. keeps pressing forward. She has a spot of ice cream on her nose. It’s either wild cherry or chocolate. “Like what you see, Ty Ty?”

  “Tyler, are you there?” Mom asks.

  I step to the side. “Uh, I’ll be home around five o’clock, okay?”

  Debbie M. steps to the side too and moves in even closer to me.

  “I suppose that’s all right,” Mom says.

  “Great. Thanks.” I hang up the phone.

  “Shay said you two aren’t on a date,” Debbie M. says.

  “You asked?”

  “She told us. Twice.” She holds two fingers up, then puts them on my chest.

  Is Debbie M. actually coming on to me? She’s standing so close now, I can tell it’s wild cherry ice cream on her nose.

  She leans her head into my chest, right above her fingers. “Did you hear me and Mike broke up last night at John’s party?”

  Holy smoke, I definitely think Debbie M. is coming on to me.

  “We need to go if we want to see the movie.” Shay walks toward us. Her arms are crossed and she’s frowning. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she was jealous.

  I make sure to sit next to Shay in the mall theater. I ignore the smell of popcorn around me so I can take in her warm cinnamon aroma. We share a box of Raisinets and our hands accidentally touch. It feels perfect. If I believed in that stuff, I’d call it karma.

  As soon as the first preview airs, for Rocky II,Shay says, “They don’t show ads?”

  “Advertisements in movie theaters?” I ask. “That makes no sense. No one would pay two dollars for a ticket if they had to watch commercials first.”

  “You’re right,” Shay says. “A lot of people would stop going to theaters if they pulled crap like that.”

  “It also makes no sense that they’re doing a sequel to Rocky,”I tell her. “The first one was good, but no one will watch another Rocky movie.”

  “You’d be surprised.” She laughs. It’s sexy.

  I’m so close to taking her hand. I just need half an ounce more nerve.

  When the preview for Superman the Movie comes on, showing Superman carrying Lois Lane through the night sky, I get up a quarter ounce of nerve and whisper, “Maybe we can see that together.”

  She sniffs, not a haughty sniff, but one sounding like she’s holding back tears.

  I wonder if this is the time to take her hand. But I don’t want it to seem like a mercy hold. “What’s the matter?” I ask her.

  “Superman. Christopher Reeve.”

  On the other side of me, Debbie P. says, “What a hunk,” and Debbie M. says, “Love those tights,” and both of them giggle again.

  “You don’t understand. The poor guy was in such good shape. I can’t watch him.” Shay gets up, passes me and the Double Ds, and walks up the aisle. The girls follow her.

  I call Shay’s name, but she’s almost at the door, with the Double Ds right behind her. So I sit by myself through the previews, unsure what to do and what to make of everything going on. I lied to my mom again, Debbie M. seems to like me, and Shay is panicked about Superman.

  Carpe diem, I tell myself. Or, as Shay says, caveat emptor. Seize the day, buyer beware, you’re going to hold Shay’s hand.

  Grease has already started by the time the girls return. I don’t hear Shay sniffling anymore, so maybe she’s okay. She smells different now, lemony. Maybe it’s from the bathroom soap.

  Carpe diem,I tell myself. Carpe her hand.

  I take a deep breath, then grab it.

  Her hand seems colder and smaller and rougher than I imagined. But because I know it’s Shay’s, it feels great.

  She squeezes my hand in return.

  Shazam! This date, October 1, 1978, will go down in history as the best day of my life.

  “Pass the Raisinets,” Shay says.

  She sounds far away.

  Uh-oh. I look down at the hand I’m squeezing, follow it up to a skinny arm, a short neck, and then to the horsey face of Debbie M.

  Yikes! The girls switched seats!

  Debbie M. passes the Raisinets box to Shay. Then she puts her hand on my knee. Her hand travels to the inside of my thigh, on a slow, exploratory trip.

  Exactly how many fingers does Debbie M. have? Enough to keep my leg very happy.

  Just when I’m certain my left thigh will be in a permanent state of nirvana, she moves onto my right thigh. Then her hand roams my hips, my chest, and just about everywhere else that won’t get us arrested. Though my gaze stays glued to the screen through the end of Grease, I have no idea what the movie is about. But I do enjoy the theatergoing experience.

  When it’s over, Debbie M. takes my hand again as we walk up the aisle. This time I don’t resist. I can’t resist. In fact, I can barely move.

  “Let’s go home,” Shay snaps.

  Debbie M. drops my hand, blows me a kiss, and calls out, “Bye-bye, Ty Ty.”

  “Later,” Shay says as she rushes out of the theater.

  Shay seems jealous, I held the wrong girl’s hand, and my thighs are practically numb. What an awesome day.

  17

  “Thanks for an awesome day,” Tyler gushes while he drives home.

  “Yeah, whatever.” I sneak a look at his face, intent on the road ahead, the face Debbie M. obviously thinks is all cute. “You know, I’m the one who changed your look,” I blurt out.

  “Should I call you Svengali?” he says.

  “Seven Who?”

  “Svengali,” he says again.

  “Yeah, whatever,” I say again.

  He laughs, almost as if I’m beneath him.

  “Wow, y ou’ve changed,” I tell him like it’s not a compliment.

  “Thanks.” He obviously d oesn’t understand my tone of voice. He turns up the volume of the car radio and starts singing along. “Fever nights, fever nights fevuuuur.” He bangs on the steering wheel in synch with the music. Or sort of in synch. “We have to go shopping again,” he shouts over the radio. “I need a white disco suit just like Travolta’s.”

  What have I done? Any improvement in his looks is outweighed by his new, crappy personality. “You want a disco suit?” I yell over the music. “Go buy it yourself.”

  He turns down the volume. “You d on’t have to be so rude.”

  “I’m through giving makeovers. I just want to chill.”

  “Chill? Are you hot?”

  “Gawd.” I reach over and turn off the radio. “Chill means relax.Which I plan to do as soon as I’m out of this damn station wagon.”

  But Heather meets me at the front door. “I need an outfit for my student council meeting tonight.”

  I shake my head. “I should stop messing with you guys. You were fine before.”

  “Please, Shay. I’m desperate.”

  She looks desperate. She’s wearing a gray nylon dress with red heart buttons down the front. Total fashion catastrophe. So much for my chill plan.

  I walk upstairs with her, search through her closet, and try not to groan. Her wardrobe looks like something worn only by Amish girl lumberjacks. I manage to find potential in a bright floral skirt. I use scissors and duct tape to make it thigh length while Heather sits on her bed with her hand over her mouth. If she gasps, I’m out of here.

  She keeps her hand on her mouth, walks to the closet, and trots out a plain, s coop-c ollared, beige cotton blouse which could be part of a Girl Scout uniform. “I usually wear this with the skirt.”

  “ Don’t. Let’s think outside the box.”

  She looks around. “What box?”

  “Never mind. Have you outgrown any sweaters lately?” She shows me a pile of clothes for Goodwill on the top shelf of her closet. It’s not exactly a gold mine. More like an aluminum mine, if there are such things as aluminum mines. Whatever.

  Aha. I pick out a tight wh
ite sweater which plunges in the back. I snip off the tag and tell Heather to wear the sweater backward. I pair the look with Heather’s h igh-t op sneakers, formerly wasted on basketball. I’m a fashion savant.

  She models the new outfit for me, twirling in her skirt.

  I pronounce her, “Cute, funky, and a little indecent.”

  “Is that good?”

  “It’s great. And for the grand finale, let’s bring on the makeup.”

  She stops twirling. “I d on’t wear makeup.”

  “Well, you should. Looking good is empowering. Boys will beg to do things for you. T hey’ll be listening to your every beautiful word.”

  The power of face paint always thrills me. I make her eyes look darker and deeper, her nose cuter and smaller, her cheeks soft and pink. Coupled with the clothes makeover, Heather has gone from plain to pretty in a little over an hour.

  “Heather, your ride is here,” Mrs. Gray calls out. “Shay, can you help me with dinner?”

  “Sure thing,” I yell as we walk out of the bedroom.

  Tyler’s in the hallway. He points to Heather. “What did you do to her?”

  “I brought out her beauty,” I reply.

  “Heather, you were already beautiful,” he says.

  “I know she was. I just played up what’s already there.”

  Heather smiles. “I think I look bitchin’.”

  “ You’re not supposed to look bitchin’. Y ou’re only fifteen.” He shakes his head. “Jeez, Shay.”

  “It’s okay to make you over, but not your sister? Please,” I say.

  “I like looking bitchin’,” Heather says. “Let’s go.”

  I follow her downstairs. She heads for the front door and I rush to the kitchen.

  I w on’t let worries about my sister ruin one of the best days of my life. I can’t wait to tell Evie what happened. “Hey!” I shout into the mouthpiece as soon as she says hello. “You wouldn’t believe who I hung out with at Valley Mall today!”

  “Shay?”

  “Yeah, Shay. But also two of the Debbies. Debbie M. and Debbie P. Not Debby with a y. You should have seen the way Debbie M. licked my ice cream.”

  “So sorry I missed that.” She doesn’t seem sorry at all.

  “I actually spent half the day with three popular girls.”

  “Actually is a nerd word, remember?”

  “That’s right. I hope I didn’t say it in front of the Double Ds. Evie, it was like Debbie Does Dallas here. Debbies Do the Mall.” I’m talking so fast, I’m practically panting. “After we finished our ice cream, we saw Grease at the mall theater.”

  “We talked about that movie last weekend. We both thought it sounded dumb, remember?” She sounds much less enthused than I expected she’d be.

  “Who cares about the quality of the movie, Evie? Think about me sitting with three of the most popular girls at school.”

  “They just wanted to drool over John Travolta. He’s a flash in the pan. I didn’t even like him in Welcome Back, Kotter.”

  I shake my head. “Can’t you be happy for me?”

  “Those girls called us Dip and Drip to our faces, remember?”

  “Well, I phoned to tell you about it. So, see you at school tomorrow.” I hang up.

  Ick. Mrs. Gray is wearing that pink polyester dress again. Today she’s accessorized with bright pink eye shadow, pink rouge,Day-G lo pink lipstick, and a pink gingham apron. I guess it’s better than my mom’s plunging necklines and tight jeans. I ’d rather have a mother who heads the Fashion D on’t list than one with a lifetime membership as a MILF.

  But Mrs. Gray is not your mother,I remind myself.You’re just here until Tyler and Evie figure out how to get you home. I sigh.

  “Are you okay, dear?” Mrs. Gray asks.

  “Yes, fine. What are we fixing for dinner tonight?”

  “First, I want to give you something.” She holds up a pink gingham apron which matches hers. “I sewed this for you.”

  I open my mouth but no words come out.

  “ You’re a sweet girl, Shay.” She hands me the apron.

  No one ever sewed anything for me before. In fact, my mom’s given me most of my presents in cash.

  “Is it okay?” Mrs. Gray asks me.

  I c an’t talk.

  “Try it on, dear.”

  I want to, but my hands fumble too much. Mrs. Gray puts the bib of the apron over my head, then ties the pink bow at my back. I use the bottom of the apron to wipe my eye.

  “It’s perfect for you.”

  Me? A pink gingham apron perfect for me? Well, why the hell not?

  “I can teach you to sew more of these if y ou’d like.”

  I nod. There’s nothing I ’d like better.

  18

  I awake with a start late at night. Someone is arguing. “It’s about time you got here!” Mom yells.

  Holy cow! Something horrible must be happening because Mom never raises her voice. I get out of bed, put on my bathrobe, and start to creep down the stairs.

  Dad is yelling back. I stop halfway down the stairs and sit on the landing.

  “You’re never home,” Mom says.

  “I work hard for this family.” Dad stands by the front door, still in his overcoat.

  Mom faces him with her hands on her hips. “What if I want to work?”

  He has to clutch the doorknob and take deep breaths.

  I have to clutch my knees and take deep breaths.

  Finally, Dad says, “Why would you want to work? You’ve either been getting your consciousness raised or watching those Marlo Thomas specials.”

  “I could have my own TV show. I could start a magazine.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “I can find things to do besides wait for you!” she yells.

  “I can too.” He walks out the front door and slams it shut.

  I race downstairs. Mom is still standing in the hallway.

  “Mom! Run outside before Dad leaves. Ask him to come back.”

  “Maybe I don’t want him back.” Her voice is too calm.

  “Of course you do, Mom. He’s your husband. He’s my father. We’re supposed to be a family.”

  “What about me?” she asks.

  “You’re Dad’s wife.”

  “I’m more than that.” She says it like there’s something wrong with being a wife. “Shay—”

  “Oh, no, Mom. Not Shay again. Don’t listen to Shay.”

  Dad’s car starts in the driveway. “Hurry, Mom. You can still catch him,” I tell her.

  She pushes past me. Instead of going outside to save her marriage, she walks upstairs.

  “Mom!”

  Dad’s car pulls away.

  I’m awoken by squeaks and lurches and sighs.

  It’s Heather rummaging through her closet and throwing clothes on the floor.

  The clock on her nightstand shows 6:17. Way too early, especially because there’s no coffee in this house.

  Heather catches me with one of my eyes half open. “ You’re up! Thank you for helping me last night!”

  I yawn. “So I take it the meeting went well?”

  “That’s a total understatement. I was compared to both Jaclyn Smith and Kate Jackson!”

  “Awesome. Who?”

  “You know. Charlie’s Angels.The brunettes. And Roger Hyashita, who’s not only a senior but student council president, said I looked bitchin’. Me! Bitchin’!” She bounces on my bed. “Can you believe it?”

  “I definitely believe it.” What the hell does bitchin’mean anyway? Something good I guess. “You go, girl.”

  “Huh? Go where?”

  “I mean, that’s great.”

  “And it’s all thanks to you,” Heather says.

  “Not all of it.” N inety nine percent of it. “It’s your bitchin’ face and body too.”

  Though I’m half asleep, I suddenly realize I’m making a difference. Maybe that’s why I was sent here. Maybe as soon as I ’ve changed enough people’s lives,
whoever or whatever sent me to 1978 will bring me home. I think I saw that plot last year on a Christmas TV movie.

  Heather’s bouncing again. “So can you please, please, please help me with another outfit today?”

  I rub my eyes, haul myself out of bed, dig through the closet, and hand her a turtleneck sweater.

  “That? I wore that for the last choral performance.”

  “ We’ll cut off the turtleneck part. Here.” I toss a navy jumper to her.

  “My mom bought that jumper for me. It looks like a school uniform.” she says.

  “Never question my fashion sense. Put it on. Backward.” When she wears the jumper backward, it looks funky and totally plays up her boobs. “You’re the best,” Heather says.

  “I know. This morning, wear the outfit just like your mother intended. On the way to the bus stop, w e’ll tape up the jumper to thigh level, turn it around, cut up your sweater, and get everything looking, um, bitchin’.”

  “Cool. And can you do my makeup again? I’m allowed to use it. I just never did before you came.”

  “Sure.” I give her full on, l ong-l ashed, c harcoal eyed, red-l ipped face paint. She looks hot. I teach her how to throw her shoulders back to show off her chest.

  After a few minutes of practice, we head downstairs.

  Tyler’s in the kitchen, shoveling bright bits of Hardy Boys cereal into his mouth.

  I start chugging a Tab.

  “Where’s Mom?” Heather asks.

  Tyler furls his improved brows. “Still sleeping.”

  “Really?” Heather says it like she just found out the guy who played Mike Brady is gay.Doesn’t Mrs. Gray ever get to sleep in?

  “Mom was up late last night. Fighting with Dad over Shay’s brilliant plan for her to get a job.” Tyler stands up and pushes out his chair. “Shay, we need to work on that time travel project. Instead of meddling with my parents, you should try to help yourself.” He grabs his backpack, heads out the front door, and slams it behind him.

  19

  Five minutes after AP Physics starts, Mr. Spitz stops his gravitational pull lecture mid-sentence and stares at the door. As does the rest of the class.