Read an Excerpt
Girl Anatomy
A Novel
Chapter One
Two For the Price of One
Sometimes I think I am schizophrenic. Well, maybe not schizophrenic. Casually assuming the moniker without proper medical diagnoses is slightly melodramatic and disrespectful of true sufferers of the disease. But I do sometimes feel like Sybil with two versions of me rattling and banging around in my brain, arm wrestling each other for dominance. There is the "Wannadoer" and the "Wishidinter": carefully thought out nicknames for my alter egos. The "Wannadoer" stares and watches the world with eager fascination, jonesing for a taste of the high life. The life of dark bars, dark-haired men, and leather-panted experiences worthy of a Playboy spread. The "Wishidinter" tosses and turns in bed, spitting out the taste of sour snogs and reddening at the memory of my ill-prepared ass trying to strut beautifully dyed cowhide around town. The "Wannadoer" leaps into escapades, falls head over heels in love at a simple hello, ignores rational thought in favor of high-relief fantasy, and has a gold neon naive sign flashing on her brow in broad daylight. The "Wishidinter" scolds herself for childish romance, tries to prevent an immature heart from beating the tom-tom for the wrong guy, picks up the scattered pieces after the inevitable fall, and attempts to assimilate the failure into growth. Both creatures seem very normal, very human. What person does not have both the sage and the sucker lurking within? However, mine exist at the same time, all the time, and most of the time, they initiate conversation or argument with each other no matter the circumstance. In simple terms, I talk to myself, a lot, everywhere. I talk myself into things, out of things, around things, and through things.
A perfect example of this happened just the other night. It started out innocently enough, at dinner with Max, my older and sometimes wiser brother; Robert, Max's friend; and Josh, a friend of mine. We were celebrating Robert's new show of paintings at Gallery Downtown. Afterward, we hit a few bars, feeding off one another's good news and good vibes. At the pinnacle of our excitement, we ran into my good friend Danielle and a group of her friends from work. Amid the crowd of becoming familiar faces, a cute, skinny guy, with a black bar-code tattoo on the inside of his left wrist, an artsy computer-designer job, and vintage dark green glasses, caught my slightly buzzing eye. He was a friend of a friend, of a friend, and his name was Justin. At midnight we began talking.
"Those are great glasses." Smiling at him. "Where did you get them?" Looking closer.
"Thanks." Touching the frame. "There's this cool place in Pasadena that only sells unused vintage frames. They have the biggest collections of unique lenses."
"I think I know the place. I have been meaning to check it out." Smiling again.
"Do you wear glasses?"
"Only at night, in the movies, and when I really want to see." Smiling again and again.
"So, tonight you want to be a little blind?"
"Well, as my brother says, sometimes it's nice to see things a little blurry. All those sharp edges can get in the way of a true aesthetic."
Here is where my inner voice, the "Wishidinter," piped in.
"Uh, Lilly." (That's me.)
"Yeah?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I thought I was being clever. It's always good to throw 'aesthetic' into the conversation. It's one of those hot words that make guys think you are brilliant."
"Yes, but one has to use it in an intelligent way to demonstrate brilliance. Sharp edges getting in the way? Please."
"Go away. You're distracting me from being witty."
"Fine! Wouldn't want to do that. You need all the help you can get!"
I took a big drink of my vanilla Stoli and Coke, and tried to return to this cute boy, still grinning at me. Just for the record, no one else can hear the "Wish-I." Obviously no one else can hear my inner monologue, but whatever. I swallowed again, recouped, and continued with my version of peppy bar-talk minus, however, the employment of SAT words I apparently do not know how to properly use. We got to know each other a bit more, and by two when the lights glared, I thought my string of bad luck might have finally ended because I still thought he was cute despite increased illumination. In addition, we had begun the hand fondle thing. You know, squeezing and stroking palms, simulating what we want to do to each other's private parts. It's usually the precursor to the kiss. We extricated from the larger group and I heard myself saying,
"Are you tired?"
"Not really." Eyeing me. "You?"
"Nope." Eyeing him.
"Want to come over and hang?" Eyeing me lower. "I can play you that CD we were talking about."
"Sure."
"Cool. Follow me?"
"My car's just here."
I got in my car, started her up, and flipped on the radio. My cheeks burned at my brazenness, and as I pulled out, my stomach began to burn a bit too. By the time I got to the corner, and he was in front of me, waving through the rearview mirror, I was on fire.
"What on earth do you think you are doing?"
Oh no, here she is again.
"Nothing."
"Nothing, huh?"
"He's cute."
"Yeah, in a potential serial killer way. You don't even know him."
"He's a friend of a friend of a friend."
"Whose name is?"
"Justin, I think."
"Justin what?"
"Fuck off. I just wanna smooch!"
"But one thing leads to another and who knows what could happen."
"You only live once. And you know my things don't lead to others."
"Yeah, but come on. Look, I know it's been awhile and you are in need of affection, but this guy could be some psycho. Is that really how you want to go out?"
"You are such a drama queen! Chill out."
"Just turn."
"What?"
"Turn!"
And with that, before I could stop the "Wishidinter," I turned right onto a side street. I sped up
a la Speed Racer, turned left, turned right again, and lost every trace of him. The "Wannadoer" had no chance, but as you will come to see later, she usually never ever has a chance.
That's the inherent problem with Los Angeles. You experience the walk of shame before you even get to do anything. All those questions about the person you are about to let flitter his tongue on your teeth and grope your left breast surface before any initial contact. Sure, great first line of defense, and in this day and age blah, blah, blah, but sometimes it's fun to let go and kiss the frog! In college, it always happened post-hookup...
Girl Anatomy
A Novel. Copyright © by Rebecca Bloom. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
