She turns to me. “Do you think Ryan is gay?”
“Where’d that come from?”
“Everybody’s saying he is.”
“He says he isn’t.”
“But, Kayla, he wants to be a fashion designer! My brother says that’s totally gay.”
The Chinese woman doing my feet sputters on laughter and starts talking a mile a minute with the woman doing Viv’s feet. Are they laughing at our conversation? I’ll never know.
“Ryan says he isn’t gay, Viv. I didn’t ask him—one day he just said it. So I believe him.”
“All right. I believe him, too.”
“And does it matter if he is? I mean, who cares? My mom will do his wedding either way.”
When the pedicures are finished, we waddle over to the other end of the salon in our flip-flops and sit down for manicures. Viv decides to make her nails a shade lighter than her pedicure. My color-of-the-season is guava and I remain faithful.
“Hopefully our nails will last until your birthday,” she says.
My birthday is on September 27th, two weeks and two days away, not that I’m counting. “I doubt the mani will last, but I can always come back for a touch-up.”
“You may have to. Ryan is planning your birthday and he says we all have to look our best. He says it’s a requirement.”
“That’s hilarious. I can’t wait.”
“Any gift requests?”
“Oh, come on. You know I don’t want anything.”
“You come on. As if we won’t get you anything.”
It’s a good point. We’re pretty good gift givers in our group. Our gifts aren’t expensive, but they’re always creative.
“I can’t believe we’re getting all these assignments already,” she says.
“You’ll do great. You always do.”
“Probably, but I hate working so hard.”
Her parents are hard-core. They go to parent-teacher conferences demanding the dates of all the tests so they know when to keep Viv at home studying.
“At least you have some easy classes like art,” she says.
I laugh because it’s so ironic. “Easy, maybe, if I had some talent. It’ll probably be my worst mark. Have you thought about your sociology paper yet? It’s a quarter of our final mark.”
“I’m almost done.”
“You’re unbelievable! What’s it on?”
“How patients relate to their doctors.”
“Good idea. I’m actually thinking of doing a dating experiment. Have you heard of speed dating?”
She nods.
“I want to organize a speed-dating night at my place. Thought it might be fun to observe it and write a paper on it.”
“That’s an amazing idea!”
“I was hoping you’d volunteer to be one of the speed daters. I need ten girls and ten guys. Will you do it?”
“Will there be any Indian guys?”
“I promise to try to get some.”
“Okay, then. Count me in!”
THAT EVENING TRACEY calls to tell me about her date with the salsa instructor.
She has a fantastic dinner with Miguel at a Cuban restaurant in the Village. She leaves the restaurant on his arm, drunk on wine and their fiery attraction. He takes her to his favorite club, Calienté. Music pumps hot and fierce. He brings her onto the dance floor and leads her in a passionate set.
“You’re on fire,” he says. “You make love to me with your moves.”
Tracey feels vibrant and alive. She pictures herself dancing the merengue in her wedding dress as her friends and family look on in awe. Maybe one day she and Miguel will open up their own dance school. Maybe they’ll spend their summers teaching underprivileged children salsa in the streets of Guadalajara.
After a while she pleads exhaustion and takes a breather. At the bar, she orders a mojito, extra sugar. She’ll need the energy for the night of dancing ahead.
Miguel is now dancing with another woman. This is typical at salsa clubs—everybody dances with everybody. She doesn’t mind. The girl he’s chosen is a tentative dancer and heavy-set. He is apparently giving her instruction, and she is trying very hard not to step on his toes.
Tracey gulps down her drink, eager to get back. But when the next song comes on, he’s already found another partner. Tracey’s jaw drops when she sees that he’s dancing with a gorgeous Latina in a skin-tight white minidress.
The beat of the music is distinctive. It’s the bachata! Doesn’t he only dance that with special people? Isn’t it too personal?
Tracey watches as they tear up the dance floor. It’s the most extraordinary dance she’s ever seen—and if this guy weren’t her date, she’d be enthralled.
A woman sitting beside her mutters in a smoker’s voice, “Those two should get a room.”
At that moment Tracey becomes aware of several things:
She will never be able to rival a full-blooded Latina on the dance floor.
She will never be able to stand the jealousy of knowing that Miguel makes love to countless women in the form of Latin dancing.
Miguel is a gift to women everywhere. A Casanova. A bird not meant to be caged.
Tracey slaps down a ten for her drink. “Who was I kidding?” And leaves.
THIS IS RIDICULOUS. I have an awesome Web site that only a couple of hundred people know about. I need thousands, not hundreds, to make a splash.
I have to advertise.
I spend my entire Saturday making up a colorful, catchy flyer, then I go to Kinko’s to make copies. I put up about thirty in malls and subway stations. Too bad I can’t ask my friends to help with my advertising blitz, but it isn’t worth giving up my anonymity.
That night I sit in front of my computer. So far I’ve gotten fifteen hits. That’s not bad. I’m hoping someone will IM me. Instead, the Oracle’s phone line rings.
“The Oracle of Dating.”
“Hi. I saw your Web site. I have, ah, an issue that I’m dealing with.”
“You can count on me for unbiased advice.” My words are smooth, but excitement bubbles inside me. The woman on the phone sounds twenty-five or thirty—that means my advertisements are finally helping me reach a different age group!
“You sound really young,” she says.
Uh-oh, what do I say to that? Think, Oracle, think.
“Would you prefer a fresh voice, or a jaded one?”
She laughs. “Good answer. Here goes. I went onto a dating site and started chatting with a few guys. I ended up making dates with two in the same week. And the thing is, I liked both of them. I figured I’d go on a few dates with each of them and eventually one or both would fade out. But it didn’t happen that way. It’s been a month and I’m still dating them.”
“Do you prefer one to the other?”
“No, I’m crazy about both of them! They’re just so different. One is reserved and straitlaced—but still waters run deep, you know. And the other