Was a girl turning her boyfriend into a girlfriend, something that happened out there? Just in fantasy, yeah, maybe, but in real life?

Part 2 - Wilshire

Chapter 8 - Brazil

Marjorie grinned. “The guy who thinks he knows you…what’s his name?” she asked.

“Uh, Armand Gower. He was a couple years ahead of me in school. He’s the one who basically started the—the gaming club. Really smart guy, but kinda messed up.” It was funny that Armand hadn’t recognized me fully, but I was glad. It would have been worse if he knew I was really Davey Kissee instead of thinking I was some soap opera actress.

“Messed up how?” Marjorie wanted to know. She had a sort of expression I hadn’t seen before.

“He’s -uh- he’s Asperger’s. You know?” I remembered that she had a degree in psychology.

“I do know,” she said. She seemed to relax a little. “So, he’s not a creep.”

I laughed a little. “Well, no. Though he kinda seems a little creepy to people who don’t know him. He’s just—different.”

“He seemed more than a little creepy outside in the crosswalk but being Asperger’s fits. He saw you as a puzzle and wanted a solution.” She sighed. “I’m going to go see if he’s still hanging around. If he sees enough of you, he’s probably going to figure it out.”

Armand was actually good at noticing details, just not the details almost everyone else would see first. “That—would be bad.”

“Probably not, if he’s really a friend. And it’s something you’ll have to face sooner or later if I’m right about you.”

“You’re wrong,” I said flatly, but I was talking to her back.

The two ladies, Jenny and Linda, working on my nails traded glances but asked no questions. I wasn’t sure how much they had understood since they were Asian, and obviously immigrants judging by their accents. Their English seemed good enough for their jobs, but I didn’t know how fluent they might be.

Linda, the one working on my feet, wanted to know what I wanted. She handed me a menu that did me no good at all since I had no idea what half of the things listed might be. “My -uh- sister is paying for everything, can we wait till she gets back?”

“Sure,” said the woman. “I just do basic until she tell me, okay?”

“Okay, thanks.” What she was doing, scrubbing my feet and rubbing something onto my legs felt very relaxing. I’d never had anyone do anything similar to me.

“You not shave legs?” she asked. “We do waxing?”

I shrugged. “Marjie will decide.”

She was gone a little longer than I expected and returned with a couple of bags she added to the one from Le Trend. “No sign of him,” she said when I asked. “I guess you don’t have a stalker, yet.”

“Armand isn’t a stalker. He can be intense, though.”

She nodded. “I actually looked into getting into that field, working with children. But the fact is, I’m lazy.” She grinned. “Still surprises me I finished two degrees.”

“You’ve—got a lot of energy,” I told her.

She grinned at that. “I’m stubborn, too.”

I snorted.

Linda handed her the menu, and Marjorie glanced at it. “The works,” she said. “Waxing, too.” She touched her arms and face, “The whole thing,” she said. Then to me, she said, “You’re going to love this.”

I didn’t love it.

We sat together on the lobby chairs at the front of the salon, looking at Jenny’s and Linda’s work on my hands and feet. We waited for another client being worked on in a back room to be finished. I still had my shoes off with little twists of paper between my toes and some paper sandals on while my toes finished drying.

“Pretty,” said Marjorie, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Beautiful.”

“My nails?” I held out my hands to get a better look.

“No, you,” she said. “You’re beautiful.”

I made a noise halfway between a snort and a whimper. The nails looked nice enough—pretty, I guess. Just not on me.

French nails turned out to be a two-tone, pastel orange-and-white job that looked elegant but were probably designed to keep the wearer coming back for maintenance. And Marjorie picked out a dark orange-red for my toes that almost matched my hair color, with the addition of a white and green flower on my big toenail. It was so cute I could scream.

“I’m going to be able to get all of this stuff off before going home, aren’t I?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Or not. But I like my girlfriends to be sexy, you know.”

My hair was no redder than my face. “I’m not your girlfriend,” I said quietly.

She shrugged. “Well, that’s a matter of opinion. But am I yours?”

“Uh?”

She peered at me from under her blonde hair, eyes as blue as sapphires sparkled, and those dimples twinkled or whatever dimples do. “Is it a hard question?”

“-uh-”

She leaned on me, and since she’s four inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, she ended up pushing me sideways. “Don’t you want me to be your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But you’re crazy,” I admitted.

She laughed.

“Well, then,” she said, “you have to be my girlfriend. You can’t be my boyfriend because I’m a lesbian.”

I glared at her. “That would make me a lesbian, too. And I’ve never taken a single drama class.”

It took her a moment to work that out, then she laughed, loud enough and long enough that I tried to shut her up and got the giggles myself. Not that I wasn’t still annoyed at her, but that laugh was infectious. “Stop it! Stoppit, stoppit, stoppit!” I complained uselessly.

Linda came over and waited patiently for us to stop laughing.

“Wait—what?” I asked, wiping my eyes.

“Room is ready for waxing to begin,” she nodded.

I followed Linda, and Marjorie followed me. “Is this going to hurt?” I asked.

“A little,” she said—the liar. “The wax is warm when it goes on, sometimes a bit hot. Then it stings a bit when it’s pulled off.”

“Ow,” I said, knowing how reliable Marjorie could be. If she said it was going to sting, I imagined jellyfish levels of hurt. “I’ve changed my mind.” I tried to turn around and go the other way.

“C’mon,” she got me in a firm grip, and we kept walking toward my doom.

“I don’t want to do this,” I said, making up my mind. But we were already in the back room, and Linda closed the door behind us.

“Don’t be a baby,” Marjorie scolded. “You have so little body hair. This is going to be a snap.”

“You want Brazilian?” Linda asked.

“Uh, no, not this time,” Marjorie decided after glancing at me.

I didn’t like the look of that smirk. She explained to me later what a Brazilian was, and I was right to be skeptical of her smiles. “Have you had this done?” I asked, as much to distract myself as for information or reassurance.

“Sure. Every four to six weeks. When I start feeling furry, but there’s less hair to remove each time.”

“Huh?” I said.

Linda motioned toward a clinical-looking padded table. “Take off dress, shoes, jewelry?”

“What? I—why? No one said I had to get naked for this.”

Marjorie kissed me on the cheek. “You don’t. You’ll have towels draped over you, but wax could ruin your clothes or jewelry.” She started removing my jewelry, which went into a bright plastic bowl on the counter. Well, it wasn’t mine—just the jewelry I had been wearing. Same thing, I guess.

Linda nodded vigorously and mimed me removing my dress. You know what I mean.

I sighed. The dress came off just like a t-shirt, and Marjorie had a towel right there to wrap around me. I lay down on the table with more towels across me. “Why am I willing to do almost anything you tell me to?” I asked.

She kissed me on the forehead. “You’re going to be wondering that even more in just a few minutes,” she said with dimples.

“It’s not that I’m just hoping to get laid,” I began.

She put a hand over my mouth, “Hold that thought.”

Linda had something that looked a lot like a paint-stirrer in her hand, almost dripping with a green-tinged liquid the color of the walls in a dentist’s waiting room. She painted some of the warm liquid on a patch of leg above my ankle, then pressed a sheet of some material against it, smiled at me and ripped it off.

I flinched. Okay, that hurt and was still stinging, but I’ve always been a rip-the-band-aid-off-all-at-once sort of person. This wasn’t that bad. Linda giggled when she saw my expression.

It got worse, but I lay there thinking about the things Marjorie said back in Le Trend, and about how I seemed to be so—so willing to do even crazy things she thought up. She wanted me to be her girlfriend. Was I willing to do that?

I knew I was certainly curious about the idea. Marjorie wasn’t like any person I had ever known. She was bossy, but I kind of admired her determination. She was certainly sexy and interested in me, a new experience for a nerd boy who had been on exactly four solo dates in his life. Five now.

She was certainly pushing me in directions I wasn’t comfortable with. Curious about, but not comfortable. I decided I needed to do some research on the internet when I got a chance. Was a girl turning her boyfriend into a girlfriend, something that happened out there? Just in fantasy, yeah, maybe, but in real life?

After the pits, which were awkward, Marjorie began soothing my legs (almost all the way to Brazil) with the SPF 666 sunblock we’d bought. “It’s not reindeer schmaltz, but it will help,” she said.

It did, and I loved the thought that Marjorie was doing it.

Linda tapped her chin, brow and upper lip. “We do face, too?” she asked.

Marjorie looked up from rubbing my thigh under the towels. I shrugged, “I guess so,” I said. “Why stop now?”