Jill Smolinski - The Next Thing on My List

‘ It’ s no problem,’ I assured her.

I knew it was a special holiday for them since-and only Susan could pull this off-they’ d met on Valentine’ s Day. It was back in college, when she and I were at a bar refusing to feel like losers because we were stag. At one point, a drunk guy the size of an army tank bumped into Susan, making her spill her drink over herself. Then he lumbered on without an apology. Chase-who stands six feet two and at the time probably weighed 120 pounds dripping wet-came running over. He tipped his chin in the lunk’ s direction and said, ‘ You want me to kick his ass?’ We gaped at him for a moment, stunned, and he said, ‘ I’ m kidding. The guy’ d smash me like a bug.’ Susan was instantly smitten, and I’ m pleased to report that Chase has since filled out nicely.

They live a few miles from me in Brentwood, in a three-bedroom ranch-style house that they bought for a song at an auction and that-thanks to California’ s ridiculous real estate market-was recently appraised at more than a million dollars. I call it the palace even though it’ s only about 1,600 square feet.

I arrived at the palace at seven o’ clock. Susan had already fed and bathed C.J. and Joey and dressed them in their pajamas. ‘ Hey, beasts!’ I called to them in the living room, where they played with Legos.

C.J. and Joey-identical twins-were dark and gangly like their father. The only way I could tell them apart is by the scar Joey got when he fell off a table as a toddler. Joey squeaked an excited, ‘ What’ s that?’ when he noticed I held a big box, hopeful it was a treat of some kind. He and his brother went back to their Legos when I showed them it was only a bunch of Marissa’ s yearbooks.

‘ I figured tonight might be a good time to look through them,’ I explained to Susan as she and Chase tossed on their coats.

‘ Good luck& hope you find what you’ re looking for. And thanks again for doing this,’ Susan said. ‘ We won’ t be long.’

‘ No later than ten,’ Chase added. ‘ I plan to be home in time to get my Valentine’ s Day booty.’

Susan grinned at him. ‘ Then that chore is out of the way until Easter.’

‘ Ah, I’ ll wear you down before that. Besides’ -he grabbed his keys and pulled on the door-’ you’ re forgetting about Presidents’ Day.’

‘ Shut up with your boasting about your sex life!’ I cried as they waved good-bye to me and the boys.

Once they left, I warmed up pizza for myself and proceeded to do what I always did when watching C.J. and Joey: let them run wild. Allowed them to pull out toys and games and balls and never made them put the old toy away before bringing out something new. Eat whatever they wanted. It was okay, the way I figured it, since I didn’ t baby-sit that often. It has occurred to me that that may be the reason I don’ t baby-sit that often.

The only time I scolded them at all the entire evening was when I noticed they’ d left the door open to the cage of their guinea pig, Aunt June, named after yours truly. (Susan said it was proof of the boys’ affection for me; I suspect there may have been prompting on her part.)

‘ We always keep it open,’ C.J. explained when I showed him the unhooked latch.

‘ Doesn’ t she escape?’

‘ Nope.’

Joey then grabbed a sprig of parsley from the refrigerator to demonstrate. Even when he held the treat just outside her reach, she merely leaned on the base of the door and squealed. He tossed the parsley into the cage. ‘ We asked for a dog.’

It was a little after nine o’ clock when the boys finally passed out on the living room floor. I had to step over C.J., curled up at my feet, to get the box filled with yearbooks.

Wrenching as it was, I made myself thumb through every one in search of Buddy Fitch. But there wasn’ t a trace of him. No one named Fitch at all.

So he wasn’ t a high school classmate. Although it meant that the search continued, I felt a degree of relief. I’ d been weaned on teen movies where the basic principle is survival of the fittest, so I feared the worst. I’ d concocted all sorts of scenarios regarding who Buddy Fitch might be. Most involved him starring as a wealthy, popular jock-think Steff, the head ‘ richie’ in Pretty in Pink-a boy who would have gotten his jollies from abusing Marissa for being fat.

And she was, too. Fat, that is. Poor kid. Her yearbooks showed the progression as she started out chubby in junior high and got heavier and heavier over the years. As if that weren’ t tough enough, there were photos of her in the marching band, in the glee club, and as a member of the chess team. Why didn’ t she just have a ‘ Kick Me’ sign sewn permanently to her back?

Marissa had a pretty smile in her senior picture, though, and it seemed genuine. Maybe her thought bubble would read, Thank God I’ m almost out of here! Or-who knows?-maybe she enjoyed high school. After all, when I was in school, I thought I had a good time. It was only after I graduated and got out into the world that I realized how miserable I’ d actually been.

One thing was certain: I was going to have to do some serious legwork to find Buddy Fitch. I’ d need to know who he was and what he did before I could determine what sort of payback he had coming.

And I’ d better get a move on. A month had already ticked by, and I’ d completed only four of the tasks. (I’ d have claimed five, but when I mentioned to Brie about how I pitched my idea to Lizbeth at the staff meeting, she’ d exclaimed, ‘ You call that pitching?’ and I didn’ t dare cross it off.)

After setting aside the last yearbook, I pulled the list from my purse.

20 Things to Do by My 25th Birthday

1. Lose 100 pounds

2. Kiss a stranger

3. Change someone’ s life

4. Wear sexy shoes

5. Run a 5K

6. Dare to go braless

7. Make Buddy Fitch pay

8. Be the hottest girl at Oasis

9. Get on TV

10. Ride in a helicopter

11. Pitch an idea at work

12. Try boogie boarding

13. Eat ice cream in public

14. Go on a blind date

15. Take Mom and Grandma to see Wayne Newton

16. Get a massage

17. Throw away my bathroom scale

18. Watch a sunrise

19. Show my brother how grateful I am for him

20. Make a big donation to charity

I’ d made a start, I knew, but there was so much left to do. If I was going to succeed, I needed to hunker down and stay on track. Next Tuesday I’ d handle #6, Dare to go braless. Most of the staff would be off at a rideshare fair. I’ d be able to go the whole day without encountering many people.

Maybe that was the easy way out, but I was willing to take any break I could get.

AS I DRESSED for work Tuesday morning, I couldn’ t help but think how it wasn’ t fair. After all, Marissa was, to put it delicately& petite. As in flat-chested. A-cup at best, I’ d reckon. Not that I’ d spent a lot of time staring at her chest, but I have a distinct memory of her being quite unendowed. Therefore, the ceremonial relinquishing of her bra would have been a feeling akin to the tossing of her scale: freeing.

For me, it was bordering on obscene.

It’ s not that I’ m huge-a C-cup usually, although depending on the bra occasionally a D. By Los Angeles standards, that’ s nothing. Problem is, unlike many of my contemporaries here in La-la-land, mine are real. Which is to say, they move. They bounce, they boing, they have minds of their own.

In an attempt to contain the potential damage, I searched my closet for my most conservative apparel and settled on a gray blouse over black slacks. Checking myself out in the mirror, I jumped up and down.

Good grief, I could put an eye out.

I took off the blouse, tugged on a black stretchy pullover, and then buttoned the blouse over the top of that. I jumped up and down again.