UNIVERSITY OF HAWAI'I FOXTROT FOR BEGINNERS A THESIS SUBMITTED TO THE GRADUATE DIVISION OF THE UNIVERSITY OF HAWAI'I IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS IN ENGLISH MAY 2004 By Sarah Pardes Thesis Committee: Ian MacMillan, Chairperson Rodney Morales Todd Sammons Chapter 1 I couldn't believe it. It was my twenty-ninth birthday, a day when I should have been eating salmon pate, drinking champagne, and dancing till midnight in a sexy backless dress, but instead I was sitting in my parents' lemon chintz kitchen being plied with hamburger patties and ice cream cake. This might have been fun when I was eight years old, but seeing as I was no longer a child and that I had just experienced one of the worst days of my life, I couldn't help but feel a touch mortified that I was wearing a paper hat and extinguishing a cake lit up like a bonfire. It felt like a disorienting dream. I was not supposed to be there. Steve and I had made reservations, I had bought a new dress, and I had eaten apples and rice cakes for the last two days to counterbalance the predicted onslaught of three million calories. I was not supposed to be there! Don't panic, I thought, stay calm. Think serenity. Think ocean waves. Think glass of wine. "Jane-darling, make a wish," sing-songed my mother. "And don't forget to specify how many carats. A-hahaha!" God. Bottle of wine, then. "Jane, did you see Fear Factor lastnight?" asked my dad. "They had to wear plastic pants filled with cockroaches." Okay, two bottles. "Where is Steve tonight?" asked Mom. "I set a place for him, too." "I told you earlier," I grumbled. "He couldn't make it." 1 "Cockroaches can survive nuclear war, you know." Dad shook his fork at me in warning. "If we ever have World War Three, they'll be the only creatures left on the planet!" "He couldn't make it to your birthday party?" God, it was like being drunk on a carnival ride. I've never liked birthdays. Who the hell gets happy about getting older? I'm supposed to celebrate the fact that I'm sprouting white hairs at my temples and that an extra ten pounds is roaming nomadically below my waist? I'm supposed to be happy that another year has passed and still not a single goal has been accomplished? I hadn't been to Europe, learned to tango, or gone sky diving. I hadn't gotten past Cinema Paradiso in my attempt to appreciate foreign films. I hadn't even conquered frizzy hair, nor grown thin enough to fit into my Max Azria jeans, and still hadn't ever, ever been able to successfully apply liquid eyeliner. And I'm supposed to feel festive? Psh! I've had jollier times at the dentist. Even as a teenager I got depressed about aging. Ever since my fourteenth birthday I've calculated what fraction of my life was over and announced it to the assembled party guests: "One fifth! I tell you, one fifth of my life is over and done with forever!" I only recently had to revise my calculations, because when I turned twenty-eight I took a test to determine my lifetime expectancy and discovered that due to my smoke-free, drug-free, virtually saint-like lifestyle (how embarrassing) I could hope to live to the age of ninety- seven. 2 This news was actually quite disappointing, because the previous calculations had been based on an ETD of seventy years, and now my Fraction of Life Used Up figures were seriously less dramatic than before. But now this. Forced to surrender to the well-meaning but utterly maddening attentions of Bill and Vicky, two alien creatures who called themselves my parents. By this time Steve should have been feeding me tiramisu and massaging my thigh under the table. I thought I might start to cry. "Mom. Dad. I have an announcement to make." "A-hahaha!" laughed Mom. "We know. One third, right? Ninety-seven's just around the comer!" She didn't think it was so funny when I told her that Steve had just dumped me for a twenty-two-year-old Russian masseuse. It happened like this: About a month before, Steve had been flipping through my latest issue of Cosmo, ostensibly to get the female perspective, but really because he wanted to read "Seven Tips for Mind-Blowing Sex." And then he found the cards. You know, the little illustrated how-to cards with the different sexual positions on them. Ones like "The Flying Tilt-A-Whirl" and "The Hurricane." Positions that you should only attempt if you and your partner are both gymnasts, certified scuba divers, and medically 3 insured. Steve was none of the above, but his enthusiasm for "The Cantonese Hammer" couldn't be checked. He hurt his back. (Which might sound like a great recommendation for the "Hammer," but I think it was overrated.) Because of the injury, Steve had booked an appointment to get a deep tissue massage at some fancy spa downtown, the kind with a black marble and chrome postmodern reception room and a ridiculous unpronounceable name like "Zyz" or "Joi" or "Ohm." Which is where he met Stacia, whose inherent evil was manifested in platinum hair, blue eyes, and very, very large breasts. Oh, yes, and apparently she was good with her hands, because Steve didn't hesitate to schedule her for several private house calls. I didn't know about any of it at the time. Steve seemed healed and back to his usual self, which meant he wanted to try "The Golden Dragon" and "The Underwater Death Grip." I had only found out about the affair that morning, when Steve decided to clue me in to some minor changes he was making to our relationship. "Jane," he said. "We need to talk." "If this is about tonight," I said, "the answer is still no. You can't wear your Nirvana t-shirt to The Stillwater Cafe." "Uh, no. It's not that." He scratched his head and shifted from foot to foot. "The thing is ..." "Yeah?" I was busy searching the closet for any clean non-wrinkly shirts. "I've got to go to work." "The thing is, Jane, I'm not going tonight." 4 That had my attention. "What?" "I can't go tonight. Something's come up." "But it's my birthday." Silence. "Come on, we've been planning this for ages!" 1was quickly building up steam for a full-fledged scream-a-thon. Steve had been putting in a lot of overtime lately, and 1 had tried to be an understanding girlfriend, but it was all just a ruse. I'm not an understanding person. Selfishness and bad temper come much more easily to me. "Steven Christopher Jones. You can't possibly be thinking of working late tonight. The twenty­ ninth anniversary of the day your cherished girlfriend was born." "Uh, no," he said, guiding me into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He looked so sweet, with his dark, damp, fresh-from-the-shower hair falling into his eyes. Like an innocent child--which he was, almost. He was only twenty-five, a matter which had occasionally caused me some pangs of self-disgust. But he was just so cute, in a Jeff Spiccoli sort of way. He sat next to me and held my hand reassuringly. "What 1meant to say was, I'm leaving you." Huh, 1thought. That can't have come out right. "I've met someone else. I'm sorry, Jane, but I'm in love with her." Although that seemed pretty clear. He told me all about Stacia of the Magic Hands and Breasts of Wonderment, and how they had fallen in love at first sight and couldn't bear to carry on such a pure love in secrecy. Steve was moving in with her. Immediately. It would do no good to try to talk 5 him out of it. He was leaving me for his exotic blond beauty ASAP, but he hoped I had a nice evening anyway. I don't know how I made it through the day. After Steve left, I numbly put on a sensible outfit and drove to school, where I taught five English classes without having any consciousness of what I was saying. I might have told the poor things that Shakespeare was the greatest American poet of the 19th century, for all I know. If they bombed the SATs it would be my fault. Or maybe I could blame Steve. I wandered to the teachers' lounge at lunch time, where there was a garish white mountain of a cake with my name written in pink icing, the kind of cake made entirely from sugar and Crisco and designed to clog arteries and arrest heart function instantaneously. Mindless of the danger, I ate three pieces. "Happy Birthday!" said Molly, breezing into the room. She's the only other teacher at my school who's not eligible for the senior specials at mop. We started teaching the same year, and even though she had one of those scary-genius science minds that are normally stupefying to a Left Brain like me, we got along famously. Like Thelma and Louise, but without the tragic death at the bottom of a canyon. So far. I looked at her and tried to reply, but what I think I said is "Bwaa?" In the back of my mind I recognized her pale blond hair, heavy-lidded blue eyes, and Mona Lisa smile, but I was still in shock from the morning's revelations, and now also near to sugar­ induced catalepsy.