Claudia and the Perfect Boy by Ann M. Martin
The only person I didn’t have a knack for matching up was me! I hadn’t found any ad that came close to meeting my requirements for the perfect guy. I’d even lowered my standards — well, slightly. I’d crossed “Easy to talk to (a good listener)” off my list. (I still wanted someone I could talk to, but after my last date I realized that I needed someone who could at least talk back. I had left “Interesting (lots to say)” on my list.)
The current issue wasn’t any more promising, either. All the guys sounded geeky to me.
Finally, though, one afternoon after school I sat down to look through the ads for the next issue and one of them popped out at me. It said: I’m getting desperate. I need a girl who doesn’t giggle and act like a little kid and preferably one who doesn’t wear pink. She should be smart, funny, pretty, and sort of hip. I’ve been told I’m good-looking, I play rock guitar, paint, and study eastern culture. No cheerleaders, please. Call Rock at 555-2984.
He sounded pretty cool to me. Also, I fit his qualifications and I don’t look good in pink. I decided to call him and place his ad, just to be fair.
I phoned him as soon as I got home. “Hi,” I said, “Is Rock there?”
“Rock?” said a woman’s puzzled voice. “Do you mean Richard?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed awkwardly. “Does he play guitar and like eastern culture?”
“Yes. Um, just a minute.”
After a few minutes I heard a boy’s voice. “This is Rock. Who’s this?”
“Hi, I’m calling about your ad,” I said, trying to place his voice and running through a mental list of boys from our class named Richard.
“I just put in my ad yesterday,” he said suspiciously.
“Oh, well, I’m Claudia so I got the ad first,” I explained.
“You’re Claudia!” he cried. “Wow! Cool! Sorry to sound so dubious but I thought Alan was goofing on me.”
Alarm bells went off in my head. “You don’t mean Alan Gray do you?”
“Yeah, I do. I don’t go to SMS. I go to a private school but I heard about your column and I gave Alan an ad to place for me.”
“Are you a friend of Alan’s?” I asked. If he was, he was out.
“That flake case? Nah. He’s my neighbor. I’ve been stuck living next door to him since I was born. I must have done something in another life for which I got this horrendous punishment of being Alan’s neighbor in this life.”
That made me laugh, which was a good sign. “So, would you like to meet some time?” I said boldly.
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “Alan told me that you were very cool. He wanted to date you himself. He was so bummed when you turned down his bogus ad. Which, in my estimation, vouches for your good taste.”
“Alan is not my type at all,” I said, tactfully understating the case.
“Want to go to a movie Friday night?” Richard asked.
“Sure, that might be fun,” I said. I gave him my address and he said he’d come by and get me. “My older brother can drive us,” he said.
I hung up just as Stacey came in for our Wednesday BSC meeting. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Why are you grinning like that?”
“I just made a date with a guy who sounds super cool,” I told her. “He says he goes to a private school. It must be the Paulson School.”
“That’s all boys, isn’t it?” said Stacey.
“Yup. That would explain why such a great guy would have to place an ad in the paper.”
“What’s his name?”
“Rock, but it’s really Richard.”
“Rock?” Stacey laughed. “As in a large stone?”
“No,” I said, laughing, too. “As in rock ’n’ roll!”
When everyone else arrived, I told them about my new date. “He sounds weird to me,” Kristy commented. “I don’t see what was wrong with Brian Hall. If I didn’t like Bart so much, I might go out with him.”
“He would be more your type,” I agreed. “But Rock sounds more like mine.”
From that moment on, I thought of nothing but Rock: how I would create the cover for his first rock album; how he’d insist that I sing backup vocals onstage with him, although before that moment I’d never known I had singing talent. We’d ride around the countryside on his motorcycle (which I was sure he’d eventually get even though he was too young for one right now). We’d sit on a hillside and paint together. It would be so wonderful.
That Friday I couldn’t wait for the BSC meeting to end so I could start getting ready for my date. At six o’clock I looked at my friends. They were all sitting around as if they had no intention of leaving. “Well?” I said. “Isn’t anyone leaving?”
“No way,” said Kristy. “We want to see this guy.”
I crossed my arms. “Oh, no. I don’t want some reviewing committee here to greet him. You guys are leaving. It’s bad enough that my mother and father will give him the third degree.”
“Let us just stay and see how you look on your date,” said Mary Anne. “Come on.”
“Oh, all right,” I agreed. Truthfully, I was glad they stayed. It kept me from melting into a nervous puddle. “But what about supper?” I asked.
“We have a little money in the treasury,” said Stacey. “We could probably afford to order in pizza.”
I ran downstairs and asked Mom if it would be all right to order pizza. She and dad had been about to order in Chinese food, so I ran back upstairs and asked how that would be. Everyone agreed it would be fine. Mom and Dad added three more plates of ribs and sesame chicken to their order and even paid the entire bill.
By the time my friends had called home to ask permission to stay for supper, the food had been delivered. We sat together in the kitchen and ate quickly. Then we hurried upstairs to my room.
“You’re not going to wear those, are you?” Kristy asked as I slipped into my new brown suede cloth pants.
“Why not?” I asked. I thought they were the best thing I owned.
“I don’t know,” said Kristy. “They just don’t seem right for a first date.”
I was not about to take fashion advice from Kristy, of all people. “I like them,” I insisted, zipping them up.
“I can’t believe you’re telling her what to wear, Kristy.” Mary Anne giggled.
“I know what you should wear. Those bead earrings,” said Stacey.
“They didn’t make a big impression on Brian,” I reminded her.
“Well, this guy sounds different. And wear lots of silver jewelry. Your bangles would be perfect. And put your good silver hairclip in.”
I trust Stacey’s fashion sense, so I took her advice. I finished the outfit with a simple yellow button down shirt and a brown and yellow brocade vest. “Perfect!” Stacey announced. “All you need is a little lipstick and mascara.”
By the time I was done, even Kristy admitted I looked nice. By then, it was seven-fifteen. Rock was coming at seven-thirty. “Everybody out,” I told them.
“Oh, come on,” Mary Anne pleaded. “We’ll stay at the top of the stairs and just look down. He’ll never know we’re here.”
“I’ll know you’re here,” I said. “I’m already nervous enough.”
“All right. We’re out of here,” said Kristy.
They left and I spent the next fifteen minutes fussing with my hair and makeup. (I took my hair down and added a hint of brown eyeshadow.) At seven-thirty sharp, the doorbell rang.
I bounded downstairs, determined to answer it before one of my parents did. “Hi,” I said to Rock, who stood there in jeans and a bomber jacket. His hair was brown and on the longish side, sort of flopping into his eyes, which were big and brown, and he had a handsome face, with nice high cheekbones. He wasn’t very tall, but he was taller than me.
In minutes, my parents were behind me, ready for the grand inspection. I could tell from my mother’s tight smile that she wasn’t altogether pleased with Rock. Neither was Dad. “You’re to be home by ten-thirty,” he told me sternly. Then he turn
“Brompton,” he said with just the slightest edge of annoyance in his voice. “My dad is Richard Brompton. He’s in the book if you need to call my house for any reason.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” replied my father, not smiling.
We couldn’t get out of there fast enough for me. “Wow, man, Alan didn’t tell me you were a Japanese chick,” Rock said as we walked toward the beat-up Chevy idling at the curb.
“I really hate being called a chick,” I said, trying not to sound angry.
“Oh, sorry, I know a lot of girls don’t dig that,” he said. “It’s just an expression.”
“Does it matter to you that I’m Japanese?” I asked.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “It’s great. I’m into everything Asian. Like yin yang, tai chi, sushi, you name it.”
“I hate sushi,” I told him.
“You do?” He gasped as he held open the car door so I could climb in the backseat. “You mean you don’t eat teriyaki and stuff like that?”
“I like teriyaki but we don’t eat it all the time.”
In the front was a guy with a long ponytail. “This is Russ, my brother,” Rock told me.
Russ just grunted and pulled away from the curb. All the way to the mall, Rock quizzed me about Japanese things, most of which I knew nothing about. “Could we please not talk about Japan anymore?” I asked as we pulled into the parking lot.
“Why not?” he asked. “You’re not ashamed of being Japanese, are you?”
“No,” I told him. “I’m proud of it. But what is your background?”
“Hungarian and Polish.”
“Do you speak either of those languages?”
“No.”
“Do you know lots about eastern European culture? Do you eat goulash and kielbasa sausage every night?”
“Of course not!”
“Well?” I said pointedly as I climbed out of the car.
“Okay, I get your point,” he said. “Cool earrings, by the way.”
That was more like it. “Thanks,” I said. “I made these myself from a bead pattern I saw in a museum. It’s an authentic Native American pattern.”
“I knew it,” said Rock. “You almost look a little Native American. But you know, I believe the first Americans were of eastern origin. If you look at them you can tell they’re easterners.”
He was off again. What he knew about theories of eastern migrations from northern Russia and China down through Alaska was very interesting. But the way he kept talking about everything Asian made me feel as if I were some representative of Japan instead of just me, Claudia.
That evening we watched a good movie about a guy who came back from the Civil War, only people start to suspect that even though he looks the same, he’s not really the same guy who left, especially his wife who likes the new guy better than her old husband.
I guess finding Mr. Perfect was never easy, even back then. As we left the theater, I was determined to keep Rock off the subject of Asian cultures. “Your ad says you paint,” I reminded him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did the design for this.” He began rolling up his sleeve until he came to what he was looking for — a tattoo of a skull with roses growing out of it and worms crawling on top. It was gross! (Well done, but gross.)
“Is that a permanent one?” I asked.
“It’s the real thing. It hurt like anything and I was grounded for a month because of it, but it was worth it,” he said proudly. “I’ll have this baby for the rest of my life.”
“Do you think you’ll want it when you’re forty?”
“I can’t imagine being that old,” he said, rolling down his sleeve. “You know, body painting is something that’s found in many ancient cultures.”
“I suppose so.”
“Want to get something to eat?”
“No, I don’t think so. Can we call your brother to come get us? I’m kind of tired.”
“Sure,” said Rock, looking disappointed.
It wasn’t long before Russ’s jalopy came banging and sputtering into the parking lot. When we finally pulled up to my house, Rock took my hand. “Can I kiss you good night?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, pulling away. “Good night. It was nice meeting you.” I practically ran up the front steps and into my house.
Of course, my parents were sitting up in the living room. “How did it go?” asked my mother.
“He was fine, just a little bit odd,” I said.
“Odd in what way?” Dad asked.
“He was very polite,” I assured him. “We just didn’t get along.”
“All right. You’re home early.”
“I was tired,” I said. I kissed them both and then went upstairs to my room. From under my bed I took out my list of qualifications for the perfect guy. Then I picked up the phone and punched in Stacey’s number.
“Home already?” she asked.
“It was a bomb. The only thing the guy could talk about was Asian things. He had a totally one-tracked mind.”
“Was he interesting, at least?”
“I suppose so.”
“That was one of your requirements,” Stacey reminded me.
“Yeah, but he was a little too interesting. He had a skull tattoo.”
“Ew,” said Stacey. “I see what you mean.”
After hanging up with Stacey I looked over my list. Was I being too particular? Maybe. I crossed interesting off my list. But then I made an addition. No tattoos.
On Tuesday, Mrs. Pike got a call to do some secretarial work for a company in Stamford. I went to the Pikes’ to help out Mallory for the afternoon. Mal is allowed to sit for her brothers and sisters as long as another sitter is there (the usual Pike rule) and she doesn’t exhaust herself.
When I arrived, the Pike kids were wild with excitement. The day before, the workers had finished putting up the high wooden fence around their backyard. Now they were ready to take ownership of Pow.
“I really should be here for this,” Mrs. Pike fretted as she pulled on her coat. “But if I push this event back one more day I think the kids will go nuts. Do you girls think you can handle it?”
“No problem,” I assured her. “Everything is under control.”
“There may be tears,” Mrs. Pike warned. “Buddy and Suzi, I mean.”
“Oh, I hope not,” said Mal.
“We can deal with it,” I said.
Half an hour after Mrs. Pike left, Mrs. Barrett arrived with Buddy, Suzi, and Pow on his leash. “He’s here!” cried Margo, dashing to the front door. “He’s finally here.”
The kids came pouring in from every corner of the house. They swooped down on Pow, hugging him, petting him, and dancing around him happily.
Poor Buddy and Suzi. Buddy clutched a brown paper bag and looked as if he were choking back tears. Suzi, her bottom lip puffed out, clung to her mother’s hand. “What’s in the bag?” I asked Buddy.
“Dog stuff,” he said, handing it to me. Inside were a red bowl, a half-opened bag of dry dog food, three cans of wet dog food, an old blue squeeze toy in the shape of a bone, and a slightly chewed rawhide knot.
“He won’t have to sleep outside, will he?” Suzi asked Claire.
“No, we bought him a bed. It’s plaid,” Claire told her.
“Well, kids, say good-bye to Pow and let’s go,” said Mrs. Barrett.
“Can’t we stay with him?” Buddy pleaded.
“We don’t want to leave him,” Suzi insisted.
Mrs. Barrett looked at me.
“It’s okay by me,” I told her.
“Me, too,” said Mal.
Mrs. Barrett left, but Buddy and Suzi hovered in the doorway. They looked lost and unhappy.
“I think this important moment deserves an important ceremony,” I said.
Mal picked up on my idea right away. She ran to the closet and pulled out a red plaid dog bed. “Pow should sit here, as if it’s his official spot,
The kids liked the idea and gently prodded Pow onto the bed, and he settled in. Then the kids looked to Mal and me.
“I think the Barretts should say au revoir to Pow,” I suggested.
“What’s ‘o-river’?” asked Suzi.
“It’s the French way to say good-bye,” I explained. “It doesn’t mean good-bye forever. It means, until we meet again.” (I’d learned that late one night while watching an old movie about World War Two.)
“Until we meet again,” Suzi repeated, a slow smile spreading across her face. “That’s good.”
“Yeah,” Buddy agreed.
“Who wants to start?” Mal asked.
“I will,” Suzi volunteered. She stood in front of Pow, her back straight and her head held high. “O-river, Pow,” she said with a hint of drama. “You’ve been a good dog. Try not to hate Marnie for making you leave. She’s just a dumb baby. She didn’t know her allergy would make you leave. Behave yourself. Don’t chew up Claire’s slippers like you did my troll slippers last week when I sneaked you into the house. Don’t drink from the toilet, and I promise to come see you soon.” Suzi kissed Pow on his head and then stepped back.
Buddy took his cue and stepped forward. “Or-revor, Pow,” he said solemnly. “We’ll meet again. Don’t you worry. All your favorite stuff is here and the Pikes are nice people so I know they’ll treat you nicely. I’ll come see you.” He knelt to hug Pow. “See ya soon.”
“Do the Pikes want to say anything?” I asked.
Jordan Pike stepped forward. “I would like to welcome Pow to our house,” he said. “We are very, very glad to finally have a dog so we’ll be the best dog owners a dog could ever wish for.”
Adam tapped Jordan on the shoulder then and whispered something in his ear. “Okay,” Jordan whispered back. “Plus we wish Buddy and Suzi to know that they have full visiting rights.”
“I hope they’re better than the visiting rights my father has with us,” said Buddy, looking worried.