Younger by Pamela Redmond Satran Page A

making crème brûlée was anything but simple when Lindsay let out a little scream and, pointing directly at my crotch, cried, “Ew! What is that?”
    I looked down. Had my period started? Had she spotted a stretch mark? Had all those mashed potatoes waited until this moment to deposit themselves as a pad of fat atop my belly? But no, despite all the eating I’d done the past few days, my stomach was still taut from my year of exercising compulsively.
    â€œThat jungle of pubic hair!” she squealed. “It’s practically down to your knees!”
    â€œOh,” I said. “Well…”
    â€œIs that what they do where you were?”
    â€œWhere I was?”
    â€œWherever it was you were traveling,” she said. “Like you told Thad the other night.”
    â€œOh,” I said. “Right.”
    â€œSo they just went all natural there?” Lindsay pressed. “Were you in, like, the Third World?”
    â€œSort of,” I said. Well, some Manhattanites consider New Jersey the Third World.
    â€œWe’re going to have to do something about that,” Lindsay said, “before you hook up with Porter.”
    â€œDo something?” I said.
    I must have made a terrible face and cringed away from her, because she laughed and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to whip out a straight razor. But tomorrow after work, I’m taking you to my waxing person, Yolanda, for a Brazilian.”
    â€œA Brazilian?”
    I tried to imagine it, but never having been to Brazil or known a Brazilian person, never mind glimpsed its native pubic hairstyle, all I came up with was something vaguely bikini shaped. Which is what I believed mine was to begin with.
    â€œLike mine!” Lindsay cried, presenting the look with a flourish of her hands that reminded me of Vanna White directing the television viewers’ attention to a new Buick.
    â€œOh,” I said, eyeing Lindsay’s narrow strip of hair. “I don’t know.”
    â€œYou have to!” Lindsay said. “None of the girls in New York go natural anymore. Porter would be shocked.”
    Thad’s friend. Saturday night. Dressed or undressed, hairy or plucked, I couldn’t let this go on a minute longer.
    â€œLindsay,” I said. “You and Thad have been great to me, and I’m really glad we’re becoming friends, but I’m not interested in hooking up with Porter.”
    Lindsay looked at me, both hands now on her hips, as if I had told her I’d recently landed from the planet Xenon.
    â€œBut Porter is the perfect catch,” she said finally.
    â€œI can’t do it,” I told her, my mind churning in search of an argument-proof excuse. Because…we Xenonians are forbidden to consort with earthlings? “In fact, I have a confession to make. There’s another guy.”
    â€œYou said you didn’t have a boyfriend.”
    Now even the truth was getting me in trouble. “He’s not really my boyfriend. Just somebody I’m…hooking up with. You know, the alarm guy. Josh.”
    Lindsay shook her head, worked her lips. Finally she said, “I don’t believe you.”
    Without even trying, I’d convinced her I was twenty-whatever years old. That I’d never done anything more involved in my life than backpack through Bulgaria or some similarly unwaxed place. But I couldn’t convince her of this.
    â€œIt’s true,” I said.
    She looked at me for a few moments, and then finally she nodded and said, “Okay, prove it.”
    â€œProve it?” I gave up a forced little laugh. “How am I supposed to prove it?”
    She reached into her locker, took out her bag, extracted her phone, and handed it to me.
    â€œCall him,” she said. “Right now. Go ahead.”
    I didn’t take the phone. “What am I supposed to say?”
    â€œInvite him to dinner on Saturday. At Thad’s. That is,