Her Name's Not Nikita

keith-haring-untitled.jpgMy little brother came home from a bar mitzvah with a dazed look in his eyes and a henna tattoo across his arm that read: 'Nikita.' He told me it was fate. He was standing in the middle of the dance floor and announced to his friends that the sexiest name in the world was Nikita, and within moments a blonde sauntered over to him and said, "That's my name. I'm Nikita." He was in love, his faith in the universe (which had recently been diminished following our move from his beloved Pacific Palisades to the gaudy Beverly Hills) had just been restored…and I didn't have the heart to tell him, but I remember looking at my mom and us both thinking, "There's no way her real name is Nikita."

Every day coming home from school was another lovestruck car ride, "Nikita this, Nikita that..." Until Thursday. Thursday he got in the car completely deflated.  He looked up and told me, "Her name's not Nikita."

The blonde had deceived him; her real name was Nicky, and although her hair was wavy and she practically giggled sunshine, she was as plain a Jane as they come. The next day was Valentine's Day, and my heart went out for the little boy in the backseat. But then I noticed the valentine in his hands. A plain piece of paper with the inscription: "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." And the envelope read: "Nicky."

Charmers start early. College age girls in DC beware.