Milkrun. Sarah Mlynowski
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Jackie!” Nat is yelling in the background. I’m not sure how I hear her over the thumping boom, boom, getting laid, boom boom, but I do. And it’s very distracting. Her arms are flying over her head now.
“Can I have your number?” At last. The magic words have escaped his lips.
“Sure.” I feel a bit like Cinderella, although my fresh-purchase single-girl shoes are definitely a lot funkier than glass slippers. Although I have always wanted a pair of those, too. I ask Ms. Cleavage for matches, and reach into my purse for a pen. She gives me the evil eye but no matches.
He takes the pen from my hand, and little tingles kind of like little ants, the black kind not the poisonous red ones, scramble up my arm. “Shoot.”
I recite my number, and good God, he writes it across his hand.
“Jackie! Jackie! Jackie!”
“I have to go,” I say, motioning to Natalie. He sees her. This is good. It looks as if I have friends.
“Great,” he says. “I’ll call you.”
Please do.
I spend the rest of the evening being introduced to anyone who’s anyone, but mostly posing so that Jonathan Gradinger can see how sexy I am. I’m also watching him carefully to see that he doesn’t smudge my number up against any potential rivals. Mind you, I’m being very discreet; no more overt stalking for me.
Will he call? It’s Friday, so maybe he’ll call tomorrow. Maybe tonight? Maybe he’ll call me the second he gets home. Maybe he’ll say he can’t sleep until he hears the soft, inviting lilt in my voice.
“Having fun?” Natalie whispers, as much as one can whisper over the music. We sit at a table with the Armani guy and three of his friends. One of them keeps talking to me with a thick French accent. I keep nodding, not really understanding anything he says. The only words I can make out are, “More drink, yes?”
Definitely yes. What a wonderful night. I am going to have the most perfect boyfriend in the whole world. He’ll want to get married, and because he’s a doctor I probably won’t have to start with the No dear, that’s not the clitoris thing, and he’ll want to get married, and he’s brilliant and the rest of my high school class is going to kill themselves with envy, and he’ll want to get married. I particularly like the envy part of this whole fantasy. Hmm…snotty Sherri Burns thought she was so cool. Oh, look at me, I’m the only freshman cool enough to get cast as a pink lady; oh, look at me, I’m so cute; oh, look at me, I’m going to wear my pink lady jacket every single day.
I can’t wait ’til she hears about us. I’m sure she had a thing for my Jonathan, but what does it matter now? I can be big about the whole thing. Maybe I’ll call her tonight and let her know about my engagement, although I don’t even know where she lives. Maybe I should plan a reunion; it’s been at least eight years since we graduated. I’ll just let it slip out: “I’ll be coming with my fiancé. You might remember him, Jonathan Gradinger?” Maybe I’ll wear pink.
Or I could send a picture of us to the Stapley alumni Internet site. I’ll just have to remember to bring a camera on our date.
I like that idea better.
“Tomorrow, we’re going to hit The G-Spot, ’kay?” Natalie says, grabbing my hand. I assume she’s talking about a bar.
“Sounds good.” I answer, wondering if I can get away with wearing this outfit again.
4
Why Bother Getting Up?
MY FIRST THOUGHT THIS MORNING is about Jonathan Gradinger. It is not about
Therefore I am officially over him.
Actually, my first real thought is djjfhskakd—why, oh, why, is my phone ringing at 9:15 on a Saturday morning? Someone had better be on fire. Secretly, it’s only six minutes past nine. I set my huge clock (oversize so that I can see it without my contacts in) nine minutes fast in the hope that somehow this deception will make me on time.
“Hellooo?” I say.
“Fern!” It’s my dad. “Are you still in bed?”
“No.” I always say I’m awake when I’m asleep. Don’t know why.
“But you’re wasting the day!”
“I’m awake.” Eyes…heavy. Mouth…can’t open.
“Good. What’s new?”
Uh. “I forget.”
“Do you want to call us back when you wake up?”
“No, now’s good. Nothing’s new.” Okay, okay. I’m sitting up. I’m awake. I’m going to have dark circles under my eyes and I’m practically out of concealer and no man will fall in love with me and it’ll all be your fault.
“If nothing’s new, why have you been too busy to call us back?”
Whoops. It’s not that I ignore them on purpose. I am just constantly forgetting that they exist and that I should call them. “I’ve been busy at work.”
“Work is good. What have you been editing?”
“A book.”
“A book about what?”
Did he wake me up to learn more about Millionaire Cowboy Dad? How come he’s not a millionaire daddy? “A romance, Dad. Same story as every other story.”
“What’s that?”
“Girl meets boy. Girl loves boy. Boy screws over girl.”
“That’s the story?”
I must really not be paying attention if that’s what I just told my father. Why is he calling me so early? This I don’t ask either, afraid to risk another lecture on how the early bird gets the worm. “No, that’s not the whole story. Boy apologizes and they get married and live happily ever after.”
“That’s nice, dear. But you know what they say, all work and no play makes for a dull life. And what about you? What’s happening with the boys? Are you still seeing Jeffery?”
“No, Dad. He’s screwing girls in Thailand right now.” I don’t really say that. I don’t want to give him a heart attack; he thinks I’m still a virgin. “It’s Jeremy. And no, I’m playing the field right now.”
“No rush, dear, no rush.”
Most parents would be bugging you to start thinking about getting married, or at least tell you to find a boyfriend by the time you’re twenty-four, but not my dad. He still thinks I’m fifteen. Whenever he goes on business trips, he still buys me those “Welcome to (insert name of visited state here)” T-shirts in children’s sizes. Janie, on the other hand, constantly reminds me that she does, in fact, “want to be called Gramma someday.” If I ever do have kids, I might insist they call her Janie. Just to annoy her.
“What’s new with you, Dad?”
“I joined a new jogging group.”
“That’s good. How’s work?”
“Good. I’m only working four days a week now.”
“How come?”
“I want some time for myself. Life’s not a dress rehearsal, you know. I have to live for the moment. I can’t waste all my time working.”
Definitely Bev’s influence. I may have even heard her use the exact phrase “Life’s not a dress rehearsal,” followed by “We only have one life to live.” My dad used to be a workaholic, especially after the divorce. Since Bev got him into psychoanalysis, he’s become more of the how-does-it-make-you-feel and listen-tome-recite-clichés type of