Fishbowl. Sarah Mlynowski
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see you later this week, okay? We’ll grab dinner.”
“Oh. Okay, sure.” What are you doing? Where are you going? “No problem.”
“You have plans tonight?” He is looking at himself in the mirror, running his fingers through his recently processed hair.
“Um…I’m meeting some friends. My new roommate. Later. You?”
“I’m hooking up with the boys on College. First I have to stop by my place to change.” Apparently his snap pants are of the hangout not make-out variety. “Call me on my cell if you girls end up on College.”
“Definitely.” Definitely not. What a wasted opportunity. If I had gone with Emma then I could have plotted bumping into him. I push myself off the bed with my hands, and my buttered-covered fingers leave a trace on one of the daisies. Ew.
“You’re such a mess,” Clint laughs as I try to scratch the stain off with—oops—the sleeve of Em’s shirt.
Mess? I just cleaned my room for him. What mess? A little butter? Ew. This sleeve procedure isn’t helping the matter. Apparently butter stains must be some sort of contagious virus—the circle has now spread to twice its original size. Since letting him watch this cannot be a good strategy for the Get-Clint-to-Want-to-Have-Sex-with-Me objective, I walk him to the door.
“Have fun tonight. Maybe we’ll see you later,” I say.
See, wasn’t that sneaky of me? When I don’t show up later, he’ll think I’m far too busy to make time for him, thereby increasing my level of desirability. “Sure,” he says, and pats me on the head. “It’ll be fun to hook up.”
Hook up—hook up? Uh-oh, he’s really going. He’s walking away. Wait! I forgot about the vodka! Before next time I’d better forget about my popcorn abilities and focus on my bartending skills.
5
JODINE ARRIVES
JODINE
“You’re here! You’re here!” Through the open passenger’s seat window of the Happy Movers truck, I hear a girl squeal. She’s short, has an incredibly long brown braid, and is wearing gray jaggedly uneven cutoff sweat shorts and a red cotton T-shirt. Is it possible? Can someone look more like Pippi Longstocking?
She was waiting for me on the porch of 56 Blake, my new abode, and is now jumping up and down, trampoline-style. “You’re really here!” she says. Jump. Jump, jump. Each jump is punctuated with a clap of her hands. “It’s you!”
I hope she doesn’t lose her footing and topple down the stairs. “It is I,” I answer, and she runs, no, skips toward me. “You must be Allie.”
“That’s me!” Her wide, overjoyed smile overtakes at least fifty percent of her face. “And you’re gorgeous!”
I am? “Thank you.” Terrific. A suck-up.
“And your eyes are so green! They’re like the color of grass!”
“Um…thanks?”
“Mine are blue. And Emma’s are brown. Isn’t that cool? We’re like a rainbow!”
I raise an eyebrow. What in the world is this person rambling about?
“And you have a fish! I’ve always wanted a fish.”
She is referring to the glass bowl I am carrying, which contains one medium-size, mouth-agape goldfish. “You can have mine,” I tell her.
Adam snorts as he walks to the back of the U-Haul. “Don’t take it. She already tried to pawn it off to both me and our parents.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?” she asks.
“Nothing is wrong with it. My brother makes it sound as if it’s nuclear.”
“She got it as a Valentine’s Day present and has been trying to pawn it off on someone else,” he explains.
“But it’s so cute!”
I watch as Allie pokes the bowl with her—what is that revolting thing? Her finger! It’s her finger! What is wrong with her finger? Why is it bleeding? Is she diseased? “What happened to your hand?”
She hides her hands behind her back. “Nothing. I bite.”
Nail-biting makes no sense. Why would someone mutilate her own body parts? “You did that to yourself? Let me see.”
“No.” She keeps her hands behind her back. “I’m stopping.”
I didn’t mean to offend her, but really, no one should be causing herself that kind of pain. “Good. It’s disgusting.”
“So no one else in your family wants your fish?” she asks, changing the subject.
“I’d take it,” Adam says, “if I didn’t think it was infinitely more amusing to force Jo here to take care of it.” He laughs.
I hate when he calls me Jo. “If it has an unfortunate accident down the toilet, it will be your fault.”
“Poor fish,” Allie says, looking at it as though it was Little Orphan Annie.
“Oh, he doesn’t take it personally,” I say. “He knows I’m not discriminatory—I hate all animals.”
“But I’m sure you’ll like Whiskers.”
Whiskers. What’s a whiskers? My body begins to feel clammy. Any chance her boyfriend is named Whiskers?
“My cat,” she says, smiling. “Adam told you about my cat, didn’t he? You’ll love him. He’s adorable. All black with gold whiskers.”
I swallow. Cat? Allie has a cat? I can’t have a cat. I can’t live in the same vicinity as a cat. I hate cats. They scratch and bite and meow and do nasty things in the moonlight. Terrific. “Um. No one mentioned a cat.”
She giggles.
Dread has manifested itself into a vacuum cleaner, sucking the moisture out of my mouth. Why is she giggling? This is the most horrendous news I have ever heard. I can’t live here. The move is off. Turn the truck around. Back to the parents.
“I’m kidding, Jodine!” she says, and giggles again.
Huh? What? What kind of a sick joke is that? “You’re kidding?”
“I don’t have a cat. Don’t have a heart attack. You just turned white. Are you okay? I’m sorry. I was kidding.”
Kidding? Is this funny? This isn’t funny. Certainly not ha-ha funny. Maybe this is some kind of new Olympic sport, the how-fast-can-she-make-me-dislike-her event. Or maybe all new roommates have to undergo this kind of inane ritual, as though initiating for a sorority. What a way to begin my next life stage. With a heart attack. I hate being teased.
“I’ll take care of the fish,” she says, attempting a peace offering. “I like animals. We’ll keep it in the kitchen. Maybe even think about getting him some playmates. You know, some roomies of his own.” Again, she giggles.
“Okay.” Amity reinstalled. Can I still accidentally drop the fish down the drain?
“What’s up?” she asks my brother as he opens the back of the U-Haul, fish story concluded. “It was nice of you to come help.”
It’s hot. I rub my arm against my hairline and feel beads of sweat. I hate sweat. I have a minor sweating problem. There are certain shirts I cannot wear because I get stains under my arms. It’s because I work out so often. Despite what comedy sketches and character impersonations seem to imply, when your body is accustomed to working out, you break a sweat much faster than if you’re out of shape.
“Not much, Al,” Adam says with a wave. “What’s up with you?”
Allie turns pinkish, possibly at the comfortable