Milkrun Page 16

  “What if I can’t help it? Is this a good idea?”

  “Please? Please? Please? Please?”

  “Okay, fine.”

  She does some speed dialing (she’s obviously programmed a button for him), and then I hear a deep male voice answer, “Yeah?”

  “Is Kyle there?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Hey, what up? It’s Iris.”

  “Hey, Iris! What up?”

  What is “what up”? Why are they forgetting the S?

  “Nothing, I’m just sitting at home. What are you doing?”

  “You know. Chilling at my pad.”

  This boy has a pad? Why does he have a pad? How old is he? Why is he chilling? Is he on drugs?

  “Oh.” This from Iris.

  Silence. More silence. Should I interject something here? Breeeeeeep. Oops. That was an accident, I swear.

  “Well, have fun,” she says. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay.” I hear a twinge of confusion in Kyle’s one-octave-lower-than-I-expected voice.

  “Okay, bye.” Iris disconnects Kyle. Again, silence.

  I howl.

  “Stop!” Iris says, unable to suppress her own laughter.

  “Nice work! I’m very impressed.”

  “Omigod. Omigod. Omigod.”

  “Why does he have a pad?”

  “Omigod. Omigod. Omigod. At some point in my life I’ll be able to treat boys like normal people, right?”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  All this laughing is killing my navel.

  11

  Oh, Brother

  I’M ABOUT TO START EDITINGThe Sheik Falls in Love, when the words New Mail flash across on my screen.

  More comma meetings I cannot take.

  But wait, what’s this?

  Jackie,

  This is a picture of my brother, Tim. If you’re interested, let me know and I’ll give him your number.

  Julie

  Humph. What kind of horribly superficial person does she think I am? Does she really think I’ll only go out with her brother if he’s physically attractive? What about personality? Intelligence? Sense of humor? Money?

  I open the attached file.

  He’s cute.

  And tall, standing at least a foot taller than Julie beside him. It looks like a professional picture, with that pale blue screen in the background. A present for their parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary? As far as I can remember, I always wanted to have my picture taken professionally. But my dad had this fantasy about being a photographer, and when I was little he always had a camera and a huge lens slung around his neck, ready to snap at anything. He looked like a tourist at Disneyland. “Oh, look, Janie!” he’d shout. “She’s smiling!” or “Oh, look, Janie! She has a new tooth!” I’m just grateful my parents split up long before I got my first bra.

  It’s not that he was so embarrassing, which he was, it was because in all his pictures people came out with no feet, or no heads. Weird. In all my early years on this planet, I didn’t have a decent picture of me. But when I was thirteen, I thought of a plan. I convinced Janie to have Glitzy Image done for her birthday. These are funky professional pictures where they do your makeup and hair, and dress you up in fur scarves or glittery bustiers. I told her I’d pay for the shoot, and all she’d have to pay for were the prints. Of course, once we arrived at the studio I wanted to get my pictures taken, too, and the bill came to twenty-five dollars. That is, twenty-five dollars for the shoot and four hundred fifty dollars for the actual pictures. But they were good pictures, I swear it. Especially the ones of me.

  It was so worth it. For me, anyway.

  This guy isn’t just cute, he’s hot. He has broad shoulders, and soft brown hair that looks like it wants to fall into his big, brown puppy eyes. Come here, doggy. Over here.

  Why didn’t she just tell me she has a hot brother? What’s his name again? Right—Dad. I mean Timothy. Timmy. Tim.

  What a conundrum. If I say I’m interested in meeting her brother, she’ll know it’s just because of his looks, otherwise I would have said yes earlier. Do I e-mail her back, thereby admitting I’m superficial? Or do I respond that I haven’t had time to look at the picture? No, that would sound fishy. Maybe I’ll tell her that my computer can’t open attachments but that I’d love it if she could fix me up with her brother anyway, sight unseen. Come to think of it, why is she doing this in the first place? Did she see through my lie that I have a boyfriend? Or does she think I’m a slut who will see two boys at the same time? Or, God forbid, does she think I did have a boyfriend but that I am totally incapable of maintaining a relationship?

  I hit reply. No reason to think too hard about this.

  Dear Julie,

  Hook it up!

  Jackie

  Send.

  He calls at exactly eight that evening. Amazing. Completely implausible. He got my number today and he called today. See? Not all guys play games. There are some men out there who don’t sing at plays, don’t run off to Thailand, and don’t cheat on their girlfriends. I hope so, anyway. It would suck big-time if Tim has a girlfriend, is planning a trip to Thailand, and sings at plays.

  What if he wants to take me to a play? What if he buys tickets to The Apartment? Do I have to go again?

  “Jackie!” Sam yells from her room while I’m watching the end of Ally McBeal. “It’s for you!”

  “Tell them I’ll call back later!” I scream back. Damn, just when the sappy music is about to come on. Why would someone call during Ally? How annoying is that?

  Two minutes later I yell, “Who was it?”

  “Some guy…Jim? No, Tim.”

  “Tim? Why didn’t you give me the phone?”

  “You said you’d call back.”

  “Yeah, but I thought it was Iris or someone. I didn’t think Tim would call so soon.”

  “Just call him back. I took down his number.”

  “What did his voice sound like? Smart? Cute? Funny?” I don’t need Sam to tell me if he sounded hot. I already know he’s hot. At least I hope he’s hot; he was hot in the picture. But wait. What if it was airbrushed? “Did he sound hot?”

  “How does someone sound hot?”

  “Never mind. Did he sound funny?”

  “No. He just asked to speak to you.”

  “You can’t tell me anything?”

  “He was polite.”

  Polite’s better than rude. “Okay, I’ll call him back.” Uh-oh. “I can’t call him back. What if Julie answers?”

  “He lives with his sister?”

  Good point. I hope not. But they might. “What if they do? Do I say hello? This is way too stressful.”

  “If you don’t call him back, he’s not going to call you again.”

  True. A definite bind. Aha! “I’ll leave an internal message!” The miraculous capabilities of the virtual answering machine. I can call through the message service. This way it looks as if I tried to call but didn’t get through.

  “Are we going to have dry-run messages again?”

  Hmm. “No, I’m not even nervous because I don’t like him yet. Watch. I can do it cold.” She hands me the phone number and watches me dial.

  “Hello. You’ve reached the Mittmans. We can’t come to the phone right now. To leave a message for Tim, please press one. For Norman or Sandra, press two.” Beep.

  I press one. “Hi, Tim, it’s Jackie. Julie’s friend. Call me back when you get a chance. Call me back when you get a chance. Bye.” I hang up. Hee, hee. I’m not sure why I pulled a Jon Gradinger, but I couldn’t resist.

  “So? What does his voice sound like?”

  “Old. I think it was his dad.”

  “His dad? He lives at home?”

  “I guess.” Uh-oh.

  “How old is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How old is Julie?”

  “I don’t know!” What if Tim is really Timmy? Eighteen-year-old Timmy. Eighteen-year-old Timmy still
in school.

  “What does he do for a living? Does he have a job?”

  “I don’t know.” I probably should have done a touch more research than simply ogle his picture. If he doesn’t have a job, do I have to pay for the date?

  The phone rings. “I’ll get it,” I scowl. “Hello?”

  “Hi, can I speak with Jackie, please?” His voice didn’t crack. Good sign. He’s not twelve.

  “It’s Jackie.”

  “Hi, this is Tim, Julie’s brother.”

  “Hi, Tim.” Nice voice. This is good.

  “Hi, Jackie. I’m glad I reached you.”

  “I’m glad you reached me, too.”

  “Good.” Pause. “So apparently you’re my type,” he says.

  Cute opening line. Three cheers for Timmy! “I’ve never been told I’m anyone’s type before.”

  “From what my sister says, you’re everyone’s type—cute, smart, and sweet.”

  Two points for Tim. Four points for Julie. Wait a minute. There’s something a little off-color about being everyone’s type. However, for the moment, I will give him—and Julie—the benefit of the doubt. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Pause. “Would you like to meet me for coffee this week?” Cutting right to the core, aren’t we?

  “I’d like that.” I hope you’re not a creep.

  “Are you free on Friday night?”

  Friday night? Friday night is Orgasm night—and since you’re not a sure bet yet, Timmy dear, I can’t quite give that up. Who goes for coffee on a Friday night, anyway? Friday night is bar night.

  “Um…Thursday night is better.”

  “Oh? During the week? Okay. It’s just that I get up at 5:30 and I’m pretty zonked at night. And I have to get up early the next day…”

  Is that half past five in the morning? What could one possibly have to do at 5:30? I decide to save the questions until the date to ensure we have potential discussion material. “What about Saturday?” I ask, taking what I know to be a huge risk. A Saturday night first date? That’s like playing the two-dollar slots instead of the quarter ones.

  “Perfect,” he says.

  Yay! Now I can still go to Orgasm and have Saturday night plans, too.

  “I’ll call you Saturday afternoon to get your address.”

  And he’s even going to pick me up at my apartment, not on a street corner! He must have been deposited here from the nineteenth century! “Okay, speak to you then.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.” I hang up the phone.

  “So? How does he sound?”

  “He sounds…nice.”

  “Nice is good…isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. You’d think, wouldn’t you?”

  We go to Orgasm on Friday night, we meaning Sam, Natalie, and myself. I am wearing a jean skirt, a white blouse tied at my waist, a cowboy hat (all purchased at a nearby drugstore), and Sam’s cowboy boots. She still hasn’t given me a good reason as to why she owns these boots. Unfortunately, they are slightly too small and are presently doing damage to my feet. My hair is in pigtails and I drew little freckles on my cheeks. No, I have not decided to commit fashion suicide—it’s a Halloween party.

  Natalie is not in costume; she’s far too cool. Sam is wearing skintight black leather pants, a navel-exposing black crop-top, Playboy bunny ears, and a bushy tail. She is determined to act out her costume, and has begun flirting with everyone in sight, including Andrew, who has appeared by my side in a black turtleneck, black pants, black shoes and a sign around his neck that says, “I’m a nihilist, I care about nothing.” I forgive him for the turtleneck; after all, it’s just a costume.

  “Did you get that idea from The Big Lebowski?” I ask, laughing at his creativity.

  “Yup. But I think you’re the only one who gets it.”

  Ben is dressed up as the town drunk—oh, yeah, that’s his normal attire. When he sees Sam’s costume, she becomes the receiver of his sleazy hello. When he buys the five of us shots, she’s the one he drinks a toast to.

  “What happened to toasting my soft skin?” I whine.

  “You’ve been replaced.” At least he’s honest. His hand drops to Sam’s waist, below her waist, and then rests on her butt. Does she smack him? Gently move his hand? No. She giggles and leans into him.

  “How come you’re not wearing a crop-top?” Andrew asks, eyeing my clothed stomach.

  Um…no. “Only special people get to see my belly ring.”

  “I saw it.” He smiles.

  “You must be special.” I lean over and kiss him on his freshly shaven cheek. I guess it’s a good thing that I never went for Andrew. Knowing me, I probably would have just screwed up our friendship.

  “What’s happening with Philip?” I ask Sam later in the ladies’ room. After the wine-tasting, he took her out two more times, bringing the grand total to four dates.

  “What about him?”

  “Aren’t you kind of dating him? How come you’re all over Ben?”

  “First of all, we’re not dating-dating, we’re just dating. I am not getting back into another relationship. I like being single. I need some ‘me’ time. I can flirt, date, and sleep with whomever I want. Second of all, Ben is cute. But just because I’m flirting doesn’t mean I’m going home with him. Okay, Mom?”

  How is it possible that Sam sounds so adjusted? It’s only been two weeks and already she’s a swinging single.

  Tim calls at 3:00, we reconfirm, and I give him my address.

  Big Tim (aka Dad) calls at seven to confirm that I’ll be spending Christmas with him and Feed-Your-Spirit (aka Bev). “Yes, I’m coming home.”

  Like I have anything else to do. I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas. Have I been in Boston for half a year?

  Iris calls just before eight to ask why I can’t come visit her.

  “Because Janie doesn’t celebrate Christmas, and my father does.”

  “Fine. You love that side of the family more than me.”

  “Iris, don’t be a baby. I spent two weeks with you this summer before I moved here.”

  “Oh, now I’m a baby. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” She slams down the phone.

  Tim (my date, not my dad) buzzes me at eight. I intercom him not to bother coming upstairs. I’m not in the mood to introduce him to Sam, and I’m not in the mood to make my bed, pick up my socks from all around the living room, et cetera, et cetera.

  It’s strange, Single-Swinging-Sam hasn’t harassed me to clean up anything these days. Maybe the breakup has caused her to profoundly reevaluate the world and her place in it, forcing her to realize that she cannot control everyone around her like puppets. Or maybe she’s just so busy being slutty that she hasn’t thought about it.

  I’m wearing my first-date outfit, of course. But I’ve left my hair curly. No use in making myself too gorgeous, in case I don’t like him. It’s hard to shake a guy who’s crazy about you once he’s hooked. I’m assuming.

  He’s standing beside a long, pale blue car—you know the type, the kind Kevin Arnold inherited from his grandfather in The Wonder Years. Fortunately, he’s far better-looking than his car. And Kevin. Good for Julie, for having such a cute brother. I wonder if it’s hard for her, being the uglier sibling. Is she at least the smart one? I hope not. Not that I know what that feels like. My sister looks like I did at sixteen, only she’s shorter, skinnier, and wears a D-cup. We both look like Janie—we both have her face, Iris has her boobs, and I have her thighs. And to top it all, we’re both exceptionally intelligent. No sibling rivalry there. Just conceitedness. I wonder if Julie and her brother are close. I wonder if girls befriend her just to get to know her brother. They would if he’s older than she is. I wonder if he’s older, or if he’s my age.

  Tim smiles at me, or the guy I assume is Tim smiles at me, since he’s the only one standing there, and he looks a lot like the Tim in the picture. So unless Tim has a secret twin and they’re playing one of those stupid jokes on me like
in The Parent Trap, it’s probably him. He doesn’t look exactly like his picture. Then again, no one ever looks exactly the way they do in pictures—he’s a little less broad-shouldered than I had thought (was he wearing shoulder pads in the picture?), but his smile is nicer, so it kind of evens out.

  Instead of going for coffee, he invites me to see an exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts. He scores three points for this: one for creativity, one for having a place to go and not saying, “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” and one for being cultured and knowing about stuff like exhibits.

  We make small talk in the car about Julie. I still don’t know a whole lot about him. Like, for example, where he works. I really, really want to ask but it’s such a sensitive question. I don’t want him to think I’m the type who only goes for guys who make a lot of money, but I do want to know if he’s a waste of life. What if he makes black-market porn? Don’t I have the right to know this immediately?

  I ask him where he’s from.

  “Boston.”

  “Oh.”

  He doesn’t bother circling when we get to the museum; he just pulls into a pay-by-the-hour lot. Another point. Wants to impress me. Although this could signify laziness.

  Apparently, the museum hops on Saturday nights. Who would have thought? I guess culture is in. He pays for the tickets. (My fake reach-into-my-purse maneuver leads to his “Don’t be silly, I asked you out and it’s my pleasure” line.) Yay! Another point for Timmy!

  As soon as we step under the high, white, slightly intimidating ceiling, a Helen-the-editor look-alike asks us if we would like headsets. There is no cost, but the Helen clone makes it very clear that a donation to the museum would be much appreciated.

  “I’ll get them,” I say, and offer her four dollars. That would be my financial reciprocation. Or, as I see it at this point, an investment in my future. But as I put on the earphones, I become acutely aware of my grievous error. How am I supposed to get to know Tim if we can’t talk to each other?

  Too late. A nasal recorded voice is already ordering me to look at the painting on my right. Tim is concentrating next to me. I wave. He waves back. I am officially an idiot. Plus, I must look like Princess Leia.