Читать книгу Milkrun - Sarah Mlynowski - Страница 9

“HI, HON! SHALL WE WALK?” Natalie asks, slinging her arm through mine.

“Of course we should. It’ll only take us eight minutes.”

“Which way is it?”

Silly Natalie. It’s not that I’m a walking compass or anything, but I pass the bar at least twice a day. So does Natalie. True, Boston’s not the easiest city to navigate; streets tend to inexplicably change names from Court to State, from Winter to Summer, and then disappear altogether. I’m no stranger to getting lost-induced panic attacks (I will never find my way home, I will end up in a bad neighborhood, I will get robbed and killed and no one will notice until months later when they find my decomposed body still strapped to my ten-year-old Toyota in the river—for the love of God, why don’t I have a cell phone like everyone else?), but Back Bay is pretty much a grid.

“Tonight I can have three shots,” she says.

Sobriety is not Nat’s concern. She is a self-admitted obsessive calorie counter. She carries a yellow spiral notebook with a picture of grapes on the cover, a purple felt pen, and a highlighter everywhere she goes. She writes down everything she eats. She even highlights her “boo-boos” (her word choice, not mine).

“You know,” she continues, “one shot of vodka has sixty-two calories.”

No, I don’t know. Or care. This week, anyway. One hundred and twenty-four calories down. Six zillion to go.

Today, Natalie does not in fact look fat. She looks exactly the same as she always does—very, very skinny and very, very tall. Well, not very, very tall, but tall compared to me (everyone is tall compared to me, since I measure about three inches over five feet). Natalie is probably only five foot six, but standing next to me I tend to think of Michael Jordan.

Actually, she looks more like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, except that Nat has brown hair. Though she’d never admit it, according to Sam, Natalie paid a visit to Dr. Harvey Gold, one of Boston’s top nose-job specialists, as a combined high school graduation/birthday present from her parents (Nat, that is, not Buffy). The first time I was at her house in Beacon Hill, I examined every photograph, searching for a before-picture. Of the thirty-five frames prominently featured throughout the huge house, not one featured her before the age of eighteen. Suspicious?

And she dresses just like Buffy (sort of). Her Dolce and Gabbana black tube top and tight red pants must have cost more than my month’s rent. Luckily, she’s the type of person who can pull that outfit off—financially and aesthetically. As for myself, I tend to camouflage instead of highlight.

Nat volunteers at various mental-health clinics. One day she plans on doing her master’s degree in psych. One day mentally disturbed people might go to her for help. Scary. Even the remote possibility that she actually gets in to one of these programs terrifies me.

Eight minutes later, as promised, we arrive to find twenty fidgeting people lined up by the door, huddled under the metallic silhouette of a woman’s head thrown back in complete orgasmic abandon.

Natalie walks to the front. “George!” she squeals to the intimidating six-foot, very bald bouncer whose wraparound sunglasses remind me of the Terminator.

“Hey, sexy,” he says. Kiss, kiss. Kiss, kiss.

“George, I want you to meet Jackie. She’s one of my best friends.”

“Hi,” I say meekly, and into the bar we walk.

“How’s the sky?” Natalie says, raising her head. That’s her code phrase for “Do I have snot in my nose?”

“Clear,” I answer.

“And the street?” That’s the code for “Do I have anything in my teeth?” What could possibly be in her teeth escapes me, considering I’m pretty sure she doesn’t eat. Her smile gleams the way I’m sure capped teeth should.

“Clean. Me?” I ask just in case. I go for the two-in-one: I smile and tilt my head simultaneously.

On our left is the coat check. I’m thankful that this late September weather has allowed me to get away without wearing any kind of overclothes. (I need to expose as much as I can get away with right from the start; Nat, on the other hand, could wear a burlap sack and still leave ’em panting.) On our right is the dance floor. Some scantily clad women—good God, do I look like that?—are gyrating to a thumping song I am having difficulty deciphering: boom, boom, boom slut, boom, boom, boom, go down on me. Lovely.

“Let’s go.” Straight ahead is the bar. I motion in front of me, maneuvering my way through the crowd. A waitress with way too much breast exposure asks me what I’d like.

I’d like to have your cleavage, I think but don’t say. She’d think I was some sort of pervert if I did. But I really, really would like to have her cleavage. It’s true I fill out a solid Victoria’s Secret B-cup, and Jeremy certainly seemed happy enough (“More than a handful…” he’d say), and this waitress can’t possibly be wearing more than I am, but let’s face it, I’d need a serious WonderBra to achieve that look. But here’s the thing: what happens when you take a guy home and the bra comes off? How does one explain that exactly?

I order two Lemon Drops and try to keep my eyes leveled on the busty waitress’s face. I love this shot—first you lick a sugar-covered lemon, then you shoot the vodka, and finally you suck the lemon. Very fun. It’s like buying a bingo lottery ticket; it not only serves its purpose, but doubles as an activity. “Ready?” I ask.

“Cheers,” says Natalie.

Yay! I’m going to get drunk! I’m going to have fun! I’m already having fun. I’m having so much fun, I’ve practically forgotten about the jerk.

Natalie reaches into her bag and takes out her calorie notebook. I’m surprised she didn’t ask for Sweet’N Low for her lemon. “Look, there’s Andrew Mackenzie!” she says, pointing across the room and waving.

Please, please tell me, how am I supposed to forget about Jeremy when his Penn buddies are all over the place? Particularly the one who practically fixed us up.

Andrew waves back and pushes his way toward us.

“I was hoping to run into you, hon,” Natalie says. “I heard you were in town. We were just talking about you.”

We were?

“What were you saying?” he says, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

What were we saying?

“Just how sexy you are,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Natalie is a terrific flirt. She may not know which way is north, but she can certainly find her way around the male species. She’s not exactly the queen of originality, though. Who uses a line like “just how sexy you are”? But usually these guys just lap up anything good ol’ Nat has to offer. And at this moment I’m not sure what her sudden interest in Andrew is all about, because I tried to set her up with him about a gazillion times so that Jer and I would have someone to double with. Correction: could have had someone to double with. Anyway, Andrew had been all for it, not that this was much of a surprise—what guy wouldn’t be interested in Nat? But she claimed he wasn’t her type. Too nice, she said.

“Jackie!” he says, untangling himself from Natalie’s arms. “I didn’t know you were in Boston.”

Oh, God, oh, God. That means that Jer doesn’t talk about me to his friends! Apparently I’m so insignificant in his life that I don’t even merit being mentioned. Jackass.

Or maybe Andrew and Jer aren’t even talking anymore. Yes. I like that possibility better. They are so not talking anymore.

Andrew even kind of looks like Jer. Well, not really. They’re both pretty tall (I know, I know, everyone is tall next to me). Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Jer is more Ethan-Hawke-hot, scruffy-sexy (he even had that goatee thing going for a bit) whereas Andrew is more clean-cut, boy-next-door cute. Jeremy’s hair is light brown and Andrew is a redhead. Not redred, but blond with red highlights. Real ones though, not chemical dirty blond streaks like mine. And Andrew’s eyes are brown. They’re a nice brown, though, like dark chocolate, but they’re not Jeremy’s big baby blues. Okay fine, Andrew looks nothing like Jer, but they used to hang out, so he reminds me of him, okay?

“I got a job here,” I answer.

“Where? When did you move?”

“Cupid’s. A few months ago.”

“Really? Are you writing?”

“No. Editing.”

“Good for you. Have you met Fabio?”

I’m not sure why everyone asks me this question whenever I mention I work for Cupid.

“No, I haven’t met Fabio. I don’t deal with the covers that much. What have you been up to?”

“I was working in New York the past couple of years and now I’m doing my MBA.”

“Really? Where?”

“Harvard,” he says, trying to hide his smile in a I-love-beingable-to-say-I-go-to-Harvard-but-I-don’t-want-to-sound-like-a-show-off kind of way.

Aha. This explains Natalie’s sudden interest.

“That’s fantastic,” I tell him.

“It’s quite incredible, Andy,” Natalie coos, placing her hand on his shoulder. Andy? Since when is he Andy?

“Thanks,” he says. “Do you girls want a drink?”

Natalie’s attention is already distracted. Some tall guy in an Armani suit is beckoning from across the bar. “I’ll be back in a minute, ’kay?” And off she goes.

“Sounds like a plan,” I say. We push our way back to the bar. I wonder if I should ask him about Jeremy. No, bad plan. Even though I’m absolutely convinced the two aren’t talking to each other anymore, what if he tells Jer I asked about him, and I look completely pathetic?

Ms. Cleavage asks Andrew what we want. His eyes flick to her exposed flesh and then back to me. “What’s your drink of choice?”

I will not ask about Jeremy. I will not ask about Jeremy. I will not even mention Jeremy’s name. “How about Lemon Drops?”

“The lady has decided,” he says, placing his plastic on the counter.

Lady? “How much?” I ask.

“My treat.”

“Thanks.” Sounds good to me.

“Ready?”

“But of course.”

Sugar…vodka…lemon…mmm.

“Ready?” he asks again.

“Yup.”

Sugar…vodka…lemon…mmm.

He motions to two empty seats along the bar.

I will not ask if he’s heard from Jeremy. I will not ask if he’s heard from Jeremy. I will not ask if he’s heard from Jeremy.

We sit down.

“So what’s new with you?” he says.

“Not much,” I answer. “Have you heard from Jeremy?” Damn.

“No, not since he left for Thailand. You guys still together?”

Uh-oh. Suddenly tears are dripping into my mouth and I’m tasting a weird lemon/sugar/vodka/salt concoction. I will never mention Jeremy’s name again. If I absolutely have to think about him, I will use an abstract symbol, like Prince did. From now on he is “.”

I cover my eyes with my hand so that maybe Andrew won’t realize I’m crying. I feel like that kid in the second grade who used to cover his nose with one hand while he picked it with the other. Except we all knew what was going on.

Andrew, of course, knows what’s going on. He puts his arm around me and I start to cry right into his chest. I’m probably making a huge wet stain on his gray shirt, and my mascara is going to be all over my face, making me look like as if I’m in the middle of exams and haven’t slept in weeks, only periodic naps at the library between several cups of black coffee—

His chest is awfully hard.

Okay, so he’s no Ethan Hawke, but he’s certainly cute, and an MBA from Harvard will make him even cuter. I can seduce him tonight and we could have wild, passionate animal sex and then we’ll wake up smiling in each others arms and go for breakfast, strolling hand in hand along the river—

He smells very, very good.

He smells like .

I absolutely cannot have a wild affair with anyone who wears cologne. You see, the whole point is to be with someone who does not remind me of , who will in fact make me forget him. For a little while, anyway. Here’s the plan: will be so devastated that I have fallen for someone else, he’ll realize I am his true love and ask me to get back together. And then we’ll live happily ever after.

I’m not supposed to think that out loud, am I?

I know I’m supposed to want to meet someone else with whom I can have a healthy relationship, but in all reality, I would be perfectly content to use the other person to get Jeremy to want me back.

Sigh. I know. I’m hopeless.

I pull myself away from Andrew. “I’m really sorry. I should go fix myself up.” A wet stain is smack in the center of his shirt.

“No problem.” He scribbles something down on a matchbook. “Call me if you ever want to talk, okay?”

“Thanks.” I am becoming increasingly mortified by this entire experience.

What a nice guy.

I push the washroom door open to ten women unreservedly checking themselves out in the overhead mirrors. I’m not sure what it is about ladies’ rooms at bars, but women become animals. They fiddle with their breasts and wedgies, and line up their makeup like ammunition along the sink. Case in point: a woman in a short snakeskin skirt pulls a full cosmetic bag out of her purse, empties it along the porcelain, and retrieves her eyelash curler.

I look at myself in the mirror. Instead of appearing smoky, my Cosmo eyes look as if someone rubbed a dirty ashtray around them.

“Excuse me,” I ask the snake-woman. “Any chance you have any eye-makeup remover?”

“Of course, honey,” she says. (She’s a lot older: hence the “honey.” There is a distinct difference between “hon,” which Natalie likes to use, and “honey.”) “Here’s a cotton ball, too, honey.”

“Thanks.” I practice smiling into the mirror. I smile again and again until it looks fake and evil. Maybe I’ll become the bitch. Guys love the bitch.

I push my way back out the door and head back to the bar.

“One Sex on the Beach, please.” Sitting on a stool, I try to stop myself from swerving back and forth with annoyance. A blow-dried blonde twirls her hair and bends over so that the suit she’s talking to has to look down her shirt. The three men on the other side of me call out numbers, rating the women as they walk by. A man with sagging skin vocally calculates a nine and a half for the brunette sitting four stools down. She’s wearing a long skirt with a slit up to her armpit. His face looks like a rotting peeled grape; his eyes are like raisins. When he says eight, I think he might be referring to me. I’d like to pour my drink over his head, drama-queen-like, but I decide to stare him down instead. After all, a drink’s a drink, not to be wasted, but to get us wasted. I stare at him until his skin turns into dots of brown and then into specks of orange, as if I’ve been sitting too close to the TV.

Why am I here? Why am I not at home watching TV? It’s almost eleven and I could be watching “L and O” with Sam. The blow-dried blonde’s giggles sound like recorded sitcom laughter. I hate Orgasm, I hate Boston, and I hate Natalie. Where is Natalie?

Wait.

Is that who I think it is?

Jonathan Gradinger?

Foxy Jonathan Gradinger?

Foxy Jonathan Gradinger who grew up in Danbury and played Danny Zukoe in our high school’s rendition of Grease when he was a foxy senior and I was an eager freshman? I sat in the front row for three nights straight because he was such a fox. Jonathan Gradinger’s picture, cut out from the playbill, was taped to the inside of my locker, right up there beside my poster of Kirk Cameron. My five-section binder was covered with sprawls of Jackie Gradinger, Jacquelyn Gradinger, Fern Gradinger, Fern Jacqueline Gradinger, and Fern Jacquelyn Norris Gradinger. I knew Jonathan’s schedule by heart and would casually happen to be walking behind him on the fourth floor staircase between second and third period, just as he was going from chemistry to trig. So what if my English class was in the basement? Thankfully he had been way too cool to notice some crazed groupie trailing after him.

It’s getting hot in here. My chills are multiplying! Grease lyrics hurl through my head. I sip my Sex on the Beach and think of lightning.

From the back it looks like him. He’s wearing a button-down shirt that looks like the type of shirt Jonathan Gradinger the fox would wear.

I’d know the back of that head anywhere.

He just needs to turn a bit to the left…a bit more…a little bit more…why is that wench distracting him? He’s walking away! Stop! Stop!

I try sending him telepathic messages. “Turn around. Turn around right now. Turn around right now, foxy Jonathan Gradinger. Fall madly in love with me.”

My telepathy is not working. Drastic measures are called for.

I accidentally let go of my glass. Better to waste a drink than an opportunity.

Smash.

It is him. It’s foxy Jonathan Gradinger from our senior/freshman year! And he’s looking at me! He’s looking right at me!

Okay, I know. Everyone’s looking at me. I think Raisin-Eyes has demoted me to a six.

“Are you all right?” the breasted bartender asks.

“Yeah, fine. I’m sorry about that. I really don’t know how this happened.” Yes, I do. I know exactly how this happened. And I know that it worked, because Jonathan Gradinger is coming over.

Omigod.

He’s coming over.

I’ve never actually spoken to Jonathan Gradinger.

What can I say to Jonathan Gradinger?

I need a drink. Where’s my drink?

Oh, yeah. Damn.

Breathe. Calm. Damn. Think calm thoughts. Hot bath with vanilla-smelling bubbles. The two-hour massage I used to get from Iris in exchange for two dollars in coins (but look how much silver it is!). A couch, my duvet, the cchhhhh of background TV…

Mmm. I’m getting…mmm…sleeeepy.

“Hey,” a very foxy voice pleasantly intrudes upon my reverie. “I recognize you. Are you from Danbury?”

Jonathan Gradinger is talking to me.

Jonathan Gradinger is talking to me.

Jonathan Gradinger is talking to me.

Jonathan Gradinger is talking to me.

Wendy is not going to believe this.

Calm. I can do this.

“Shfjkd sjsydhd jksav jasdadgaj dghykg.”

“Excuse me?” he asks, which is a perfectly logical question considering I’m not sure what I just said. Or what I was even trying to say.

“Hi.” One syllable at a time. No problem. “Yeah.” There, I’ve said two words to Jonathan Gradinger. I now have something to tell my grandchildren.

“Did you go to Stapley High?” he asks.

More? Oh, my—he wants to have a conversation.

“Yeah.” I nod. I’m doing it! I’m conversing!

“Were you in my grade?” He’s running his hand through his gorgeous, thick hair—thin hair now, actually. What happened to his gorgeous, thick hair?

“Actually I was a few grades behind you.” If I don’t think and just say all my words in one motion, gosh darnit, I think I can do this.

“Wait a second,” he says and smiles his still very foxy smile. “I remember you. Weren’t you that girl who used to follow me around? Jackie something?”

Oh. My. God. He knows my name. Danny Zukoe knows my name.

I nod. I can’t speak. My tongue has been sewn to the roof of my mouth.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

Jonathan Gradinger is offering to buy me a drink. I nod again. Actually, I don’t think I actually stopped nodding. It’s not that I expect myself to suddenly sound like a loquaciously articulate Dawson’s Creek character, but this is getting old.

“It appears,” he looks at the floor, “that you like Sex on the Beach.”

“Especially if it’s with you,” I say. Just kidding, I didn’t really say that. I continue nodding.

“So, how are you liking Boston?”

“Now that I’m talking to you, I’m liking it a lot.” Wait—this time I really did say that. That so wasn’t supposed to be out loud. But what’s this? He’s laughing! He thinks I’m being funny. He thinks I’m flirting with him. I am flirting with him. I’m flirting with Jonathan Gradinger.

“Actually, I do like it here,” I say seriously. “What about you?” Okay maybe not a witty or sexy response, but two full sentences, one that requires a response. Give me a break here.

“I’ve been here awhile already. I like it. I’m used to it.”

“When did you move here?” That makes two questions. I’m on a roll.

“About eight years ago.”

“You’re practically a Brahmin by now.” Another joke!

He laughs. Yay! “Not quite. I haven’t moved up to Beacon Hill just yet.”

Pause. One-second lapse. Two-second lapse. Uh-oh. What do I do now? Wait, I’ve got an idea. “So, what are you doing in Boston?” The ultimate crowd pleaser—giving men the opportunity to talk about themselves.

“I’m a doctor.”

Reee-lly.

“What kind of doctor?” A pediatrician? An E.R. resident? A heart surgeon?

“A podiatrist.”

“A what?”

“A foot doctor.”

I know that. I’m an editor. Someone who cares for and treats the human foot. “That must be…interesting.” C’mon, what else was I supposed to say? How about that athlete’s foot? At least I have nice feet—they’re a size 6 1/2 and very cute, if I do say so myself. My pedicurist even says they’re a pleasure to work with, although she’s probably just buttering me up for an extra tip, which is ridiculous because she owns her own place. You’re not supposed to tip the owner, everyone knows that, but I once saw a fake-nailed snob leave a four-dollar tip for a twenty-dollar manicure and then I had to leave four dollars, too, and now every time I go I have to leave twenty-four dollars instead of twenty. As far as I’m concerned, she should say, “Don’t be silly! Take your four dollars! You’re insulting me! I’m the owner,” but instead she just takes it. It’s all so absurd.

Anyway.

“So I guess you went to med school here?”

“Tufts. What about you?”

“I’m an editor.”

“Really? Where?”

“Cupid’s”

“Cupid’s?”

“We publish romance novels.”

“Oh, my mom reads those! Do you know Fabio?”

I giggle my oh-that’s-so-clever-and-original flirty-laugh (I’ve been friends with Nat for long enough) and pat him on the shoulder. “Unfortunately not. Do you?”

“He’s actually a patient of mine. He has really nice feet.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask.

“Right. But you know what they say about people with nice feet.”

“What?”

“Nice shoes.”

Can I handle feet jokes? I do the laugh again.

“You have quite a pair of shoes on,” he says, looking down.

“Thanks. Fresh purchase. Single-girl boots.”

“Why is that?”

“Because they’re notice-me boots.”

“I’m noticing.”

He’s noticing?

“Good.” I smile demurely.

“You’ve certainly grown up.”

“You haven’t seen me since I had pink braces and crimped hair.”

“You look great, Jackie.”

“Thanks. So do you.” You’re a hottie. A total hottie with a little less hair and a little more love handles…but still very, very hot.

“So you’re not dating anyone?” he asks.

That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. “No. What about you?”

“Single as charged.” His hand is suddenly on my shoulder. Hello there.

“Jackie! 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.