Читать книгу Milkrun - Sarah Mlynowski - Страница 11

YAY! HE CALLED. YAY! YAY! YAY! Thank goodness I didn’t pick up when I was asleep. I might have said something awful. I might have told him how foxy he was. Why did he call so early? He must really like me. I mean really like me. He thought of me as soon as he woke up. Assuming he wakes up at around 9:30, which is pretty probable considering that’s a usual wake-up time. Or maybe he woke up at eight, thought about me, decided to go for a run to diffuse the energy building up in his loins, and when he couldn’t take it any longer, called me.

Omigod. What if he wants to go out tonight? Or what if he wants to go out today? What if as soon as I call him back he asks me if he can come by and pick me up for lunch, and what if once he comes inside he has to use the bathroom? I’ve got to clean it now and only after I clean it, can I call him back.

I walk into the bathroom. Strands of my hair have woven themselves into a blanket on the tiled floor. “Sam!” I holler, close to tears. “Help! I don’t know how to do this!”

In a jumping-jack five-second flash, in comes Sam, fully equipped with liquid cleaner, yellow gloves, and some sort of brush I’m pretty sure is supposed to go in the toilet but I’m not a hundred percent.

“Why don’t I have one of those?” I ask.

“They don’t come with the toilet, my dirty friend, they’re sold separately. Like batteries.”

“Got it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“I’m not cleaning it for you. I’m just showing you how.”

“Oh.”

A half hour, a half bottle, and two rolls of paper towels later, I am satisfied.

Now I can call him back. Maybe he’s planning an afternoon picnic with champagne and strawberries and cut-up tuna sandwiches. But first I have to make myself presentable. Right now, my frizzies are pointed in many obtuse angles. I feel like Pippi Longstocking. I shower, blow-dry my hair, and squeeze out what’s left of my concealer. And a little lipstick. I put on my bathrobe. I don’t want to get dressed if I don’t know where we’re going. Duh.

I listen to his message again: “Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger calling. My number is 555-2854. Call me back when you get a chance. Call me back when you get a chance.”

I’m not sure why he says that last part twice. His message reminds me of the ones Wendy’s grandmother used to leave when Wendy and I were at Penn together: “Vendy, this is your bubbe calling. Your bubbe called. Call your bubbe. Call your bubbe.”

I write down his number. I dial.

“Hi,” his sexy voice says. Omigod. I’m talking to Jonathan Gradinger.

“Hi, Jonathan?”

“This is Jonathan Gradinger. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. So leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Have a great day.” Again with the double statements. That should tell me a little something, but do I have foreshadowing on my mind? No, foreplay is more like it. At this point all I can think of is, omigod, I’m talking to Jonathan Gradinger’s answering machine! Forty-eight hours ago I never would have believed that I’d be leaving him a message. If some psychic had read my palm and told me that in a few days I’d have Jonathan Gradinger’s home phone number—so much more intimate than a cell phone—I would never have believed it.

Wait a minute. How do I know it’s his home number?

Beep. I have to leave a message. Beep.

My mind is blank. I have no idea what to say. Beetlejuice, beetlejuice? I stare at the receiver and hang up.

My fault. I should have known to be prepared. Where’s my red felt pen? Okay, let’s keep it simple.

Hello, Jonathan. This is Jacquelyn.

Too formal.

Hi, Jon, it’s Jack.

Too close. We’re not even phone-acquainted yet. And what if he thinks I’m a guy?

Fifteen minutes pass and I’m still struggling.

“Your bathroom looks great! I’m impressed!” Sam calls out, interrupting my concentration. “Jackie, where are you?”

“In my room.”

“What are you doing?” She enters tentatively, as if expecting something alive to jump out of my overfilled laundry basket and attack her.

“Composing.” I outline the situation for her.

“Okay,” she says. “How about this. Hi, Jonathan, it’s Jackie returning your message. Give me a call when you have a chance.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant. What comes after ‘message’ again? Say it slowly so I can write it down.”

“You’re a nut.”

“Never mind. I remember.”

“Don’t forget to block your number.”

“Why?”

“What if he has call display? You already hung up once. It’ll look funny if it says your name twice with only one message.”

“Soooo clever! You’d be single-girl extraordinaire.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

I pre-dial the code to withhold my number, then re-dial Jonathan’s. Sam holds my other hand for moral support.

“Hi. This is Jonathan Gradinger. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. So leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Have a great day.”

Trying to make my voice sound as natural as possible, I read my scrawled message and carefully place the phone back on the receiver.

Now all I have to do is wait.

Hmm, hmm, hmm.

How am I going to wait all day?

How is he supposed to pick me up for our picnic and see my clean bathroom if he doesn’t call me back?

“What should I do all day, Sam? What are you doing all day?”

“Correcting some homework.”

“You give homework to fourth-graders? That’s mean.”

“I have to give a little homework.”

“Wanna go shopping?”

“I can’t. I’m broke.”

“Yeah, so am I. So what’s your point?”

“I find window-shopping depressing.”

Oh. Oh, well. I’ll just watch TV then. Jonathan will call back soon.

Six o’clock. No Jonathan.

Seven o’clock. I’m sure he’s just out for the afternoon.

Eight o’clock. He just got home now. He’s turning on the TV. Getting ready to watch a new episode of The Simpsons.

It’s the last scene. Any minute now.

It’s over. Any second now the phone is going to ring. Any second now. C’mon, phone, don’t be shy.

It’s eleven and I’m not waiting anymore. I detest Jonathan Gradinger; he obviously met someone else tonight, fell in love, and forgot all about me. No one will ever love me again. My days will consist of work, my nights will consist of TV, and I will spend Saturday nights from here on at the movies—alone.

And so I go to bed—alone.

The next day at work I try to proofread a manuscript, but every time I get to the end of a paragraph I call in for my messages. “No new messages,” the anal recorded bitch says.

I get home feeling pathetic. But what’s this? From the doorway I see the flashing red light. I leave my shoes on—I mustn’t waste any time!—even though I know Sam will shoot me. Please don’t be Janie, please don’t be Janie, please don’t be—“Hi, Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger again. Give me a shout back. My work number is 555-9478. My work number is 555-9478.”

No waiting this time, no bathroom cleaning, and no red ink preparation. I don’t care if my bed isn’t made, I’m calling him back now.

“Dartmouth Clinic,” a woman says.

“Hi, can I speak to Dr. Gradinger please?”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Jackie.” I’m still not crazy about the repeating everything on the answering machine thing. Half the point of the recorded message is so you can listen to it again if you need to. Or again and again and again like I might want to do with this one.

“Jackie who?” Okay this woman obviously wants a piece of my Jonathan. Maybe she’s already had a piece of him. Maybe that’s where he was last night.

“Hello?” she asks somewhat impatiently.

“Norris. He knows who I am. He called me. I’m calling him back.”

“One second please.”

I’m on hold. What type of date will he propose? You can tell a lot about a guy from the type of date he suggests. Dinner means he’s not afraid to jump right into it.

“Jackie?” he says in his foxy, sexy voice.

Coffee means he’s a coward. “Jonathan! Hi.”

“Great to hear from you.”

On the other hand, it could mean he’s sensitive. “Great to hear from you.”

He laughs. “I told you I’d call.”

“I know.” Drinks would be best. So trendy.

“How was the rest of your weekend?” he asks.

“Good, thanks. Yours?”

“Great.”

Great? Why great? What made it great exactly?

“What are you doing Thursday night?”

“Nothing, why?” Why? I can’t believe I asked him why. Sometimes the stupidity that comes out of my mouth even amazes me.

“I was hoping you’d come see The Apartment with me.”

This I am not expecting. Tickets to The Apartment are a gazillion dollars apiece, never mind completely sold out.

“I’d love to.”

“Perfect. The show starts at eight. I’ll pick you up around six-thirty and we’ll grab a bite somewhere, okay?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“I’ll call you on Wednesday to finalize everything.”

“Okay.”

“Great. Have a good week.”

“You, too.”

I stare at the dead receiver in my hand and place it down gently in its cradle. I remove my shoes and leave them near the door so that Sam won’t find out that I wore them into the house.

Yay!

I’m pretty sure taking me to a play symbolizes more commitment than drinks do.

Omigod. I’m practically engaged.

“I think it’s a little sketchy,” Wendy says. “He bought the tickets before he asked you?”