How Not To Be Popular (16 page)

Which I don’t.

“Look”—I lean forward and meet his gaze—“thanks for thinking of me and stuff, but this isn’t going to work out.”

“Oh really?” Jack looks amused. He settles back in his chair, waiting for the punch line.

“Really,” I echo, peeved that he’s taking this so lightly. “Think about it. I’m one of the most radical people I’ve met—and I’ve met a lot of people—while you’re like this Young Republican poster boy.”

“I see. You’re sure about that, huh?” He strokes his chin as he nods, humoring me—and pissing me off in the process.

“
Yes.
I can’t hang out with Republicans.”

“Why not?”

Oooh!
This isn’t fair. He’s not playing this right at all! He should be all blustery and offended. Instead he
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

looks positively thrilled.

“Because!” My voice has risen to that shrill whiny-baby tone. “Because I can’t stand Republicans.

They’re so narrow-minded and intolerant.”

I’m totally shocked by what happens next. Jack tilts back his head and howls with laughter.

“What? What’s so funny?” I demand.

“Sorry,” he says between guffaws. “It’s just hilarious. You hating all Republicans because they’re so intolerant.”

Hearing my words bounced back like that makes me realize how stupid I sounded.

“I never said I
hated
them,” I mumble, all puny with shame. “I just don’t agree with them on lots of stuff.

Makes it hard to get along.”

“I know.” Jack goes all serious again. “Okay, fine. I’ll be straight with you. I don’t support any particular political party, but I am a conservative—at least fiscally.”

“Right. You people believe in slashing any program for the hungry and poor in the name of financial responsibility. Blah, blah, blah.”

“That’s not what I said. What’s wrong with thinking our nation should have a balanced budget and live within its means? A whole lot of debt isn’t good for it.”

“It’s just funny how you guys never want to cut back on things like corporate subsidies or the military.

It’s always the things that are designed to help people that have to go.”

“The military helps people.”

I let out a snort. “Yeah? How?”

“Well, beyond the fact that it protects us, it also funds education for those who might not be able to afford it.”

“Sure, with the minor condition that you put your life on the line! Really sweet of them.”

“It’s how my dad got his college degree,” he adds with a shrug. “Probably the only way he would have gotten out of the tiny town he grew up in.”

“But it’s not right that the least powerful people in this country are the ones we put on the front lines!”

“He knew what he was getting into when he joined the army. And at least his government assistance wasn’t a handout. He worked for it.”

I glower at him and pretend to be so put off by his argument that I can’t even speak. But the truth is I can’t come up with anything else to say. That’s one way I’m not like my parents. They can debate an issue calmly, for days if they have to. Me? I always lose my temper and then can’t think straight.

Jack, on the other hand, is almost James Dean cool. He talks in his bossy know-it-all voice, but he
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

doesn’t bully. And he doesn’t get all superheated when I challenge him on stuff. He’s wrong about being a bad lawyer. He’s a good one—like TV-crime-show good. The jerk.

But what really pees me off is that he’s still looking at me with that tickled expression, as if he’s indulging a cute, babbling infant.

“Why are you so…condemning?” he asks.

“
I’m
condemning? You guys want to put poor people in trenches!” He laughs lightly and I resist the urge to fling a Buddha-shaped saltshaker at him.

“You keep saying ‘you people’ and ‘you guys.’ But what makes you think you and I are so opposite?” I make a face.
“Please!”

“No, really. Tell me.”

Just then, the waitress shows up with our soup orders.

“I like your glasses,” she says to me.

“You do?” I absently pat the almond-shaped studded rims.

“Yes,” she says, giggling. “They are so cool.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Enjoy the soup!” Once again she easily glides away.

I welcome the chance to take a break from Jack’s lawyer-savant questions and start digging in to my soup.

“Uh…Maggie? You were saying?” he prompts. “You think we’re so different…?” I swallow and nod. “It’s true. We’re night and day.”

“Uh-huh. You sound so sure about this.”

It occurs to me to try a little interrogating of my own. “Let me ask you something. What’s the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning?”

His eyes swivel up and to the right. “Um…I make my bed.” Now it’s my turn to laugh. “See? I don’t understand why people do that. I mean, it’s just going to get messed up again in another—what?—sixteen hours?”

He shrugs. “I just like doing it, I guess. I’m in the habit. What about you? What’s the first thing you do?”

“Look out the window.”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know.” I suddenly realize I don’t have an answer for this. I take a moment to consider. “It’s just a way to connect with the day, you know? Like I’m taking a little peek to see what I’m in for.” Jack smiles at me. Only this is one I haven’t seen before. It’s more subtle, and his face has this toasty-warm glow about it.

What the hell is happening? I’m doing my best worst-date stuff and trying hard to convince him we’re opposites, and yet he seems to like it.

I break my eyes away from his adoring gaze and instead focus on the last little tablespoon of soup in my bowl. One lonely mushroom is floating in the broth. Seems a shame to leave it, but it’s too shallow for those big flat spoons they gave us.

Suddenly I get a boost of brainpower and I realize what I have to do. Gripping the china bowl with both hands, I lift it to my lips and loudly slurp the rest of the contents into my mouth. After working it as long as possible, I set the bowl back down and end with a cartoonish
“ah!”
Just as I hoped, Jack is staring at me in utter horror.

“In other cultures, it’s bad manners to leave part of your meal behind. And the louder you eat, the more of a compliment it is to the chef,” I say, making it up entirely.

Jack glances fearfully to the left and the right and then picks up his own bowl. “Yeah, well. Guess we shouldn’t waste food,” he says. Then he puts it to his mouth and sucks down the remainder of his soup with an even louder squelch.

Damn!
I shout inwardly as he deposits the bowl on the table with his own happy
“ah.”
Something better go my way soon, because I’m seriously considering picking my nose.

Dinner did not go as horribly as I wanted. I brought up all sorts of crazy tidbits about my family—like the way Rosie talks to her plants, and Les’s philosophy of doing Tarzan yells to let out stress. I even mentioned that my father had once been interrogated by the CIA because he studied hammock making from a guy who wrote crazy letters to the president, but nothing seemed to freak Jack out. When I mentioned that Rosie hoped to study acupuncture someday, he said his brother saw lots of benefits in it too and felt it had a place in the white-jacket medical world.

Jack also felt comfortable enough to talk about himself. I found out tons of stuff I didn’t know before.

Like that he wanted to start a film club at Lakewood, but Dr. Wohman nixed it, saying there was no educational benefit. And that he only goes to school for four straight periods, not including lunch, and leaves at one-thirty for his internship at a law office. This is why he dresses like a right-wing boy wonder.

It’s also why he’s always late for the Helping Hands meetings—because he isn’t even on campus.

When the check comes, I open up my fake-alligator handbag and pull out three ten-dollar bills.

“No way,” Jack says, putting the money back in front of me.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“Why not? This isn’t the fifties. I can pay my own way.” I plunk the tens back onto the bill tray.

“But
I
asked
you
out.” He lifts my hand, places the money on the table, and sets my hand on top of it.

“I’m a modern guy. You totally have the right to ask me out.
Then
I’ll let you pay.” Once again, I find myself with nothing to say.

I feel panicked. I really wanted to embarrass and disgust Jack so much that he lost this stupid fascination with me. But I have the uneasy hunch that so far he’s enjoying himself. And the really scary thing is I haven’t had such an awful time either.

We thank our bubbly waitress (who I noticed got a nice fat tip from Jack) and step outside. The sky is now a dark shade of charcoal-violet and the air is cooler but no less sticky.

I want to go back home, and yet I don’t. I feel like I still need to do something to make him lose all interest in me. Something crazy weird.

“So, there’s a special screening of
The Return of Martin Guerre
at the Alamo Village,” he starts.

“No. Don’t wanna.”

“Uhhh. Okay. What do you want to do?”

I glance around, trying to decide on my next move. On the other side of the parking lot is a section of the Austin greenbelt, with a jogging path, a playground, and a small duck pond. “Let’s go there,” I say, pointing.

“But…”

“Come on!” Without waiting for an answer, I take off through the grass and head right for the swing set.

By the time Jack catches up with me, I’ve already got one going higher than his head.

“You really want to do this?” he calls out.

“Why not? Try it. There are other things to do in a park besides clean it up.” I lie back in my swing, enjoying the breeze I’m creating. It feels good to do nothing but pump my legs and soar over the ground. When I was little I used to spend whole hours on swings. Rosie and Les loved them too, and we made up special moves—like the elevator, the wrecking ball, and the seven chakras.

Jack gets on a swing and awkwardly starts it going. He seems so out of place in his office wear and shiny shoes. I’m sure I look stupid too, but at least I’m into it. He’s moving like some cement statue a fairy princess just breathed life into.

“Hey, listen,” he says, his voice Dopplering as we pass each other. “About what happened at the park today with Miles and the others…”

I let out a groan. “Oh no. Don’t start.”

“What?”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“I know what you think. I saw the way you looked at me. Listen, I’m a pacifist. My parents are, like, professional peace activists. But I also think sometimes you have to stand up to people like that. No one got hurt, so…stop with the you-ought-to-know-better lecture, okay?”

“But that’s not what…” Jack stops swinging. “Look, it wasn’t like that. If I seemed sort of down on you, I wasn’t. I was mad at me. Mad that I wasn’t there to help you with Miles.” I stop pumping my legs and slowly come to a stop. I think back to the look on Jack’s face at the park and the way Drip went,
“Hmmm.”

“He’s such a creep. You don’t understand.” Jack’s right hand closes into a fist. “He lives on my street and I’ve known him for years. He’s done a lot of really mean things to people.”

“To you?”

“
Yeah,
to me!” he snaps. “Sorry,” he says, catching himself. “It’s just…I really wish I could have taken care of that jerk for you.”

Jack twists his swing toward me and I meet his gaze. His face seems all stretched and serious. His mouth isn’t exactly turned down, just drooping at the edges. And his eyes and eyebrows are arched toward a wavy point in the top middle of his forehead. He looks so worried about me. It would be sweet if it weren’t so scary-awful.

“Please!” I say, getting to my feet. I walk over to the merry-go-round and sit down. “You really are right out of the fifties.” I lie back against the metal, which is still warm from the ninety-nine-degree day, and stare up at the purple sky.

“Wait.” I hear him walk over. “What are you talking about?”

“You! You think I can’t take care of myself!”

“No way! I wanted a chance to deal with him because I can’t stand him. And I don’t like him messing with my…club. I have no problem with a girl taking charge.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Push me.”

“Huh?”

“I’m taking charge. Push the merry-go-round. I want a ride.” There’s a brief pause and then the platform I’m lying on starts to turn to the right. I hear him running and thumping against the support bars and soon it’s whirling at a really good speed. After a while, Jack bounds on with a loud, gonglike sound and stretches out on another wedge of the platform.

I close my eyes and enjoy the rush of velocity. “Whooo,” I say. “God, I love this.” Jack lets out a small moan. “I think my ponzu sauce fish are trying to swim upstream.”
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

This cracks me up. “You did a good job,” I call out. “Taking orders from me, I mean.”

“See? I’m not such a Nazi.”

“Sure you are.”

“Prove it.”

This again. I really don’t want to ruin the fun with another argument, but then, I’m not supposed to be having fun. I’m supposed to be sabotaging our evening. Discussing taboo topics on a date always makes things squirmy. It didn’t exactly work before, when we argued politics, but there are other cringeworthy subjects. It might be tough to bring them up in the natural course of conversation, but maybe in a quiz format?

“All right,” I say, feeling recharged. “I’ll name a topic and you tell me how you feel about it. Okay?”

“I guess.”

“Where do you stand on abortion?”

“Oh, so you’re starting with the easy ones?”