Authors: Sarah Mlynowski

Milkrun (19 page)

“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 carâyou 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 Janieâwe 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 picturesâhe'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.

I should have asked for one set so that we could shareâthe modern day version of one milk shake and two straws.

Here goes. We see some abstract paintings, some sort of ancient art, a Renoirâ¦more Impressionist paintings. And then I see it. A painting by the French painter Paul Gauguin, called
Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?
Now these are excellent questions. Where do I come from? That I know: Danbury. But what am I? Where am I going? These are more baffling. The oil painting features groups of what I'm assuming are Tahiti natives (the recorded voice tells me he went to Tahiti to search for unspoiled society and I infer the rest). I must own this painting. Or at least the print. I must be able to look at it constantly. For some unknown reason it makes me feel less baffled knowing that Tahiti natives are baffled, too.

An hour later, we reach the end of the tour and remove our headsets. “Do you mind stopping at the gift shop?” I ask. “I must have a print of that Gauguin.”

Just my luck, the gift shop is closed.

“Do you want to grab a drink?” I motion in the direction of the museum cafÃ©.

“Actually,” he says. “I have to call it a night, if you don't mind. I have to take my grandmother to the airport tomorrow morning. Maybe we can do something again next week.”

Omigod. That is the worst brush-off I've ever had. Why does he have to contaminate his grandmother with his dirty lies? What guy says no to a drink? So he'll be a little tired in the car tomorrow. I spend half my life as if in a coma. Big deal. “Sure,” I answer. “Whatever.” Why isn't he interested? I'm notâ¦what? Good-looking enough? Witty enough? He doesn't like Star Wars? Listen, mister, you're cute but not exactly exploding with personality, either.

Back in Grandpop's mobile (he probably stole the car from Grandma, and then left her stranded on a street corner), I reason that since he's obviously not interested, I might as well look crass and ask him what he does for a living.

“I'm a high school social worker,” he says.

Hmm. That's pretty cute.

“So why do you have to get up so early? Your school starts at six?”

“No, I jog in the morning and then volunteer as staff advisor for the yearbook before classes start.”

“I was one of the yearbook editors for my high school,” I offer. Wendy and I decided to do it together. But we never met before class. In fact, I tried to schedule as many meetings as possible during class. And we definitely didn't have a staff advisor who looked like Tim. “Do you want to run your own practice someday?”

“Maybe. Right now I like being able to be hands-on with so many kids.”

If anyone else would have said that I
might
have taken it the wrong way.

Okay, so he'll never be rich, but he does have integrity. Isn't that just my luck. I finally meet a guy who's cute, a planner, cultured, loves kids, and likes to use his hands, and he doesn't want to have anything more to do with me.

Why why why? What's wrong with me?

He drops me off at my door.

“I'll call you,” he says.

“Good night,” I say, holding back tears. Why doesn't he like me? What am I going to say to Julie? She'll be terribly uncomfortable around me, like when you see someone with food stuck in her teeth. You don't want to look, but you can't help it. She'll ignore me when I walk into the coffee room. Maybe she'll feel so guilty for setting me up for heartbreak, she'll bring me some chocolate. Or sour berries. They're sweet and sour simultaneously. Like the way you feel when you pluck your eyebrows. Mmm. I think I have a package at home.

Goodbye, my sweet and sour Timmy.

Maybe I should have straightened my hair.

12
Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder, Week 1, Monday

9:15 a.m.

From: “Jacquelyn Norris”

To: [email protected] Subject: I don't get it

Hi!

Okay, get this. He called last night. Does that make sense? We went out on Saturday, he made up a lame excuse, and then he called. He said something about his grandmother insisting on taking an early flight. And then I asked, “Is she the type of grandmother who eats dinner at five o'clock?” And then he said, “Don't all grandmothers?” And then I asked, “Do you think it's a sudden thing that happens when you reach a certain age, or is it a gradual sliding into, this condition that makes you eat dinner at five?” And then he said, “I always eat at six on the dot because that's when I get home from soccer practice.” He played in college and now he coaches JV after school. Can you imagine? Yearbook and soccer? If he were doing his college applications now, he'd be a shoe-in.

So then he asked me what sports I played. From his loud sigh I could tell that my “Me?” was the wrong answer. Luckily, I remembered the Tae Kwon Do and I told him how much I love it. Then he asked me what belt I was. When I answered white, he said, “That's cool.” So it's possible he thinks white belts are advanced, like right before black or something. And then he asked me if I wanted to do something again next Saturday.

I am in love. I think. But what's his deal? Why blow me off one night only to ask me out again the next? And why ask me out almost a whole week in advance?

11:00 a.m.

From: “Wendy Berger”

Milkrun (19 page)

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