Milkrun (25 page)

 

The phone rings at eight in the morning, jarring me out of my REM sleep. I presume it was REM sleep anyway, since a person can't actually know she's in one—see what near tragedy does? It makes you question everything.

“Hello,” I mumble. Somehow I know it's Tim.

“Babe! You…worried…” I have difficulty following what he's trying to say, since I keep falling back to sleep. “…thank God…heard on the radio…your train…worried…Why didn't you call me?”

Okay, I'm awake now. Kind of. It's Tim. When I checked my messages five hours ago, I saw that all ten messages were from him. Apparently, he called me in New York again, and Bubbe Hannah told him I had left early.

How did he get that number in the first place? It's not even listed.

“I'm fine.” I'm fine except I don't like you anymore. And I slept with Jeremy even though I think I like Andrew.

“I was so worried. I couldn't sleep all night. I'm coming over.”

“No, Tim. Please don't.”

“Why not?”

Is it wrong to break up with someone over the phone? Here goes nothing: “I don't think this relationship is working out.”

Silence. And then, “Can't we talk about this?”

I thought we just did. “I'm really tired, Tim.”

“What about New Year's? Does this mean we're not going out?”

“Uh, no.”

There's another silence at the other end, and I'm not sure whether or not I've fallen back to sleep.

“Okay. Take care, Jackie.”

“Bye.”

I know I'm being a bit heartless here. But isn't it less cruel to break it off swiftly and cleanly, for example, over the phone or via e-mail, than to prolong the agony? Remember Fashion Magazine Fun Fact # 5? It's better to be cruel at the beginning than to string him along. Okay, okay, so we're not exactly at the beginning of our relationship, considering the fact that we've already had sex (sort of), but isn't the concept basically the same?

 

The phone rings again a few hours later, once again waking me up.

“Get over it, Tim,” I mumble into the receiver. We're history. Kaput. Dead.

“I called you at your father's, but you weren't there.” It's Iris's accusing voice.

Uh-oh. Busted.

“Don't worry,” she says, “I can keep a secret. I kind of found out by accident. When I called, your father seemed a bit confused as to why I was calling. And then he asked, ‘So how are you and Jackie enjoying your holiday?' I put two and two together and then I had to come up with some reason as to why I'd be calling your father when you're not even there, so I remembered that he sold coats or something and I told him I loved your coat and could he order me one. He said he couldn't remember which one you had so I basically described my dream coat, and he said he remembers it and now he's going to send it to me! He's such a sweetheart. I saved your ass, didn't I? So where were you, Jackie? Hmm? Hmm?”

“I went to visit Wendy, and if you ever tell—”

“Guess what?” she cuts in excitedly. “I got on Kyle!”

I try to understand what this means. I'm not sure if it makes no sense due to the fact I'm exhausted, or because it just makes no sense. She physically climbed on top of him? At the risk of sounding geriatric I ask, “What does that mean? You actually got on top of him?”

“It's an expression, Jack. An expression. Never mind. We fooled around.”

“You didn't sleep with him, did you?”

“No. Relax, I'm still a virgin.”

“You'd tell me if you weren't, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I'm going to kill her if she's lying. Not that I'd know if she's lying. “Want to come spend New Year's with me? We can party all night.” I'm feeling a bit guilty for neglecting her over Christmas. And I'm dateless on New Year's, anyway. How did I manage that? Oh yeah, I broke up with Tim. Andrew's face suddenly flashes through my head. If he liked me, wouldn't he have called by now? Wouldn't he have asked me out for New Year's? Shouldn't he at least want to know how I am after our near fiasco? Our fiasco meaning the fire, not the kiss.

“No.”

No?

“The fossils are going to Arizona. They're leaving me alone for New Year's.”

“Don't have a party.”

“Of course I'm having a party! It's New Year's and I have the house all to myself. Anyway, Janie said I could.”

“She did?” I find this hard to believe.

“She said that I'd probably be safer at home than out wandering the streets.”

Makes sense. I guess. “But I bet they don't know about Kyle.”

“I'll kill you if you tell them. But I guess we're even now. I won't tell about New York if you don't tell about Kyle.”

What happened to “Don't worry, I can keep a secret?”

When I wake up for the third time, it's because I sense I am not alone. And that's another thing. Since the fire, I have developed ESP. Some people who have near-death experiences see a bright white light and then they develop the ability to talk to the dead. But I wasn't wearing my contacts at the time, and because I wouldn't have been able to see the white light, my experience resulted in a completely different phenomenon. Bruce Willis, move aside! I now have the ability to sense a person's presence before it reaches my consciousness. How else could I have known that Tim was on the phone the first time? His leaving ten messages has nothing to do with it. And the fact that I can hear someone breathing has nothing to do with it.

“What?” I ask, opening one eye. Sam is sitting on my bed, staring at me.

“Oh, good, you're awake. Were you on that exploding train?”

“What time is it?”

“Late. I just saw you on the news.”

I jump out of bed. “Really? I was on TV? Did you tape it? Was it a good shot? Did you see me with Andrew?” How many times do they show the same news before the news becomes old? Two? Three? At least four, for sure. Yay! Jeremy is going to see me with Andrew!

“How could I tape it when I didn't even know it was going to be on? When did you get in? I didn't even hear you. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I split a cab with someone who lives nearby.” The lifeguard.

I shove a tape in the machine, and set the dials to record the news at a later time. A few hours later, the clip of me is on TV again. The shot lasts for about a half a second—I'm alone, sitting in the snow, staring into nothing. I look like an idiot.

“You look so sad,” Sam says and pats my head.

There
has
to be more of me. This is my one moment of fame! The burning train appears on the screen. I try another station. The reporter gives a brief account. The image shifts to the woods being bulldozed. Switch. We're walking through the woods. Switch. We're getting on the buses. Switch. Getting off the buses. Switch. The fire again. Switch. Left, right, left right. Switch. An interview with the woman with the hair-sprayed nest and the long red raincoat. How come she gets an interview? She gets a two-minute interview and I get to look sad for half a second.

The woman who was talking to the lifeguard fills the screen. Even she gets to talk on TV! “I was terrified,” she says. “Absolutely terrified. The flames were consuming everything in sight.”

“She's full of shit—she wasn't terrified. She found a boyfriend on the train! She probably made out with him on the bus!” Slut.

“You know her? You know the woman on television?”

I hush Sam with my hand and watch the fire blazing on the screen. Switch. The reporter is cross-examining a mechanic on how this could have happened. Switch. I hate the news.

Cupid is closed for the holidays. Actually, it's kind of disappointing, since this would have been an excellent excuse to call in and tell them I need a mental health day. I wonder if I can claim a delayed reaction next week. It's not every day a person has a close encounter with death.

 

That night, Andrew comes over to watch the video I made of the news. At my suggestion, I regretfully have to add.

“You looked so sad,” he says, referring to my half-second cameo appearance. Then we watch
Speed 2.
He's on one end of the couch, and I'm on the other.

There has been no physical contact so far. When he buzzed, I unlocked the door and pretended to be cooking something in the kitchen. Well, opening something anyway. So I could avoid the potentially awkward kiss on the cheek hello. There has been no mention of the obvious, either. Isn't it strange that we're both too wimpy to mention the one thing we're both thinking about?

“Jess called me last night.” He's staring at the TV and not looking at me. Why isn't he looking at me? Uh-oh. Why is he bringing up Jess? I hate that he's bringing up Jess. For the past few months I was on one side of camp—the platonic side. The train ride yanked me onto the other side. And now he wants me to mosey on back to the platonic side while he discusses his previous relationship in-depth? I don't think so.

“And? Does she love you even more now that you've proven you're commitment phobic?”

He throws a pillow at me, while still looking at the TV. “I'm not commitment phobic. I just don't see the point in wasting my time with the wrong woman. That's why I've never had a lasting relationship.”

No kidding. A lasting relationship kind of implies you're in one now, right? Otherwise, by definition, it's unlasting. Is he trying to warn me off? Is this his way of telling me he doesn't want a relationship? Who says I want a relationship?

“You've never had a real relationship?” Note the switch from “lasting” to “real.”

“Once, when I was in tenth grade.”

“What happened?”

“I fooled around with her best friend.”

“Very classy.”

“She dumped me.”

“Good.”

“My longest relationship was in college. It went on for two months.” He sighs dramatically. “Women don't want me for a boyfriend. All I am is a boy toy.”

I can't help myself from laughing. “Yeah, most women are only interested in a one-night stand. Relationships and estrogen? Like oil and water.”

“It's true. Maybe I need to read a
Dating for Morons
guide.”

“I could write that.” But maybe I'll call it
Dating Morons.

“What would your first chapter be about?”

“The first date, of course. Picture it. Boston. Saturday night.”

“Saturday night? Waste a Saturday night on a first date? What happened to Tuesday?”

“Quiet! Pay attention, now. You're pulling up in front of my house. What do you do?”

“Um…honk?” He scrunches his forehead as if I've asked him a trick question. “Twice?”

“There you go!” He's kidding. I hope. I quiz him further. “And what do you say once I'm in the car?”

“Hi?”

“I'm looking for compliment, here. I got all dressed up, you know.”

“Ah. I'd tell you that I prefer natural woman. I'd ask you to leave the makeup at home next time.”

“Very good! And where do you take me?”

“I'd insist on meat. Ribs, probably.”

“You're a regular Don Juan! And what happens when I do the reach?”

“The reach?”

“The bill comes and I reach for my purse.”

“Well, if you're offering to pay, then you must want to, right?”

“Of course I do! I'd be embarrassed if you insisted.”

“And then we'd walk back to the car, holding hands.” He grabs my hand and swings it back and forth. “And then I'd tell you I had a great time…babe.”

“That's it. I draw the line at babe.”

“But everyone likes being called babe. Or doll. Or hon.”

“I'm not everybody.”

He looks up at me and his face grows serious. “No, you're not.”

He's still holding my hand. He's still holding my hand. Why is he still holding my hand?

I hear Sam's key in the door. “I love not having to go to work!” she sings out brightly a moment later.

He drops my hand.

Thanks, Sam. Thanks for ruining everything. “Where were you?” I ask, noting her disheveled outfit.

“With Philip.”

“And who's on for tomorrow?”

“Ben.”

“You are certainly one busy girl,” Andrew remarks.

Her face clouds over. “I have to decide which one I'm going to kiss at New Year's. This could be a problem.”