My Future Ex-Girlfriend

by Jake Gerhardt

  (Duke holds out his hand. Sharon takes it.)

  Mr. Dolan

  You certainly seem to have your wits about you.

  Mrs. Dolan

  Such a polite and talented young man.

  (Mr. and Mrs. Dolan take each other’s hands and smile happily.)

  FADE TO BLACK

  I felt a bit better after writing this scene. One must be prepared for anything, of course, but with a little luck, perhaps I’d be able to steer the dinner conversation my way.

  SAM

  I’m nervous as soon as Erica invites me over for dinner.

  No, that’s not true. I’m originally excited about having dinner with Erica and her family. I mean, you don’t invite someone over for dinner if you don’t like them, right?

  Then Foxxy says something on Friday that freaks me out.

  “Let me give you some advice,” he says as we’re walking to lunch.

  “Why do I need advice from you?” I say. “You don’t even have a girlfriend anymore.”

  Foxxy raises his eyebrows in a disapproving way, the same way Mr. Minkin does when you ask for permission to use the bathroom in class.

  “Yeah,” he says. “But I can still tell you what happened when I had dinner with Holly’s parents before the . . .”

  “The breakup,” I suggest.

  “I can’t say the word,” Foxxy says. “Anyway, you’re going to have to stay on Mr. Dickerson’s good side. And don’t even look at Erica’s sisters, Jane and Rosie. Mr. Dickerson is very protective of his daughters. He once sent his dogs after my brother Johnny.”

  I instantly get an image of dogs chasing me down the street. And just like in all my worst nightmares, for some reason I’m in my underwear. I quickly change the subject.

  “So what’s new with Holly and Curt Goodwin?” I ask.

  Foxxy stops and bends over in pain, like he’s been punched in the gut.

  “Ah, don’t ask that, Sam. It’s like a punch in the gut.”

  Then I see Jenny Rios (#2 on my list), and I leave Foxxy alone in his pain. The interview doesn’t go very well.

  Me: Hey, Jenny.

  Jenny: Hi, Sam.

  Me: What do you think of Foxxy?

  Jenny: I don’t think of Foxxy.

  Me: Why not?

  Jenny: I try not to think of unpleasant things like war, famine, and your pal Foxxy.

  Okay, so Foxxy is not exactly a magnet attracting girls. So then why do I let what Foxxy says about dinner with Erica bother me? I don’t know. But I do know this: I don’t think I’m going to find him another girlfriend.

  Anticipation (and worrying) keeps building the rest of the day. I’m just about ready to go out of my mind. I hit a brick wall with my sketch ideas for NYC Nites, and I can’t stop thinking about the dinner. What if I have to burp? What if I chew with my mouth open? What if Erica’s parents start asking me tons of questions? As you can see, there’s a lot that can go wrong.

  Thankfully, tonight, like most Saturday nights, is what my dad calls “date night.” It’s time we (just me and my dad) set apart to hang out, eat pizza, and watch a movie. The best thing is that my sisters go out with my mom, so we have the place to ourselves. Not too shabby. And it’s just what the doctor ordered to deal with my nervousness about dinner with Erica and her family. I can strike up a conversation with my dad about Sunday.

  But then Lutz has to go and ruin it.

  “Aren’t you coming with us, John?” Maureen asks.

  “No, I think I’ll stay home,” Lutz says. And just so you understand, when he says “home,” he’s not talking about his home but my home. My mom and dad’s house! I can tell from my dad’s face, he wants to give Lutz the boot, but I can also see my dad’s had a long week and is very tired. Me, I’ve got too much on my mind to let Lutz bother me. It’s like when the neighbor’s dog barks. There’s nothing you can do about it.

  Lutz sticks his head in the refrigerator and asks, “Are there any cold sodas?”

  Dad looks disgusted, like he’s just pulled a long strand of hair from his food. That’s when it hits me. Standing right in front of me is the answer to my little problem. My dad hates Lutz, so all I have to do is watch Lutz and do the exact opposite. Erica’s father will love me!

  I run as fast as I can to get my notebook from my room because Lutz and my dad are pure gold together.

  Here’s what I get:

  Do NOT fart.

  Do NOT spread out on the couch like you own the place, forcing the real owner of the couch and house to sit in an uncomfortable chair.

  Do NOT complain about the size of the television and suggest it’s time to upgrade to a flat-screen HDTV.

  Be complimentary of the pizza that you did NOT pay for.

  Do NOT yell at the owner of the house to bring you a glass of ice for your soda when the owner of the house gets up to use the bathroom.

  Be sure to allow the owner of the house to watch the movie he wants to watch. If he wants to watch Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2, sit back quietly and enjoy it.

  Do NOT give away the ending.

  The list above is all I get because my dad fell asleep exactly seven minutes after the pizza arrived and we popped in the movie. In that short time, he was able to glare at Lutz at least six times and scarf down four slices of pepperoni pizza. Very impressive.

  Guess who’s ready for Sunday dinner?!

  CHOLLIE

  This is the best week ever. Baseball has started and things are great with me and Miranda. And, to make the awesomest week ever even more awesome, my brother Billy has returned home because the couch he was sleeping on broke, and my mom, who would never admit it, misses Billy.

  Even though things are going great with Miranda, I’m still nervous about the dinner with her parents. I’ve never done something like this before and I’m not sure what to expect. It’s kind of like being behind in the count in baseball—you’re not sure what pitch you’re going to get and you have to protect the plate. Coach says prepare for a fastball so if you get an off-speed pitch you can adjust, but that’s easier said than done. The bottom line is, you have to be ready for anything.

  But how lucky am I that Billy’s home? When I tell him how nervous I am about the dinner at Miranda’s house, he suggests we drive over to the batting cages.

  “I don’t think you want to overanalyze this,” he says when we’re in his car. It’s really like listening to a genius when Billy talks through a problem or situation with a girl.

  “But still, Sunday dinner is the real deal, you know?” Billy says. He looks at me for a long time with a big smile on his face.

  I can’t reply because it’s not very relaxing when you’re in the passenger seat and the driver is looking at you the whole time.

  “Who’s going to be there?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I guess Miranda and her mother and father.”

  “How about grandparents?”

  “I dunno.”

  “How about aunts and uncles?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Cousins?”

  Thankfully we get to the batting cages, because I’m sure Billy has more questions about who’s going to be there.

  “Now, judging from how Mr. Mullaly behaved when you guys shoveled his walk and destroyed his car, I’d say he is the kind of guy who likes to be in control of things.”

  “You think Mr. Mullaly will bring up what happened to his car?”

  “If he does, I suggest you laugh it off and say it’s water under the bridge.”

  “Water under the bridge,” I repeat.

  “And I think it would be wise to bring flowers for her mother. She’ll love that.”

  “What about Miranda?”

  “You give her one flower, and the rest of the bunch goes to Miranda’s mom. All girls love that because they secre
tly love their mothers.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I say. I learn more from Billy than from all my classes combined.

  “Most importantly you want to be cool with her dad. Girls adore their fathers. You stick close to him and I think you’ll be just fine.”

  “Wow, Billy, where’d you learn all this stuff?”

  “Paying attention, that’s how,” he says. “You just follow my advice and nothing will go wrong.”

  And am I ever relaxed. Having Billy back is just like having an ace up my sleeve. I can’t lose.

  7

  Meet the Parents

  DUKE

  IMAGINE HOW I felt when Sam Dolan answered the door, wearing a tattered shirt and a dirty cap (inside the house!—no manners) that I was sure I would see him wearing tomorrow at school.

  “What the heck are you doing here?” Sam asked.

  “I’m here for dinner. I was invited by your lovely sister.”

  He looked at the cherry pie.

  “How do you know my sisters? And what’s with the pie?” he asked. (As you continue to read this narrative you may begin to think Sam is an idiot, and you would be correct.)

  “It’s a cherry pie. I baked it for dessert.”

  From out of nowhere a big, burly chap of about sixteen years walked by, grabbed the pie from my outstretched hands, and bellowed, “This is Sharon’s boyfriend!”

  “He’s Sharon’s WHAT?” Sam exclaimed, rather rudely. Really, how oblivious can one person be? I’m sure Sharon talks about me constantly, but Sam has the attention span of a gnat.

  Sam continued to stand there in an apoplectic state until the fellow who took the pie returned and said, “Come on in.”

  I followed Sam and the fellow into the house. Sam fell into a sofa in what would best be described as a rec room, as if he’d just done an honest day’s work. Next to him was, I guessed, Sharon’s sister, Maureen, who is a very attractive freshman at Penn Valley High. The slovenly lad plopped down next to Maureen. He put his feet obnoxiously on the coffee table before him. A grimy toe stuck out from his right sock.

  I stood at the threshold, waiting to be announced, as the three stared at some type of zombie program on the television. It was difficult to discern the difference between the walking dead on-screen and the brain-dead teenagers sprawled out like alligators in the morning sun.

  I straightened my bow tie, thinking perhaps I was a bit overdressed for the occasion.

  “Sharon will be downstairs in a few,” Maureen said during a commercial.

  No one had the common decency to offer me a seat, so I stood and watched the show for what seemed to be a very, very long time. From what I could ascertain, the zombies rather enjoy, and perhaps even need, human brains. Sam would be perfectly safe, obviously, if this were ever to become true.

  At length Sharon descended the stairs and joined us. She quickly introduced me to her sister, Maureen, and Maureen’s boyfriend, John Lutz, who miraculously had made it to the tenth grade.19 When the show resumed, Sharon shielded her eyes from the rubbish spewing from the television. That’s my girl!

  “Come along with me,” she said, and I followed her into an adjacent little sunporch. I was delighted to see books, this month’s Atlantic Monthly, the Sunday paper, and no television.

  “Do you like crosswords?” she asked.

  “I don’t like them,” I answered. “I love them.”

  So Sharon and I sat on the sofa and worked on the Sunday crossword together. An odd noise came from the other room. No doubt a zombie was feasting on brains.

  “What is that show they’re watching?” I asked.

  “The Walking Dead,” she answered.

  Recalling how she covered her face when she was in the room, I asked, “You don’t like it?”

  “I don’t like it,” she said. “I love it.” She looked up at me, smiling. “That’s why I covered my face. I’m recording it so I can watch it later. No spoilers!”

  I returned my gaze to the crossword, trying to remember the name of a tributary to the Rhine River.

  “Have you seen it?” she asked.

  “The zombie show?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I haven’t. But if you recommend it, I certainly will,” I said.

  How could this girl who quoted Sherlock Holmes fall for a brainless (pun intended) television program like The Walking Dead? I was confused. It just didn’t make sense. I stared at her pretty face while she concentrated on the crossword.

  “Oh, here, Tempest spirit,” she said. “Ariel.” And she wrote it in as I gawked in awe.

  We had almost polished off the crossword when we were called in for dinner.

  I was shocked to see everyone seated except for Mrs. Dolan, who had an apron round her waist like it was the nineteen fifties.

  “May I help?” I asked Mrs. Dolan as she brought the food to the table.

  “Sure, thanks,” she said. “If you could please lie those peas down next to the mashed potatoes.”

  “Lay,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The proper verb is ‘lay.’ Lay the peas next to the mashed potatoes,” I said.

  “Lay the peas next to the mashed potatoes,” said Mrs. Dolan with a bit of asperity.

  “Here, give me the stinking peas,” Mr. Dolan said, and grabbed them from me.

  I got the feeling my grammatical aid was not welcome here, and I quickly changed the subject.

  “Where’s Sam? Won’t he be joining us?”

  The big guy named Lutz said, “He’s having dinner with his future ex-girlfriend.”

  Maureen laughed at this almost-clever comment. “Oh, John, you can be so funny sometimes,” she said.

  I quickly noticed Sharon did not think it was funny, and Mr. Dolan was not hiding the fact he did not like this interloper. I had a hopeful feeling Lutz would make my night much easier.

  Mrs. Dolan sat down and Mr. Dolan led us in a quick prayer in which we expressed gratitude for the food in front of us. And then began a free-for-all. There was plenty of food and every plate was piled high with slightly overdone roast beef, carrots, mashed potatoes, peas, and bread and butter. I felt as if I were in the kitchen of a farmhouse. The food was plain, and everyone was at the table to do one thing. And it was done well. After what I would guess to be about eight minutes, and almost on cue, we slowed down, our plates half-empty, and conversation began.

  “Duke, you’re in the eighth grade, is that correct?” Mrs. Dolan asked.

  “That is correct,” I said.

  “And will you be attending Penn Valley High?” she asked.

  “Yes, indeed,” I answered. “Rather looking forward to it.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on you,” Lutz said. “You’re not planning on wearing bow ties, right?”

  “I think a bow tie is very appropriate for many occasions. And I certainly expect there will be such occasions at Penn Valley High.”

  “You just might not want to wear a bow tie on Freshman Day,” Lutz said.

  “Don’t worry, Duke,” Maureen said as she gave herself more peas. “John will protect you. Want some more peas?” she asked him.

  “Yeah, but less than you gave yourself,” Lutz said.

  “Actually,” I felt I should interject, “it’s ‘fewer’ and not ‘less’ in this instance.”

  I got the feeling Lutz was no longer going to protect me on this so-called Freshman Day. He gave me a dirty look and said, “Yeah, the bow tie and correcting people’s grammar will go over real good in high school.”

  I refrained from telling Lutz that correcting people’s grammar will go over really well in high school.

  Sharon coughed politely. “Actually, Lutz is correct. You only use ‘fewer’ when you know the exact number of something. So unless you know the exact number of peas in the bowl
or on the spoon, ‘less’ is correct in this case. You wouldn't say fewer rice, would you?”

  I looked at Sharon, but she immediately turned away.20 An awkward silence fell over us until Mr. Dolan spoke.

  “Hand them here,” he said, and scooped the remaining peas onto his plate. “Now there are no more peas.”

  The rest of the evening I was a bit more subdued. Later, after I bid my dinner companions farewell, Sharon and I waited, rather romantically, on her front porch for Neal and Cassandra to pick me up.

  “Did you like the pie?” I asked Sharon.

  “It was very good,” she said.

  “Did you think the crust was dry?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Duke. It wasn’t a contest. There wasn’t another pie to compare it to, you know.”

  Good point, I thought, nodding.

  We waited in silence until Sharon politely coughed. She often does this before she speaks, and I find it utterly charming.

  “Duke, I hope I didn’t embarrass you when I corrected your grammar,” she said.

  “No, not at all,” I said. “We all make mistakes.”

  “Yes, that’s true. So if you really think that, well, then, you should let some grammatical errors go.”

  “Of course,” I replied. “But we can always benefit from learning something new.”

  She was about to say something else when Neal and Cassandra pulled up.

  I took Sharon’s hand.

  “Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow. That I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

  “I think you should just say it once and call it a night,” she said. She let go of my hand, adding, “Good night, Romeo.”

  Perfect, absolutely perfect. I don’t think there is another girl at Penn Valley who would know I was quoting from Romeo and Juliet.