30 Guys in 30 Days
Page 8
Which was when I saw Gabe.
He was on his way in, and he looked tousled and tired. His hair stood up in strange patterns, and his T-shirt (Scooby-Doo) was rumpled. There was an unidentifiable yellow stain on his cords. And he was wearing glasses. Thick, black, Buddy Holly glasses over his beautiful hazel eyes.
I couldn’t help myself. I loved him yet. “Gabe!” I called out, waving to him. He looked up, brightening when he recognized me.
We wandered toward each other and met in the middle of the coffeehouse, sinking down in an unexpectedly vacant love seat. Gabe unshouldered his bag and collapsed against the back of the sofa. “I am so wiped,” he said, sighing heavily. “Pop quiz and then a review that needed to print, like, yesterday.”
“Oh, I didn’t see it,” I said. Normally I made it a point to always read his reviews.
“I know you didn’t,” he said, winking at me. “You didn’t even read the paper today, did you?”
I blushed. “Well, not yet,” I admitted.
“Hey, did you change your hair?” he asked suddenly, cutting me off. He sat bolt upright in his chair and reached forward to touch it.
I froze in place. “Um, I just blew it out straight today,” I explained. “Sometimes I do that.”
“I never noticed before,” he said, looking puzzled.
I was pretty darn puzzled myself. Since when did Gabe Flynn take note of my hair? Kyra must have schooled him in such things.
Thinking about Gabe noticing Kyra’s hair made me depressed. “Why—I mean, how did you know I hadn’t read the paper?” I demanded, covering.
Gabe grinned. He reached down into his bag and pulled out the day’s Chronicle. He quickly paged through to the back and slammed the paper down on the coffee table in front of me. “There,” he said, pointing his index finger to the personals section:
CB-ARTSY—FANCY AN ANI-FEST?
I glanced at him. “ARTSY? Me?”
He nodded enthusiastically, clearly proud of himself.
I felt strange and tingly inside. All the blood rushed to my head. I couldn’t believe that Gabe had played the little personals game with me.
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t read the paper that day!
“Cute,” I said, trying not to squeak with excitement. “But how would I have known that was meant for me?”
“Well, my dear, if you’d been reading the paper for which you’ve been writing, then you would have just sussed it out, intrinsically. You start to get a feel for these things when you’ve been with us long enough.”
“You make it sound like a scary cult,” I protested. “And what’s an ‘ani-fest,’ anyway?”
“You know, like an animation-fest. Spike and Mike’s Sick and Twisted; Wallace and Gromit; etc., etc…. every year Boston holds its own roundup of the best new animated shorts on the scene. Most of the major distributors are there to scout. It’s really fun. Would you be into it?”
“Yeah, definitely,” I said. “I love animation. I was a huge fan of Family Guy.”
“Me too! I have a T-shirt,” Gabe said. “Here,” he said, rummaging back in his bag and coming back up with a crumpled press release and some passes. “It’s Saturday. This will admit you plus one guest.” He paused. “Man, I’d love to go.”
For the second time in twelve seconds, I froze. I would have been happy to invite Gabe along, of course, but it would have just been inviting pain upon myself. I mean, Saturday night was date night. If Gabe wasn’t going to the animation fest with Kyra, it was because they had other plans. But, then … why did it feel like he was hinting to me?
Because you wish that he were.
“There you are!”
I looked up.
Gabe looked up.
Kyra beamed back down at us. She wore a long, gauzy skirt skimming her ankles and grazing the floor, a sleeveless top accentuating her dancer’s frame. Her hair was wound up on top of her head and she looked, as usual, radiant and ethereal.
She sidled on up to Gabe and immediately began to run her fingers through his hair, reconstructing it as I had longed to do when he first walked into the coffeehouse. “Everyone’s looking for you downstairs,” she said. “They need you to once-over an article before they can put it to bed.”
Gabe stood, smoothing out the front of his pants in vain, and straightening his glasses. “Sure thing,” he said.
“Um, so, about the animation fest—” I started hesitantly.
He thrust the press release at me. “Here you go. You should call beforehand to let them know you’re coming, and who your guest will be.”
“You’re going to cover that? Perfect,” Kyra cooed. “Gabe asked me, but I really can’t stand cartoons. It’s too hard to take them seriously.”
“Um, right,” I agreed, for lack of anything better to say.
Kyra linked arms with Gabe. “Come on, babe,” she said, turning on her heel and dragging him with her.
Each put one foot in front of the other, and they were off.
I sat, alone with my scrunched-up pieces of paper, my personals ad, and my nondate with Gabe. I felt like the least desirable female this side of the I-95. I turned to the target—umm, boy sitting one couch over. “Do you like animation?” I muttered halfheartedly.
He glanced up at me briefly, then looked back at his book. “Nope.”
Great, then.
9/13, 5:45 p.m.
from: cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edu
to: kissandtellen@shemail.net, clnorton@woodmanuniv.edu
re: 11 down, 19 to go …
Yeah, I’m going to an animation-fest. Alone.
—xx
Six
9/15, 9:42 a.m.
from: cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edu
to: kissandtellen@shemail.net, clnorton@woodmanuniv.edu
re: coed naked hijinks
So, just popped into the coed bathroom for a shower and, um … accidentally walked in on one of my coed neighbors in his birthday suit. Fun times. I’ve never seen a human being jump quite so high into the air save for sporting events and the like.
Does that count as Target #12? Survey says: sho’ ’nuf.
“So, uh, what are you taking this semester?”
“Huh?”
I snapped out of my reverie to find my dinner companion, Cameron, snagging yet another fry off of my plate.
For the record: I sincerely dislike it when people take from my plate without asking.
Of course, that was but one of the various ways in which Cameron had managed to irk me, big-time, since he and Troy had arrived to pick me and Charlie up for our ill-fated double date.
I blamed myself, of course. Charlie had met Troy at the gym. Something to do with their eyes meeting across a valley of treadmills. Anyway, he’d asked her out and she’d said yes before hearing the catch. The “catch” being Cameron, his best friend in from Amherst for the weekend. Charlie had begged me to come along, and I had foolishly agreed.
It started when they arrived fully twenty minutes late with nary a phone call, text message, or smoke signal to indicate that they were running behind schedule. Lack of punctuality: another huge pet peeve of mine. Then there was the fact that when they did arrive, the very first thing Cameron did upon our introduction was unabashedly look me up and down, his gaze sweeping across my body like some kind of high-security surveillance camera, only to then step back, slide his tongue out of his mouth ever-so-slightly, and murmur, “Dude …” with a wry thumbs-up in Troy’s direction.
I mean, gross.
I tried to explain my position to Charlie on the car ride over to the restaurant. “This is a problem,” I whispered fervently. “I do not blow out my hair for boys who use the word ‘dude’ as an adjective!” She shot me a dirty look that I took to mean that she wouldn’t have me ruining her night with Troy, and leaned forward, asking Troy to “crank up the tunes.”
Dude.
Of course, I was soon to learn that I needn’t have been flattered or even surprised by Cameron’s behavior.
The minute we walked into the restaurant, he immediately cast his oh-so-discerning eye over the female members of the waitstaff. I fled to the ladies’ room for a brief respite. There was only so much “dude” I could take in one night, after all.
Fast-forward to the dinner, where Charlie was sitting across the table practically in Troy’s lap, having basically left me for dead, while I picked listlessly at a burger and tried my best to appear at least marginally interested in Cameron’s prattle. Which was harder than you might think.
“I asked what you were taking this semester,” he repeated, sounding slightly annoyed.
Okay, so maybe I wasn’t exactly trying my best.
“Um, I’m taking …” Suddenly I couldn’t for the life of me remember my own schedule. Was it possible that in talking with Cameron my IQ had actually shot down ten points? Was he that toxic?
Without warning, his hand slid up my leg.
Question answered.
“Do I make you nervous?” he taunted.
He had little bits of french fry sticking to the corners of his mouth.
Nervous, no. Nauseated, yes.
I scuttled over to my own corner of the booth. “I’m taking computer science, and intro to pop culture, and, uh, child development, biology, and women’s history,” I rattled off.
“Oh, women’s history,” he said knowingly. “No wonder you’re such a priss.”
“Um, excuse me?” I said, quite certain that I’d misheard him.
“Feminist,” he said shortly, stuffing more of my dinner into his fat mouth.
I stared at him in disbelief. “Yes, that’s exactly it,” I deadpanned. I glanced over at Charlie, who, at this point, was officially making out with Troy at the table. That, or performing emergency mouth-to-mouth. Is this behavior really becoming of a Georgia Peach? I wondered.
I thought about storming out in a huff. That would have at least made for a good anecdote. But Charlie would have definitely caused me serious bodily harm. Not to mention, we were at least ten miles from the nearest T station and I really didn’t have enough money on me for a cab. I was in it for the long haul.
“Are you, uh, finished with that?” Cameron asked, pointing a beefy index finger at my hamburger.
I sighed and pushed my plate toward him. It was going to be a mighty long night.
9/17, 1:19 a.m.
from: cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edu
to: kissandtellen@shemail.net, clnorton@woodmanuniv.edu
re: blind dates
Valid “target practice,” yay or nay?
I’m saying yes. And then I’m going to bed. And never agreeing to another fix-up as long as I live.
—xx
9/18,11:01 a.m.
from: cbciarkson@woodmanuniv.edu
to: kissandtellen@shemail.net, clnorton@woodmanuniv.edu
re: deep thoughts
From the animation-fest, according to Mike Nugent, design major at Emerson: That if you play Season 1, Episode 12, of The Simpsons backward and on extended-time release, it will reveal the identity of JFK’s killer.
Whatever.
Target #14, all accounted for. At least I’m almost halfway there.
Am running out of things to say re: the festival. Have little further opinion other than, of course, abject fear. I mean, some of those men were wearing costumes. Tights: Not a good look for the forty-plus and balding set.
—xx
9/18, 5:17 p.m.
from: cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edu
to: arts@chronicle.woodmanuniv.edu
re: ani-fest
Here’s the article. Sorry I’m late. Let me know if you have any problems opening it.
9/18, 6:03 p.m.
from: arts@chronicle@woodmanuniv.edu
to: cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edu
re: re: ani-fest
Claud—
Looks great. Sounds like you had an … interesting time? ;)
Check the personals tomorrow.
—G
9/19,1:53 a.m.
from: cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edu
to: kissandtellen@shemail.net, clnorton@woodmanuniv.edu
re: grrr
My right brain is mad at my left brain. Or possibly the other way around. Which is it that controls logic and which controls creativity? Does it even matter?
I’m fried.
I have a comp sci quiz in approximately eight hours that I was made aware of, um, about eight hours ago. Good times.
Oh, and Target #15? Pedro, the handsome and virile delivery boy from Mexicali Rose.
I think we’d have fine-looking children.
—xx
9/19, 2:04 a.m.
from: clnorton@woodmanuniv.edu
to: kissandtellen@shemail.net, cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edu
re: Um, no.
I’m sorry, Claud, but I have to put my foot down. Delivery boys do not count as “target practice.”
9/19, 2:21 a.m.
from: kissandtellen@shemail.net
to: cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edu, clnorton@woodmanuniv.edu
re: Come now
Oh, Charlie, can’t you see she’s suffering?
9/19, 3:37 a.m.
from: dcordelle5@columbia.ac.edu
to: cbclarckson@woodmanuniv.edu
re: Surprise!
Hi, babe!
An interesting thing I learned last week: Surprises come in many shapes and forms. Like the surprise quiz I was given in my English class. That was a good time.
Then there’s the surprise of the culinary variety. As in, the “tuna surprise” that our dining hall just loves. I really can’t get enough of that.
And finally, my true favorite: the surprise visit. Generally practiced by close friends and romantic partners. Such as Buji’s long-distance girlfriend. I know what you’re thinking—who knew Buji had a long-distance girlfriend? Not me—which makes this a double-layer surprise!
Now Bee, we’re living in close conditions here, and I’m really not wanting to cramp my man Buji’s style. So I thought I’d take the opportunity to come up and visit. Surprise!
Just friendly, hon. I promise. But I do miss you.
Let me know what you think.
Later,
D
9/19, 6:16 p.m.
from: cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edi
to: kissandtellen@shemail.net
re: fw: Surprise!
Crap crappity crap. Just failed a comp sci quiz. Definitely, completely failed. My average is totally sunk.
Oh, and one other thing. Yeah, got an e-mail from Drew last night. Scroll down. Read it and weep.
And then let me know what the hell you think I should do.
—xx
9/19, 6:43 p.m.
from: kissandtellen@shemail.net
to: cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edu
re: Oh my
Well, what are your choices? You can either tell him, politely but firmly, that you don’t want to see him; or you can offer to host him. I guess the question is what you would rather do. I mean, if you tell him no, there’s a good chance he’s going to be offended. You have to be okay with that. And if you do want him to come, and you don’t want things to go to the boyfriend-girlfriend place, then you’re going to have to be strong enough to keep things on the friend level.
Tough choices, dear. But they are your choices to make. Don’t forget that.
9/19, 7:01 p.m.
from: cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edu
to: dcordelle5@columbia.ac.edu
re: Surprise!
Hey there—
You know I’m a sucker for a surprise (unless it’s of the tuna variety. I hate that stuff. Blech). I assume you’ll be in on Friday? The bus from Port Authority will take you straight to Boston’s South Station. I can meet you there. It’s really easy. E-mail me with the particulars when you’ve got them.
:)
—xx
CHRONICLERS CAN ROLL WITH THE PARTY DOWNTOWN MIDNIGHT.
9/20, 11:43 a.
m.
from: cbclarkson@woodmanuniv.edu
to: kissandtellen@shemail.net, clnorton@woodmanuniv.edu
re: Targets and weirdness
Picture it, if you will: The room was bathed in glittering, psychedelic hues, and classic disco was being remixed to neo-trance beats by a crazed, Afroed DJ set in a booth ten feet above the rink. I was on my second beer and having kind of a hard time matching the tempo of my flailing limbs to the smooth syncopation being piped out over the sound system. The room was spinning. It could have been the booze.
But then again, it could have been the roller skates.
Gabe’s heads-up over e-mail had led me to discover a personals ad planted for the entire extended staff of the Chronicle.
It seemed that once a semester they liked to hit a kitschy downtown sports center for midnight roller disco. I’d been so thrilled to be included in the outing—by Gabe, no less—that it hadn’t occurred to me how truly frightening it could be to see half the Chronicle editors on wheels. John O’Shea, possibly emboldened by the added height gained from the skates, was whizzing across the floor in frantic loops. Megan, Anna, and a few of the features editors were huddled by the shoe check laughing, gossiping, and scarfing down pizza. Myself, I’d taken the opportunity to sidle up to Mitch Abley, assistant sports editor and Target #16. I’d been psyched, firstly because Mitch represented the halfway point for this semi-torturous game, and also because he was friendly and incredibly normal-seeming.
That was, until he put his skates on.
Poor Mitch had clearly never been big with the roller hockey. Since he’d suited up, we’d spent the better part of an hour inching along the perimeter of the rink, Mitch clutching the guardrail for dear life. The experience was mildly humiliating, even for those of us who were having no problem staying upright. I had to cross my fingers and pray that Gabe was too focused on doing his own thing (i.e., watching pro-figure skater Kyra bust out her perfect figure eights right down the middle of the rink) to notice me or my escort for the evening.