by Micol Ostow
“So, I guess maybe it’s disloyal or something, cause of how I’m from Philly, but I’m really into the Giants,” Mitch was saying to me.
That was the other thing about Mitch. While, upon first contact, he seemed happy to make with the school-related small talk, once we’d exhausted those pleasantries, he’d launched straight into sportscaster mode, rattling off facts and statistics about different teams, leagues, managers, RBI, average yearly salaries, number of assists…. It wasn’t helping with my head-spinning thing.
I glanced around. John O’Shea was on another speed bender, and Megan and Co. were headed to the bar for another round. All around me, it seemed, people were having normal, nonawkward, potentially interesting experiences and conversations. And meanwhile, I’d already done the target thing. Was it my fault that, like the fourteen endeavors before this, it had been a bust?
Mitch groped wildly at the wall and went down.
It was time to cut bait.
“Um, yeah, I guess I don’t know so much about sports,” I confessed, crouching down to help Mitch back to his feet.
“Well, there’s a basketball game at the Fleet Center on Saturday that I’m covering for the paper, if you’d, ah, like to come,” Mitch said, blushing furiously.
I let go of his hand and flipped backward with a thud, landing on my butt. “Oh … ,” I started. “That’s, um, really cool of you to invite me, but, uh …” I drew a blank. There was no way I was going out with Roller Boy to watch basketball. I mean, basketball was a tall order—even for someone I liked.
Suddenly I remembered. “My ex is coming next weekend!” I said triumphantly. It was perfect: It was true, it was inarguable and, best of all, it suggested a certain romantic unavailability.
“Hey guys, how’s the weather down there?”
Suddenly long arms were stretched around my waist from behind me, lifting me up off of the ground. Once I was standing, the arms made their way to my hips and spun me around.
“Um, thanks, Gabe, you’re a lifesaver,” I said, mortified.
Gabe sank down onto his knees and grabbed Mitch by the wrists, slowly springing back upward and effectively dragging Mitch with him.
Back in an upright position, Mitch dusted himself off with his hands and tried to regain some of his composure. “Thanks, man,” he said to Gabe. “We were drowning out there.” He turned back to me. “Well, if you want to catch a game some other time—you know, some weekend when your boyfriend’s not in town—just let me know.”
He turned to skate off, sailing away in short, staccato bursts while groping at the handrail. The drama of his delivery was undercut slightly by the clutch-inch-clutch-inch pacing of his departure, but I got the gist: a man scorned.
I turned back to Gabe. “I hate sports,” I said, as though I owed him some sort of explanation for the awkwardness of that encounter.
Gabe peered at me. “Your boyfriend’s coming this weekend?”
“No, I mean, he is. But he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my ex. Drew. My ex-Drew. You remember the picture,” I said, babbling.
Gabe nodded slowly. “Right, the one from your wallet.” He paused. “Cool.”
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “Yeah.”
Suddenly the DJ’s voice filled the sound system, layering over the music. “Everybody! Grab a partner! It’s time for couples-skate!”
Gabe looked at me awkwardly. I looked away. I looked at him awkwardly. He looked away. Just as we threatened to combust with the force of our combined tension, Kyra glided over on gilded wheels, flaxen hair trailing out behind her. She gracefully came to a spinning stop just between Gabe and me, forcing me to jerk back a pace.
“You don’t mind if I borrow him, hon, do you?” she asked me sweetly.
I shook my head. “Of course not.”
She linked an elbow through his and pushed off and away. I watched them for a beat, then slowly skated off, away from the rink floor.
Seven
9/20, 1:29 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: this weekend
Hey, Claudia—
I looked for you at the roller disco last night after couples-skate, but I guess you’d already left? I was thinking about how you’ve got a guest this weekend, and I wanted to offer you some tickets. Mad Salad is playing at the Tin Room Saturday night. I don’t know what kind of music Drew’s into, but they’re pretty much easy-listening. Think The Strokes. Rock all the way. I bet he’d like it.
Anyway, maybe you’ve already got your own thing planned, but I wanted to put it out there. The passes are down at the paper. If you want them, they’re yours. And you wouldn’t have to cover the show, or anything, since you’ll probably be too busy entertaining to write.
Just lemme know.
—G
9/20, 2:17 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: re: this weekend
Yeah, sorry about the disappearing act. I got really tired all of a sudden and just had to split. Was up late the night before studying and I guess it caught up to me.
Anyway, that’s really cool of you about the tix. I’d love to take them—if you’re sure it’s okay. And I can write it up, no worries. I know you’re always looking to fill the page and stuff.
Thanks again. You rock.
—xx
9/20, 2:44 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: re: re: this weekend
No big, babe. Glad to hook you up.
Ain’t that what friends are for?
;)
9/21, 7:22 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected], [email protected]
re: Just call me Suzie Samaritan
There I was this afternoon, walking back uphill after women’s history. I was stopped at a street corner when a cute little silver VW Jetta pulled up, heavy bass pumping from the windows, which were open. I stepped back to let the car continue on, but it didn’t move. I assumed the driver was letting me cross, so I set forth, but as I passed in front of the car, I could see that the driver was in fact a boy about my age, alone. He was struggling with a map and looking confused.
Hey, now, I thought. Looks like Target #17 to me.
I leaned against the driver’s side door, offering up a wide grin. “Can I help you find your way?” I asked, ever the friendly neighbor.
The boy looked up at me quizzically, but smiled when he realized what I was saying.
Then he shoved the map at me and began to shoot rapid-fire questions at me successively.
Not in English.
Not in Spanish.
Not in French.
Which basically covered it, as far as languages that I spoke, understood or, at the very least, recognized.
I rearranged my features in what I hoped was a gesture of contrition. I flashed my eyes at him: So sorry, my mistake. Judging from his own expression of supreme irritation, he got the picture.
Slowly but surely, I backed away from the car, waving my wayward tourist onward.
—xx
When I got home from classes the next evening, I could hear Madonna blaring through the closed door to my dorm room. This was a good sign. I knew that bids were being given out that day, and if Charlie was rocking The Immaculate Collection, it meant that she’d gotten one from Tri-Delt.
I pushed the door open. “I take it we’ve got good news?” I asked, shouting to be heard above the music.
Charlie shrieked and ran at me. She picked me up and twirled me around. “You bet!” she shouted, giggling. “I got my bid! I’m going to be a Tri-Delt!”
“That’s awesome,” I gushed. “I guess all those nights of wearing ice-cream toppings to bed really paid off.”
She pinched me. “Don’t be jealous. It could have been you.”
I nodded. “You’re ri
ght. But something tells me you’re going to pledge hard enough for the both of us. Let me see your bid.”
She slid under her bed and pulled out a shoe box. “Here it is. I started a collection for my sorority scrapbook. I wanted to have a record of the whole entire experience.” She smiled dreamily.
Charlie showed me her bid and then told me in more detail about the pledge process. It seemed to involve debasing oneself and forgoing basic human comforts like food and sleep over the course of a month to prove loyalty to the sisterhood. But she was incredibly eager and excited, and I was happy for her.
“Hey—,” I said, after the group hugs had subsided. “I have some news of my own. And actually it sort of involves you. Or rather, affects you.”
“Share!” she commanded, sitting upright on her bed and facing me.
“Drew is coming this weekend.”
“Oh, my god!” she shrieked. “This is huge! Are you nervous?”
I nodded. “Totally. I’ve sort of not been thinking about it this week, but yeah. He swears he’s just here as a friend, but it’s gonna be weird, for sure.”
She looked at me suspiciously. “Are you sure you want him here just as a friend?”
“I’m not sure of anything,” I admitted. “Even with this ‘target practice’—I’m getting better at approaching guys, and all, but I’m still totally striking out with the follow-through.”
“No dates?” she asked sympathetically.
“Not a one. Not unless you count the delivery guy from Mexicali Rose. And he was, like, forty. Not so much my type.”
“And that guy from the paper who asked you to the basketball game,” Charlie pointed out helpfully.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering. “It just goes to show how excited I was about that. Not. Anyway: Drew. It should be interesting.”
“Just go with the flow,” Charlie advised.
“That’s the plan,” I agreed. “I don’t really see a better way to handle it.”
“Do you want me to crash in Shelley’s room while he’s here?” she offered.
“Yes. No. I have no idea,” I said miserably.
Charlie leaned over and hugged me. “That’s okay. We can just play it by ear. If you need moral support or some sort of buffer, I’ll stay. If you need QT with your ex-honey, I’ll go. Either way.”
“You’re the best, Charlie,” I said, meaning it. “I promise I won’t make fun of your sorority scrapbook ever again.”
“But you didn’t make fun of it,” she protested.
“In my head I did, a little,” I said guiltily. “Sorry.”
She giggled. “I don’t care. Mock all you want. I’m going to be a Tri-Delt!” She jumped up to her feet again and got her groove back on with Madonna.
There was a knock at the door, but Charlie was too immersed in a newly patented butt-shimmy to pay it any mind.
“Don’t worry about that, I’ll just answer the door myself,” I said teasingly. Charlie pretended not to hear me.
I opened the door to find myself face-to-face with a giant bouquet of balloons. I jumped backward.
“CONGRATULATIONS!” the balloons shouted at me.
I turned to Charlie. “I think the talking balloons must be for you,” I said.
“Goody!” she exclaimed, leaping daintily across the room. “Bring ’em on!”
A shiny-faced boy of the freshman variety crossed our threshold and dropped to one knee. “The sisters of Delta Delta Delta are thrilled that you have decided to accept their pledge bid,” he said ceremoniously, extending the balloons.
“This is so exciting!” Charlie squealed, grabbing the balloons out of his hand and incorporating them into her dance routine.
Between the balloons that ate Boston, the blaring music, and the boy who looked like he might actually combust of nervousness, I was starting to feel a little bit claustrophobic. I took my own personal soul train out into the hallway for some air.
9/22, 6:32 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: Optimism in the face of rejection?
Well, Ells, Charlie got her pledge bid this afternoon—and also the most gi-normous bouquet of balloons I’ve ever seen, delivered via Freaked-out Frosh. When I stepped outside to give him some space, I stepped into Target #18. Unlike his Freaked-out Frosh Friend, however, though, this dude didn’t seem nervous. Only irritated.
“Hey!” I said. “Are you part of the balloon squad?”
He shot me a look of pure death. “No, that’s my buddy’s gig. I just promised him I’d take him around because I’m the one with wheels.”
“You’re a good man,” I said brightly. “The world needs more of your generosity.”
Scowl-boy wasn’t biting. “Whatever,” he said, fiddling with his car keys and steadfastly refusing to meet my gaze.
“Look, you know, you don’t have to hang out in the hall” I said, strangely compelled to press on. “Target practice” had that effect on me. “I mean, it’s pretty crowded in there—Madonna herself takes up at least ninety percent of the square footage—but we can squeeze. The more, the merrier!”
He sighed heavily. “Just tell Cal I’m gonna wait in the car,” he grumbled, pivoting and making tracks down the hallway.
“I sure will!” I said, feeling foolish.
I mean, what is the deal, anyway? Just when I think that I may have managed to grasp the slightest purchase on dealing with the opposite sex, someone like scowl-boy comes along and makes me feel the size of a jelly bean. And infinitely less appealing than a jelly bean, as well.
Maybe I shouldn’t even bother with this game. It hasn’t been all that much fun.
Whatever. What do I care? I have other things to worry about. Drew is coming tomorrow, after all. And with eighteen targets down, the game is going to have to be put on hold for the weekend. It’s the only way, I figure, to preserve what little sanity I have left.
—xx
Eight
South Station was an assault on each of my senses: The stench of exhaust fumes mixed with the sharply sweet scent of baked goods from chain cafés, and thick, fuzzy announcements blared dully over the blurred roar of the commuters wandering through the terminal. I felt panicky and overwhelmed by it all.
Of course, the anticipation of seeing Drew might well have been the primary cause of my anxiety. I hadn’t laid eyes on him since the night before he left for Columbia. That had been at least four weeks ago. Since we’d started dating, we’d never gone a whole month without seeing each other. Not even during summers. If one of us traveled, we were generally back within the month. Or if one of us was away working, the other visited on weekends. In short, we’d been permanent fixtures in each others lives over the last three years. But then, that was when we’d been dating. Everything was different now.
And what about Drew? Would he be different? Taller? Thinner? Would he have changed his hair? I really hoped not. I always liked his clean-cut, preppy look. Drew had always been steady. Reliable. But maybe in college he’d become some kind of crazed party animal. Maybe he’d been dating. It was hard for me to imagine, but then again, I’m sure Drew never imagined me engaged in anything like “target practice.” So it was probably best not to make any assumptions. Just “go with the flow,” as Charlie had suggested.
I wasn’t feeling very flow-y.
I took a deep breath and hitched up my jeans. I was wearing my expensive pair, and I’d taken the time to do my hair wavy, the way Drew liked it. I had no idea what to expect when he came off the bus, but I wanted him to like what he saw. We had broken up on good terms; I had no clue as to what that would mean for our weekend together.
I glanced at my watch. He was three minutes late. Three minutes, and I was starting to unravel. Get a grip, Claudia, I thought, closing my eyes for a moment and forcing myself to take deep, steady breaths.
“Am I interrupting a Zen moment?”
My eyes flew open, and sure enough, there he
was. “Drew!” I shrieked, enveloping him in a huge bear hug.
“Hey, Bee,” he whispered, burying his face in my hair. I didn’t care how much time had passed; nothing at all had changed. Holding Drew, it felt as though we were standing on his front porch the night before he left for school. I clung to him, nostalgia washing over me in powerful waves.
After a moment, Drew stepped back. “I hate to break this up, but I think we have to get out of here, like now. That weird guy behind the condiments rack’s been eyeing my backpack, and I just don’t like the looks of him.”
I laughed. “Good call.”
He reached out and put his hands on my shoulders. “You do look great, Claud. Really fabulous.”
“Thanks,” I said shyly. “You too.” And he did: tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. Just like his normal self, his sandy brown hair scruffy and his blue eyes full of warmth. And yet, the time apart made him appear to me to be his best self, slightly more mature in an indefinable way. I couldn’t pinpoint it or define how I was feeling. This was Drew, the person who understood me fully, the person with whom I was wholly comfortable, and wholly myself. So seeing him was like slipping into my favorite pair of pajamas: welcoming, comfortable. I wanted to wrap him around me for the duration of the weekend, to drown in his familiar presence.
But he wasn’t my boyfriend anymore—I had to remind myself of that. And that basic truth reset the playing field and made me feel insecure.
He must have felt it, too, because suddenly his hands were dangling awkwardly at his sides. “Well, which way to the T?” he asked, overcompensating for the moment with exaggerated enthusiasm.
I gestured. “It’s an easy ride. We’re right off the Red line.”
Drew grabbed his bag and followed me down the corridor.
Seeing Drew in the bus station was the emotional equivalent of a ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl: exhilarating, yes, but completely discombobulating, too. And yet, it took only a moment for us to hug hello, and suddenly it was just like old times.