Fishbowl. Sarah Mlynowski

ex.”

      Allie giggles.

      “I don’t fuck my exes,” Jodine says, emphasizing the word fuck, and Allie giggles again.

      Allie giggles anytime someone says “fuck.”

      Allie giggles anytime someone speaks.

      “Bet you ten bucks you do,” I say.

      Giggle, giggle.

      “You’re on.”

      I’m on a mission here to remove the pole that is shoved all the way up Jodine’s ass. Maybe getting laid will help her.

      “How will we know if you’re having sex?” Allie asks.

      Jodine looks at her sideways. “Isn’t my word good enough? Do you want to see the videotape?”

      “Oh, you do that, too?” I ask.

      Jodine ignores me. “Why do you have to know, exactly?” she asks Allie.

      “I meant, so I don’t knock and try to come in. We need a warning system.”

      “First of all, I always make the guy take his shoes off at the front door. Who knows where his feet have been? Consequently, if you see a pair of men’s shoes on the front floor mat, don’t come in. But you realize all this planning is purely academic. I repeat, I do not have sex with my exes.”

      “But how will I know if the shoes belong to a guy of yours or Em’s?”

      “I doubt it would be a problem for tonight. You two are going out after lunch, right? And then later to a movie or something? So you’ll know if one of you decides to slip away and bring home a guy of your own. Second, this may shock you, but my long-term plan is to develop a monogamous relationship so that in the future, you’ll both be able to identify a pair of shoes with a corresponding man.”

      “That’s not my long-term plan,” I comment. “I like the first scenario better. The part about sneaking off with a guy of my own.”

      “Boys do have more than one pair of shoes,” Allie says, obviously still concerned about the logistics behind the plan. “This could get complicated.”

      “I’ll tie a red ribbon around my doorknob or something,” Jodine offers.

      I think about this for a minute. “Who has red ribbons? Use a scrunchie. We all have scrunchies, right?”

      I know Jodine has one. She wears it in her hair every day. I’ve only seen her hair down once.

      So we agree. Scrunchies on doorknobs equals don’t knock.

      A waitress appears at our table. “Can I get a strawberry daiquiri?” I ask.

      “Virgin?” Allie asks.

      “No, you?” I say, and laugh.

      Allie turns bright red and mumbles something to herself. Uh-oh. She’s had sex, right? She can’t be a virgin. Can she?

      “I’d like a Diet Coke,” Jodine says.

      Allie stops mumbling to herself. “Do you have any juice?”

      “Orange okay?”

      “Fab. I’ll have a large, please.”

      When the waitress delivers our fajitas and drinks simultaneously, I laugh at Allie’s huge glass of orange pulp. “What is it with you and juice? Don’t you ever have soft drinks?”

      “No. Pop burns my mouth,” she explains, spreading at least a gallon of sour cream over the tortilla. Next, she carefully places the pieces of chicken on the cream, lays out another layer of sour cream, then the salsa, then the cheese, then another large glob of cream. Her meal looks like strawberry pudding. Jodine makes her fajita with a thin film of salsa, a few strategically placed pieces of chicken and a pound of lettuce. I try to keep the ingredients in proportion.

      “What does that mean, soft drinks burn your mouth?” Jodine asks. “They’re supposed to be cold. You do know that, right?”

      Allie giggles. “Yes, I know.”

      I would have been offended by Jodine’s comment, but Allie doesn’t seem to care when Jodine talks to her like she’s missing a few keys on her keyboard.

      “I don’t like the bubbles,” Allie says. “They burn.”

      Jodine rolls her eyes. “You’re not supposed to gargle the pop,” she says. “You sip and swallow.”

      “Sounds masochistic.” Giggle, giggle.

      “You get used to it. You stop noticing the bubbles.”

      “What about the first time you tried it?”

      “The first time I tried pop? I can’t recall the first time I tried pop, Allie.” She takes a small bite out of her fajita. She eats everything in small bites. Eating takes her hours. “It’s like riding a bike,” she says. “Once you do it, it becomes habit.”

      “I don’t know how to ride a bike.”

      Both Jodine’s and my jaws drop in shock. “Unbelievable,” Jodine says.

      “I don’t, really,” Allie repeats.

      Jodine takes another sip of her Diet Coke. “Didn’t your father run behind you, pretending to hold the back of your seat, telling you he would never let go and then let go?”

      My father never did that. He bought me a two-thousand-dollar bike and told me to figure it out. Bastard.

      “My father tried to teach me, but I was afraid to take off the training wheels.”

      Jodine looks at Allie with disbelief. “That’s absurd. I’ll teach you how to ride.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “What uh-huh?”

      “Everyone says they’re going to teach me when I tell them I don’t know how, but no one ever does.”

      “Do you ever ask them about it again?”

      “No.”

      “Then don’t expect them to teach you. Your bike-riding skills aren’t everyone’s top priority. If you want me to teach you, then ask me. Biking is great exercise.”

      Not exactly a selling point for Allie. While she seems to have an abundance of energy, she prefers to spend her free time lying in bed reading or watching TV. “Have you ever actually tried Coke?” I ask.

      “I don’t think so.”

      Impossible! “You’ve never tried Coke? What do you drink with your Jack Daniel’s? What do you have at barbecues?”

      Allie stares at me blankly. “Uh, orange juice?”

      “If there is no orange juice?”

      She appears deep in thought. “Sometimes I pick an orange soda and wait for it to get flat. Then it tastes like that orange drink at McDonald’s. They call it a drink but it has no bubbles, did you know? I used to order the small orange juice cartons, but they cost a fortune and they’re not always included in the trio meals. Getting orange juice at movie theaters used to be a problem, too, but ever since the whole Snapple craze, they almost always sell juice, any flavor.”

      Apparently an entire carbonated-free world exists that I am unaware of. Jodine meets my gaze across the table and we both start laughing. “Try it,” she says, pushing her glass toward Allie.

      “Why? I know I won’t like it.”

      “Just try it. I want to see.”

      “See what?”

      I reach over and take a sip from Jodine’s glass. “All the cool kids are doing it,” I say.

      “Fine, I’ll try if it’ll amuse you. But, Jodine, you have to try