Milkrun. Sarah Mlynowski

sprint to the ladies’ room and run into an empty stall. I carefully place a paper toilet cover on the seat. I’m not Sam, but I’m not crazy.

      And then just when I’m minding my own business…swoosh.

      What is wrong with these automatic bathrooms? Why do they flush while I’m still using them? How can I be a Bond girl when I can’t even figure out how to work a toilet?

      I sneak back into the theater (“Hey, sit down!” “Get out of the way!” “What’s the matter with you?”) and despite the temptation, I don’t ask the blonde what I missed. After all, she might think I want to be friends with her, which probably wouldn’t be so bad since she probably can get any guy she wants and therefore has great castoffs. Forget that; I don’t want her to think I’m friendless as well as annoying—or, God forbid, desperate.

      When the credits start to role, I leap up to make a quick exit to beat the refill line. Granted, I barely even ate a quarter of it. But I paid for a refill and dammit, I’m going to get it.

      “Jackie?”

      I turn to the seat next to me and see Andrew Mackenzie’s lightly freckled arm curled around the blonde.

      I am never sitting by myself at a movie ever again.

      The blonde is checking me out, most likely thinking, So this is what a person who has no friends looks like.

      “Hey! Andrew. I know it looks like I’m here by myself, but I’m not. I’m here with friends. Really. But they’re sitting in the front row, and it was hurting my neck…” They both stare at me, expressionless.

      Andrew is going to tell Jeremy I went to see a movie by myself on a Saturday night. I might as well just throw myself in front of Marc’s two-door Civic.

      “How are you?” he asks. Smiling, he motions for me to exit into the aisle.

      “No, really. I’m not here by myself.” I’m not exiting anything until Marc and Sam walk by so I can prove that I am not here alone.

      “Jackie, this is Jessica. Jessica, Jackie.” I shake her perfectly French-manicured hand. She looks like a Jessica. She looks like how I used to picture Jessica Wakefield, the Sweet Valley Twin.

      Who is this Jessica? And why didn’t he mention a girlfriend? Not that I gave him much of an opportunity at Orgasm to talk about himself.

      Sam and Marc are already near the doors. Damn. They went around the other side.

      “Nice to see you, and nice to meet you. I have to go,” I say, choosing not to prolong the misery. I hurry out of the theater.

      At least there’s no line at the popcorn counter.

      No line because it’s closed. What a rip-off. This sucks. I’m the worst Bond girl ever.

      “I’ll get the car, girls,” Marc says.

      “Oh, you’re so sweet, Marc.”

      “That’s Bear. Biggy Bear.”

      Never mind. I don’t want to be a Bond girl, anyway. I hate silver stretch pants.

      

      No message. Not that I’m expecting one, but you never know. He wouldn’t call on a Saturday night. If he does, it would mean that he thinks I’m home, meaning he thinks I have nothing better to do but stay and wait for his call. And why would he be home on a Saturday night, anyway?

      Thank God he didn’t call. I don’t go out with losers.

      I wash up. The green mold around the drain is starting to scare me. I really have to clean the bathroom. Where are the supplies? Why did Sam take them away? Tomorrow for sure I’ll do it. I’ll even set the alarm. For nine. Okay, nine-thirty. Ten.

      

      Brrring… It’s 9:57. Secretly, 9:48. I still have three more minutes. I am not answering. Go away, Dad. I unplug the phone and turn off the alarm.

      Shit. It’s 12:40. I’ve got to clean the bathroom. But wait, I have a message. It wasn’t Dad who called; the caller ID says Anonymous. What inconsiderate fool calls at 9:57 on a Sunday morning?

      “Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger calling. My number is 555-2854. Call me back when you get a chance. Call me back when you get a chance.”

      5

      Run Your Fingers Through Your Own Damn Hair

      YAY! HE CALLED. YAY! YAY! YAY! Thank goodness I didn’t pick up when I was asleep. I might have said something awful. I might have told him how foxy he was. Why did he call so early? He must really like me. I mean really like me. He thought of me as soon as he woke up. Assuming he wakes up at around 9:30, which is pretty probable considering that’s a usual wake-up time. Or maybe he woke up at eight, thought about me, decided to go for a run to diffuse the energy building up in his loins, and when he couldn’t take it any longer, called me.

      Omigod. What if he wants to go out tonight? Or what if he wants to go out today? What if as soon as I call him back he asks me if he can come by and pick me up for lunch, and what if once he comes inside he has to use the bathroom? I’ve got to clean it now and only after I clean it, can I call him back.

      I walk into the bathroom. Strands of my hair have woven themselves into a blanket on the tiled floor. “Sam!” I holler, close to tears. “Help! I don’t know how to do this!”

      In a jumping-jack five-second flash, in comes Sam, fully equipped with liquid cleaner, yellow gloves, and some sort of brush I’m pretty sure is supposed to go in the toilet but I’m not a hundred percent.

      “Why don’t I have one of those?” I ask.

      “They don’t come with the toilet, my dirty friend, they’re sold separately. Like batteries.”

      “Got it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

      “I’m not cleaning it for you. I’m just showing you how.”

      “Oh.”

      A half hour, a half bottle, and two rolls of paper towels later, I am satisfied.

      Now I can call him back. Maybe he’s planning an afternoon picnic with champagne and strawberries and cut-up tuna sandwiches. But first I have to make myself presentable. Right now, my frizzies are pointed in many obtuse angles. I feel like Pippi Longstocking. I shower, blow-dry my hair, and squeeze out what’s left of my concealer. And a little lipstick. I put on my bathrobe. I don’t want to get dressed if I don’t know where we’re going. Duh.

      I listen to his message again: “Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger calling. My number is 555-2854. Call me back when you get a chance. Call me back when you get a chance.”

      I’m not sure why he says that last part twice. His message reminds me of the ones Wendy’s grandmother used to leave when Wendy and I were at Penn together: “Vendy, this is your bubbe calling. Your bubbe called. Call your bubbe. Call your bubbe.”

      I write down his number. I dial.

      “Hi,” his sexy voice says. Omigod. I’m talking to Jonathan Gradinger.

      “Hi, Jonathan?”

      “This is Jonathan Gradinger. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. So leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Have a great day.” Again with the double statements. That should tell me a little something, but do I have foreshadowing on my mind? No, foreplay is more like it. At this point all I can think of is, omigod, I’m talking to Jonathan Gradinger’s answering machine! Forty-eight hours ago I never would have believed that I’d be leaving him a message. If some psychic had read my palm and told me that in a few days I’d have Jonathan Gradinger’s home phone number—so much more intimate than a cell phone—I would never have believed it.

      Wait a minute.