by Brea Brown
As far as I can tell, Jude’s not affected at all by the physical contact. He doesn’t even glance at me. He’s too focused on the computer screen in front of us. It’s the size of a giant flat-panel TV and radiating enough heat to make it feel like it’s toasting my already-blazing face.
“Are you ready for this?” Marvin asks dramatically.
My vocal cords wouldn’t be able to work right now if I wanted them to.
Jude says, “Bring it,” in an American accent scarily similar to the graphic artist’s.
While I’m openly staring at Jude, Marvin presses the spacebar on his keyboard, starting the animation. I turn my attention to the screen. The video is designed to look like it’s from the viewer’s vantage point. We “walk” through a set of glass double doors and “look” to our right, through a huge wall of curved windows that look out onto a manicured garden. We look left, where the S-curved wall runs parallel to the windows. Paintings appear to hang suspended from the ceiling, supported by gossamer wires. Sculptures and statues rest on glass pedestals of varying heights, so it looks as if they’re also floating in midair. We face forward again and begin to move. It feels like we’re on a giant conveyor belt. Then the picture flickers and goes to black.
“Brilliant,” Jude breathes.
“A whole lot better than your framed poster on an easel, dude,” Marvin brags. “I still have a lot of work to do, but it’ll be ready by Monday night’s meeting.”
The two of them discuss their other ideas for a few minutes; then Marvin turns around and flicks on a dim light, looking me up and down. I’m suddenly self-conscious in my little plaid shorts and V-necked t-shirt. I might as well be naked. “We’re still on for next weekend, right?”
“Uh, sure. A deal’s a deal.” What I meant to sound cheerful actually comes out a little choked.
“You want me to pick you up?” he asks eagerly.
“Oh, uh, you don’t have to do that,” I fumble. “I mean, let’s just meet there. I’ll give you your ticket on Friday so you don’t have to wait on me. I might be a little late.” I’m making it up as I go along, hoping he won’t press the issue. The last thing I need is for him to know where I live.
“Right on. But not too late, right? I mean, you’ll get there before the first pitch?”
“Sure thing. Absolutely. I mean, I’ll try. It’s going to be close.”
Jude pipes up, “Just tell him already.”
I laugh nervously and blush, “What are you talking about?” I glance anxiously at Marvin. “It’s cool. I’ll see you there.”
“Tell me what?”
“Nothing!” I whisper conspiratorially at Marvin, “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”
“If you don’t tell him, I will,” Jude insists.
What is he doing? It’s so hot in here! “I don’t need to tell him anything,” I insist, letting out another nervous, barking laugh and fanning myself. To Marvin, I say disbelievingly, “What the fu—?”
“Here’s the deal, Marv. Can I call you Marv?”
“No.”
“Right. The thing is, Libby doesn’t—”
“Jude!” I mean, the guy is gross, but it’s just one afternoon, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
“No, the bloke deserves to know why you’re going to be late. It’s nothing to be ashamed at.”
I stand there with my mouth hanging open. Then I look down at my sneaker-clad feet as if I’m embarrassed, but it’s really to hide my smile.
Jude explains, “Libby doesn’t have a proper sofa. And I told her I’d help her select a new one. But the earliest we can go is next Sunday. And the shops open later on Sunday, you see? So, we’re going to try to squeeze in our shopping before the game.”
“Why can’t you do it the weekend after?” Marvin asks, obviously disgusted at the thought of something impinging on his “date” with me.
Jude shakes his head solemnly. “Oh, it’s dire.”
“Do it Saturday, then.”
“No can do, Marv—in. Like I said, we’ve been over it a hundred times, and Sunday’s the only day we can synchronize our schedules.” He puts a hand on Marvin’s shoulder, one man to another. “You understand, I’m sure.”
“Not really.”
“Well, we’ll be there as soon as we can, hopefully before the first pitch. That’s when the guy on the hill of dirt throws the ball at the bloke with the bat, right?” he consults me.
“Yeah,” I say, picking up the thread. “Good job.” To Marvin, I say, “I’m trying to teach Jude about baseball.”
“I’m a bit thick, though, aren’t I?”
“Totally,” I agree.
“I keep getting baseball confused with cricket—”
“Wait a second! He’s gonna be there, too?” Marvin stands up, dwarfing me and making even Jude look fairly short. There are sweat stains under his armpits, right at my eye level. I breathe through my mouth, just in case.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Jude asks genially. “I figured it’d be okay, since it’s just an outing amongst friends. Right?” He chuckles and says, “It’s not as if it’s a date, after all. Am I right?” He grins and nudges me, then Marvin as if the mere suggestion of it being a date is hilarious.
Marvin backs down. “Well, not really, no. I guess you’re right.” He looks fleetingly at me.
I smile what I hope is winningly. “I figured you’d appreciate having another guy there to share a beer with,” I improvise, again trying to prevent hurting Marvin’s feelings. Pointedly I say, “Jude doesn’t really have any friends.” And though it pains me to say it, I swallow my pride and add, “Plus, I’m sure you’ll do a much better job of explaining the game to Jude. I kind of get distracted by the players’ butts sometimes.”
“Anyway…” Jude grabs my arm and pulls me out of Marvin’s armpits. “Give me a ring tomorrow, if you want. I’ll buy you a pint or something. I really appreciate this. You’re a good bloke.”
It isn’t until we’re standing at the elevators that he starts laughing. “Thanks for the ‘Jude doesn’t have any friends’ comment. Nice.”
“You deserved it. The ‘players’ butts’ thing was too much, wasn’t it?” I ask self-consciously.
He shakes his head. “Perhaps. But it was rather amusing to hear you say it.”
We step into the compartment, and he pushes the button for the parking garage. I rest against the wall. “When did you decide to cook up that story?”
He shrugs. “I felt so badly for you! He was practically licking his lips at you whilst he sat there making his own gravy in that hot, close room. And you were trying so hard to be nice, since he’s doing us such a huge favor…”
“You thought of that on the spot? The couch shopping, the baseball game, all of it?”
“Yeah. What do you think I do? Sit around all day thinking of ways to rescue you?”
I blush… again. “No!”
The elevator doors open. I step out and walk toward the place where I parked my car, but I stop short. He stops at the same time, pulling out his phone and gesturing exasperatedly.
“Oh, bollocks. They still haven’t come to get my sodding car.”
But I’m barely hearing him. I’m too busy looking at the empty parking space where my car was parked less than an hour ago. “Shit!”
He looks up. “What’s the matter?
“Somebody stole my car!” I cry, feeling sick to my stomach. I walk to the now-empty spot. “It was right here!” I throw my hands up and put them on my head. Ouch. I’m getting a bruise where I knocked heads with him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” he utters sympathetically. “Are you sure?”
When I nod, he says, “Well, I’d offer you a ride, but...” He motions to his own car, sitting two rows over. “I don’t think we’ll get very far in mine. It was coughing a fair bit on my way here.” He joins me in the parking space, careful not to step in the huge puddle of oil left by the thousands of cars that have temporarily resided
here over the years. “I suppose you should call the police, right? I’m going to call the car club and ask them what’s taking so long for them to come get mine.”
“I can’t believe this,” I mutter, trying to decide whether to call information for the nearest police station or to just dial 911.
My mind’s racing. What am I going to do without my car? Ride the El? The bus? Yuck! Following a train or bus schedule is a real pain in the butt. I like going where I want to go, directly, non-stop. By myself. Riding along with strangers, especially the weird ones, breathing my air, invading my space, makes me feel claustrophobic.
“No, you haven’t. I’m looking straight at it right now. … Madame, I think I know what my own bloody car looks like…. What? … No, I’m not hurt! I’m English; that’s how I express displeasure…. It’s a bit shocking, actually, that you think you have my car but don’t.” He gives me a look that says, Can you believe this chick? (or probably more like bird, knowing him).
She says something, to which he replies, “Well, then whose car did you pick up? Because it wasn’t mine. I’m positive!”
Hope shines through my despair. “Ooh! Maybe they took my car by mistake!” I say loudly to him.
He shakes his head dismissively at first but then seems to think better of it. “Hang on, Miss…. Yes, I know I’m a rude foreigner. Hold that thought. Do you know the number plate of the car you claim to have towed?” He waits while she looks up the information.
I tell him mine: “762-PLO.”
His eyes widen, and he nods at me. I hop joyously.
“I think I know what happened,” he tells the customer service rep. After he explains the mix-up and goes back to being a “rude foreigner,” chastising the car club for not being more detail-oriented, he hangs up. “They’re returning your car and taking mine. Supposedly. I don’t know why we didn’t think of that to begin with.”
“Well, you expect them to check license plate numbers before towing off a car, no matter how sure they think they are that they have the right one.”
“True.”
I walk over to a low concrete wall and sit down to wait for my car to be delivered. After offering to wait with me, he joins me. While we sit shoulder to shoulder, I think about next weekend’s baseball game with him and Marvin. I’m trying to picture the three of us in the bleachers, behind the ivy-covered wall. In my head, I’m sitting between the two of them. Wedged, more like. Marvin’s dripping relish and mustard from his hot dog onto my head.
“P-L-O?”
“Huh?” I ask thickly.
“Your number plate. That’s funny. Easy to remember, but still.”
“What’s yours?” I ask, suddenly feeling irrationally defensive on behalf of a stupid sheet of metal. I can’t see his plate from the angle at which we’re sitting to the car.
He closes one eye as he thinks about it. “Uh, let’s see. 925-CIA. So, you’re in a fair bit of trouble.”
“Whatever. You’re a dork.” I nudge him with my shoulder to let him know I’m kidding.
His laugh trails off with an “Aaah.” Then he says, “So…”
“Soooo,” I mimic, dragging it out, making it sound like “sue.”
“Whilst we’re waiting…”
“Yes?” I affect a British accent and flutter my eyelashes ‘whilst’ I look down my nose at him.
He laughs, but the nervousness is back. “Uh… huh-huh. You looked a bit like my first form teacher just then.”
“Yeesh. Sorry.”
“No, no. She was totty.” At my questioning look, he assures me, “That’s a good thing.” He blushes. “I digress. Uh… what I was going to say was… I know it’s short notice, but… tonight, I—” He stops and laughs. “I’m sorry. Your face… you look terrified suddenly. Are you okay?”
With massive effort, I manage to smile and duck my head, in case the smile came out looking more like a grimace. “Sorry. I’m a little afraid of what you’re about to say.”
“Right.” He pauses. “Why?”
I honestly don’t know, so what am I supposed to tell him? I simply shake my head, horrified that I suddenly feel like crying. I’m incredibly frustrated by my inability to have a normal interaction with a man. I keep my head down and concentrate on keeping my voice steady as I say, “You’re just being so serious all of a sudden. It’s freaking me out.”
“Oh. Right. Well, I’ll try to be less serious, I suppose.” He takes a deep breath but doesn’t say anything until, “Now I’m frightened of why you may be frightened.”
Confident that there’s no evidence of my earlier rogue emotions, I look up at him and try to smile encouragingly. “No, don’t be. I’m sorry. I’m weird. Just ignore me.”
Shooting me a look that communicates he’s unsure of my sanity, he nevertheless says, “Well, what I’ve been trying to say for about an age is… I have tickets to a concert tonight. A good one. And I was wondering…”
“Who is it?” I ask bluntly, trying to keep it light.
“Come again? Oh. Right. Snow Patrol. I bought the tickets yonks ago.”
“Who were you originally going to take?”
He blushes. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”
Coolly, I confirm, “You bought two tickets to a concert that’s tonight, and you’re just now getting around to asking someone?”
Without answering me, he eagerly asks, “Do you like them? Because if you don’t want to go, I’ll completely understand. I waited too long to ask you, perhaps.”
Part of me wants to pretend I might have to cancel some other plans to go with him, but I dislike playing those kinds of games. And I do like the band. Plus who am I kidding? The only thing I have planned is daydreaming about Fantasy Jude and watching Sandberg chase a laser pointer on the floor.
Of course, I won’t be able to count this as a date in my assignment for Dr. Marsh. Dr. Marsh can’t know about this at all. That almost makes it more attractive.
He takes my silence as hesitation based on disinterest. “Never mind.” He waves his hand dismissively. “You’re right. It’s too short notice. I’ve simply been so busy, I almost forgot about them. And I thought I’d surely have someone to take by now, be it a friend or… someone else.”
“Oh, so I’m a last resort?” I say lightly. “You just don’t have anyone else to go with you?”
He blushes furiously. “Oh, no, that’s not it at all. Believe me!” Looking down at his feet, he despairs. “I’ve made a real arse of myself. I’m sorry.”
I can’t stand to watch his torture any more. “Jude, it’s okay. I was kidding. It actually sounds really fun.”
His shoulders relax, but he still avoids my eyes. “Are you sure you don’t have something else going?”
“No, I’m free,” I tell him. “My social calendar is wide open.”
He smiles and squints over at me. “Yeah. Same here.”
I stare at his mouth as if it’s made of metal and my eyes are magnets. I can’t stop wondering what it would be like if he leaned over and kissed me. It would happen… in a movie. And it would be mind-blowing. The parking garage would suddenly smell like freesias, not hot garbage. Music would play (something heavy on the violins). And when we finally pulled apart, he would say something romantic, something along the lines of, “I’ve been waiting so long for someone like you,” or I’d even settle for something a little more gauche, like, “You’re an excellent kisser.” And neither one of us would be worried about feeling uncomfortable around each other at work.
Already, just because I’m staring at him, I’m thinking about how awkward I’m starting to feel around him. But I can’t stop staring. And he’s staring back. Of course, I probably have a big zit or a booger hanging from my nose. But at least he’s looking at my face and not some region slightly lower than my neck, where guys’ gazes usually come to rest.
Our attentions are pulled away from each other by the tow truck pulling into the garage, my car dangling from the back of it.
“Fina
lly!” he exclaims, hopping to his feet. “So, I’ll see you tonight?”
We discuss the details, and I pretend I’ve gone to hundreds of concerts with guys before, but the truth is, I’m anxious to get home so I can do some research on the Internet about where we’re going, where Jude lives, and how long it’s going to take to get from A to B to C.
When my car is free, I offer him a ride home (it would really help my nerves to know before tonight where I’m going), but he says he has a few things to do before heading home (I try not to think too much about what that means), and that it’d be easier for him to walk or take the bus.
So I get in my car, slamming the door and leaning down to put the keys in the ignition. Ryno bobbles away on the dashboard. Except it looks like he’s shaking his head disapprovingly. If it was a Shawon Dunston bobblehead, it’d look remarkably like Dr. Marsh.
9
Even after an extra session of self-affirmation with the mirror, I still feel pretty shaky about my evening with Jude. I’ve mapped my routes, and they’re fairly easy, so I won’t be distracted and stressed out about the driving part, anyway. Just everything else. Why did I agree to do this? There’s a Myth Busters marathon on tonight. I could have just stayed home with Sandberg and watched that. But no. I had to get all self-confident and accept the invitation of the hottest guy to ever give me a second glance.
Invitation to what? That’s probably the detail that’s bothering me the most. I mean, is this a date? Probably not, considering he asked me on a whim when he didn’t have anyone else to ask. So, it’s a platonic thing. Okay. Well, that’s not much comfort, since I don’t have friends, either. What does one wear? How does one act? What are we going to talk about in the car or in the line as we wait to get in? Will we go somewhere else after the show? Is it okay for me to sing along with the songs, or is that dorky? At least we won’t have to talk much during the show, since it’ll be loud. I at least know that much about rock concerts.
