My Future Ex-Girlfriend

by Jake Gerhardt

  CHOLLIE

  The Mullaly house certainly looks different from the last time I was there. The snow is gone and the trees have leaves again. I try to concentrate on how pretty everything looks to keep from getting nervous.

  I ring the doorbell and after about ten seconds Mr. Mullaly answers. He’s wearing tan pants and a blue shirt and white shoes. (I only say this because last time I saw him he was chasing me down the street in his underwear.) He’s got a smile on his face.

  “Hi, I’m Chollie Muller,” I say, and stick out my hand. “Charlie Muller, I mean.”

  Mr. Mullaly gives me a good firm handshake but not like he wants to beat me up, which I take as a positive sign.

  “Chet Mullaly. Nice to meet you,” he says, and steps aside to let me enter.

  And it’s all clear sailing from there. I meet Mrs. Mullaly and give her the flowers. I don’t get a chance to take one to give to Miranda, but I think that’s okay. Miranda has a big smile as she watches her mother put the flowers in a vase with water.

  Then we all sit at the kitchen table and her parents drink coffee and Miranda and I have iced tea. We talk about school and NYC Nites and the baseball team. It’s all so easy, and the cool thing is that her parents seem really interested in what we have to say, even though I more or less just say “yup” and “sure.”

  After a while Mr. Mullaly is ready to fire up the grill and asks me if I want to come along with him.

  “Go ahead, Charlie,” Miranda says. “We’ll make the salad.”

  So off I go with Mr. Mullaly, and he’s got some kind of awesome setup in the backyard. The grill is huge and has a built-in refrigerator next to it and even a sink.

  “You like steak, Charlie?” Mr. Mullaly asks.

  “Oh, you bet I do. I love steak. There’s nothing like a good steak.”

  Mr. Mullaly opens the refrigerator and pulls out huge steaks covered in salt and pepper.

  “Let’s give the grill about fifteen minutes to get going, then we’ll toss these bad boys on,” he says as he admires the steaks.

  At first I think fifteen minutes is a long time to sit around and talk. And I really don’t have much to say.

  “You know what’s on these steaks, Charlie?”

  “No, sir,” I say.

  “Just a little bit of olive oil, salt, and pepper. That’s all a steak needs.”

  All I know about steaks is that I like to eat them. So I just nod and worry about what we’re going to talk about next.

  But did we ever have stuff to talk about! Mr. Mullaly must read the sports page from beginning to end every day. He knows everything you could ever know. And he’s actually been to a bunch of amazing sports events. Can you believe that he was at the Phillies game when they won the World Series in 2008 and the Linc when the Eagles won the NFC championship in 2004? I just couldn’t believe it and I kept right on asking him questions and he kept right on answering them. It’s awesome to have a guy like that to talk to.

  Mr. Mullaly does all this talking as he’s grilling the steaks. I can hear them sizzling and the smell is just incredible. There’s really nothing like it.

  “Charlie, I hope you like your steak medium rare. I just can’t do it any other way,” Mr. Mullaly says as he takes them off the grill.

  “That’s fine with me, sir,” I say as I watch zucchini grill right next to the steaks.

  I guess he notices me watching because he explains what he’s doing. “The zucchinis will pick up the flavor from the steak.”

  “What about those up there?” I ask.

  “These,” he says, pointing to the zucchinis on the top rack, “are for Miranda. She won’t eat them if they touch the meat.”

  I’m just about to ask why when Miranda and her mother come out of the kitchen with a big, giant salad that looks like it’s for a big, giant rabbit.

  When we sit down, I notice there are only three steaks, and even though they’re super big, I kind of feel disappointed, since I’m sure I’ll have to share mine with Miranda.

  Mr. Mullaly gives me a steak first.

  “That’s a pretty big steak. I can share mine with Miranda,” I say.

  All the Mullalys look at each other and smile.

  “Charlie,” Miranda says, “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “What, like an animal doctor?” I ask.

  “A vegetarian. I don’t eat meat.”

  I feel a little silly and smile. It’s sort of a shame that she’s missing this awesome steak. But she just takes a bunch of salad and the zucchinis that don’t have any flavor from the meat.

  “Looks good,” Mrs. Mullaly says.

  “Dig in,” Mr. Mullaly says.

  And that’s exactly what I do.

  It’s the best steak I’ve ever had in my life. It’s perfect.

  “Geez, Mr. Mullaly, this is perfect,” I say.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says.

  “I’m not kidding. You could sell this in a restaurant.”

  Nobody says anything for a little bit, so I use Billy’s advice and ask questions.

  “How long have you been a vegetarian, Miranda?” I ask.

  “Two years,” she says.

  Billy always says to follow up a question with another question. It’s the way to get conversations going, especially in a situation like a dinner party, which is sort of what tonight is.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Why what?” Miranda asks.

  “Why are you a vegetarian?”

  “There are a thousand reasons to be a vegetarian. But let me just give you a couple. One, I believe it’s inhumane to eat another living thing. Two, it’s terrible for the environment. Do you know that raising cattle contributes to global warming? The amount of food we grow to feed the cattle is enough to feed the world.”

  I don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Charlie, it’s fine. It’s a personal choice. And it’s great knowing that we’ll be raising money at NYC Nites for the Penn Valley Vegetarian Society.”

  I have to say I’m pretty relieved Miranda isn’t more upset about us eating steaks. I’ve seen her get pretty passionate at student council meetings. Still, just to be sure, I don’t say anything else about the awesomeness of the steak. It’s so good, I have to slow down so I’m not the first one finished. I only eat the rest of my steak when I look at Mr. Mullaly’s plate and see that it’s almost clean.

  Mr. Mullaly helps change the subject by asking who I think the Sixers should pick in the draft.

  And then it gets even better because after dinner Mrs. Mullaly says me and Mr. Mullaly could go into the living room and watch some of the basketball play-offs. So we’re sitting there flipping between the basketball and baseball games, and after a while (I have no idea how long, that’s how easy and natural the conversation is) Miranda brings us in a little cake with vanilla ice cream and supersweet strawberries.

  I gotta say I don’t think it can get any better than this.

  MIRANDA

  To: Erica

  From: Miranda

  Date: April 10, 2016 8:57 PM

  Subject: Dinner Disaster

  E,

  How was dinner with Sam?

  I’m in shock here. I really am. No joke: I’m typing this e-mail while Charlie is in the living room watching sports on TV with my dad. I mean, who’s his date anyway?!

  On the one hand, it’s great that they’re getting along. I was a bit worried since the last time my dad saw Charlie he was chasing him down the street, thinking Charlie smashed in his car window. But once Charlie and my dad got talking about sports, they didn’t stop. I guess I should be happy they hit it off? I just wish I would’ve had more time alone with Charlie. We never seem to get that at school because we’re both so busy. How is this harder than dating Tom, who went to a completely different school?

 
Anyway, I’m dying to hear about your dinner with Sam.

  xoxo

  M

  SAM

  I get to the Dickerson house a little bit late because after seeing my mother make such a big deal about Duke baking a stupid pie, I run off to the store before I go to Erica’s house for dinner. I’m kind of out of breath and starting to get really sweaty and slimy. And all because of Duke and Sharon. Did anyone see that pair coming?

  Mr. Dickerson answers the door the moment I ring the bell.

  “Hiya,” I say. “I’m Sam Dolan.”

  “Come in,” he says, staring at me. “Dolan, eh. Weren’t you involved in the snowball fight over at the Mullaly house?” he asks, sticking out his hand.

  “It was all a big misunderstanding,” I say.

  His meaty mitt practically swallows up my hand when we shake. It’s a huge hand. A hairy hand. A hand capable of breaking things. If Mr. Dickerson smashed a concrete block with his fist, no one would cheer. It would be expected. The concrete block wouldn’t stand a chance. Am I making myself clear? So between that hand and the way he snarls at me, I’m not feeling very confident about being in the Dickerson household.

  “Here’s some flowers,” I say, and hand them to him.

  Mr. Dickerson gives the flowers a dirty look, as if the flowers said something rude to him. It’s a little weird.

  Then Mr. Dickerson looks at me the way Lichtensteiner does, but even meaner. It’s how Lichtensteiner would look at me if I was going out with his daughter instead of simply going to his school.

  “They’re for Mrs. Dickerson,” I explain.

  “She’s allergic to flowers,” he says.

  “Every kind of flower?” I ask.

  I get the feeling Mr. Dickerson doesn’t like getting asked a lot of questions. Fortunately, at that moment, Mrs. Dickerson enters . . . and sneezes. Great.

  “Hello, Sam,” she says as we shake hands.

  We all stand there and we don’t say anything except for “God bless you” when Mrs. Dickerson sneezes again.

  Then Erica enters the living room.

  “Hey, Sam.”

  “Hi, Erica,” I say.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” Mrs. Dickerson says. “I hope you’re hungry, Sam.”

  “You bet,” I say.

  Erica catches me up on the latest Foxxy-Holly drama because now she’s Foxxy’s therapist. I try my best to sound interested, but I’m just so sick of hearing about Foxxy, I really am. And I’m sort of sweating a lot because I’m still nervous.

  Thankfully, there isn’t a long wait for dinner, since I got there a little late because I had to get the apparently poisonous flowers.

  We sit down and the food looks great.

  First thing I notice is that Foxxy is an idiot. Erica’s sisters are pretty, but they’re nothing compared to Erica. Rosie has blonde hair, and Jane has black hair, but there’s just something about Erica.

  And even better than sitting at the table with my gorgeous girlfriend is the salmon.

  I mean, I never had anything like this before. The salmon is perfect and there’s a sweet green sauce on top and the potatoes taste great and the asparagus is perfectly cooked.

  “Wow, Mrs. Dickerson, this is super awesome,” I say when I’m about halfway done. “My mom likes to overcook everything, but this is just right.”

  “Oh, but you should be complimenting my husband. I’m just the sous chef.”

  “Oh, geez, I’m sorry. This is awesome, Mr. Dickerson,” I say.

  “Glad you like it, Sam,” he says. “And Mr. Dickerson is my dad. Call me Eric.”

  “Okay.”

  “Would you like some more?” he asks.

  “Sure.” And after Mr. Dickerson gives me some more fish I say, “Thanks, Erica.”

  Mr. Dickerson, I get the feeling, does not like to be called Erica.

  “Eric, I mean,” I mumble. “Thanks, Eric.”

  I decide I shouldn’t do any more talking, so I go back to my fish and keep my head down.

  When I look up from my plate, everyone is staring at me.

  “So how’d you do it?” I break the silence.

  “Do you cook?” he asks.

  “Never. In my house my mom won’t even let me in the kitchen,” I say.

  Mr. Dickerson gives me a look like he’s offended, as if I’ve said something wrong. He gets up and starts clearing the table.

  “Thanks, Erica,” I say when he takes my plate. “I mean, Eric. Mr. Eric. Mr. Dickerson.”

  Mrs. Dickerson sneezes and Mr. Dickerson looks at the flowers.

  “That’s enough of these flowers,” he says. He grabs the vase in his giant hand and walks to the back door. He opens the door and tosses out the flowers. The dogs growl.

  When he returns, Mr. Dickerson looks me right in the eye. For some reason I think he wishes he could’ve thrown me out the back door with the flowers. He smiles and I think he’s smiling because he’s thinking of the sound of his dogs tearing my flesh from my bones.

  “Thank you, Mr. Eric and Mrs. Dickerson, for a wonderful dinner,” I say.

  “We’re glad you enjoyed it, Sam,” Mrs. Dickerson says.

  Mr. Dickerson gives me a quick nod. It’s not much, but I’ll take it.

  Then Erica grabs my hand and pulls me from the table.

  “Let’s go,” she says, and we rush out of the kitchen. I can hear Rosie and Jane giggling as we leave.

  Erica leads me to the basement, which is a really big room with huge, long, and supersoft couches. Nailed to the wall is the largest big-screen television I’ve ever seen in my life.

  “Geez, that’s a big television. I’d love to watch an HBO comedy special here,” I say.

  “Stay on my dad’s good side and maybe you can.”

  “Stay on his good side?” I say. “I don’t think he likes me at all.”

  Erica grabs the remote and turns on the television.

  “Is your father always this uptight?” I ask.

  “You actually caught him in a good mood.”

  We sit on the couch and I’m practically swimming in cushions.

  “Guess what we’re going to watch?” she asks with a huge smile on her face. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I know enough that I better smile back.

  The movie starts and the music sounds a little familiar, but I’m not sure what it is. I can tell it’s pretty old, even though it’s in color.

  “You know it yet?” Erica asks.

  “Not yet,” I say.

  I watch this dude walk into a factory and lots of music is playing and there’s a bunch of girls working on sewing machines and then it hits me.

  “The Pajama Game!”

  “That’s right. Our special musical, and now our special movie.”

  Before break, I was twirling Erica on a stage like that. We danced a tango like nobody’s business.

  Erica holds my hand and sits back with that huge smile on her face.

  They all start singing and dancing in the movie and it’s pretty neat, especially since I know all the songs and moves.

  Then Erica cuddles up close to me and something terrible happens. I feel like I have to fart. I mean, I really have to release some gas. It’s probably not good for me to hold it in. My God, what am I going to do?!

  And I can’t cuddle up with Erica, knowing her father is upstairs. I can hear his footsteps. It sounds like there’s a tiger pacing in a cage above us. What’s he doing up there?

  So we go on watching and I’m in pain, real serious pain, trying to hold everything in. And I guess it doesn’t help that I can hear Mr. Dickerson’s footsteps above and the sound of the back door opening and those dogs coming in.

  When the movie is about halfway over (the part when Babe gets fired for messing up the sewing machine, if you’re interested)
, Rosie and Jane call down.

  “Sam and Erica, break it up,” they say.

  Erica gives me her great smile.

  “Sam, we’re ready to drive you home,” Rosie or Jane says.

  I get in the back of the car with Rosie and Erica as Jane drives. Mr. Dickerson chews on an unlit cigar and sits in the passenger seat. He sits sideways so he can watch Jane practice driving, but I get the feeling he’s staring at me.

  All I can think about is the fart. I mean, could you imagine if I let loose in the car on a chilly night with the windows up?

  Thankfully, I get home. I’m so happy to be in the fresh, open night air that I don’t even mind seeing Duke holding Sharon’s hand.

  I mean, I’ve never been happier to be home.

  ERICA

  To: Miranda

  From: Erica

  Date: April 10, 2016 9:07 PM

  Subject: Dinner Disaster

  M,

  What is wrong with boys? Your boyfriend would rather be on a date with your dad and mine wanted nothing to do with me! Dinner went as good as can be expected (you know my dad, always the tough guy). But when I invited Sam to watch The Pajama Game (romantic, right?!), it seemed like he kept trying to move away from me. I’d get close to hold his hand and he’d pull away. At one point, I swear he tried to use the sofa cushions as some kind of fort between us. He had a stupid look on his face the whole time, too—like he was trying to hold in a fart or something. What a weirdo. I think I’ll ask Foxxy if he knows what Sam’s problem is. . . .

  E

  8

  Freewriting

  Duke Vanderbilt Samagura

  21 April 2016

  English 8A

  Mr. Minkin

  Suggested Writing Prompt: If you could change yourself in three ways, what would they be? How would these changes affect your past, your present, and your future? Explain.

  Sir:

  Unlike you, who refuse to change your mediocre teaching ways and follow the simplest advice I have graciously offered, I am not beyond self-criticism as a means of self-improvement. Let’s make a list, shall we?