Milkrun

by Sarah Mlynowski

“No! Where is it?” What package?

  “In my room.”

  “How was I supposed to know I had a package in your room? Why is it in your room?”

  “Because I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “And the living room was a problem because…”

  “Whatever. Can you open it? I’m dying to know what it is.”

  Sam and I go into her room. A Christmas-paper-wrapped huge object is leaning against her bed. The note scribbled in marker across the paper says, “It’s nonrefundable. Merry Christmas. Tim.”

  I tear open the wrapping paper. The Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? print stares up at me.

  Omigod.

  I can’t believe he bought it for me.

  I can’t believe I was such a bitch.

  Tomorrow, I have to call and thank him.

  We return to the living room.

  “So what was in the package?” Andrew asks.

  “A gift from an admirer,” I reply. He thinks I’m joking.

  “What are we watching?” Sam cuts in, plopping down on the couch between me and my potential New Year’s Eve date.

  I shoot her one of my best get-lost looks, but she’s already absorbed in the movie.

  Can I get away with sending Tim an e-mail?

  16

  Why Can’t I Just Turn into a Pumpkin?

  MY FAVORITE ROMANCE COVERS ARE the glamourous ones. The hero is dressed in a tuxedo, and the heroine, draped in some sort of velvety, silky, sparkling, emerald strapless gown, looks a little like Cinderella or at least the prettier of the two evil step-sisters. He gazes into her eyes. She gazes into his. There’s lots of gazing going on. Tonight I get to be Cinderella—minus the glass slippers and the silver carriage drawn by horses that is actually a pumpkin pulled by singing mice. And I get to put my hair up, wear a three-quarter-length satiny black dress with spaghetti straps, and lots of eye makeup. Sam is wearing a floor-length maroon skirt and a matching tank top. We look fabulous, if I do say so myself.

  Andrew is nothing to balk at, either. He and Ben are wearing dark suits. Yup, Sam chose Ben over Philip to be her date for New Year’s.

  I ask Sam to ask Andrew if he’d mind posing for a picture with me so that he doesn’t suspect that I want a picture of us together.

  “Smile! Say cheese!” She snaps us in front of the blind-covered window. “Okay, now you can resume your natural dispositions.”

  He keeps his arm around my shoulder. I stay smiling.

  Janie calls to wish me a happy New Year.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “Phoenix. We love it out here. It’s sunny. Why do people choose to live in cold climates when they can live out here?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you move?”

  “We’re thinking about it.”

  Uh-oh. Poor Iris. She’ll lose it if they even suggest it. “I thought you liked Virginia.”

  “I’m not crazy about it. I prefer a dry heat.”

  I hear the tinkle of glasses. I hear my friends laughing in the kitchen.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Why? What are you doing tonight?”

  “Just going for drinks with some friends.”

  “So who do I hear in the background?”

  “Some friends. We’re having some drinks.”

  “I thought you were going out for some drinks. Are you having a party?”

  “No, we’re going to a party.”

  “So who’s there now?”

  “Just friends.”

  “Why are you having drinks if you’re going out for drinks?”

  “Why not?”

  Pause. “Jackie, do you have a drinking problem?”

  Oh, God. “No, I do not have a drinking problem. What are you talking about? I have to go.”

  “Okay. Ration yourself. Happy New Year.”

  “You, too.”

  I enter the kitchen just as Ben is topping off our drinks. He lifts up his glass. “To a wonderful new year. May it be filled with lots of sex.”

  “Here, here,” Sam says. Then they kiss. Right in front of us. Especially weird because Andrew and I just stand there, watching. There’s been no kissing action between us since the train.

  “We should go soon,” Andrew says. What’s his problem? Is he uncomfortable with all the coupling in here? He’d better get used to it…fast. Because tonight’s New Year’s Eve. Is there a better time to launch a relationship than at midnight, New Year’s Eve, the magic moment when all potential couples kiss?

  Orgasm looks the way it always does, just slightly more dressed up. Black and silver streamers cover the walls, and waitresses are wandering around carrying platters of hors d’oeuvres. Mmm. Are there any mini egg rolls? I love mini egg rolls.

  “Oh, God,” Sam whispers when we walk in. “Philip is here.”

  “You’re so getting nailed.”

  “What do I do?”

  “You didn’t promise either of them anything.”

  “You’re right! I haven’t even slept with either of them!”

  What? “You haven’t?” Oh. There goes my even-Sam’s-doing it theory. “Then what do you do when you sleep over at Ben’s all the time?”

  “We cuddle a lot.”

  Cuddle a lot? “Are you telling me you spend the entire night in the same bed and don’t have—”

  A very bad sight interrupts my train of thought. “Sam, Marc is here.” I nod to where he’s standing with his work buddies at the other side of the bar. Sam’s eyes are popping and it’s not because of her white eye shadow. I thinks she’s hyperventilating.

  “Calm down, calm down,” I tell her. “It’ll be okay.”

  “Is this normal? Is this normal?”

  I think she’s about to faint. I really hope she doesn’t. Then I’ll have to go home with her to make sure she’s all right. I can’t go home with her. I have to go home with Andrew.

  “I need a drink,” she says instead of fainting. This is good.

  I motion to Andrew that we’re going to the bar.

  “I’ll get us a table,” he mouths back.

  “Two Lemon Drops, please,” I tell the bartender, who isn’t my friend Ms. Cleavage but appears to have the same DNA.

  We do our shots and stand by the bar. Sam sighs. “What am I going to do? I haven’t spoken to him in over a month.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want him to leave. I despise him. I’m happy without him. Why does he have to ruin my New Year’s? He’s already ruined my life. Has he seen me? Look if he’s looking.”

  I look. “He’s not looking. I don’t think he’s seen you yet.”

  “I can’t stand up anymore. I’m going to sit down.”

  Don’t faint, Sam. Please don’t faint. “Okay, let’s go find Andrew. He said he was getting us a table.”

  “Wait,” she says. “Fix your hair.”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “It’s frizzy.”

  “So don’t just stand there, fix it!” I hiss at her.

  “I can’t,” she says, trying to run her hands over it. “You need to run water through it.”

  I can’t run water through it. People with naturally straight hair do not understand the delicate procedure involved in blow-drying curly hair straight. You can’t add water. That’s like eating a chocolate bar while you’re working out. What’s the point? Luckily I have a bottle of silicone-coated hair gel in my purse. I always wonder if putting silicone in my hair is a good idea. I mean, if it’s used in breast implants, won’t it make my hair puffy?

  “Okay. Sit down. I’ll be back in a second.” I elbow-squeeze my way through the holiday-crowded bar. In the bathroom, I bump smack into Amber in front of the mirror. Remember Amber? Too-skinny-no-my-father’s-not-a-fireman-I’m-a-sadistic-dentist Amber.

  “Hello.” She gives me the once-over.

  “Hello.” Someone needs to force-feed this girl. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks
, how are you?” She reapplies her lipstick. I notice she has a dark lip-liner/lighter lipstick thing going on.

  I open my bag and retrieve the gel, preparing to perform major surgery on my hair. There’s no place to put my purse, since the counters are littered with various colognes and perfume sprays—and an honor basket in which to leave money should you choose to spritz. So in the sink goes my bag, after I verify that the ceramic is dry. Down comes my hair, in goes the silicone. (Look Amber, we’re twins! The silicone in my hair matches the silicone in your breasts!) And whoosh goes the water into my purse. Why don’t these places warn you that these things run on automatic sensors?

  I stick my purse under the hand dryer for a full ten minutes, and then leave the bathroom. Amber’s still fixing herself. She obviously needs a lot of maintenance.

  As I make my way toward the table, Marc spots me. He’s sitting at the bar with a group of cute boys. How come Marc never offered to fix me up with any of his friends?

  “Hey, Jackie!”

  I pretend I don’t see him. He starts to wave frantically, then approaches me before I can escape to my table.

  Me: “Oh, hi, Marc.”

  Marc: “Hi, Jack. Where’s Sam?”

  Me: “Good to see you, too. How are you?” At least pretend to want to talk to me.

  Marc: “I’m okay. And you?”

  Me: “Fine.”

  Marc: “How’s work?”

  Me: “Fine. Your work?”

  Marc: “Fine. What’s up?”

  Me: “Not much.” Marc and I never did have much to talk about.

  Marc: “Is she here?”

  Me: “Is who here?”

  Marc: “Sam. Is Sam here?”

  Me: “Yes, she’s here.” That’s all you’re getting, Marc dear.

  Marc: “Where?” He looks around the bar.

  I point to the table that now has Sam, Ben, Andrew and…Jess? Is that Jess? Why is Jess at the table? Why is Jess at Orgasm? I thought it was over. What do I do? Do I go over? Do I let them talk? What if she seduces him?

  “Who is that?” Marc asks, trying to sound casual.

  “It’s Jess!”

  “I mean the guy. Who’s the guy with Sam? Does Sam have a new boyfriend? Why is some guy’s arm around Sam?”

  “A guy she’s dating. What did you expect?” Uh-oh. Jess is smiling up at Andrew. Why is Jess smiling up at Andrew? “You dumped her. She’s trying to meet other guys.”

  “But she wanted to move in with me! How could she be over me so quickly?”

  “She’s not the type of girl to sit at home and pine.” And now he’s smiling down at her! What should I do?

  Marc stares openmouthed at the table. “I—”

  “Gotta run,” I tell him. Not that there’s anywhere to run to. Not that I could run anywhere in these heels if there was somewhere to run to. Yes, it’s time for me to leave Marc so that he can be alone to ponder the error of his ways. Should I go back to the table? No. I think I’ll just wander around the bar. Maybe some cute guy will offer me a drink and Andrew will see how popular I am. Who am I kidding? It’s New Year’s Eve and most people are part of a couple. Or at least part of a group. I can’t even sit down with the group I came with. I don’t want to go interrupt Andrew and his girlfriend.

  I might as well drink.

  I order myself a glass of champagne.

  That’s a nice solution. Maybe Janie’s right about me.

  Raisin-Eyes has spotted me. Remember Raisin-Eyes, the rating guy? My first Orgasm. And now he’s ogling my spaghetti straps. Ew…Is this what my life has come to? Will my year-end destiny lie with Raisin-Eyes?

  Fine. Andrew can talk to Jess. For now. It’s only eleven. He has one hour before he has to reappear by my side and kiss me magically.

  “Who’s that with Sam?” Marc comes up behind me and points. Philip has Sam boxed between him and the bar. He kisses her lightly on the lips.

  Ha! That was fantastic! “Another one of her suitors.”

  “I made a mistake, didn’t I?” Marc asks, his voice rising a full octave. He sounds pubescent. Then again, his behavior was always pubescent.

  Now that was perceptive of him. I mock sigh. “Yes, you did.”

  Are those tears glistening in the grown man’s eyes? Where’s my camera? Why don’t I carry a camera?

  “Do you think she’d get back together if I asked?”

  “Actually, Sam’s quite together as it is.” With Ben, with Philip, with just about anyone…“She’s witty and beautiful and caring, and you threw all that away. You screwed up because you were afraid of commitment. Now she’s happy and single and you’re alone. Deal with it.” I don’t care if I sound harsh. Who does he think he is? Why should he be allowed to break someone’s heart and then expect it to be able to magically glue itself together again?

  Sam, unknowingly (and brilliantly) chooses this exact moment to stretch her pale arms above the table, thereby exposing her newly decorated stomach to the world.

  Marc turns white. “What is that? Is that a navel ring? Since when does Sam have a navel ring?”

  I shrug. “She’s a new person.”

  He continues staring at Sam while swigging the rest of his drink. “I’m leaving.”

  Good riddance. Go home. Thanks for stopping by.

  Moments later, Sam pops up behind me. “What happened? I saw you talking to him. What did he say?”

  I reiterate the conversation.

  She looks at me incredulously. “You said what?”

  “I told him you were happier without him.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you are.” Aren’t you? I think you are. You said you were. Uh-oh. Did I miss something here? “What about Ben? What about Philip?”

  “Who cares about them?”

  This is not good. “You do. Don’t you?”

  “Where is he?”

  “Philip or Ben?”

  “Marc! Where is Marc?”

  “He…” It’s unfortunate this will not meet with a positive response “…left.”

  “When?”

  “A few minutes ago.”

  “I have to go find him.”

  Find him? You mean leave? “You can’t leave!”

  “Yes, I can.” And with that, she takes off, leaving me on New Year’s Eve, at a bar, by myself. Oh, that’s right. I’m not by myself. I’m with the happy-Andrew-and-Jess-couple. Isn’t this perfect?

  I hate this place. It’s packed. Drunken fools are packed in here like hordes of sweaty commuters in a subway car at rush hour. Hundreds of people are in this bar, yet here I sit by myself.

  Time for another shot. Never mind. Time for two more shots. Jess is still there. Why is Jess still there?

  About four—five?—shots later—how much later?—Raisin-Eyes feels it’s the appropriate time to start talking to me. Apparently, I’m sending out I-am-desperate-please-come-annoy-me signs. Am I desperate? Maybe I am. Jess is still there. Why is Jess still there? Oh, look, there’s Amber! Maybe I should go talk to Amber. That’s not Amber. And here’s Raisin-Eyes! Maybe I should talk to Raisin-Eyes. Raisin-Eyes, Raisin-Eyes, weren’t you once a nice, plump grape? Why are you looking at me with those raisin eyes, Raisin-Eyes?

  What time is it? Is the new year here yet? Did I miss it? “What time is it?” I ask my dear friend Raisin-Eyes.

  “Ten to twelve.”

  Now look what I’ve done. I’ve gone and broken the seal, and now we’re having a conversation. Kind of like the first time you visit the bathroom after you’ve been drinking. After that, it seems you have to go every five minutes.

  “What day is it?” I say. Get it? What day is it? It’s New Year’s! I start laughing so hard that I temporarily fall off my stool. Whoa!

  “What’s your name?”

  “Amber,” I answer, and I’m not sure why. I suddenly miss her. Where is Amber? We’re like sisters, me and Amber, with our silicone.

  “Why are you sitting by yourself, Amber?”
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br />   Can’t you do better than that, Raisin-Eyes? Tell me I’m beautiful or something. C’mon, you can do it! Tell me. I’m serious. He’d better tell me. “Because my friend left and Andrew’s with Jess and I’m drinking.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh, say can you see? So why are you by yourself?”

  “I’m not. I’m talking to you.”

  Rate me, already, Grape-Face/Raisin-Eyes. Rate me, date me, but please don’t hate me. “Why?”

  “Why? What do you mean why?”

  “Why are you talking to me?” I’d like a compliment, please.

  “Because you seem nice and friendly. And you’re beautiful.”

  That’s better. ’Cept you forgot to mention easy prey.

  “And because I don’t meet a lot of women at work.”

  Hmm. He wants me to ask him what he does. Could he be any more obvious? I’m not asking. If he wants to tell me so badly, let him tell me. “You don’t want to meet women?”

  “I’d like to meet more women, of course, but I don’t know any female investment bankers.”

  Puh-lease. That’s the most pathetic excuse to sneak in what a guy does for a living I’ve ever heard. “You don’t know any? In your whole company there’s not one woman?”

  “Well…I guess there are a few.”

  Gee, nice of you to pull your head out of the nineteenth-century’s ass. “My best friend is an investment banker. My female best friend.”

  “I didn’t say there weren’t any.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I…” Yadayadayada. He keeps blabbing about investment banking. I watch his mouth open and close to the thumping music. He tells me about mergers and acquisitions, acquisitions and mergers, and…is he still talking? Why hasn’t he asked me what I do? Why does it take guys hours to consider the possibility that I may also have a career?

  “Excuse me,” I say to the bartender. “Excuse me? Ms. Bartender? Uh, can I get some more shots please?”

  “How many is some?” she asks. Rather obnoxiously, I might add.

  “Some is three.” Obviously. Or maybe a few is three. I don’t know. Who cares? I take out my wallet and hand her some bills. Get it? Some bills. That’s three dollars. However, Ms. Obnoxious says it’s not enough. Thanks for offering to pay, Raisin-Eyes. He’s too busy blabbing. Still. About his stupid job.