I didn’t want to sit home on Friday night.
I wanted Jackson to see me with someone else—like he had with Angelo—and feel jealous, and want me back.
I wanted not to care if Jackson wanted me back or not, because I had a new guy who was bigger and more popular and played rugby.
And once I didn’t care and was off with the new guy, Jackson would suddenly love me—wouldn’t he?
And then I could care again and we’d live happily ever after.3
I said yes, and Cabbie picked me up in a BMW around seven p.m. on Friday night. He came in, briefly, and shook my dad’s hand and called him sir. We drove to the University District, where there are a couple of movie theaters, and parked in an expensive lot. “Can’t leave this baby on the street,” said Cabbie, chuckling, as he locked the doors. We walked a couple of blocks in the chilly air, talking about lacrosse and rugby.
“We’re playing Sullivan on Tuesday,” said Cabbie. “You should come to the game.”
“That could be cool.”
“Coach is such a hard-ass. He’s making us run three miles before practice.”
“We run three for lacrosse, too.”
“Really, the girls?”
“Really.”
“I’m starting this season, which is cool.”
“Awesome.”
We went into the theater. He bought the tickets. I paid for popcorn and pop. It was some action special-effects movie, not my thing, but all right.
About a quarter into it, Cabbie put his arm around me, and seconds later, he dangled his right hand down over my shoulder and squeezed my boob! We hadn’t held hands, or kissed, or anything. We’d hardly even had a conversation before that night—but he went straight for the boob squeeze as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
I was in shock. I sat there, letting him squeeze it.
It felt kind of good.
He was watching the movie like it wasn’t even happening, but also moving his fingers around every now and then, stroking my boob absentmindedly.
Should I shift my body so his hand was more shoulder height? Or take his hand and hold it so it couldn’t go roaming around my chest? Or actively move his arm back to his lap? Or get up to go to the bathroom and hope the gropefest wouldn’t start up again when I got back? Or pitch a fit and get all indignant?
It really did feel kind of good. He seemed to know what he was doing in the boob department. The longer I sat there and thought about it, the longer it seemed weird to start objecting.
He ended up feeling my boob for the whole movie! He ate popcorn with his left hand and got lucky with his right. It started to feel kind of lopsided, for the right one to get literally an hour and a half’s worth of attention and the left one to be all on its lonesome. I barely knew what the movie was about, because I was thinking about my boob the whole time. My boob, being stroked by a near-complete stranger, a big meaty rugby player.
When eight days before, it had been all Jackson’s.
Was I really a slut, like Kim said? This made four boys within one week I’d had some kind of physical contact with.4
Or did I actually like Cabbie? Could this be the start of a new thing?
Maybe not.
And then again, maybe.
The movie ended. Cabbie stretched, took his hand off me and stood up. “Wanna get some pizza?”
“Sure.”
We went to a place up the street. We split a cheese pie. He told me he doesn’t eat vegetables, ever. He talked about his “buddies” from rugby and how he wants to go to Penn and be a lawyer, like his dad. He asked me about my family, and I did my usual riff. He said his mother likes to garden.
Cabbie had everything a girl is supposed to look for in a boy. He was sporty, cute, popular, friendly, rich. He might even have been smart, though I couldn’t tell for sure.
But I was bored. Just making conversation, not really talking.
I think I want a guy who eats vegetables.
And who isn’t so normal.
He was just a muffin, you know?
The check took forever to come, and when it finally did, I insisted on paying half, even though I was still broke from buying that silver dress.
He drove me home and I hopped out of the car like a jackrabbit. If he thought I was a slut, who knows what he was expecting in a dark BMW, late on a Friday night? Especially after all that boob squeezing. “That was fun,” I lied, slamming the car door. “You don’t have to walk me in.”
“Later,” he said, looking surprised.
