Our attentions are pulled away from each other by the tow truck pulling into the garage, my car dangling from the back of it.
“Finally!” 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.
I try to imagine what it’d be like to go to a concert with Fantasy Jude, but he’s more of a symphony/opera kind of guy. I can’t picture him rocking out.
But aside from all those annoying, nerve-wracking insecurities, I’m pretty excited about going. It’s a group I always sing along with on the radio. I’m not a mega-fan, though, so I don’t have a band t-shirt I can wear. I settle on a fresh t-shirt but the same plaid shorts I’ve been wearing all day. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.
At six-thirty, I’m on the verge of throwing up as I stand at my door, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Sandberg blinks calmly at me from the bed.
“Okay, I’m going,” I tell him. “No parties while I’m gone. I won’t be late.” I pull the door closed and lock it.
Just as I’m getting into my car, concentrating on not hyperventilating, my cell phone rings and vibrates in my pocket, scaring me. “Oh, gosh!” I slide it out, closing my eyes as I hold it to my ear. I see on the display that it’s Hank, calling from Florida.
“Hey, sis,” he greets me. I hear music and laughter in the background.
“Hi,” I reply, trying to moderate my breathing. “What’s up?”
“Not much. Whatcha doin’? Watchin’ TV?”
“Something like that,” I answer, not wanting him to know the truth. I don’t want to answer a billion questions about it. I know he doesn’t really care, anyway. He only calls for one thing.
“Cool. Hey, I was just wondering…”
“How much?” I know where this is going.
“Just a coupla hundred, to get me through until payday,” he answers nonchalantly. When I tell him I’ll go the ATM in the morning and wire the money to him then, he hesitates before saying, “Oh. I was kinda hopin’ you’d be able to get it to me tonight. Are you busy?”
“I can’t do it tonight.”
“Why not?”
That’s the problem with having no life and setting a precedent that you can drop everything (because “everything” is “nothing”) and cater to someone’s impulses at a moment’s notice: when you suddenly can’t, you have to explain yourself.
“I just can’t, okay?” I snap. “If it’s an emergency, use the credit card, and I’ll pay it off with your money when I get the statement.”
Grudgingly, he says, “Naw. It’s not that important. I was just… me and the guys were goin’ out tonight, that’s all.”
“Maybe someone can spot you some singles to stuff into the stripper’s G-string,” I can’t help but snipe.
“God, Libby! Excuse me for askin’! Sheesh.”
I start the car. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Maybe you should get laid. Would do wonders for your attitude.”
“I’m sure you get laid enough for the both of us, Hank.”
“Screw you.”
“No, screw you!”
“I bet Mom and Dad would be real happy to see what a miserable, dried-up old cooter you’ve become.”
I hang up the phone with shaking fingers. “Nice,” I say out loud, trying to shake off his comment. Well, vocabulary never has been his strong suit. I toss my phone into one of the car’s cup holders. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.
I repeat this to myself the entire drive to Jude’s. He’s waiting for me on the steps in front of his apartment building, adding evidence to my suspicions that he’s a slob and doesn’t want me to see the inside of his place. He’s wearing the
