Maine Squeeze (43 page)

“I can't—I have to work,” I said. So he promised he'd look around his neighborhood and call some people and see if they'd heard anything about a sort of gray and brown and black mutt.

I was making a Silly Sherbet for a kid today (I hate when people order it and say “Sherbert”, like “sure, Bert!”) when there was a slobbery thing on the glass in front of me. You know, like spit, smeared back and forth over the sherbet tub? I hate when people let their kids actually drool while they're deciding what to order.

“Listen, kid, do you mind?” I started to say.

Then I saw this gigantic tongue. Something gray—fur—

OSCAR!

I leapt over the counter and hugged him before Gerry could tell me it was all a giant health code violation waiting to happen, and before Oscar could lunge for this little boy's strawberry sugar cone he was eyeing, mouth open.

Grant followed me outside. I was so grateful I thought about hugging him, too, but he didn't exactly have that huggable look. “Where did you find him?” I asked.

“By the pasta factory. Apparently he got sort of mesmerized by the flashing red ziti-shaped lights. You know what? I think maybe he needs a new diet.”

“More pasta?” I asked.

Grant shrugged. “Maybe. It couldn't hurt.”

I played with Oscar's frayed green collar. I didn't really see how new food could clip years of brain fur off his life, so I didn't say anything.

Funny. Dave never knew where to find Oscar.

Grant just drove around, block after block, for like
hours
.

I opened the door tonight to Mr. Novotny from across the street. The yard/Broncos-obsessed man is about 60, bald, with big square glasses. And very, very single as a direct result, as far as I can see.

“I don't know who Dave is,” he said, “but would you tell him to stop calling?”

How embarrassing. Not only is Dave calling me (
why?
) but he's getting Mr. Novotny.

“Is Dave the guy with the red Jeep? Who used to be over here all the time?” he asked.

“Um … yeah,” I said. Thanks for reminding me. “We broke up, but—”

“Good. And I don't want you to get back together with him!”

“Um … really? Why not?”

“His driving is frightening. I've star CSP'ed him at least twice.”

*CSP is this cellular direct connection to the state police. But it's not a
verb
.

Mr. Novotny has a cell phone? Mr. Novotny has road rage? I've never even seen him leave the perimeter of his yard. He mostly mows his lawn on a riding mower that he's painted in Bronco colors. Except in winter when he shovels snow with a Broncos snowblower. And puts up his orange-and-blue Broncos season lights on the front porch.

“Well, um, what did he do, exactly?” I asked.

“His parking is atrocious. But that's not the point,” Mr. Novotny said. “He shouldn't drive so fast. He nearly hit me on the Field Captain.”

“Mom?” I called over my shoulder. Save me!!!

She came out and explained how she'd asked for this new phone feature to block out calls. When MegaPhone installed it, they must have crossed the lines or something. It's called call control plus. Which to me sounds like queen-sized panty hose.

“More like control minus,” Mr. Novotny grumbled.

“No wonder we haven't heard the phone ring in a few days!” Mom laughed. “But I kind of enjoyed the vacation from the telemarketers. Sorry for the inconvenience—we'll get it taken care of tomorrow,” she told Mr. Novotny.

It's weird we didn't notice, but I guess I've been busy. Plus, I always call Beth—it just works that way between us.

That wasn't good enough for him. He wants us to run a really long extension cord across the street so the phone will ring in our house instead of his. Mom pointed out it might get run over. She apologized over and over.

Mr. Novotny finally said he'd ignore his “land line” and instead use the cell phone he carries on his mower. And uses mostly to report bad drivers.

I called Dave to see why he kept calling. He sounded very annoyed. I asked if I was bothering him or interrupting him—maybe he was studying for an exam or something. He said no. Then he asked why I was calling him now, why I was bothering to take the time out of my busy schedule as vice president. Huffy like a bike.

I told him maybe if MegaPhone fixed our line, his calls wouldn't keep going to Mr. Novotny's house and maybe I'd have a clue he called.

“What are you talking about?”

“Our phone. It's been broken, and we didn't know. And um … this is really funny. Do you want to hear it?” I started laughing.

“Wait a second. Mr. Novotny?” Dave laughed. “The Broncos mower guy?
He
heard my messages? No. Please tell me that isn't true.”

“Why? What did you say?”

“Never mind, what did
he
say?”

“He's called the police about your driving. You went too fast and it somehow messed up his lawn ornaments, sent all the whirligig things into a whirl.”

We kept laughing and talking about how weird Mr. Novotny was, how he was the kind of person who might flip out one day. But instead of everyone saying afterward that “he was such a nice neighbor,” they'd probably say, “the signs were there all along.”

Then Dave said, “So do you want to come up here or not?”

I do. So I am. Tomorrow.

But why is he always calling and writing just when I really am
not
thinking about him? Like, at all? He has this sixth sense or something.

Room 314. Welcome to
My
World.

I'm sitting outside in the hall, thank you very much. Dave's not here. If I sit outside and wait, I'll miss him—too many entrances and exits.

I look ridiculous.

People are playing hacky-sack around me.

I know, I'll call him and tell him I'm waiting outside … in the car …

Hold on, I hear laughs in the stairwell. Sounds like Dave.

It isn't. There's a guy with pink hair approaching Room 314. I think he just said my name.

It's Chad.

Still can't believe what happened. Puff Chaddy knew me because Dave told him I was coming plus he has a photo of me over his desk. (!) (Dave, not Chad, that is.) Chad said he'd been looking forward to meeting me. Then he put on some really loud music, a rapper I didn't recognize, so loud the walls were shaking. He got out his lighter. I thought he was going to smoke something, but he lit this patchouli incense and lay on his bed and said he had to unwind after organic chemistry.

“What's organic about that?” I tried to joke.

He didn't get it. Or he wasn't in the mood to laugh. Dave came back about ten minutes later, and he tiptoed into the room, took my hand, and we tiptoed out. I asked him what was going on with the Puffster. Dave said he's incredibly driven to be a doctor.

“Dr. Puff?” I said. We laughed really hard. Dave showed me around the campus and when we ran into Alicia from our school, she didn't even blink, she was just totally excited to see us together.

It all seemed normal, except when the afternoon was over and Dave said something about studying and it was clear I was supposed to leave and clear we were still just friends. I tried not to make a crack about his 6-month plan. I failed.

I left in a huff. I was halfway out of town when I realized I was the one being rigid, sophomoric, etc. So I went back to apologize.

Stood in hallway outside his room, staring in at Dave and some girl. He was laughing and having the time of his life.

Unreal! I am so unbelievably hurt. I can't even write any more. I can't even call Beth or Jane and tell them. It's humiliating. Was I the 3
P.M.
–6
P.M.
date?

Is that part of the New Plan?

I cornered Grant after class again. I needed more insight. A guy's perspective. Plus, I was hoping he could identify the suspicious laughing girl in Dave's dorm room.

“So why would he ask me to come up, say he missed me, etc. and then be with some other girl?”

“Maybe she's just a friend?” Grant could tell he sounded lame, so he didn't go on. He didn't even put any heart into the comment.

“Do guys like torturing us or something?” I asked. “I mean, is it sort of
fun
deep down?”

“No, of course not,” Grant said. “But people get, um, conflicted I guess. You know, when they want two things at once?”

No, I don't know. You either want something, or you don't. Like me and
dating
.

Speaking of conflict: the Tom keeps buying stuff for our office: plants, pens, posters. Things Beginning With “P” For $100, Alex. I think this must be out of frustration that he hasn't scored with me yet, or else he's really into interior design and can't admit it.

Still really mad at Dave. Jane and Beth and I are going shopping tonight; screw sitting around and waiting for the phone calls.

No messages? What is his
problem
? Too busy laughing with his 6
P.M.
–overnight girlfriend?

The Tom continues to amaze. Today we had this table in the cafeteria set up so that people could sign up for Homecoming activities and buy tickets for the party, etc. While we're sitting there (after he eats 4 cheeseburgers in 5 minutes) he's working on his college apps. And every single (pretty) girl that comes up gets the same question, as he bats his so-long-I'm-jealous-of-them eyelashes. “Hey, could you help me with this section? What do
you
think are my three best qualities?”

The girls take it really seriously and crouch down by the table and offer suggestions like, “You have a strong leadership quality,” and “You take charge,” and “You're responsible,” etc. etc. blah blah blah. Then after a while he switches to asking what his three best features are, whether it's his eyes, or his perfect nose, or his amazingly huge … ego.

He offers the really pretty girls back rubs for helping him, and our student council table turns into one of those 5-minute back rub carts at the mall. And I have to listen to him say, “Well, you know this works a lot better skin-on-skin” about a dozen times while
I
do all the work, sell tickets, make change, etc.

Finally, the bell rang. I thought we'd get out of there but then remembered there was one more lunch period to go.

“So I could probably help you with your applications,” I finally offered. “You don't need to give me a back rub.”

“Oh. Yeah?” He actually looked sort of interested for a second.

“Sure. I mean, if you want to thank me, you could just go straight to the full-body massage,” I suggested.

The Tom stared at me, beyond shocked. “Oh. Well, actually, my applications are sort of like … done. But, um, thanks, Court.” Then he ran off for a glass of chocolate milk.

What? After all these years I decide to flirt with him, and he has the nerve to not flirt back?

I complained to Beth and Jane about it after school.

“He probably doesn't want to mess up your …” Beth stopped, not able to think of the right word.

“Presidential relationship,” Jane said. “Like he messed it up with Jennifer. If you leave, then he'll have to find another VP, and he's already had two—”

“He hasn't
had
me yet,” I said. “And we're not going out, I don't want to go out with him. I just think it's ridiculous that he doesn't even try.”

“Maybe he's not attracted to you,” Jane said. “It happens.”

“We're talking about the Tom,” I reminded her.

“Oh.”

Nobody said anything else. It was too awful to suggest Tom wasn't attracted to me. That would be like saying I was dead. But I bet he's into that, too. He's attracted to everyone, alive or dead, except me.

Then I realized I was being ridiculous. My whole life I'd wanted the Tom to avoid me. So he was. So what? He's a ridiculous person who looks good, and that's it. It's time to focus on something besides boys.

Got in the car and drove to see the buffalo. Stared over the fence at them. Life would be better if I were a buffalo. They all look alike, more or less, and even if they don't, they mate regardless of looks. Of course I'd have to wear the same hooves every day.

Finally talked to Dave today. As it turns out … that girl he was laughing with is his resident adviser in his dorm. She came up to talk to him because everyone is getting kind of concerned about Chad. He's been experimenting in his chemistry class a little too much, making things that aren't on the lab assignment, etc. Everyone was worried he was stressed out and making something dangerous. So they did an Organic Intervention.