30 Guys in 30 Days (11 page)

“Oh, women’s history,” he said knowingly. “No wonder you’re such a priss.”

“Um, excuse me?” I said, quite certain that I’d misheard him.

“Feminist,” he said shortly, stuffing more of my dinner into his fat mouth.

I stared at him in disbelief. “Yes, that’s exactly it,” I deadpanned. I glanced over at Charlie, who, at this point, was officially making out with Troy at the table. That, or performing emergency mouth-to-mouth.
Is this behavior really becoming of a Georgia Peach?
I wondered.

I thought about storming out in a huff. That would have at least made for a good anecdote. But Charlie would have definitely caused me serious bodily harm. Not to mention, we were at least ten miles from the nearest T station and I really didn’t have enough money on me for a cab. I was in it for the long haul.

“Are you, uh, finished with that?” Cameron asked, pointing a beefy index finger at my hamburger.

I sighed and pushed my plate toward him. It was going to be a mighty long night.

9/17, 1:19 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: blind dates

Valid “target practice,” yay or nay?

I’m saying yes. And then I’m going to bed. And never agreeing to another fix-up as long as I live.

—xx

9/18,11:01 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: deep thoughts

From the animation-fest, according to Mike Nugent, design major at Emerson: That if you play Season 1, Episode 12, of
The Simpsons
backward and on extended-time release, it will reveal the identity of JFK’s killer.

Whatever.

Target #14, all accounted for. At least I’m almost halfway there.

Am running out of things to say re: the
festival. Have little further opinion other than, of course, abject fear. I mean, some of those men were wearing costumes. Tights: Not a good look for the forty-plus and balding set.

—xx

9/18, 5:17 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: ani-fest

Here’s the article. Sorry I’m late. Let me know if you have any problems opening it.

9/18, 6:03 p.m.

from: arts@[email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: re: ani-fest

Claud—

Looks great. Sounds like you had an … interesting time? ;)

Check the personals tomorrow.

—G

9/19,1:53 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: grrr

My right brain is mad at my left brain. Or possibly the other way around. Which is it that controls logic and which controls creativity? Does it even matter?

I’m fried.

I have a comp sci quiz in approximately eight hours that I was made aware of, um, about eight hours ago. Good times.

Oh, and Target #15? Pedro, the handsome and virile delivery boy from Mexicali Rose.

I think we’d have fine-looking children.

—xx

9/19, 2:04 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: Um, no.

I’m sorry, Claud, but I have to put my foot down. Delivery boys do not count as “target practice.”

9/19, 2:21 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: Come now

Oh, Charlie, can’t you see she’s suffering?

9/19, 3:37 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: Surprise!

Hi, babe!

An interesting thing I learned last week: Surprises come in many shapes and forms. Like the surprise quiz I was given in my English class. That was a good time.

Then there’s the surprise of the culinary variety. As in, the “tuna surprise” that our dining hall just loves. I really can’t get enough of that.

And finally, my true favorite: the surprise visit. Generally practiced by close friends and romantic partners. Such as Buji’s long-distance girlfriend. I know what you’re thinking—who knew Buji had a long-distance girlfriend? Not me—which makes this a
double-layer
surprise!

Now Bee, we’re living in close conditions here, and I’m really not wanting to cramp my man Buji’s style. So I thought I’d take the opportunity to come up and visit. Surprise!

Just friendly, hon. I promise. But I do miss you.

Let me know what you think.

Later,

D

9/19, 6:16 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: fw: Surprise!

Crap crappity crap. Just failed a comp sci quiz. Definitely, completely failed. My average is totally sunk.

Oh, and one other thing. Yeah, got an e-mail from Drew last night. Scroll down. Read it and weep.

And then let me know what the hell you think I should do.

—xx

9/19, 6:43 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: Oh my

Well, what are your choices? You can either tell him, politely but firmly, that you don’t want to see him; or you can offer to host him. I guess the question is what you would rather do. I mean, if you tell him no, there’s a good chance he’s going to be offended. You have to be okay with that. And if you do want him to come, and you don’t want things to go to the boyfriend-girlfriend place, then you’re going to have to be strong enough to keep things on the friend level.

Tough choices, dear. But they are
your
choices to make. Don’t forget that.

9/19, 7:01 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: Surprise!

Hey there—

You know I’m a sucker for a surprise (unless it’s of the tuna variety. I hate that stuff. Blech). I assume you’ll be in on Friday? The bus from
Port Authority will take you straight to Boston’s South Station. I can meet you there. It’s really easy. E-mail me with the particulars when you’ve got them.

:)

—xx

CHRONICLERS CAN ROLL WITH THE PARTY DOWNTOWN MIDNIGHT.

9/20, 11:43 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: Targets and weirdness

Picture it, if you will: The room was bathed in glittering, psychedelic hues, and classic disco was being remixed to neo-trance beats by a crazed, Afroed DJ set in a booth ten feet above the rink. I was on my second beer and having kind of a hard time matching the tempo of my flailing limbs to the smooth syncopation being piped out over the sound system. The room was spinning. It could have been the booze.

But then again, it could have been the roller skates.

Gabe’s heads-up over e-mail had led me to discover a personals ad planted for the entire extended staff of the
Chronicle.

It seemed that once a semester they liked to hit a kitschy downtown sports center for midnight roller disco. I’d been so thrilled to be included in the outing—by Gabe, no less—that it hadn’t occurred to me how truly frightening it could be to see half the
Chronicle
editors on wheels. John O’Shea, possibly emboldened by the added height gained from the skates, was whizzing across the floor in frantic loops. Megan, Anna, and a few of the features editors were huddled by the shoe check laughing, gossiping, and scarfing down pizza. Myself, I’d taken the opportunity to sidle up to Mitch Abley, assistant sports editor and Target #16. I’d been psyched, firstly because Mitch represented the halfway point for this semi-torturous game, and also because he was friendly and incredibly normal-seeming.

That was, until he put his skates on.

Poor Mitch had clearly never been big with the roller hockey. Since he’d suited up, we’d spent the better part of an hour inching along the perimeter of the rink, Mitch
clutching the guardrail for dear life. The experience was mildly humiliating, even for those of us who were having no problem staying upright. I had to cross my fingers and pray that Gabe was too focused on doing his own thing (i.e., watching pro-figure skater Kyra bust out her perfect figure eights right down the middle of the rink) to notice me or my escort for the evening.

“So, I guess maybe it’s disloyal or something, cause of how I’m from Philly, but I’m really into the Giants,” Mitch was saying to me.

That was the other thing about Mitch. While, upon first contact, he seemed happy to make with the school-related small talk, once we’d exhausted those pleasantries, he’d launched straight into sportscaster mode, rattling off facts and statistics about different teams, leagues, managers, RBI, average yearly salaries, number of assists…. It wasn’t helping with my head-spinning thing.

I glanced around. John O’Shea was on another speed bender, and Megan and Co. were headed to the bar for another round. All around me, it seemed, people were having normal, nonawkward, potentially interesting experiences and conversations. And meanwhile,
I’d already done the target thing. Was it my fault that, like the fourteen endeavors before this, it had been a bust?

Mitch groped wildly at the wall and went down.

It was time to cut bait.

“Um, yeah, I guess I don’t know so much about sports,” I confessed, crouching down to help Mitch back to his feet.

“Well, there’s a basketball game at the Fleet Center on Saturday that I’m covering for the paper, if you’d, ah, like to come,” Mitch said, blushing furiously.

I let go of his hand and flipped backward with a thud, landing on my butt. “Oh … ,” I started. “That’s, um, really cool of you to invite me, but, uh …” I drew a blank. There was no
way
I was going out with Roller Boy to watch basketball. I mean, basketball was a tall order—even for someone I
liked.

Suddenly I remembered. “My ex is coming next weekend!” I said triumphantly. It was perfect: It was true, it was inarguable and, best of all, it suggested a certain romantic unavailability.

“Hey guys, how’s the weather down there?”

Suddenly long arms were stretched around my waist from behind me, lifting me up off of the ground. Once I was standing, the arms made their way to my hips and spun me around.

“Um, thanks, Gabe, you’re a lifesaver,” I said, mortified.

Gabe sank down onto his knees and grabbed Mitch by the wrists, slowly springing back upward and effectively dragging Mitch with him.

Back in an upright position, Mitch dusted himself off with his hands and tried to regain some of his composure. “Thanks, man,” he said to Gabe. “We were drowning out there.” He turned back to me. “Well, if you want to catch a game some other time—you know, some weekend when your boyfriend’s not in town—just let me know.”

He turned to skate off, sailing away in short, staccato bursts while groping at the handrail. The drama of his delivery was undercut slightly by the
clutch-inch-clutch-inch
pacing of his departure, but I got the gist: a man scorned.

I turned back to Gabe. “I hate sports,” I said, as though I owed him some sort of explanation
for the awkwardness of that encounter.

Gabe peered at me. “Your
boyfriend’s
coming this weekend?”