Sarah Mlynowski - Milkrun

Or I could send a picture of us to the Stapley alumni Internet site. I’ll just have to remember to bring a camera on our date.

I like that idea better.

“Tomorrow, we’re going to hit The G-Spot, ’kay?” Natalie says, grabbing my hand. I assume she’s talking about a bar.

“Sounds good.” I answer, wondering if I can get away with wearing this outfit again.

MY FIRST THOUGHT THIS MORNING is about Jonathan Gradinger. It is not about .

Therefore I am officially over him.

Actually, my first real thought is djjfhskakd—why, oh, why, is my phone ringing at 9:15 on a Saturday morning? Someone had better be on fire. Secretly, it’s only six minutes past nine. I set my huge clock (oversize so that I can see it without my contacts in) nine minutes fast in the hope that somehow this deception will make me on time.

“Hellooo?” I say.

“Fern!” It’s my dad. “Are you still in bed?”

“No.” I always say I’m awake when I’m asleep. Don’t know why.

“But you’re wasting the day!”

“I’m awake.” Eyes…heavy. Mouth…can’t open.

“Good. What’s new?”

Uh. “I forget.”

“Do you want to call us back when you wake up?”

“No, now’s good. Nothing’s new.” Okay, okay. I’m sitting up. I’m awake. I’m going to have dark circles under my eyes and I’m practically out of concealer and no man will fall in love with me and it’ll all be your fault.

“If nothing’s new, why have you been too busy to call us back?”

Whoops. It’s not that I ignore them on purpose. I am just constantly forgetting that they exist and that I should call them. “I’ve been busy at work.”

“Work is good. What have you been editing?”

“A book.”

“A book about what?”

Did he wake me up to learn more about Millionaire Cowboy Dad? How come he’s not a millionaire daddy? “A romance, Dad. Same story as every other story.”

“What’s that?”

“Girl meets boy. Girl loves boy. Boy screws over girl.”

“That’s the story?”

I must really not be paying attention if that’s what I just told my father. Why is he calling me so early? This I don’t ask either, afraid to risk another lecture on how the early bird gets the worm. “No, that’s not the whole story. Boy apologizes and they get married and live happily ever after.”

“That’s nice, dear. But you know what they say, all work and no play makes for a dull life. And what about you? What’s happening with the boys? Are you still seeing Jeffery?”

“No, Dad. He’s screwing girls in Thailand right now.” I don’t really say that. I don’t want to give him a heart attack; he thinks I’m still a virgin. “It’s Jeremy. And no, I’m playing the field right now.”

“No rush, dear, no rush.”

Most parents would be bugging you to start thinking about getting married, or at least tell you to find a boyfriend by the time you’re twenty-four, but not my dad. He still thinks I’m fifteen. Whenever he goes on business trips, he still buys me those “Welcome to (insert name of visited state here)” T-shirts in children’s sizes. Janie, on the other hand, constantly reminds me that she does, in fact, “want to be called Gramma someday.” If I ever do have kids, I might insist they call her Janie. Just to annoy her.

“What’s new with you, Dad?”

“I joined a new jogging group.”

“That’s good. How’s work?”

“Good. I’m only working four days a week now.”

“How come?”

“I want some time for myself. Life’s not a dress rehearsal, you know. I have to live for the moment. I can’t waste all my time working.”

Definitely Bev’s influence. I may have even heard her use the exact phrase “Life’s not a dress rehearsal,” followed by “We only have one life to live.” My dad used to be a workaholic, especially after the divorce. Since Bev got him into psychoanalysis, he’s become more of the how-does-it-make-you-feel and listen-tome-recite-clichés type of guy.

I hear Bev’s voice in the background. “Tim, is that Fern? Can I talk to her?”

“Bev wants to say hello. Love you, bye.” He passes off the phone.

It’s far too early in the morning to talk to Bev. It’s not that I don’t like her. I do, really. I just have a few minor issues with her. Bev is a fanatic; she’s addicted to talk shows. Specifically Oprah. And instead of working like a modern woman in the twenty-first century, her calling herself a part-time travel agent is a euphemism for “she plans her own vacations.” When she’s not traveling, she spends all her time watching Oprah, doing Oprah makeovers, and cooking low-fat meals from Oprah’s recipe book. Verbs like share and discover are too often combined in her speech pattern with nouns like soul and self.

“Hi, Fern. How’s your spirit?”

“My spirit’s fine, thanks. How’s yours?”

“Wonderful, wonderful. Quite phenomenal. How’s therapy going?”

“Great.” Bev has convinced my father to give me seventy-five dollars a week for one-hour therapy sessions. She’s convinced that kids never get over divorce and that my sudden move to Boston might throw me over the edge. The money has been very therapeutic so far; I’ve bought new sunglasses and my hooker boots, and I’m saving up for a CD player for my car.

“So what have you learned about yourself this week?”

“Not much,” I answer. It’s way too early for psychoanalytical babble. “What’s up with you?”

“Oh, the usual. Power walking. Writing in my gratitude journal.”

I refuse to ask her what a gratitude journal is.

“And I just read the most amazing book last week,” she says. “I’m sure you’d love it.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, um…um. It’s about an underprivileged girl who was a victim of incest. Gosh, I don’t remember the name, but the story hit home.”

I don’t quite see the relation between the unidentified novel’s protagonist and my Manhattan-born stepmother, who spends Saturday at the hairdresser, Sunday at the manicurist, and Monday through Friday at the mall when not watching Oprah. However, we’ve never quite reached the level of intimacy that would allow me to point that out. “Let me know the name of the book when you remember it, and I’ll buy it, okay? I gotta go now.”

“Okay, bye. Remember your spirit.”

“Of course.” I hang up the phone and fall back asleep.

When I wake up at 1:30, I have my first coherent thought. It’s 1 A.B. (After Breakup), and I have already kindled a relationship with my future husband.

I may have a date. Soon.

Yay!

With Jonathan Gradinger. The thing is, once we get married, I’ll have to stop referring to him by his full name. I’d sound like a character in a Jane Austen novel: “Good morning, Mr. Gradinger. Please pass the newspaper, Mr. Gradinger.”

Why hasn’t he called yet?

I’ll admit I’m being a bit crazy. According to Swingers, he has to wait at least three days. Or is it five days? How am I going to wait five days?

I must call Wendy.

I dial her number at work. How pathetic is that? It’s Saturday afternoon and I don’t even bother trying her apartment.

“Wendy speaking.”

“Hi!”

“Hello,” she says. I hear her rummaging through some papers. “So? How was it?”

“Wonderful. I’m completely over Jeremy.”

“Sure you are,” she says. Do I detect sarcasm?

“I am. I ran into my future husband.”

“That’s good. Do I get to be the maid of honor?”

“No. You can be a bridesmaid. Iris made me swear she’d be the maid of honor. But you can plan the bachelorette party.”