Jill Smolinski - The Next Thing on My List

‘ Sure. Even though I’ m so aged that I’ m certain my ovaries are shriveled and filled with dust, I may give it a shot.’

‘ Or maybe you can adopt.’

‘ I’ m thirty-four. You act as if it’ s hopeless.’

‘ I didn’ t mean it that way. It’ s only that where I’ m from, women your age are grandmas.’

WE MET SEBASTIAN and Kip at a laser tag in Pasadena. That hadn’ t been the original plan. I’ d set up lunch so that Sebastian could talk to Deedee about her writing. He asked if Kip could come along, however, and since it’ d be the four of us, couldn’ t we have a little fun? I’ d switched plans, and watching them together, I was glad I had. They had a blast. Deedee let loose in a way she rarely did-screaming back and forth in Spanish with Kip, making up Mexican mafioso games, and laughing hysterically.

Unfortunately, the whole concept of laser tag eluded me. The room was so dark that I kept getting lost in the maze. The gun didn’ t shoot anything I could see, and I never did catch on to how I was supposed to recharge. They made fun of me later because I’ d been killed and didn’ t even know it. Apparently, I walked around for three rounds already dead-nothing but a ghost pulling the trigger over and over with no effect on anyone.

We parted ways at the laser tag, and I took Deedee home. ‘ Good luck sneaking in without being seen,’ I called as I let her out of the car. ‘ And don’ t let me catch you doing anything good!’

She rolled her eyes.

The phone was ringing when I walked into my apartment, and when I picked it up it was Kip.

‘ Calling to gloat about your victory?’ I asked. ‘ Because I’ m wondering if the term poor sportsmanship rings any sort of bell for you.’

‘ I need to talk to you about Deedee,’ he said, his voice stiff.

‘ Did something happen?’

‘ I could be wrong about this& ‘

‘ Okay& ‘

‘ But I don’ t believe I am. I’ m speaking as a medical doctor who’ s worked with a good number of young women recently, almost exclusively Latina, so I know the body type, and I know what their skin tone usually looks like, and-’

‘ Kip& what?’

‘ I think your Little Sister has a bun in the oven.’

I SPENT THE REST of the weekend fretting. Could Deedee really be pregnant? She was only fourteen! Of course, Kip could be wrong-but what if he was right? I should say something to Rose Morales. There was probably Big Sister-Little Sister protocol I should be following. Not that a situation such as this would be in the handbook. Not that there was a handbook.

But if I talked to Rose and I was wrong, Deedee would never trust me again.

The devil perched on my shoulder told me to pretend Kip had never called. Que será, será and all that. The angel perched on the other shoulder, however-who looked suspiciously like a thin, baby-faced gay man with a goatee and glasses-said I had to do something& fast. The things he’ d noticed-the protruding belly and the discoloring of the skin-were signs she was getting pretty far along. If that was the case, every day mattered if she wanted to um er

‘ Wanted to what?’ I had asked Kip earlier on the phone.

‘ Not have the baby,’ he’ d replied.

‘ Oh.’

‘ All I’ m saying is that-if that’ s what she decides-the sooner the better. The worst thing would be if she missed the time when a doctor would be willing to do it. You don’ t want to know what these girls resort to when they get desperate.’

He was right about that.

I didn’ t want to know.

BY THE TIME I met Martucci on Monday for our six-thirty a.m. run, I was no clearer on what to do than I’ d been every hour on the hour that I’ d woken up the night before.

Yes, it was a crazy time.

Deedee might be pregnant. I was organizing the biggest promotional event of my career. My libido waged its own campaign for me to get in touch with a certain traffic reporter who should hate me but seemed to be indicating otherwise. I had ten items out of twenty left to do on a list that I felt honor-bound to complete in a matter of months.

And I was training for a 5K run three times a week-every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday-with, of all people, Dominic Martucci.

Was it any wonder I was having trouble sleeping?

Originally, I’ d hoped I wouldn’ t need to do anything as drastic as train in order to cross off #5: Run a 5K. There was a race coming up in May in Manhattan Beach that I planned to sign up for. I’ d recently hopped on the treadmill at the gym, assuming it would be a breeze. After one minute of running-not one mile, one minute-I felt as if I were breathing in bricks instead of air. I was gasping and panting and was so exhausted that I nearly let myself get spewed off the end of the treadmill like a doughnut off the assembly line. I clearly wasn’ t going to make it without putting in effort. Knowing nothing about how to prepare for a run, I asked around the office to see if anyone had any tips. To my dismay, the name Martucci kept coming up. As much as I hated to go crawling to him for advice, I asked him anyway. All he said was, ‘ Sure.’

‘ So are there ways I should go about training& or certain shoes that might help?’

‘ Sure,’ he repeated. ‘ I’ ll train you. But I demand one hundred percent commitment. Three days a week. Show up on time and be ready to work. And’ -he yanked a box of Hot Tamales candies from my hands-’ I suggest you cut down on the crap.’

‘ I don’ t need you to-’

‘ How’ s the running going so far?’ he asked, giving me a disparaging once-over.

Not so well. I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. ‘ Why would you help me?’

‘ Let’ s say it’ s nice you’ re doing that list for the girl you ran over.’

‘ You know about the list?’

‘ Everybody knows about the list.’

‘ Hmph. So much for Brie keeping a secret,’ I grumbled.

He gave me a friendly swat on the shoulder. ‘ Sorry I missed the day you went braless.’

So there I was-as I had been the week before-at an outdoor track, doing warm-up exercises. Martucci used the interval training method. I’ d walk briskly for five minutes, then run a minute, walk five minutes, run a minute, and so on, until I collapsed in a heap on the dirt, at which point he’ d pick me up and make me do it again.

I finished the first set of intervals, and Martucci walked next to me as I wheezed and puffed. He wore snug jogging shorts and a racing-style tank shirt that showed off his wiry muscles. ‘ Hot date last night, Parker? You’ re more out of it than usual.’

‘ I’ ve got a lot of my mind. A girl I know might be pregnant.’

What was I doing confiding in Martucci? Susan had been out of town for the weekend, so I must have been desperate to talk to someone. Either that or I was losing brain cells with every lap.

He blew out a breath. ‘ Tough break. But running is one of the best things you can do. When you get to the third trimester, you’ ll need to switch to walking. But it’ s important to stay in shape so you can push when the time-’

‘ It’ s not me,’ I snapped. ‘ It really is a girl I know. I met her as part of the Big Sister program a few months ago. Poor kid’ s only fourteen. What’ s she going to do& I mean, if she is pregnant? My friend who’ s a doctor suspects she might not even know herself-she may be in denial of any symptoms. I can’ t decide: Should I tell her mom? Or the Big Sister coordinator?’

‘ Do you like this kid?’

‘ Yes,’ I said, surprising myself with the sureness of my answer. ‘ Quite a bit.’

‘ Then get one of those home pregnancy kits. Make sure she’ s really up the duff before you go telling everybody. If I was this kid, I’ d want the chance to tell them myself.’