Free Wishful Thinking by Elle Jefferson Page A

talking about some new math theory. “If you ever hope to go out with him you’ll be doing all the asking. He’s not that into girls—wait that came out wrong, I mean he’s not into dating or being social. It’s kind of weird that he’s here tonight.”  
    Dean's lack of girlfriends, at one time, was attributed to him being gay.   Even I started to question it. Not that he was über stylish or effeminate, but he didn’t pay attention to girls the way the rest of us did. I’ve known him for over eleven years now and I know he’s not. He’s actually slept with more girls than me. But he’s to determined to make the future he envisions a reality and “Girlfriends get in the way of that,” as he would say. Besides, Dean doesn’t care what anyone thinks.    
    I asked, "So where are you from?"  
    "Poughkeepsie."
    "I guessed Jersey."
    "Nope, Yorker through and through."
    “What in the world did your family come all the way from New York to Maine for?" Don’t get me wrong I had nothing against where I was from but New York seemed far more exciting.
    "There in the Noneya business," she said and smiled.
    I walked right into it, "What’s that?"
    "None of your business."  
    "Got me there."  
    This was the longest conversation I’d had with a girl who I wasn’t getting something from. I started playing with my jacket zipper. Claudia played with her hands.  
    We both stared up at the sky.  
    “Do you––
    “Do you––  
    We both started at the same time.
    “Sorry go ahead,” I said.  
    “It’s just, do you think there are little green men in spaceships out there watching us?”
    I couldn’t help it I laughed. I was thinking the same thing. “If they are watching they have to be bored out of their mind or stupider than we are.”
    “Intelligent beings hardly,” she said and laughed.
    After we both calmed I thought I’d take another stab at her family dynamic. She had a calming affect on me and I liked talking to her it was sort of like talking to Dean. No pressure.
    “Your dad seems …" I started to say and stopped.  
    "What? Nice? Cool?"
    I shook my head, and went with a less obvious way of saying scary, “Committed.”
    “He’s a bit protective especially after my mom left."
    “Do they share you?" I asked.  
    She sniffled or something, "No, my mom took off don’t know where and I guess my dad is worried I’ll do the same.”
    Seemed unlikely. A guy who let his daughter out alone in the middle of the night couldn’t be too worried about her running off. I was a guy and it took quite a bit of persuading on my part to get my dad to allow me out in the early morning to exercise. Hence how I ended up with a cell phone and the rule I had to answer all of his calls, not that he called that much. Those were two things my dad had zero tolerance for, being late without calling and going somewhere without telling him. He never once freaked if I came home at midnight instead of eleven as long as I called––and I learned to do both religiously.  
    The one time I didn’t call and missed curfew my dad freaked. Scared me so bad I never did it again. It was during freshman year. Nate was having one of his my-parents-are-gone-again parties. It didn’t take much coercing on my part to get my dad to let me go. Of course he gave the typical parental warnings––don’t drink you’re not twenty-one, don’t do drugs––etcetera, etcetera. I did drink, but not a lot. I won’t lie one beer back then pretty much toasted me. The problem came when two o’clock in the morning rolled around and I was sort of passed out in one of Nate’s upstairs guest rooms without calling my dad.  
    I was awoken by a loud billowing scream downstairs. Yelling continued to grow louder and closer, bringing me out of my drunken stupor. The door to the room I was staying in flew open and my dad stood there. He flipped on the light and my true embarrassment started.  
    My dad’s not a bad looking guy for a man in his