Free Milkrun by Sarah Mlynowski

probably wouldn’t be so bad since she probably can get any guy she wants and therefore has great castoffs. Forget that; I don’t want her to think I’m friendless as well as annoying—or, God forbid, desperate.
    When the credits start to role, I leap up to make a quick exit to beat the refill line. Granted, I barely even ate a quarter of it. But I paid for a refill and dammit, I’m going to get it.
    â€œJackie?”
    I turn to the seat next to me and see Andrew Mackenzie’s lightly freckled arm curled around the blonde.
    I am never sitting by myself at a movie ever again.
    The blonde is checking me out, most likely thinking, So this is what a person who has no friends looks like.
    â€œHey! Andrew. I know it looks like I’m here by myself, but I’m not. I’m here with friends. Really. But they’re sitting in the front row, and it was hurting my neck…” They both stare at me, expressionless.
    Andrew is going to tell Jeremy I went to see a movie by myself on a Saturday night. I might as well just throw myself in front of Marc’s two-door Civic.
    â€œHow are you?” he asks. Smiling, he motions for me to exit into the aisle.
    â€œNo, really. I’m not here by myself.” I’m not exiting anything until Marc and Sam walk by so I can prove that I am not here alone.
    â€œJackie, this is Jessica. Jessica, Jackie.” I shake her perfectly French-manicured hand. She looks like a Jessica. She looks like how I used to picture Jessica Wakefield, the Sweet Valley Twin.
    Who is this Jessica? And why didn’t he mention a girlfriend? Not that I gave him much of an opportunity at Orgasm to talk about himself.
    Sam and Marc are already near the doors. Damn. They went around the other side.
    â€œNice to see you, and nice to meet you. I have to go,” I say, choosing not to prolong the misery. I hurry out of the theater.
    At least there’s no line at the popcorn counter.
    No line because it’s closed. What a rip-off. This sucks. I’m the worst Bond girl ever.
    â€œI’ll get the car, girls,” Marc says.
    â€œOh, you’re so sweet, Marc.”
    â€œThat’s Bear. Biggy Bear.”
    Never mind. I don’t want to be a Bond girl, anyway. I hate silver stretch pants.
    Â 
    No message. Not that I’m expecting one, but you never know. He wouldn’t call on a Saturday night. If he does, it would mean that he thinks I’m home, meaning he thinks I have nothing better to do but stay and wait for his call. And why would he be home on a Saturday night, anyway?
    Thank God he didn’t call. I don’t go out with losers.
    I wash up. The green mold around the drain is starting to scare me. I really have to clean the bathroom. Where are the supplies? Why did Sam take them away? Tomorrow for sure I’ll do it. I’ll even set the alarm. For nine. Okay, nine-thirty. Ten.
    Â 
    Brrring… It’s 9:57. Secretly, 9:48. I still have three more minutes. I am not answering. Go away, Dad. I unplug the phone and turn off the alarm.
    Shit. It’s 12:40. I’ve got to clean the bathroom. But wait, I have a message. It wasn’t Dad who called; the caller ID says Anonymous. What inconsiderate fool calls at 9:57 on a Sunday morning?
    â€œJackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger calling. My number is 555-2854. Call me back when you get a chance. Call me back when you get a chance.”

5
Run Your Fingers Through Your Own Damn Hair
    Y AY ! H E CALLED . Y AY ! Y AY ! Y AY ! Thank goodness I didn’t pick up when I was asleep. I might have said something awful. I might have told him how foxy he was. Why did he call so early? He must really like me. I mean really like me. He thought of me as soon as he woke up. Assuming he wakes up at around 9:30, which is pretty probable considering that’s a usual wake-up time. Or maybe he woke up at eight, thought about me, decided to go for a run to diffuse the energy building up in