Free Milkrun by Sarah Mlynowski Page A

his loins, and when he couldn’t take it any longer, called me.
    Omigod. What if he wants to go out tonight? Or what if he wants to go out today? What if as soon as I call him back he asks me if he can come by and pick me up for lunch, and what if once he comes inside he has to use the bathroom? I’ve got to clean it now and only after I clean it, can I call him back.
    I walk into the bathroom. Strands of my hair have woven themselves into a blanket on the tiled floor. “Sam!” I holler, close to tears. “Help! I don’t know how to do this!”
    In a jumping-jack five-second flash, in comes Sam, fully equipped with liquid cleaner, yellow gloves, and some sort of brush I’m pretty sure is supposed to go in the toilet but I’m not a hundred percent.
    â€œWhy don’t I have one of those?” I ask.
    â€œThey don’t come with the toilet, my dirty friend, they’re sold separately. Like batteries.”
    â€œGot it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
    â€œI’m not cleaning it for you. I’m just showing you how.”
    â€œOh.”
    A half hour, a half bottle, and two rolls of paper towels later, I am satisfied.
    Now I can call him back. Maybe he’s planning an afternoon picnic with champagne and strawberries and cut-up tuna sandwiches. But first I have to make myself presentable. Right now, my frizzies are pointed in many obtuse angles. I feel like Pippi Longstocking. I shower, blow-dry my hair, and squeeze out what’s left of my concealer. And a little lipstick. I put on my bathrobe. I don’t want to get dressed if I don’t know where we’re going. Duh.
    I listen to his message again: “Jackie, 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.”
    I’m not sure why he says that last part twice. His message reminds me of the ones Wendy’s grandmother used to leave when Wendy and I were at Penn together: “Vendy, this is your bubbe calling. Your bubbe called. Call your bubbe. Call your bubbe.”
    I write down his number. I dial.
    â€œHi,” his sexy voice says. Omigod. I’m talking to Jonathan Gradinger.
    â€œHi, Jonathan?”
    â€œThis is Jonathan Gradinger. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. So leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Have a great day.” Again with the double statements. That should tell me a little something, but do I have foreshadowing on my mind? No, foreplay is more like it. At this point all I can think of is, omigod, I’m talking to Jonathan Gradinger’s answering machine! Forty-eight hours ago I never would have believed that I’d be leaving him a message. If some psychic had read my palm and told me that in a few days I’d have Jonathan Gradinger’s home phone number—so much more intimate than a cell phone—I would never have believed it.
    Wait a minute. How do I know it’s his home number?
    Beep. I have to leave a message. Beep.
    My mind is blank. I have no idea what to say. Beetlejuice, beetlejuice? I stare at the receiver and hang up.
    My fault. I should have known to be prepared. Where’s my red felt pen? Okay, let’s keep it simple.
    Hello, Jonathan. This is Jacquelyn.
    Too formal.
    Hi, Jon, it’s Jack.
    Too close. We’re not even phone-acquainted yet. And what if he thinks I’m a guy?
    Fifteen minutes pass and I’m still struggling.
    â€œYour bathroom looks great! I’m impressed!” Sam calls out, interrupting my concentration. “Jackie, where are you?”
    â€œIn my room.”
    â€œWhat are you doing?” She enters tentatively, as if expecting something alive to jump out of my overfilled laundry basket and attack her.
    â€œComposing.” I outline the situation for her.
    â€œOkay,” she