Free Milkrun by Sarah Mlynowski Page B

says. “How about this. Hi, Jonathan, it’s Jackie returning your message. Give me a call when you have a chance.”
    â€œOh, that’s brilliant. What comes after ‘message’ again? Say it slowly so I can write it down.”
    â€œYou’re a nut.”
    â€œNever mind. I remember.”
    â€œDon’t forget to block your number.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhat if he has call display? You already hung up once. It’ll look funny if it says your name twice with only one message.”
    â€œSoooo clever! You’d be single-girl extraordinaire. ”
    â€œThanks, but no thanks.”
    I pre-dial the code to withhold my number, then re-dial Jonathan’s. Sam holds my other hand for moral support.
    â€œHi. This 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.”
    Trying to make my voice sound as natural as possible, I read my scrawled message and carefully place the phone back on the receiver.
    Now all I have to do is wait.
    Hmm, hmm, hmm.
    How am I going to wait all day?
    How is he supposed to pick me up for our picnic and see my clean bathroom if he doesn’t call me back?
    â€œWhat should I do all day, Sam? What are you doing all day?”
    â€œCorrecting some homework.”
    â€œYou give homework to fourth-graders? That’s mean.”
    â€œI have to give a little homework.”
    â€œWanna go shopping?”
    â€œI can’t. I’m broke.”
    â€œYeah, so am I. So what’s your point?”
    â€œI find window-shopping depressing.”
    Oh. Oh, well. I’ll just watch TV then. Jonathan will call back soon.
    Six o’clock. No Jonathan.
    Seven o’clock. I’m sure he’s just out for the afternoon.
    Eight o’clock. He just got home now. He’s turning on the TV. Getting ready to watch a new episode of The Simpsons .
    It’s the last scene. Any minute now.
    It’s over. Any second now the phone is going to ring. Any second now. C’mon, phone, don’t be shy.
    It’s eleven and I’m not waiting anymore. I detest Jonathan Gradinger; he obviously met someone else tonight, fell in love, and forgot all about me. No one will ever love me again. My days will consist of work, my nights will consist of TV, and I will spend Saturday nights from here on at the movies—alone.
    And so I go to bed—alone.
    The next day at work I try to proofread a manuscript, but every time I get to the end of a paragraph I call in for my messages. “No new messages,” the anal recorded bitch says.
    I get home feeling pathetic. But what’s this? From the doorway I see the flashing red light. I leave my shoes on—I mustn’t waste any time!—even though I know Sam will shoot me. Please don’t be Janie, please don’t be Janie, please don’t be—“Hi, Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger again. Give me a shout back. My work number is 555-9478. My work number is 555-9478.”
    No waiting this time, no bathroom cleaning, and no red ink preparation. I don’t care if my bed isn’t made, I’m calling him back now.
    â€œDartmouth Clinic,” a woman says.
    â€œHi, can I speak to Dr. Gradinger please?”
    â€œWhom shall I say is calling?”
    â€œJackie.” I’m still not crazy about the repeating everything on the answering machine thing. Half the point of the recorded message is so you can listen to it again if you need to. Or again and again and again like I might want to do with this one.
    â€œJackie who?” Okay this woman obviously wants a piece of my Jonathan. Maybe she’s already had a piece of him. Maybe that’s where he was last night.
    â€œHello?” she asks somewhat impatiently.
    â€œNorris. He knows who I am. He called me. I’m