Boy Meets Girl (11 page)

He just went, “Uh, hi,” when he saw me . . .

AND THEN HE LEFT!!!

Just LEFT!!!!!!!!!!

I do not want to cast aspersions on Dolly’s reputation, but I think . . . well, I think Peter Hargrave might have some competition.

Oops, here’s Dolly. Explanation hopefully forthcoming.

Katie

To: Kate Mackenzie

Fr: Jen Sadler

Re: Paradise

WHO WAS HE?????

And I just want to apologize for the fact that Craig and I were unable to provide you with plasma screens, the Travel Channel, your own bathroom, and a river view. Not to mention strange, broad-shouldered men wandering through the apartment on Saturday mornings.

Now. WHO WAS HE?????

To: Jen Sadler

Fr: Kate Mackenzie

Re: Paradise

Um, Dolly doesn’t appear to know his name. She just calls him Skiboy. Because he is a skiing instructor.

She met him last night. SHE MET HIM LAST NIGHT!!!!! AND SLEPT WITH HIM ALREADY!!!!!!

I don’t want to sound like some girl from Kentucky, but excuse me, what happened to getting to know someone before getting horizontal with them? She could have at least found out his NAME, for crying out loud.

But when I mentioned this to Dolly, she just went, “Who cares about hisname , darling, when he’s got thoseshoulders?”

And so Skiboy I’m afraid he is destined to remain.

I asked Dolly what about Peter Hargrave, and she told me she and Peter have had an open relationship ever since his third marriage.

Dolly really likes my pancakes. After this we are going jogging (!) around the reservoir in order to keep our girlish figures. Then we’re going to some new opening at the Met. Want to join us?

Katie

P.S. Really, your place is much better than Dolly’s. All she has in the fridge is champagne and yogurt. Really. I had to use Better Butter to make the pancakes, so they are a bit runny.

To: Kate Mackenzie

Fr: Jen Sadler

Re: Jogging

Um, thank you for the invitation, but I am trying to get pregnant, remember? The last thing I need is for my uterus to fall out, which is always what I fear is going to happen whenever I go jogging.

Have fun with your new little friend. Craig and I will probably just go to the movies, or something. Not all of us can lead glamorous jet-setting lives with Skiboys trailing in and out of our penthouse.

J

P.S. Dale left four messages on the machine and finally settled for throwing a can of Del Monte peaches with a note wrapped around it onto our fire escape. Do Del Monte peaches have some kind of symbolic meaning for the two of you? Or do you think he just couldn’t find a brick? Anyway, near as I can decipher—his handwriting is execrable, I suppose because he’s a musical genius, or whatever—the note says:

Katie, sorry about what happened at your office. Please don’t be mad. I swear I’ll never do it again. But I really need to know: Have you seen my bowling shoes? You know, those ones I accidentally wore home from Chelsea Piers that one night? Because I really need them for a gig. They go great with my plaid pants.

Love always,

Dale

P.S. Who was that guy in the Bugs Bunny tie, or whatever it was, who kept looking like he wanted to hit me? Is he like your new boss or something? What happened to the T.O.D.? Anyway, I don’t like that guy very much. That’s all. Dale

Such a charmer. Hey, maybe Dolly’ll share Skiboy with you! Have fun at the concert.

J

What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the weight of a single grain of sand? The answer is: Equal to my interest in the message you are about to leave.
So make it short.
 
(Tone)
 
Mitch. Oh my God. It’s Stace. I never in a million years expected him to just stop by like that. I mean, he’s never done it before. It must beher influence. I was totally at a loss. Trust Stuie not to think he has to call first. I mean, who wouldn’t want the great Stuart Hertzog to grace them with his presence? Anyway. What did he say to you, exactly, out in the garage? Jason said he walked in while he was putting his clubs away, and you two were going at it. Jason says he never saw anybody who looked more like he wanted to take a swing at someone. Stuart, I mean. At you. Oh . . . No, sweetie, I don’t know where Mermaid Barbie went. Did you leave her in the hot tub again? Check there. . . . Anyway, it was great to see you. You look good. Call me back so we can talk bad about her.
 
(Click)
 
What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the weight of a single grain of sand? The answer is: Equal to my interest in the message you are about to leave. So make it short.
 
(Tone)
 
Mitchell. This is your mother speaking. I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing with your brother, but I can tell you I for one do not find it very amusing. Stuart is extremely, extremely hurt. I want you to call and apologize to him. It’s bad enough that you’re sullying Amy’s reputation by implying she dismissed this muffin lady wrongly or without just cause. But just what, exactly, did you mean today when you asked her—in front of your sister, and her in-laws, and everyone, if I hear correctly—if the Pi Delts were going to perform any sort of initiation rites on Stuart? Were you implying that Pi Delta is some sort of Satanic group? Just because no Greek society would ever accept you as a member is no reason to malign the organization. Especially given that your own father was a Delta Upsilon. I am tired of having to clean up your messes, Mitchell. I want you to call your brother and apologize not only for the slight against Amy, but also for making up this ridiculous rumor that she called you a nasty name. So I want you to say you’re sorry. That’s all. Just pick up the phone and call your brother and say you’re sorry. Don’t think your father isn’t going to hear about all of this, if you don’t.
(Click)
 
What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the weight of a single grain of sand? The answer is: Equal to my interest in the message you are about to leave. So make it short.
 
(Tone)
 
It’s Sean. Dude, you are in so much trouble. I’ve never seen Mom so pissed off. She says this is the last straw. She says you’re always putting her in the middle, and that she feels like she has to make a choice between you and Stuart, and she’s choosing Stuart, because she says you’re mentally unstable. Oh, and did Amy Jenkins really call you a fuckhead? Dude, that is justso sweet. Call me.
 
(Click)
 
What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the weight of a single grain of sand? The answer is: Equal to my interest in the message you are about to leave. So make it short.
 
(Tone)
 
I would thank you to keep your opinions on the Greek system and my engagement to yourself, Mitch. You don’t need to be sharing them with Stacy’s in-laws and everyone else in Greenwich. Nobody’s interested in your observations on the traditions of my fiancée’s sorority. Furthermore, your assertion that Amy did not follow proper protocol when dismissing that idiot pie lady is completely absurd. As director of Human Resources, Amy can hire and fire whomever she chooses. I think you’re forgetting just which side you’re working for in this case. You are being employed by Peter Hargrave, NOT Ida Lopez. I’d thank you to remember it. And don’t you ever, ever waltz into my fiancée’s office and demand to see paperwork, as if she were one of those common criminals you used to defend and with whom, I’m told, you still occasionally socialize. Amy is a far better person than the sort you’re used to, and deserves to be treated not just as a law-abiding citizen, but as a future member of your family. Understood?
 
God, I ask you to take on a simple case of wrongful termination, and you manage to turn it into some freaking conspiracy against the working man—my God, Mitch! Just do the job you were asked to do and stop overthinking everything, as you are so wont to do. Some people just deserve to lose their jobs, you know! Unless you want to be one of them, get off Amy’s case. And don’t even TRY to say that I couldn’t get Dad to let you go if I wanted to. We both know who Dad’s favorite is, and it’s not you, buddy.
 
(Click)

To: Stacy Trent

Fr: Mitchell Hertzog

Re: Today

Tried to call but your line’s been busy. This wouldn’t have anything to do with Haley and Brittany’s discovery of the Powerpuff Girls’ hotline, would it?

Anyway, sorry to have caused tumult at Finca Trent. I don’t know why Stuart got so bent out of shape. All I meant was that, back at U of Michigan, the Pi Delts had this practice of stripping naked any man who became engaged to one of their own, and leaving him chained that way to the Pi Delta sign in their sorority house’s front yard, for the ogling of passersby. I just wondered, you know, if Amy’s Pi Delt sisters were going to perform a similar act on Stuart, for the benefit of New Yorkers. I merely suggested that Stuart might be stripped and chained to theNew York Journal sign outside 216 West 57th Street. I don’t have the slightest idea why that would upset her so much. Do you? I mean, if you can’t take the heat, hand back the lavaliere, is what I say.

Tell Jason I had a good time on the greens today . . . well, what you could see of them, beneath all the snow. Maybe going golfing in March isn’t the best idea I’ve had recently.

Won’t be around if you call later, I’ve got to go to some benefit at the museum for Dad. Can’t say I mind, really. Rubbing shoulders with people who have more money than they know what to do with beats hanging out with people who can’t stop talking about how adorable it was when little Taylor spat her ubby across the church at Richard Junior’s christening.

No offense.

Mitch

aka The Fucker

Welcome to the opening of the Gregory Shearson

French Nineteenth-Century Drawing Collection

Why did I come to this? Oh my God, I’m so bored, I think I’m going to die. I mean it’s not like I

Entertainment provided by

the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center

would rather be back at Dolly’s watching the Travel Channel, because I wouldn’t. At least, I don’t

Gregory Shearson’s collection touches on many of the trends in French drawing of the time: the heroic Neoclassicism of David; the refined classicism of Ingres; Delacroix’s expressive Romanticism; the richly textured landscapes of the Barbizon School; Seurat’s luminous sheets of shaded crayon; and the jewel-like watercolors of Paul Signac and Henri-Edmond Cross.

think I would. I don’t know. If I were still with Dale, I’d be sitting in some smoky bar in the East Village right now, waiting for him to go on. Correction, I’d be running around the apartment, helping him find his bowling shoes, since the band wouldn’t be going on until after midnight, and no way would Dale be ready to go by now. And I’m not saying I wouldn’t rather be here, because this is way better than your typical East Village bar, I mean, no one smoking or asking if they can smell my hair. But I don’t feel like I fit in, even with Dolly’s borrowed duds.

The selection captures another facet of the taste of a great American collector famous for the range and depth of his interest in the history of European art.

I mean, first of all there’s the fact that my hair is way bigger than anybody else’s here—but Dolly said it looks good curly. Iso should have blown it out. And second of all, well, I think I am the only person here with less than ten grand in my 401K. I might be the only person here who even HAS a 401K—besides Dolly, I mean. I seem to be the only one here without a DATE. I mean, Dolly didn’t exactly mention she was meeting up with Skiboy here. But there he was, waiting for her, right by the red carpet. And can I just say, his shoulders look even BROADER at nighttime.

This exhibition was made possible by

a grant from the Gregory Shearson Foundation.

Okay, one more champagne, and I am out of here. Where is that waiter? Where—OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, WHAT ISHE DOING HERE?

AND WHO IS THATWITH HIM? Oh my God, Mitchell Hertzog is here with a date. A DATE! Oh, and look at her. Just look at her. SHE had a blow-out. SHE didn’t take the advice of the style editor for theNew York Journal. She looks great. Well, if by “great” you mean seven feet tall and a hundred pounds. She actually looks like a praying mantis, if you ask me.

Oh God, why did I eat all those leftover cold sesame noodles for dinner?

Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center program

Maybe I can slip out before he sees me with my hair like this. If I get behind that pillar

Quintet for Clarinet and Strings in A Major,K. 581. . . . . . . . . . .Mozart

and slither over to the coat-check thingie, I can probably make it. Oh please God let me make it

Sextet for Clarinet, String Quartet and Piano. . . . . . . . . . .Copland

NOOOOOOO! He’s seen me! What do I—

Quintet for Two violins, Viola, Cello, and Piano in F Minor, Op. 34. . . . . . . . . . .Brahms

Why is it that every time I see Mitchell Hertzog I manage to make a total and complete ass of myself? If I’m not dribbling along about chicken in garlic sauce, I’m dealing with my lunatic ex-boyfriend or acting like I know something about art and classical music, when clearly, CLEARLY, I do not.

And he looked SO nice, too. I mean, really, really, really nice, in his tuxedo. He looked SKIBOY nice. Seriously, even Skiboy’s shoulders paled in comparison to Mitchell Hertzog’s.

He acted nice, too. He was all, “What are YOU doing here? I would’ve thought a girl like you would have something better to do than hang at a thing like this.”

Like I was too glam for the place, or something. Ha, I wish. I told him I’d just come to keep Dolly company, on account of her having an extra ticket.

He looked around for Dolly, but of course she had gone off with Skiboy. The two of them were behind the cellist with their hands down each other’s pants.

And then, me, idiot girl I am, I can’t leave it at that. Oh, no. I keep foaming away at the mouth:

Me: Oh, yes, well, Dolly and I, we go way back. In fact, right now we’re roomies, can you believe it?

Him: Roomies? Really? How did that happen?

Me: Well, you know, I’m between apartments right now, and Dolly, she has that big penthouse, way up on East Eightieth and East End Avenue and I don’t know, she asked and I jumped. . . .

LAME LAME LAME LAME I’m sure the Praying Mantis is a better conversationalist. At least until she bites his head off after they’re done mating (it’s praying mantises that do this, right?)

Then he went, “Well, it’s probably good you’re in the penthouse. That way your musical friend might find it a little harder to serenade you. Since you don’t seem to find his serenades all that appealing.”

Dale! God! I’d managed to forget all about Dale. I’d managed to forget for a minute there that the last time I saw this man, I was begging the NYPD not to use their nightsticks on my psychotic ex.

“Oh,” I said, trying to sound all—what’s the word?Je ne sais quoi, I guess. I’m sure the Praying Mantis would know. “That. Yes. Thanks so much for your help with that, by the way. Um, Dale and I, we, well, we broke up, and he’s not, um, taking it well.”

And he went, “So I gathered. Listen, if you need anything, any kind of legal help with that, a restraining order, or something—“

Oh my God! He wants to help me get a restraining order! Against Dale! I mean, I probably should. Only I don’t want Dale to go to jail. I just want him to go away.

But still. Like if I ever needed a restraining order, I’d go to HIM! I mean, Hertzog Webber and Doyle charge like five hundred bucks an hour, or something. Maybe even more. I could use up my entire savings account for what this guy charges in three hours.

But I swear to God, there I was, standing there thinking, “If I don’t take him up on his offer, he’ll think maybe I’m not serious about breaking up with Dale, and then he’ll never ask me out.”

Mitchell Hertzog, I mean.

Yeah. That’s what I was thinking. About Mitch Hertzog. While I was standing there talking to him at an opening to which he had CLEARLY BROUGHT A LONG, BLONDE, SLINKY DATE! Who was staring right at me from over by the Ingres (which she did not exactly not resemble, if you get my drift. I wonder if Ingres used praying mantises as models for his subjects)!

God, I am pathetic. Give me a guy in a tux—even a guy who is clearly taken—and all I can seem to think about is sharing the SundayTimes and strolls through Central Park.

So then, just to make things REALLY awkward and lame, I laughed all breezily and went, “Well, you know, ha ha, I’m on a human-resources-department salary, I really doubt I could afford you.”

Then Mitchell said the nicest thing. I mean, seriously, the nicest thing. He said, “I’d be happy to do it at no charge. Why don’t you stop by my office on Monday and we’ll talk about it? Say, lunchtime?”

But then he added, “I know a great place for chicken in garlic sauce.”

I have to admit, for a minute I was so shocked I just stood there staring at him, probably with my mouth hanging open. I was trying to figure out what to do—whirl around and make a beeline for the door, or tell him where to get off—when it was like he realized I wasn’t laughing and he poked my arm and went, “Whoa. Joke. That was a joke. What, they don’t joke in human resources?”

And the thing is, the last thing I want to do is fall for a lawyer. And I seriously don’t want to get a restraining order against Dale—I mean, he isn’t a threat to me—my ego, maybe, but not my body.

But Mitch just smiled so nicely when he said the wordjoke, and he seemed sincerely to want to help me, and, well, hepoked me. Like a friendly poke. How many lawyers give people friendly pokes? I mean, really?

And I will admit that maybe all of that—and the fact that the Praying Mantis was glaring so hard at me—caused me to, I don’t know, lose my head all of a sudden. Because the next thing I knew, I was promising him I would do it, I would have lunch with him on Monday, even though he’s a lawyer and his brother is the most heinous man in the world and he has a seven-feet-tall, hundred-pound girlfriend already and the T.O.D. SPECIFICALLY SAID I WAS NOT TO SEE MITCHELL HERTZOG AGAIN UNLESS SHE WAS PRESENT!

Except that I’m not meeting him about Mrs. Lopez. I’m meeting him about Dale. Which is, you know, totally unwork-related. Well, except for when Dale shows up at my workplace with a bouquet and a new song for me. But whatever.

I just thought that was the sweetest thing—I mean, this very high-powered lawyer, offering to help me with my stupid, boring problem. . . .

Well, I practically started crying right there on the spot. If he had offered me a lease on a studio apartment for nine fifty a month, utilities included, within walking distance of my office, I could not have been more touched.

And then of course, I had to go and ruin the moment by saying, “Well, okay, yeah . . .” and then because he was still standing there and I was still standing there and Miss Praying Mantis in a Dior wraparound evening dress was also still standing there, having seen the whole thing—you know, her date make a date with me, even though it wasn’t really a date, because it was lunch, and work-related—for him, anyway—I couldn’t just leave it, I had to be all, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

And Mitchell looked kind of startled—really, like he’d forgotten she was even there—and went, “Oh, of course. Clarissa, this is Kate Mackenzie. I’m working with her on a breach-of-contract arbitration. Kate, this is Clarissa Doyle.”

And then the Praying Mantis came slinking over and stuck her creepy overlong Ingres-like hand at me and went, “So nice to meet you. You must be with Substantiated Oil, then,” and I went, “Um, no. TheNew York Journal. Mitchell—I mean, Mr. Hertzog—I mean, Mitchell—is helping us with a wrongful termination suit.”

Which of course caused the Praying Mantis to just look at me and go, “Breach of contract, you mean. There is no wrongful termination in the state of New York.” And then she looked at Mitchell from beneath her eyelashes—she must spend a fortune at Sephora because they were super long . . . her eyelashes, I mean—and then there was one of those embarrassing silences, during which I guessed that Mitch must have met Clarissa through work.

And then I put two and two together, and remembered that the name of Mitch’s firm was Hertzog Webber and Doyle, and that Clarissa had to be the Doyle. Ora Doyle, anyway. And then I thought how happy, you know, it would probably make everybody, if she and Mitchell got married, because then they could start a little lawyer empire, like France, or something, and then, I don’t know, the thought of it made me wish I hadn’t drunk so much champagne, because suddenly I got a very bad headache, which I guess Mitch must have noticed, since he went, “Are you all right, Kate?”

I said I was, because, you know, you have to lie about that kind of thing, and then, to deflect the attention off me, I asked him how his family liked Amy, although I almost called her the T.O.D.

“Uh, everyone seems to like her just fine,” Mitch said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just peachy,” I said. I couldn’t believe those words came out of my mouth. But there they were, floating like a bubble over my head, like in a Peanuts cartoon. It was as though even Clarissa was stretching her Praying Mantis neck to look at them.

And of course that only made my headache about ten times worse, and the damn Brahms didn’t help much, either.

Then it was like a nuclear bomb went off inside my head, because who should I see standing not twenty feet away but Stuart Hertzog and the T.O.D.!!!!

I about swallowed my tongue. I mean, if the T.O.D. caught me fraternizing with Mitch, after expressly forbidding me from doing so, I would be demoted to the mailroom quicker than you could say Staff Assistance Program. . . .

I don’t think Mitchell saw them, but he saw my face, and all of a sudden, he went, “Kate, you look done for. Let me get your coat and a cab home. Clarissa can tell Dolly you decided to go on home without her.”

To which Clarissa replied, looking more like a Praying Mantis than ever, “Yes, of course I will.”

And even though I was all, “No, it’s all right,” he got my coat tag from me. I have to say, I didn’t exactly fight him on the whole getting-me-out-of-there, and-fast thing. We managed to slip right by the T.O.D. without her even noticing (she was busy picking at an hors d’oeuvre and I think mentally tabulating how long she’d have to work out on her treadmill before she’d burn off all the calories in it).

Anyway, next thing I know, Mitch and I were standing in the drizzle in front of the Met, and he was flagging down a cab for me.

“It must be the champagne,” I said lamely, because I didn’t want to admit that it was the sight of my boss that had caused me to go green around the gills. Because, you know, after all, my boss is his future sister-in-law, and even if he will eventually find out for himself how heinous she is, I can’t be the one to tell him. “Really, I’m not used to it. And Dolly and I went on a run around the reservoir today, and I’m not used to that, either, and . . . It must have been the champagne.”

And then Mitch said, “Really? I thought it was the crowd, myself. I can’t stand all the glad-handing.”

And then a cab pulled up, and Mitch opened the door for me and put me inside and told the driver where to go. Then he looked at me, and went, “See you on Monday, Kate.”

I had time to say only, “See you on Monday, and thanks—“ before he shut the door on me. And then the driver took me home.

And so now I’m lying here—Dolly and Skiboy aren’t back yet. Maybe they won’t come back tonight. Maybe they’ll go to his place. Though I can’t imagine Skiboy’s place is better than Dolly’s—and I’m wondering to myself . . .

Well, just how did Mitch Hertzog know Dolly’s exact address, anyway? Because he did. He gave it to the cab driver.

I wonder if HE ever wandered around this place in his tightie whities.

No. Surely not. He is definitely a boxers man.

To: Mitchell Hertzog

Fr: Clarissa Doyle

Re: Your little waif

Well, haven’t you gone all Galahad. Your little Lady Elaine is adorable. But you ought to tell her it isn’t good form to leave the ball before midnight. She missed all the fireworks between you and Stuart. What WAS he so upset about?

I can’t say much for that creature he’s marrying. She looks like somebody shoved a Manolo Blahnik up her ass.

When you can drag yourself away from Cinderella, sweet prince, do you think you could give me a call about the Brinker-Hoffman case?

C

To: Mitchell Hertzog

Fr: Haley and Brittany

Re: You

Uncle Mitch! We had fun yesterday. You should come over more often. We really liked how red you made Uncle Stuart’s face, when he was yelling at you in the garage. Can you do that again, next time you come?

So Uncle Stuart is marrying that lady? Mom says she’s going to be our aunt Amy. She’s okay, except she wouldn’t try any peanut butter M&M chocolate chip fudge cookies. They were good—you ate five, remember? But she said she was on a special diet, and couldn’t eat something called carbs. We told her we didn’t put any carbs in our cookies, just M&Ms, but she said M&Ms were carbs.

Uncle Mitch, what’s carbs?

Well, that’s all. Thank you for the Barbie video, we put it on and turned it up REAL loud this morning, just like you said. You were right: Daddy does look funny when he runs downstairs screaming with his hair all standing up.

Love,

Haley and Brittany

(and Little John, too little to work the computer)

To: Mitchell Hertzog

Fr: Stacy Trent

Re: You

Heard from Stuie this morning. He says he saw you at the museum last night with Clarissa Doyle. Tell me you two are not dating again. I thought you guys figured out you were completely incompatible way back in 9th grade, when she deflowered you behind the pool house.

Naughty.

Stace

Hi, you’ve reached Kate and Dale. We can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave a message at the tone, and we’ll get back to you.
 
(Tone)
 
Hi, Katie! It’s Mom again! You never returned my call. I just wanted to let you know, Charlie and I are in Sante Fe. Sante Fe, New Mexico. Oh, it’s just lovely here, you and Dale have to come visit us sometime. The air is so—
 
“H-hello?”
“Hello? Dale? Is that you? It’s Carol, Dale.”
“Oh. Mrs. Mackenzie. Hey. How’s it going.”
“Did I wake you, Dale? I’m so sorry. The time difference. Let’s see, it’s noon here, which means it must be . . . three in the afternoon there. Dale, what are you still doing in bed at three in the afternoon?”
“I had a gig last night. I didn’t get home till five.”
“Oh. I see. Well. Is Katie there? Let me talk to Katie, and you can go back to sleep.”
“Mrs. M., Katie moved out.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Like a month ago.”
“Katie moved OUT?”
“Yeah. I thought . . . you mean, you haven’t heard from her?”
“No. No, not since Colorado. Right, Charlie? Didn’t we talk to Katie in Denver? But that was only last week, and she didn’t say anything about—“
“She probably didn’t want to worry you.”
“Oh. Oh, dear, you’re probably right. Well, what happened, Dale? Did you two have a fight?”
“Yeah. I guess so. I don’t know. She started talking all crazy about marriage, and wasting the best years of her life, and wanting a commitment and shit. But you know, Mrs. M. I gotta take it one day at a time.”
“Well, of course you do, Dale. You don’t want to be tied down, any more than I want to be tied down, or Charlie. That’s why we’re driving cross-country, never staying in any one place too long. But you know, Katie’s always been a little on the conventional side. She never liked it when we traveled, not even the time we went to Disneyworld.”
“Yeah. She said she wouldn’t go on tour with us. If we ever get a tour, I mean.”
“Hmmm. That sounds like Kate. Well, tell you what, Dale. Give me her number. Is she staying with Jen? I’ll give her a call—“
“Shewas staying with Jen. But Jen said she moved out. So now I don’t know where she’s staying.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t know where Kate is?”
“No. And Jen won’t tell me. On account of how I did something kinda dumb the other day. I mean, I thought it was the kinda thing Kate’d want me to do, kinda romantic and shit. But I guess she didn’t think it was so romantic, since she had ’em call the cops on me. . . .”
“Just give me Jen’s number, Dale. I’m sure Jen’ll tell me where Katie is staying. And Dale, really, try not to take this too personally. You and Katie were meant for each other. I mean, you haven’t been together since the eleventh grade for nothing, now, have you?”
“Naw. I guess not. Okay. Jen’s number is 555-1324. That’s 212. And Mrs. M.?”
“Yes, Dale?”
“If you talk to Kate, tell her . . . tell her I love her. I mean, I can’t be who she wants me to be—’cause I can only be myself. You know? But I still love her.”
“Of course I’ll tell her, Dale. That is just so sweet—“
“And can you ask her where she put the coffee filters? ’cause like, we can’t find ’em anywhere. We’ve been using a pair of Scroggs’s socks, and socks don’t make real good coffee filters, it turns out.”
“Of course I’ll ask her, Dale. Love you. Buh-bye!”
“Bye.”
 
(Click)