Fat Cat (11 page)

"I usually go off campus," Greg said. "But now that I know you guys are hanging out ..."

Amanda kicked me again. I pretended to read my notes.

Greg cleared his throat. "So, Cat, I was wondering. What do you like to do for fun?"

I didn't look up. "Nothing. I don't do fun."

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, right."

"I don't," I insisted, pressing my leg against Amanda's. She pressed back.

"So, Greg," she said, "tell Cat what you were saying about your entrepreneur class." To me she said, "Greg's taking the entrepreneur class."

"I just heard." I kept on trying to read. My skin felt all clammy.

Meanwhile Greg launched into some lengthy discussion about market studies and prototypes and this great idea he has for selling sweet-and-sour snack mix out of the student-run concession stand if he can work out a deal with the supplier, blobbity blah, and all I could think was, Why is he talking to me? What does he want?

"I figure I'll start selling at the games," Greg said, "get a base, then expand to the daily concession."

"Doesn't that sound interesting?" Amanda asked me.

"Hmm," I said, still not looking up.

Another five minutes of that, and finally Greg moved on. I didn't realize my shoulders had been up to my ears until I felt them relax.

Jordan wasn't happy. "A little eye contact would have been good, Cat."

"I told you, I don't want to go out with anyone."

"Good," he said. "You're there. Beecher's a really nice guy. I'm sorry I ever introduced you."

He grumped off, leaving Amanda and me alone.

"You were really rude," she confirmed.

Okay, they'd both succeeded in making me feel like a total pig.

"What was I supposed to do?" I asked Amanda. "I didn't want to encourage him--that seems even ruder."

"Cat, we're just trying to help you out here."

I groaned. "Listen to me once and for all. I honestly,
truly
do not want a boyfriend. It's just not right for me. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm much happier being alone. I swear."

Amanda handed me back my lunch container. "Thank you for the pizza. And the roasted asparagus. I'm going to try not to curse you right now, mainly because you're my friend and I love you and also because you cook such fabulous food and I want more of it. But tell me the truth--and I'm serious here, Cat. Is it even remotely possible that any of this has anything to do with you-know-who?"

"No," I answered quickly. "Absolutely not."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Amanda stared at me. I stared back.

"Some boys are nice," she said.

"I know. Look at Jordan."

"Who may never forgive you." Amanda sighed. "So we should just give up on you?"

"Yes, please."

"And you don't care that you're going to end up a bitter--"

"--dried-out old hag? No. I'm looking forward to that."

Amanda slumped in her chair. "I failed you."

"No, failing me would have been trying to force me to go out with someone I have absolutely no interest in."

"I need you to promise me something," Amanda said.

"Maybe."

"I need you to promise that someday--I don't care if it's a year
from now or ten years--but someday when you meet someone nice, you'll actually give him a chance. Do you think you can do that?"

I mulled it over. "Possibly."

"I mean, you're not saying you're never ever going to fall in love, right? Because if you tell me that, I'm going to stab myself in the heart with this spoon right now."

"No, I'm not saying that."

"Good. And can I tell you that you were really a bitch to Greg just now? I mean, really."

"Sorry. I just wanted to make sure I discouraged him."

"Oh, you did," Amanda said. "I think we can pretty much count on the Greg vote being lost."

Incredibly, she was wrong.

29

"T
ell him I can't use the phone,"
I told my mother.

She handed it to me anyway. "You tell him."

"Hi, Cat?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Hi. It's Greg Beecher. From school."

"Right," I said. "I know who you are."

A fine mist sprang up over my lip, like a tiny sweat mustache. If only Amanda were nearby so I could kick her.

"Great," he said. "I, uh ... wanted to know if ..."

Oh my gosh, he actually sounded nervous. Which was impossible, because I was nervous enough for everyone in the world.

I needed to put us both out of our misery, fast.

"Look, Greg, I'm not really supposed to talk on the phone--"

"Oh, did I call too late?"

Considering that it was only seven, that was hard to believe.
"No, but I've taken a vow not to use the telephone for about another 165 days. So I have to get off right now--"

"Wait," he said quickly. "I just wanted to know if you want to go out with me sometime."

There. Words I never thought I'd hear. From anyone. By now even the roots of my hair were sweating.

"No," I said, "but thanks. I have to go now--"

"Wait. Are you joking?"

Like he'd never even considered I might refuse? "No, I'm not joking."

"But Jordan said--"

"Jordan was wrong," I told him. And for some reason the following words just sprang out of my mouth: "And besides ... I've sort of taken this vow of chastity, you know? So I can't really go out--"

"Yeah, sure--"

"I mean, I shouldn't even be around guys--"

"Yeah," Greg said, "but I like you. I think you're cool. I really want to go out."

What was I supposed to say to that?

30

I
used the telephone again to call Amanda
because it was a certified emergency.

"Oh my gosh, it was horrible."

"What did he say?"

"That he
likes
me."

Amanda squealed. "What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Did he ask you out?"

"Yes."

Another squeal. "Well?"

I paused, then let out a groan. "I said yes."

You'd have thought from the scream on the other end I'd just told Amanda a publisher wanted to buy all her poems.

"When?" she asked.

"This Saturday. I told him he could come with us to Poetry Night."

"A double date! I get to see everything! We need to go shopping," Amanda rattled off, "and fix your hair, and maybe do your nails--"

"No," I interrupted before she could get too out of control. "I'm not doing any of that. I'm going as is or not at all. I shouldn't have even said yes."

"But you did," Amanda said, "and that calls for clothes. We barely got started shopping last weekend. We need at least three or four more outfits."

"No way," I said. "We're done."

"Come on, Cat, can you at least be a little bit excited? Please? For me?"

Of course she stared me down, even over the phone.

I groaned again. "Why did he even ask me out?"

"Why wouldn't he?" Amanda answered. "You're fabulous!"

There was no getting around it--this was actually going to happen. "Fine. But I'm just doing this for you."

"I accept," Amanda said.

So we made a shopping date for Saturday morning. Today.

Actually, it wasn't so bad. I have to confess it felt pretty good to hear Amanda say, "Look at that size! Cat, you're wasting away!"

I knew all my old clothes were feeling loose--I just didn't know how loose.

Wow. It's really working.

Amanda brought me some more pants and a few more tops. And a skirt.

"No," I said. "No skirts."

"It's time."

"I don't feel like shaving."

"Cat, are you a girl or what? Have I been mistaken all this time? Let me see your armpits."

"I shave those," I said, shrugging her off. "Why do I have to make such a big deal out of this?"

"Because it's your first date EVER. Well, since at least seventh grade."

"Those weren't dates."

"Uh-huh. Boy, girl, ice cream--that's a date." She waved off any further argument. "My point is, it's been a long, long, LONG time, and maybe we should give this the attention to detail it deserves."

"I'm not going to kiss him."

"Who said anything about kissing?" Amanda asked.

"I'm sure you were going to get to that."

"Well, now that you mention it--"

"Forget it."

"If he moves in like this--"

I pushed her away. "Forget it!"

She cocked her head and assessed my new outfit. "You look awfully cute!" she sang. She reached out and pinched my cheek. "A little makeup--"

"No makeup."

"--a little perfume--"

"Hominins didn't wear perfume."

"--and lose about an inch of hair on your legs, and we're talking gorgeous."

"I don't want to be kissed," I said.

"Of course you do."

31

G
reg picked me up at six-thirty
. I answered the door wearing the outfit Amanda picked out for me this morning--girl jeans, a white cami, and a cranberry-colored top. She fought hard to do my hair and makeup for tonight, but I stood my ground. Greg was going to have to take me in my native state or not at all. And I was secretly hoping for the not at all.

So why did I even agree to go out with him? He caught me off guard when he called the other night, but I could have backed out anytime these last few days. So why didn't I?

I thought about that a lot while I got dressed. And I decided if I had to be strictly scientific about it, it's because of that vanity thing again. I mean, when has a guy ever shown me the slightest bit of interest? And even though Greg isn't exactly my idea of a perfect match, I know there are girls out there who'd be flattered that he asked them out. And so maybe I'm one of them.

"You look great," he said as I stood in the doorway.

"Thanks. You do, too." And it was the truth. Which surprised me. I guess I'd never really looked at him before. I'd purposely averted my eyes when he showed up at lunch the other day, and same thing when he was standing in front of me in his Speedo. But seeing him tonight in khakis and a short-sleeved knit shirt, I sort of got a new appreciation for the guy's build. His biceps are as big as hams. And he must be at least a foot taller than I am.

He opened the car door for me. Points for that. And he was a pretty careful driver, signaling before every turn. Points there, too.

We rode in silence for a few minutes. My palms were so wet I could have soaked through a whole roll of paper towels.

Finally Greg led with, "So, you're a math and science geek, huh?"

I didn't really care for the "geek" part--geeks can call each other that, but we don't really like it when outsiders do--but I just answered, "Yeah, I guess."

"You like science, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I hate it," he said. "I suck at it."

"Oh." I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say.

"You probably already took biology, huh?"

"Yeah," I said, "freshman year."

"Man, that class is killing me!"

"Oh. Sorry."

"Hey, maybe if I take you out to dinner a few times a week, you'll do my homework for me, huh?" He laughed. "Just kidding. But you're probably good at algebra, too, huh? I'd even buy you dessert--just kidding."

Thank goodness the ride was short.

Amanda and Jordan were waiting for us outside the cafe.

"How's it going?" Amanda whispered while the two guys did their male greeting thing.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," I whispered back.

"You'll be fine."

Jordan clasped Amanda's hand as we entered the cafe. I stayed far enough away from Greg that he wouldn't get the idea he should do the same.

We grabbed our usual table--the owner, Darlene, keeps it reserved for us on Poetry Night--and sat down, boy-girl, boy-girl. I really wished it were girl-girl so I could keep whispering to Amanda.

The three of us order the same thing every time, so we didn't need menus. Greg had to go back up front to ask for one.

I made good use of his absence. "Jordan, what did he say about this whole thing? I mean, does he think this is like a kissing date?"

Jordan snorted. "A kissing date? What, are we in first grade?"

Amanda elbowed him. "She's nervous. Be nice."

"It's whatever you want it to be," Jordan told me. "Relax. He's not going to jump you--"

"Here he comes," Amanda whispered.

We all straightened up.

Greg took his seat again, and then scowled down at the menu.

"Get the veggie burgers, bro," Jordan told him. "Extra everything."

"What are you having?" Greg asked me. I pointed to the sweet potato fries on the menu. "Wanna share?" he asked. I know this is ridiculous, but that already felt too intimate. But I stammered out a "sure." Amanda gave me a reassuring smile.

In that moment she and I both knew it: I am so not cut out for dating.

While Jordan and Greg handled the small talk for a while, analyzing some of the results from their swim meet this morning, Amanda looked over her poetry notes and I just sat there trying not to panic.

How do people even do this? Why date at all? You have to figure
out what to talk about, how to act, what to eat, what to wear, what to do with your hands--the whole thing is just torture.

And then talk about your torture. The first poet stepped up to the mike.

The woman obviously has some issues, and for some reason she decided to inflict them on all of us tonight. We had to sit through three excruciatingly long epic poems about her horrible mother, her rotten ex-husband, and the abusive, sadistic, blankety-blank boss who recently fired her. I wish the woman had just gone to therapy.

"Are they all gonna be like that?" Greg asked me as we applauded the woman finally sitting down.

"Sometimes. But Amanda's are always great."

"Do you mind if I wait in the car until then?"

I wasn't sure if he was serious, but then Greg flashed me a smile. So he actually has a sense of humor. I guess that's something.

The second guy was pretty good. He had a long, sad poem about growing up in Maine and losing his father to the sea. There were some really good lines in there, but all I remember is,
"Roam ... to the foam ..."
He repeated that several times. It was very relaxing.