Getting to Third Date (5 page)

“You're not going on your date in that?” Sophia looked as disapproving as my mother usually did when she saw me getting ready to go out.

“What?” I looked down at my jeans—they were clean. My top was a new cute black lace one my mom had bought when she visited for parents' weekend. I'd even exchanged my more comfortable sneakers for a pair of strappy sandals with two-inch heels. “I've got earrings on, for heaven's sake. What's wrong with the way I look?”

“There's nothing wrong with the way you look—if you're going to class. But for a date? Do you want the guy to think you've already written him off before the evening even begins?”

Well, yes, I did. But, again, that wasn't something I was about to confess. “I'm going for a statement of casual fun, not full-on commitment. Guys don't even like that, anyway.”

She wrinkled her nose at me. Apparently my answer was unsatisfactory for a woman of any age or reluctance. “They want you to care.”

The last thing I wanted to do was argue about what I looked like going on the date I didn't want to go on in the first place with a guy I was sure was a dead end—except that he'd serve a purpose for the column I would write for Tyler. “What would you suggest?”

She looked me over carefully. “The top is okay, but you need a better bra.”

Great. Was I supposed to go shopping for this dead-end date too? “I don't have a better bra. And I don't have time to get one. I'm supposed to meet him out in front of the dorm in half an hour.”

She frowned, thinking. “Borrow one of mine.”

“Is that a joke? You're at least a 34C and I'm a 34B if I'm lucky.”

She began to rummage through her drawers and I feared she was going to pull out a bra and a pair of socks for me to stuff it with. But when she turned around she was only holding a lacy black bra with solid lift factor. “Here, you can have this one. I ordered it online and they sent me the wrong size. I'll never get around to returning it.”

It was a gorgeous bra. Made me actually look like I had more than just best-friend breasts, but didn't pinch or smush anything sideways. I was perky, even. “Okay. Thanks. I concede this was a good change.”

She smiled and nodded in approval. But then the frown came back.

What? The bra had made a major difference. Hadn't I given her that point? I'd have to be blind not to, since I could see in the mirror that I looked just a touch sexier. Who knew a good bra could do that? I mean, it's covered up by a shirt!

But Sophia had moved on from the bra. “Are you wearing makeup?”

“Can't you tell?”

She examined me critically close up. “Mascara. Gloss. Not enough.” She whipped out her makeup case and spread it open on her bed. “Sit.”

I perched obediently on the edge of her bed while Sophia patted and brushed and smoothed and, in the end, made me look like a zillion bucks with her fancy Italian makeup.

She let me keep the top, but made me exchange the jeans for a skirt my mom had bought me that I'd sworn I'd never wear because it exposed my fat thighs. Sophia told me I was cute in it. And when I looked in the mirror, I actually agreed.

I also agreed that I looked like a girl who wanted to hang out with someone special, not just any guy I happened to stumble over. Even though I hadn't really changed my inner attitude, it was no longer reflected in the outer me. I suppose that was a good thing, since there wasn't a minute to spare and I scurried out to the front steps of the dorm to await the unsuspecting guy who was going to be featured in my column next week. Anonymously, of course.

He drove up right on time. A miracle. He waved and popped the passenger door of his very old, very noisy—not to mention vibrating—car. He didn't get out, but he smiled at me and said, “Hey, you look great. Come on, get in.”

My first inclination was to run back into the dorm, screaming. He couldn't follow me, since the doors were always kept locked for security—when someone hadn't propped them open with a textbook, of course. But then I'd have to explain my freak-out not only to Tyler, but to Sophia, too.

So I got in and used the open window to get a grip and close the door, since it seemed to have lost its handle a long time ago. I thought, briefly, about all those horror movies where the girls get locked in a car with a psycho.

But Todd wasn't a psycho. He just didn't have a lot of money to spend on a car right now since he was working in the dining hall making minimum wage. I knew from his Web page, and our last two dates, that he spent most of his money on music and Starbucks, the fuel that got him through the engineering classes he hated.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying Todd was a bad guy. For someone else. One day he'd make a great husband for a woman who was organized, driven, and tolerant. But as a boyfriend he was lacking most of my basic requirements. He didn't listen well, he didn't explain himself at all, and if he considered other people's feelings, it was by accident.

Given our history, I was not expecting to enjoy this date. More like I was hoping I'd survive it without going nuclear.

The first time we hung out, it had been with a bunch of friends at the small bowling alley on campus. Tenpin bowling, which he had never done before. He'd always bowled candlestick, which I'd never heard of before (nor did I hear of it from him—hence the reason I know he doesn't explain himself). “This isn't bowling. It's stupid.” Repeated over and over again during the night. I explained—we all explained—the game to him, yet he still got confused.

But that was just the first date. He hadn't spit on me or had a public meltdown, so he deserved a second chance. But not bowling. Definitely not bowling.

He hadn't argued when I suggested we try a movie the next time we hung out. I was thinking that he had to know what a movie was. In fact, I knew he did.

Confession time: The Web is a wonderful tool for the dating girl. Turns out Todd had a blog. And a Web site (big plus) that showcased his interest in model trains (not a plus). In my defense, I'm not the only girl on campus who does this. Technology is meant to make our lives easier, after all. So for me, cute guy equals a little Google session.

Besides, picking a movie can be tricky when you don't know each other well. My snoop session made it easy. Todd was interested in trains. It so happened there was a movie playing about a runaway train. It was action, romance, and trains. What could go wrong? Let me count the ways.

He picked me up late. Not his fault. Unless you count against him buying a car that only liked to start every other day. I didn't. But I considered it when he pulled up in a wreck that was belching black smoke.

And it went downhill from there. Believe me. Not only did he leave me to figure out his ancient malfunctioning car door handle for myself, he ate almost all of the popcorn before I could get my hand in edgewise.

So anyone would understand why I wasn't pumped for a third date. Once again I'd chosen a movie. Not a train theme, but a chick flick—hey, I wasn't expecting to enjoy the guy, so why not enjoy the film?

 

What made it all 10 zillion times worse was that I had to do the asking because I was on a timetable and Todd didn't have a clue that he was being used to prove a point. I had suggested to Tyler that I simply hang around the area of the dining hall where he liked to eat lunch. I figured if I smiled and talked to him there was a good chance he'd ask me out again. Eventually. Some girls are brave. Me, I'm a coward. I prefer to back my way into a relationship under cover of a friendship if I have to do the maneuvering.

But both Sophia and Tyler had pointed out that this was not likely to get me a date for the weekend—which would leave me (and the readers waiting for Mother Hubbard to prove herself wrong) without a column next week.

One thing I know. I'm more like Mother Hubbard than even I realized. I really hated asking him out. That stomach squeezing moment when he was filling up his milk glass and I wasn't sure if he'd say yes was awful. Not to mention hard on the pocketbook when he stood back and let me pay for the tickets. And the popcorn. And the soda.

I guess I can see why guys might like to abandon the old-fashioned notion of asking a girl on a date and paying for everything. Not to mention being chewed over by her father and cooed over by her camera-snapping mom. At least in college, there's no chance of that happening, no matter how old-fashioned the date happens to be.

 

The theme of Todd's and my third date seemed to be me in charge and him following like a sheep. I picked out seats on the aisle because there was a bit of aisle light to discourage him from deciding I'd invited him to a make-out session. That was definitely not happening. He did at least carry his own popcorn and soda.

There were only four other people in the theater—two couples much like me and my date.

Except for the fact that they looked like they were still in high school. It seemed fitting, given the immaturity of my own date. On the other hand, it was also awkward; the other two couples weren't exactly interested in the movie, as evidenced by the kissing and giggling sounds coming from the opposite dark corners they had settled themselves into.

The movie was good. I laughed. Todd didn't. But he didn't snore, either. I think he had started to put his arm around my shoulder once. Probably when the noise from the dark corners of the theater inspired him. Fortunately, I was able to head him off by leaning forward and tying my shoe until the urge passed and he sat back to stuff a big handful of popcorn in his mouth.

As soon as the credits started rolling, I started worrying. Would it be horrible to tell him to just take me home? I didn't want to get stuck paying for him to eat a burger. I'd paid enough for the movie and I had plenty of material for my column—enough to convince all the readers that I was right not to date this guy again.

As we got up to leave, I attempted to break what was becoming an awkward silence. “So, did you like it?”

“No.”

What to answer to that? He couldn't even muster the effort to tell a polite lie? “I did. I'm really glad I picked this one.” Take that, bad date guy. I didn't even apologize for his hating it. Why should I tell a polite lie if he wasn't going to bother?

He didn't reply. He had more important things on his mind, apparently. “Want to get something to eat?” He looked a little hopeful, and I didn't doubt, from the way he'd plowed through his popcorn, that he was still hungry. Guys were bottomless pits. Maybe that's why in the olden days they were the ones who paid for the food.

A few excuses ran through my mind. But I didn't use them. I just echoed him instead. “No.”

“Okay.” He didn't say anything else as we drove home. Not that he seemed mad or anything either. He turned on music and hummed to it a little. Every so often he took his hands off the wheel to play the air guitar at some riff that called to him.

There was the awkward end-of-date moment when the question about whether he'd try to kiss me hung in the air. I had a little trouble getting the car door open. I wanted to escape any possibility of a kiss so badly that my fingers were sweaty and I couldn't find the latch buried in the hole in the door.

He had his seat belt off and had slid over the bench seat to sit beside me. I was afraid I wasn't going to avoid the kiss, but all he did was reach over and open the door. “It's a little tricky.”

Tell me about it. I leaped out of the car and then turned around, feeling unaccountably guilty. “Thanks for everything.”

He smiled as if he hadn't been on the same date as I had. “Thanks for asking me out. I've never been asked out before. It was cool.”

There was nothing to say to that but “Great, see you around.” Like I said, he was a nice enough guy, but he needed a tougher woman than I was to whip him into boyfriend material.

Sophia was out when I got up to the room. Good. I took one look in the mirror—I still, after all that, looked like a girl who wanted to go out. Interesting what makeup can do when wielded by skilled hands. I was going to have to get Sophia to show me how to do it myself.

I headed down to the commons room. Without Sophia I couldn't unload about my date much, though. All that hush-hush stuff about Mother Hubbard. But I could share some details and get some sympathy from the girls who hadn't had anything too fun to keep them out late tonight.

There were three girls in sweats and no makeup lounging in the commons. They were watching a makeover show and drinking from a big pitcher of something fruity. After half a semester in the dorm, I knew to come prepared. I filled up my trusty coffee mug and plopped down on a sturdy yet totally uncomfortable orange chair. Clearly the university did not want to tempt us to tote off the furniture if any of us decided to leave dorm living for an apartment of our own.

“Home already? Sophia said you had a hottie on the hook.”

I took a swig from my mug. “Not hot. So I unhooked him and threw him back.”

“Had to be bad if you'd rather be here, watching strangers get a makeover with us.”

“It was.”

The third date had been awkward, painful, and useless. I had been right. Everyone would have to believe Mother Hubbard's wisdom now.

Tyler had no intention of letting me write the third-date project off before he could assess it himself.

He had arranged to meet me at the campus Starbucks for a copy of the column outlining my worst third date ever.

He took the flash drive and plugged the file into his laptop, but without even looking at my column, he demanded, “Details.”

Right. Like I wanted to talk to Tyler about my date. “It's a column, Tyler, not a novel. Besides, this is a small campus. The more detail, the more likely the guy in question will be easily identified. I don't want him, but I don't want to kill his dating chances forever.”

He grinned. “That's what ‘names have been changed to protect the innocent' is for. Change the details.” He scanned to see if our isolated corner table was isolated enough. Except for a couple of football players who were occupied in an arm wrestling match on the other side of the room and didn't even seem to notice us, we were effectively alone.

Satisfied that we were not in any way being spied upon, Tyler leaned forward. “The details are for me.”

“Why?” I didn't like the thought of giving him a chance to see me in dating mode without even asking me out. It seemed…perverted.

“We're friends, aren't we?”

I didn't scream. I hate those words, but I didn't scream. It was so undignified. “What does our being friends have to do with it?” Besides meaning that he didn't see me as possible girlfriend/hot date material? Not that I would admit that aloud.

“The whole point of this dating thing is that you give guys a real chance. How will I know if you have if you don't give me the details?” Right. I didn't know if he was onto me, or if he really did have great editorial talent. And I didn't care at this moment, as long as I could convince him I'd proved Mother Hubbard was right.

I leaned in, like I was going to whisper a secret to him. “You said we're friends, right?”

“Of course we are.” He nodded warily.

“Good!” I sat back with a big smile and my arms crossed to indicate that Fort Katelyn was locked and bolted shut on all extraneous dating details. “Well, friends trust each other.”

He looked at my crossed arms for a moment, but then just smiled and shook his head. “Are you from planet clueless, princess? Friends don't trust each other, they test each other.”

“I'm not that cynical.” Well, yes I am sometimes. But I wasn't going to admit it to Tyler.

“Well, I am. So spill.” Without waiting for me to confirm I wasn't saying anything, he took my backpack and started rummaging through it without permission.

“Hey. Get out of there.” I grabbed it and tugged it back. I didn't care if we were friends, there are just things in a girl's backpack she doesn't want any guy to see.

He gave up the backpack easily and I almost fell on the floor with it. We'd caught the attention of the arm wrestlers for a moment. But when they saw we weren't going to get into a fight, they stopped watching us.

I saw why Tyler hadn't fought harder. He had what he wanted. My little pink book.

He thumbed through. “Where is this guy, anyway? I can't read your code.”

“You're not supposed to be able to understand it. That would defeat the purpose.” Not to mention that Tyler's being able to read my code would be more in the realm of dangerous and uncomfortable in light of one particular entry.

I snatched the book back. “Here.” I flipped to the page. “He's this one.” I tapped my finger on Todd's entry. He doesn't think about his date, complains a lot, and…” I grabbed a pen and added a code. “…and he lets the girl pay without even offering to pay for himself.” Then I put the book back into my backpack and held it tightly in my lap. I wasn't going to let another smash and grab attempt happen if I could help it.

“You picked ‘Looking For a Mom' as your third date?”

“Yes. I did. And it didn't work out.” I didn't like his tone, but I pretended not to understand why he was looking at me like I'd gotten caught cheating on an exam.

“No kidding.”

“Look, he was a loser, okay? We went to a movie and he had to go to the bathroom three times. I smelled Milk Duds on his breath the second time he came back. And then afterward, when we were driving home, I tried to talk to him about the movie, and all he could say was ‘My seat kept squeaking.'”

Tyler eyed my backpack, and then the arm wrestlers over in the corner. “I take it he's not getting a fourth date?”

“Not a chance. I knew that before, though, but I hope I've proved it to them.” I gestured widely to indicate the entire campus.

“We'll see.” Tyler looked at me. I didn't like the suspicion in his eyes. “Did you sabotage the date, Katelyn?”

“Of course I didn't!”

He looked skeptical.

“Ask Sophia. When I walked out of that dorm I was dressed like a girl who wanted to go out and have fun.” Which was nothing but the simple truth.

He shrugged and tapped his laptop. “I'm not the one you have to convince.” He eyed my backpack again, and I wondered if I should start leaving my little pink book at home from now on.

“The public will back me. Wait until you read the column to criticize it, please, Mr. Editor Man.” I tried a little Sookie-style intimidation.

I don't think it worked, because he just blinked my comment away and asked, “Who's number two?”

My first answer, completely off topic, was that I was number two. Forever destined to be on the sidelines of love. But then I realized what he meant. He wanted to know who was next on my list for the third date circus he had me putting on. “I haven't decided.”

“You have to. This column will work for this week, but we need another one for next week. Which means a date this weekend at the latest.”

“What if the campus response is in my favor? Why keep going?”

“We told the readers—”

“No. I only said I was going to go on one third date.”

He looked at me as if he didn't know whether to compliment my clever attempt to circumvent two-thirds of his idea or choke me. Naturally, I voted for compliment. In fact, falling in love with me over the column would be nice, too. As if.

He shook his head. “I told Professor Golding and everybody in Human Sexuality. They're expecting three third dates—it's more statistically sound, remember?”

“Right.” Honestly, I was hoping I'd prove my point with this column. That the students would speak out and absolve me (or Mother Hubbard, at least) of any advisory wrongdoing. But there was no point in telling him that. He enjoyed the controversy. It wasn't his dating life on trial, after all.

I had begun my column with that disclaimer to head off Todd's recognizing himself, or anyone else's recognizing him from what I said, but do you think anyone paid attention? Of course not.

The replies that followed my faithful, if artfully disguised, rendition of my date were annoying. Not that I needed to see them. Or wanted to see them. But Tyler forwarded the e-mails to me as soon as he read them. With gleeful little comments like, “This one really loves you.” The notes he saved to deliver in a pizza box so people in the dorm would be none the wiser.

After a while the comments blurred together, forming an impression in my mind that went something like this:

Since the paper had reimbursed me for the date with Looking For a Man (which I hadn't known until Tyler asked me how much I'd spent), I wanted to set the record straight about the money. But Tyler didn't want to start any controversy about how he expended his budget.

Of course, those were the guys. Who, it seemed, tended to think of themselves as Third Date #1. I had a feeling there were many women on campus who weren't going to get calls for another date. But what could I do about that?

The women fell into another sphere altogether:

“What do they want from me?” I had called Tyler for an emergency meeting in the library near the engineering periodicals. Not a popular spot unless you were an engineer—and I, even as a freshman, knew it wasn't likely any of them read the school newspaper or knew who Mother Hubbard was.

“The guys want you to cut them some slack and the girls want you to be a warrior princess when it comes to taking back the date.”

“Don't forget the girls who want me to be Campus Barbie.”

“Or the guys who want to date you.” He grinned.

“What guys?”

He blinked sheepishly. “Oh, I must have left those out.”

“Oh, well. Easy, then. I'll just clone myself and have at pleasing all the people all the time.” I rolled my eyes at him. “Look, I don't think this is going well. Everyone seems more angry rather than less so. Probably we should just give up the experiment.”

I had expected him to be annoyed, but he wasn't. He was curt. Like I'd done something wrong. “Give up? Like you do with the guys you date?”

“Hey, what room do you have to talk? I haven't seen you with any girls on a steady basis.” Unless you counted Sophia. Who thought of him as an adorable friendly teddy bear who sometimes brought over late-night pizza when she was hungry.

“Look at this.” He slid a printed e-mail across the table to me. It had been sent anonymously, so it was someone who either knew computers or knew someone who did. Great. Only 90 percent of the campus fell into that category.

“The pope doesn't date.” It was all I could think of to say. I certainly wasn't going to tell anyone that I'd never had a third date until forced to by a vocal minority of the campus who actually read the rag Tyler published.

I barely liked to admit that shameful fact to myself. I preferred the head-in-sand method of dealing with my poor dating record and habit of crushing hard on someone who wouldn't ask me out if I were the last woman on earth.

“You are pretty harsh for someone who's never had a steady boyfriend.”

I think I preferred Tyler better when he was less insightful. “You don't know I've never had a steady boyfriend.”

“I met you the first day of school, remember? When the upperclassmen helped the freshmen move in and you dropped that box of books on my foot.”

Yes. I did remember that day, as it happens. I had dropped the box on his foot because he had been so busy staring at Sophia's tight white T-shirt that he had almost closed the door on me.

I blinked at him as if I were trying to dredge up my memories from all the way back at the beginning of the semester. “No? I forgot. Did I?”

“Yes. You did. And I've never seen you making goo-goo eyes at anyone in almost two months. In fact, my keen journalistic spidey sense bets you never have—not even in high school.”

“Goo-goo eyes?” I made the opposite of goo-goo eyes at him. Or at least, I tried. “I don't believe I need to make goo-goo eyes to hook up.”

“Seriously, Katelyn. You're supposed to write an advice column for people with life and relationship problems.” Whoa. Tyler was really concerned about this. He had his managing editor face on. “But if you don't have any practical experience—”

Could life get any more unfair? “You're the one who begged me to write the column, remember?” I protested, thinking the only thing needed to make this moment perfect was for me to blurt out that I'd only accepted because I wanted to be near him. I bit my tongue, hard, to make sure that didn't happen.

He held up his hands, backing off a little. “I know. I know. But I couldn't get anyone else to do it. And you're reliable. If you could just loosen up a little, everything would be great.”

“I have no intention of loosening up my common sense. If you don't want me to continue with the column, fine. Then just tell me so and I'll be happy to stop writing this stupid thing and hearing all the half-baked gripings of a group who wouldn't know love if it bit them on the butt.”

“Okay.” For a minute I thought we were done. Really done. But then he put on his concerned editor's face again. “If you've ever been in a real relationship.”

“What are you talking about?” I tried to bluff, but my voice shook a little. I hadn't expected the question.

“Have you?”

“Have I what?” Lame, I know. But I do have that hopeful streak, and it was praying I could put off answering until a meteor struck the earth and obliterated us all.

He stood his ground, though. “Have you
ever
been on a third date before Looking For a Mom?”