Getting Over Jack Wagner Read Free

is calling from what I assume is the kitchen, to the tune of crumpling plastic and thumping cabinet doors. “I was just getting ready to go to the store. Your father’s out golfing with Larry Harris, even though I told him he’ll catch cold in the rain.”
    â€œUh huh,” Karl replies. He is watching me without blinking. It’s the slightly unnerving expression Karl gets when he’s preparing to kiss me. Karl is a hard-core kisser. When he leans in, I take a breath.
    â€œBut you know he never listens to me. He’s always sneaking potato chips after I’m in bed. Does he think I don’t see the crumbs in the morning? And the Krimpets in the basement. Does he think I don’t know about those? He has a mole on his back he won’t get checked, and he stands so close to the microwave it’s like he wants radiation poisoning.”
    If there’s anything more unnerving than kissing Karl, it’s kissing Karl with his mother not ten feet away. In general, kissing Karl is pretty repulsive: too wet and too overt. And yet, there’s some strange satisfaction in it. Afterward, I always feel as though I’ve been through some kind of taxing team sport: a moment’s disorientation, a pleasant buzz, then a steady ache and the dim, proud feeling of having “played hard.”
    When I hear his mother’s footsteps, I pull back. My lips are throbbing. Mrs. Karl appears holding a tray topped with two glasses of lemonade, a fan of crackers, squares of bright orange cheese. She’s managed to put on lipstick, a bright red that veers in and out of the lip line. I can’t help feeling sorry for her.
    â€œIt’s the best I could do on short notice,” she says, placing the tray on the coffee table. “It’s those crackers you like so much, Karl. The buttery ones.”
    He nods and scoops up a handful, dribbling them in his mouth like M & Ms.
    â€œTake a lemonade, Eliza,” she instructs me.
    I pick up a glass. It’s a freebie one, from McDonalds. Under my thumb, the Hamburglar grins at me from behind his mask. “Thank you,” I smile.
    Mrs. Karl remains standing, waiting for me to sip it, so I take a gulp to prove my sincerity. Then she looks to Karl, who is crunching contentedly on crackers. Satisfied, she can finally sit. She herself doesn’t eat or drink anything, I notice. I suspect she is one of those housewives, like my mother, who cook and clean all day but are almost never seen to rest or eat.
    Now it is totally quiet. The only sound is the intermittent crunching of Karl’s teeth on the buttery crackers he likes so much. Mrs. Karl is watching him with a small red smile, like a squashed cherry.
    Finally I say, “I like your house, Mrs. Irons.”
    She shifts her gaze to me and presses her lips together. I can tell she’s not sure if she can trust me or not, whether I am being honest or just kissing up. It’s true, however. I do like her house; in a general sense, anyway. After six years of studio apartment living, any place with two floors and a basement feels like a mansion to me.
    â€œThank you,” Mrs. Karl says. Her mouth pinches tighter, two purse strings drawn shut. “So,” she says. “Eliza. Do you play music, too?” From the polite but pained look on her face, I can tell that she, like me, is recalling Karl’s last girlfriend, who sang lead in an all-girl band and had her name legally changed to Lioness. “Or,” she adds hopefully, two fingers starting to fidget at the hem of her dress, “do you do…something else?”
    I have two options here. I can tell Mrs. Karl about the job I don’t get paid for: the book I am trying to write. Or, I can describe the job that actually produces a paycheck. Graciously, I go for the latter.
    â€œI’m a copywriter,” I tell her. “For a travel agency. It’s called Dreams Come True.” When she doesn’t