Milkrun Read Free

mitzvah, then dumped her during the summer and liked me again in eighth grade.
    But we survived the Ted crisis just as we survived my accidental disposing of her retainer into the cafeteria wastebasket, even though to this day I insist she left it wrapped in tissue on top of her lunch bag and it did look like garbage. And in our junior year at university, she survived me almost killing her after she told Andrew Mackenzie, her lab partner in her calculus class—I’m still not sure why math class has a lab—that I thought his friend Jeremy was a hottie. We spotted Jeremy exactly three years ago in American Prose, which came right before Wendy’s calculus class. The farther Huck Finn floated down the river, the more smitten I became. Of course, Andrew told Jeremy. Very embarrassing.
    I should never have forgiven her so easily.
    â€œIt’s all your fault, anyway,” I snap.
    â€œWhat’s my fault? Your not having friends? Let me remind you that you were still in school when I was offered this job, and besides, how could I possibly turn down Wall Street?”
    Wendy had been offered investment banking jobs at every company she applied to—not only because of her perfect Grade Point Average at Wharton, Penn’s business school, but because she had volunteered at food banks, wrote for the school paper, taught English in Africa for a summer, and worked part-time for the computer center, training students in Excel. While most people, including me, took Space, Time, It Doesn’t Matter 101—a one-hundred-percent paper physics course where I was allowed to write about the physics of dating—as an option, Wendy took Deconstructing Post-Colonial Narratives and Russian Formalism and Anglo-American New Criticism. Conveniently, her optional courses were my compulsory courses, so we got to hang out a lot. I also got to skip many classes because not only did Wendy type up her notes, she also made detailed indexes and four-color pie charts.
    â€œMy entire relationship with Jeremy is your fault. You fixed us up.”
    â€œQuit whining. You shouldn’t be surprised, after all the crap he’s pulled.”
    I hate when she uses against me things I tell her. “I so don’t want to get into this now, ’kay?”
    â€œFine. Call Natalie. Tell her you want to go meet boys. Immediately.”
    Doesn’t Wendy have enough people to boss around at work? “Fine, I will.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œGood luck, I love you, call me later,” she says, and slams down the phone.
    I dial Natalie’s number at home. Except for university, my Brahmin friend has lived with her parents in Boston all her life. She spends her time shopping, getting her nails done, looking for a husband, and if there’s time, doing volunteer work.
    One ring. Two rings. I know she’s checking her caller ID.
    â€œHi!” she exclaims in her high-pitched voice that sounds as though she ingested a minor amount of helium. “How are you?”
    â€œWe’re going out tonight so I can flirt with everyone. Where are we going?”
    â€œSorry, but I can’t leave my house today. I’m having a major fat day.”
    Natalie weighs about eighty-seven pounds. I have no patience dealing with her ridiculousness.
    â€œHow am I supposed to meet guys if I don’t go out?”
    â€œWhy are you suddenly meeting guys? What happened to Jer?”
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it. It’s over. I need to meet men.”
    â€œWell—”
    â€œPlease? Please please please please?”
    â€œUchhh, fine. I’ll meet you at your place at nine. We’ll go to Orgasm.”
    Orgasm is a very trendy martini bar about four blocks away from my apartment. Very hot men go to Orgasm.
    â€œPerfect,” I say.
    â€œGet the vodka ready. I don’t know if any of my clothes will fit me, though. I may have to borrow something of yours.”
    Hmm.