Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel Read Free Page A

normal, common courtesy!”
    “Well, things haven’t been normal between us for a while.” Vera stood and grabbed her tote; her blunt bob maintaining military formation. “Look, I can’t do this right now. I’ve gotta go. Just keep the apartment or something.”
    “You know I can’t afford it alone!”
    “Find a new roommate.”
    “Where?”
    “Online.”
    “Have you not heard of the Craigslist Killer?”
    Vera’s lips wobbled guiltily before forming a resolute line. “I knew you’d try to make me feel bad about this. You can’t stand that I found someone before you did.”
    Marjorie shook her head. “This isn’t a Lifetime original movie, Tori Spelling. I think our twenty-year friendship deserves a slightly more nuanced interpretation.”
    “Whatever. Brian said you’d act this way.”
    Brian. Motherfucking short, squat Brian with ruddy cheeks that suggested cheeriness but were more likely the result of respiratory distress from too many pizza burgers. Self-serving, rude, blowhard Brian with his long hair that he fancied “hip,” his requisite black Audi, boilerplate East Hampton house (not big enough to be “impressive” but within the boundaries of “the right hood”).
    He was the first male to show consistent interest in Vera, who was too smart not to know that she was settling. So Marjorie had struggled to hide her disgust, enduring hours of drivel about the cost of Brian’s boxy suits and Yankees season tickets (he didn’t even follow baseball!). Though she considered him Satan’s spawn, he actually grew up in Cherry Hill, New Jersey (not hell per se), the unremarkable child of a housewife and a discount furniture manufacturer who sat on the bench of his school’s mediocre football team, winning him enough status to feel entitled but also cheated. Perpetual frat boy Brian, who invaded Marjorie’s personal space one drunken night in their apartment’s narrow kitchen after Vera passed out and tried to stick his fat white-spotted tongue down her throat, promising—between saliva strands—that it would be “their secret.” Brian, whom Marjorie had rebuffed with too much obvious revulsion.
    “Vera. Be reasonable,” Marjorie coaxed. “You’re leaving me homeless with only a few days’ notice.”
    “It’s pathetic to live with a roommate at twenty-eight years old anyway. I’m saving you from yourself.”
    In that moment, Marjorie saw Vera’s rodent resemblance, after all. “Seriously?”
    “Things can’t always go your way, Madgesty. ” At that, Vera stormed out, leaving Marjorie alone in DIRT. (The irony of the name could not be ignored.)
    The bartender arrived with Marjorie’s drink, waving her debit card back into her wallet, as Mac sat down beside her. The guy in the oxfords missed his chance at a stool again.
    “You okay?”
    Marjorie shrugged. The day was both important and unimportant. She was both fine and unfine. With her balled-up napkin, she stanched a tear before it realized its potential, then raised her glass. She and Mac both swigged.
    And, as the world teetered imperceptibly on its axis, the blossom attached to Marjorie’s bottom fluttered to the floor.

 
    2
    Marjorie’s popularity came in middle school like an early birthday present—not totally unexpected but a treat nonetheless.
    One afternoon in seventh grade, she arrived late to an assembly led by a self-defense expert named Terry in high-water sweatpants and a T-shirt that read SAFETY FIRST; DANGER WORST. She was accompanied by a life-size dummy named Carl. (Some recent muggings were being blamed on kids from a nearby juvenile hall, though the perpetrators were actually a bad seed foursome from the school’s own sophomore class—a truth that had yet to trickle down to the teachers’ lounge.)
    The metal door sighed as Marjorie entered the gym-cum-auditorium; several students turned to look. The history teacher, Ms. Carroll, approached. “It is unacceptable to hold us up like this.” Marjorie’s