The next day at lunch, I make my way to our usual table in the far corner of the cafeteria and discover that Pierce and Gaynor have invited someone new to join our crew.
The girl with the frizzy hair.
“Hey, Jamie,” says Gaynor. “You know Gilda Gold, right? From math class? She’s a girl.”
“Gilda’s in my robotics club,” adds Pierce. “She told me she likes those jokes you crack all the time from the back of the room. So I invited her to join us for lunch so she could officially meet you.”
I’m nodding, staring, and saying something like, “Stammer, stammer, stammer, stammer.”
Or maybe it’s “Hummina, hummina, hummina,” which is what the old-time TV comedian Jackie Gleason used to jabber whenever he choked.
Whatever I do, it makes Gilda giggle. She thinks I’m trying to be funny.
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she says, giving me her bubbly laugh.
Which gives me enough confidence to get out, “Usually I say something like, ‘Haven’t I seen you someplace before?’ And then they say, ‘Yeah, that’s why I don’t go there anymore.’ ”
Gilda laughs and then flings me her own comeback joke: “Yesterday this total jerk actually asked me what my sign was. I told him, ‘No Parking.’ ”
Now it’s my turn to laugh, and suddenly it’s like we have this whole history between us, even though we don’t. Just math class. And a love of jokes, I guess.
Gaynor and Pierce slide down to the end of the table to play flick football.
Gilda Gold and I crack open our chocolate-milk cartons and talk like crazy. She tells me how she moved to Long Beach from New England. I tell her a little bit about Cornwall. She loves baseball, especially the Boston Red Sox, even though wearing a BoSox hat is lethally dangerous this close to New York City. (Long Beach is diehard Yankees territory.) I tell her how I used to love playing baseball. Center field. Then I realize what I’m getting into—and I stop myself.
“Now I mostly play DVDs of old movies,” I say.
“I love old movies!” Gilda gushes. “Comedies?”
“Definitely. Blazing Saddles and Airplane! and anything with Will Ferrell. What about the Marx Brothers?” I ask.
“I love those guys!”
I pick up my milk straw and start doing my best Groucho impersonation. “Hello, room service? Send up a larger room.”
Gilda giggles. I keep going.
“Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”
And that’s when Stevie Kosgrov shows up.
His fist has some kind of brown goop smeared on it. I think he just punched somebody’s bean burrito.
“Why you wearing that hat?” he says to Gilda.
“Um, because I like the Sox.”
Kosgrov cocks back his arm. “Consider this a warning, sister. You better watch yourself.”
“Okay. Sure.” Gilda pulls out her makeup mirror. Stares at her reflection. “I’m watching myself.”
When Kosgrov stomps away, it’s Gilda’s turn to quote some Groucho to me: “He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot, but don’t let that fool you. He really is an idiot.”
Yep. She funny.