I stood at my window and watched the snow fall. This was the third snowstorm we’d had since New Year’s, fast storms that dumped a foot of snow that melted over the next couple of days.
I’d been trying to make the phone call since eight-thirty in the evening. Well, seven-thirty, but I spent an hour thinking it was too early to call. Stupid, because at eight-thirty I still had no idea what to say. I mean, I knew the words, Do you want to go to a movie? No—Can I take you to a movie?
Maybe I ought to ease into it, talk for a few minutes about something we both liked. Only we hadn’t had any conversations at all, ever. I had no idea what she liked.
By ten o’clock I had planned twenty-three intros to asking Patsy to a movie. Sixteen were variations on I have a question about the homework, but we didn’t have any classes together. The others were more I’m calling because you interest me, and I knew I couldn’t carry that off.
The problem I’d been having, every morning for nearly two months now, we were both at the bus stop and she’d never looked the slightest bit interested in me. Which maybe didn’t mean anything. She was always flanked by her intimidating girlfriends. What I kept in mind, her eyes were kind, I liked her, and I believed I’d like her even better once I got to know her. Now that I’d gotten this far, I had to call her. Even though it had somehow become nearly midnight. Or I’d never respect myself in the morning.
I reached for the phone. I didn’t let myself think as I flattened the folded bit of paper with her number on it. And dialed. Put the receiver to my ear. One ring.
This was crazy. She was probably asleep already. I pushed the edge of my curtain aside for a peek. Her whole house was dark.
Two.
I squashed the urge to hang up.
Don’t think.
Three.
Someone picked up, there was a rustling noise. My breath caught.
“Hello?” She sounded sleepy.
Air scraped through my throat.
“Who is this?” she asked. Answering her own question, she added, “A breather.”
One panicked instant passed before I slammed the receiver down.
Breather?!
I was the kind of guy who calls and gets too nervous to say anything, so he hangs up! That was humiliating enough, even if I was the only one who knew. I had to be able to look myself in the eye, didn’t I? But, a breather?
So. Do it again. This time, know what to say.
I could apologize right off the bat, say I’m sorry I woke her up, I suddenly realized I was calling way too late. I went crazy and hung up. And did she want to go to a movie with me?
Maybe it was an opener we could laugh about later. I picked up the phone again. My heart hammered wildly in my chest. Hadn’t really stopped hammering. It was not a proud moment.
But also, I was absorbing how quick she was to accuse me before I had a chance to say a single word. Okay, I’d had the chance—I choked. But I thought she’d be nice. Now I wondered if calling back was a good idea.
I decided I’d give her another chance to be nice. I dialed, ignoring the way the receiver slipped in my sweaty hand.
Ringing.
It still bothered me, though. Maybe she wasn’t the kind of girl I was looking for after all.
Two. I was tempted to hang up, I really was.
“You’re a jerk, you know that?” Not sleepy now.
I hung up.
Okay, okay, maybe that was kind of jerky. But now—not once, but twice—I felt really stupid.
I also got mad. Some girls would’ve laughed it off or something. She could have been kind about it, that’s all. I wanted to call back and tell her so.
Why not? It wasn’t like she even knew who she was talking to. What if I was really just a confused caller dialing a wrong number? Only I already knew that wasn’t why I was going to call back.
I tried to tell myself this call wouldn’t be much different than calls I’d made when I was a whole lot younger. Rainy Saturday afternoons, two or three kids in a mood for mischief—“Have you got Olive Oyl in a bottle?”
The spirit of this call was entirely different.
“Boy, would I love to—” The sound of my voice hauled me back from the edge. There are names for those kind of prank calls. Callers. Okay, okay, I wouldn’t do it. I could think about it, though. Thinking isn’t doing. Except …
I knew what to say. I tried it out loud. “I just want to know, do blondes have more fun?” Yes! Ambiguous and obnoxious, a double threat. No tricky twists to trip up the tongue.
I grabbed the phone and dialed again.
She didn’t pick up right after the first ring like I hoped she would. She didn’t pick up on the second ring either. I stared at the clock radio, saw it blink from 11:59 to 12:00.
She picked up before the end of the third ring with an exaggerated “Hellooooh?”
“What?!” she said, echoing the word etched in my mind.
She didn’t hang up right away. We had a moment of silence while I saw I’d gone wrong. Very wrong.
Then she hung up.
I had stopped breathing, and now I started to pant. I hung up the phone hard and started to bang my fist against my forehead. I felt like I was out of my mind.
Hold on, I said to myself. Maybe I wasn’t so wrong. She’d been rude from the first awkward call, when she might have been halfway understanding. I couldn’t have been the first idiot to throw myself, gasping, at the beachhead of her sneakers. This way she didn’t feel entirely fawned over.
My breathing slowed to nearly normal. I mentally clapped myself on the back. Good going, Vinnie. The scared feeling of calling faded, leaving nothing in its place. Nothing, as in empty.
Which, when I thought about it, was scary in a different way.