I didn’t think I would call her again.
Seriously, I didn’t. I like a girl with a sense of humor, and she hadn’t shown me much of that. It looked like I wasn’t her type either.
But I couldn’t help myself. It was the song of the siren.
I dialed.
She picked up, asking, “If you feel so bad, why do you keep calling back?”
Talking to her was like talking to a debate team. I answered, “I don’t regret these calls. I’m sorry about what I said. The first time.”
“Still?”
“Still what?”
“Still sorry? I mean, most people don’t feel sorry for what they do for too long. They rationalize it, you know? Justify it. So the guilt fades.”
She’d brought up a good point, and truthfully, I’d stopped feeling guilty. Now I wanted to feel, well, like someone who should never have felt guilty at all.
“Who gave you my number, anyway?”
“Someone dropped it,” I said, relieved to have the conversation move in another direction. I fell back on my pillow.
“Come on.”
“Swear. It was on a piece of paper, lying on the ground.”
“Just a phone number?”
“And your name,” I said. “Patsy.”
“What’s your name?”
I hesitated, then said, “Do you really think it’s in my best interest to tell you?”
“I have to have something to call you. Besides creep.”
I took a scolding tone. “Patsy, Patsy, Patsy.”
“Got a crush on me? Do you write my name all over your notebook?”
I sat bolt upright in my bed. Her tone had changed, become so condescending.
“Lines and lines of it down the pages?”
Guys don’t do that kind of thing. Okay, I was being teased, but not in a nice way.
“Mr. and Mrs. Patsy—”
My blood beat indignantly in my veins. What could I say? I didn’t do childish things. I made obscene phone calls.
“So you’re not somebody who wants to date me. That’s not it, right?”
“What would make you more appealing than the average Patsy?”
She made an annoyed sound with her tongue. “There’s no such thing as an average Patsy,” she said.
I grinned. “Sure there is. They have friends named Muffy and they date football players named Biff—”
“Nobody’s named Biff.”
“—and they wear pink with kelly green and they hide their ankles under little socks—”
“Why would they do that?”
“The socks?”
Silence.
“Because they have sturdy ankles that will thicken with middle age. If Biff sees—”
“Is this what you called for? To make fun of me?”
“I think we’ve already agreed on why I call.”
“You’re a pervert.” It had a terrible sound, coming from her. Final.
“I’m sorry I made the crack about the socks.”
“I didn’t know perverts came in kids.”
I laughed. The way I should have when she made that remark about writing her name over and over, like it had nothing to do with me. I felt suddenly that I was getting the hang of this, talking to her, joking with her.
“You make it sound like a size. Kids, medium, and dirty old man.”
“Ha. Ha.”
“Listen, I’m not a pervert.”
“Did you or did you not make an obscene phone call?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Who makes obscene phone calls?” she asked.
“Two kinds of people, apparently.”
“Yeah?”
“Perverts,” I said quietly. “And people who want something they can’t have.”
“And what do you want?”
“Think about it,” I suggested. “And while you do, think about what you want. There are two of us having these lit—”
“You’re obnoxious, you know that?”
“I thought I was neurotic.”
It was only a second before she barked into my ear. “You know what else?”
“What?”
“I’ll bet you’re short!”
Click.
I guess I deserved that.
But as I hung up, I was annoyed with myself for apologizing. Not the first time. Just about the stupid socks. Couldn’t she take a joke?