“You think so?”
“No question,” Aud replied. She poured Diet Dr Pepper into a plastic cup as she entered the room. “Will Isaacs is fat.” She handed the half-empty bottle to Tuesday, who took a swig.
“So is Allen Bryan.” Tuesday belched low and resonant.
Audrey grimaced. Frantically she put thumb to forehead, wiggled her fingers, and shouted, “Skobie!”
Tuesday wiped her mouth and mimicked her friend, mere seconds behind.
“Brad ate it!”
They both informed me of this fact when I didn’t move a muscle, choosing to sit in my comfy armchair next to the fireplace, refusing to play along. I gave them each a look and kept on petting Patches, Audrey’s orange and black and white calico.
“But Big Al plays football,” said Audrey, picking right back up where she left off.
This seemed to be her justification for just about everything lately. If a guy played sports, he could have three heads on his shoulders and Audrey would still find him hot. I think it’s her secret desire to feel a boy’s Varsity jacket wrapped securely around her shoulders.
“Yeah, but Will plays trombone,” Tuesday interjected, making a slide-like gesture.
I gotta say, she shocked me with her apt use of sexual innuendo. I always considered Tuesday a Total Nerd, you know what I mean?
“So…? Brad plays trombone,” Audrey reminded.
Hearing my name enter the conversation, I looked up. “What’s that got to do with anything?” I wanted to know. “Are you saying I’m not hot or something?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Scratching the inside corner of my eye with my middle finger, I cried, “Right here, Wojczek!”
I used to think Audrey’s last name was Wo-check, since it’s Polish and all. Once we became better friends, she beat the proper pronunciation into me: Wo-seck.
Whatever…
Go eat another paczki, Wo-seck!
Tuesday piped up. “It’s okay, Brad…I think you’re hot.”
“Thanks,” I replied, even though the feeling wasn’t the least bit mutual. Again, not that Tuesday’s not a nice girl. She’s just not my type—male.
Speaking of…
Across the room, I noticed a framed photo of a rather cute red-haired guy wearing a #63 maroon and gray HP Vikings football uniform. I gave Patches a gentle nudge, and he (she?) climbed down from my lap. I moved towards the photo of Audrey’s brother for closer inspection. He looked familiar to me, even though I never met him…Boy, do I want to!
“What about Rob Berger?”
You can bet this coming from Tuesday caught my ear.
“What about him?” I asked, focusing my attention on the new topic at hand.
“I asked Aud who she thinks is cuter,” Miss Gunderson reiterated. “Allen Bryan or Rob Berger?”
“That’s like saying, ‘Who’s cuter: Andrew McCarthy or Anthony Michael Hall?’” I said with an air of superiority.
“Who’s Anthony Michael Hall?” asked Tuesday, totally serious.
“You know,” I answered, “Rusty from Vacation…As in National Lampoon’s.” Only one of my favorite movies ever.
Tuesday’s dark eyes filled with light. “You mean Farmer Ted from Sixteen Candles? I think he’s totally cute.”
“Shut the fuck up!” I scowled. “You can’t tell me you think Rusty is cuter than Blane.”
Another blank look beamed from Tuesday.
“Blane from Pretty in Pink,” Audrey informed her, coming to my rescue.
Tuesday admitted, “Never seen it…Sorry.”
I found that hard to believe. “Weren’t you at Ava’s party when we watched it on video?”
“What party?” Tuesday wondered in confusion.
“’member, right before Halloween last year? Jack called in sick to work. He came with with Diane Thompson, and Joey Palladino was there…”
Audrey shot me an icy stare.
Oops! I forgot Miss Gunderson wasn’t invited.
At that moment, I realized I desperately needed a cigarette. I grabbed my Marching Band windbreaker from the hook near the front door and rummaged around in the pockets in search of my Marlboro Lights.
“Your mom’s not home, is she?” I double-checked with Audrey.
“Nope…Pat’s at work.”
That said, I shook out a cig, held it firmly between my lips, and fired it up.
Much better!
A few months ago, Mrs. Wojczek got a job manning the counter at Dunkin’ Donuts across from Universal Mall on Dequindre. Sometimes, I’ll go up there with Audrey and we’ll sit at the counter drinking coffee and eating chocolate cream-filled donuts talking to her mom for days. She’s gotta be close to fifty, but she’s totally awesome. She even goes out on dates sometimes. Mr. Wojczek died back in like ’77. In fact, I’d totally set her up with my dad, if he wasn’t such a deadbeat.
“Can I bum one of them?” Audrey reached for the half-empty pack and helped herself to one of my smokes.
Chivalrously lighting it for her, I warned, “Don’t forget the New Year’s Eve incident.”
Audrey made a face, exhaling. “Don’t remind me.”
‘member Luanne “Lou” Kowalski, the lesbian who was in love with Jack’s ex-girlfriend, Alyssa? Well, back in 10th grade, Lou had a party at her house, and Audrey totally singed her bangs trying to light a cigarette on the stove…I since advised her not to wear so much Aqua Net aerosol.
Tuesday coughed. “If all you guys are gonna do is smoke,” she hacked, “I’m going home.”
I kicked back in my favorite chair, feeling totally mellow. “See ya!”
Sure, she’ll sit around talking about boys and sex, but a little underage nicotine abuse enters the picture and Tuesday Gunderson goes all Goody Two-Shoes. She should pal around with Jack “Persnickety-Persnick” Paterno.
I guess I should probably feel sorry for the girl. I remember Jack telling me how when he went to elementary school with Tuesday back at Longfellow, the second their teacher walked outta the room, all the kids would say, “Whoever talks loves Tuesday Gunderson!” Right in front of her…Isn’t that bogue?
“I thought she’d never leave.”
Once Audrey’s scene partner made her exit (stage left), she plopped down on the couch across from me and began practicing her French inhaling. There’s a rumor we’re doing Grease as the spring musical and Aud really wants to play Didi Conn—I mean, Frenchy.
I stubbed out my cig and reached for another. There’s nothing quite like that first puff. The taste of the nicotine on your tongue, the smoke filling your lungs, blowing out a beautiful blue-gray plume…Heaven!
“You never answered the question,” I reminded Audrey.
She flicked an inch-long grandma-ash into an amber ashtray. “What was it?”
I watched as she worked her jaw, sending smoke signals about her redheaded head.
“Allen Bryan or Rob Berger?”
Audrey gave me a look, head titled, brow furrowed, lips pursed. “Is there even any doubt?”
Obviously there was on my