“You sure that’s a good idea?”
I ignored the question and mixed the liquids together with a spoon.
“You any better at holding your liquor? Last time I saw you drink you passed out from five shots of vodka.”
“I didn’t pass out. I puked on my SAT proctor.” I wasn’t upset about it, not any more. I just knew it was important, when Jem was around, to be as accurate and precise as possible.
“Whatever.”
“Why are you here?” I took a long swallow of the tequila and OJ.
“I told you I was coming to visit.”
We stared at each other for several long moments; then I asked her again: “Why are you here?”
She straightened slowly, crossed her arms over her chest, “I’m visiting Chicago and I need a place to stay for a few days.”
I shook my head, “You’ve been in Chicago for weeks. Why now?”
Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, her chin titled upward; “What do you know about that?”
I took another swallow of my juice then set it down on the counter. “I know a lot.”
She studied me; her glare, just as I remembered, hard and guarded. She spoke slowly as though carefully choosing her words, “Who told you I’ve been in Chicago for weeks?”
“Jon.” I rolled my glass between my palms to keep my hands busy, wanting to move, wanting to escape, wanting to punch her in the face, wanting to eat a granola bar.
Hello, random!
Her expression didn’t change, her gaze didn’t even waver. “He’s an asshole, you know.”
“So are you.” That granola bar was sounding better and better. I set my drink on the counter and started pilfering the pantry.
“Yeah, but I don’t pretend about it. He justifies all his douche-baggy behaviors by calling it love. Get me a glass.”
I glanced over my shoulder, watched her unscrew the tequila, “Now you’re going to drink my tequila?”
“Yes.”
I shrugged, moved to the cabinet which held the cups, passed one to her then turned my attention back to the Hunt for the Red Granola.
“What was the plan, Jem? Why did you do it?” I didn’t precisely care why she slept with him. Rather, I didn’t like the silence and it seemed like a reasonable topic of conversation given the circumstances.
“Blackmail of course.”
“Ah. Of course.” I found the granola bars and pulled out two, passing her one and ripping the other open with my teeth. I always struggled opening single serving items, like bags of m-n-m’s or condoms.
“He, of course, fucks it all up by telling you the truth.” Jem poured a hefty amount of tequila into the glass but didn’t drink.
“Why the blackmail?”
“I need the money.”
“Why?”
Jem held my gaze for a long moment, sniffed, then moved her eyes over the contents of the small kitchen as though taking inventory. She took a swallow of the tequila but didn’t grimace.
I took this opportunity to study her; for the first time I could recall, Jem looked patently uneasy. Abruptly, I found that I was enjoying the silence. I enjoyed smacking my lips when I took a sip of my Tequila and OJ and I enjoyed the way the loud crunch of the granola bar sounded magnified by her tense disquiet.
When it became clear she had no intention of answering I decided to ask, with my mouth full of crunchy candied oats, “Can I guess?” a few of the loose pieces of my cereal bar flew from my lips and landed on the counter. It’s obnoxious and gross and I loved it.
Jem shifted her weight from one foot to the other, swirling her neat tequila, still not meeting my gaze; “Sure.”
“Ok, I’ll take three guesses.” I set my food on the counter, gulped my OJ, and cracked my knuckles. “Guess number one: You need the money to go to college.”
Her eyes lift to mine; a small, genuinely amused, smile tugged at the corner of her lips, “Yep. That’s it. I got into MIT but I just need the two hundred and fifty grand to cover the books for my first semester.”
I returned her smile. I can’t remember the last time I smiled at her, sincere or not.
Slowly, I shook my head, “No, no. That’s not it. Let me try again.” I cleared my throat, pursed my lips, and narrowed my eyes, “You plan to start a non-profit organization and need the startup principal.”
She nodded, “Ok, you got me. I want to help orphans learn how to fish for lobsters. If they don’t learn about lobster fishing from me, they’ll just learn about it on the streets.”
“It’s not generally called ‘lobster fishing.’ The main method for the Norway lobster is trawling, although the large Homarus lobsters are caught almost always with lobster traps-”