Project Produce(24)
“The point of dating is to have sex, so who wouldn’t go for the big guns, right?” Brownie replied.
“What about dating to be in a caring, meaningful relationship? Doesn’t that matter?” I asked.
“Yeah, if your eggs are rotting, and you’re getting old.” Red chuckled, then looked me over and her grin vanished. “Whoops, sorry.”
You walked right into that one, granny. “Trust me, I’m not looking to be in a relationship, rotting eggs or not. I just mean a pickle might turn out to be weird, but a zucchini can be a real jerk. Maybe a cucumber’s the best bet when it comes to guys, but how will you know, unless you give them all a chance?”
Three pairs of eyes widened, then narrowed, looking me over until Blondie spoke. “I think she’s ‘into’ produce, if you get my meaning.”
My smile slipped. “Yeah, that’s me. Into produce.” This was getting me nowhere, but what had I expected? These weren’t women. These were giggling puddles of estrogen. Part of me was jealous. I’d never been a giggling puddle of anything. Never had the chance, growing up an only child with parents like mine. Maybe that’s why I’d made so many bad choices. Maybe that was my way of rebelling, without actually having to stand up to them.
Brownie eyed my Eskimo parka and Snow Flurries and then leaned in close, interrupting my thoughts. “Forget the produce, ma’am, go buy yourself a good vibrator. The Jackrabbit 2000 has all kinds of neat attachments. I think you could use it. And guys love an older woman who’s willing to show them a thing or two.”
There was that darn ma’am again. How fitting. It went perfectly with my rotten eggs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Look lady, if you wanna get a man, then get with the program.” Red looked at me with sympathy. “Where on earth did you get that coat from, anyway?”
Lord only knew. I forced a smile. “From Mr. Dump Ster, I suspect.”
Blondie frowned. “Mr. Dump Ster? Who’s that?”
Good God, I had to be talking to Paris Hilton’s twin.
Red smacked a clueless Blondie, and I tried not to laugh. Then she said, “Do yourself a favor and throw it away. Go buy a pair of low-rise jeans and a tight, short top. You can get cheap knock-offs just about anywhere. That’s the best way to score big.”
Brownie added, “Look, they wanna get a good look at our racks just as much as we wanna check out their packages. It’s all just one big game.”
What was the matter with everyone these days? Was I the only one who believed relationships should be about so much more than that? I wish there was a way to prove that not all men were like that, even though I’d pretty much lost hope. I smiled as an idea hit me. Maybe these girls could go on the journey with me in learning the truth about men, and I could gain some much needed help with this project. “So, you girls like games. Would any of you be up for a little challenge?”
All three stared at me with renewed interest, and I filled them in on Project Produce, then they eagerly agreed to be my research assistants. If anyone could find some answers, I’m sure Callie’s Angels--my new nickname for the giggling puddles of estrogen--could.
“Good luck, Angels.” I waved as Red, Brownie, and Blondie left the table in a giggling fit.
So I finished my lunch alone, listening to the steady hum of conversation and the clattering of dishes, thinking about what the girls had said. That’d be the day I’d put my big insecurity on display by squeezing it into a pair of low-rise jeans. And if a guy wanted to see what I had for breasts, he’d need a microscope, tight shirt or not. Guess I wouldn’t score big anytime soon. Not that I wanted to. I shook my head.
That Jackrabbit 2000 was sounding better and better.
Having any size produce I wanted, without getting into trouble. Now there was a thought. I chuckled, then grabbed my backpack and headed outside to hail a cab.
I might not exactly fit in with the majority of the population here on campus, but I blended in with Queens just fine. Besides, fitting in wasn’t what I came here to do.
I came here to hide.
CHAPTER FIVE
Once outside of the college cafeteria, I rounded a corner and picked up the pace. As I checked out the people behind me, I plowed right into someone.
“Ooof! Hey, watch it, lady,” a pimple-faced kid snapped, then bent to pick up his books scattered about the shoveled sidewalk.
“Sorry,” I muttered as I adjusted my backpack high on my shoulder and peered one more time behind me. Chills zipped down my spine. Another freaky little geek sat on a bench by the bus stop, staring at me.
Thanks to Dylan’s phone call Saturday morning, every man under five-foot-six gave me the willies. Dylan had mentioned he wanted to come check things out again. Hang out and see if the Midnight Molester would show up, since it seemed strange this flasher freak had started targeting tall blondes.