Project Produce(51)

***

“Did you get it?” I asked the Angels as I glanced around the cafeteria during lunch on Thursday. Several eyes fixed on me, and a few goofy smiles floated my way.

I’d become quite popular around campus, known mostly as Produce Lady. One girl I didn’t even know had stopped me earlier today and asked if I could give her any advice on how to improve her relationship with her boyfriend since his produce was definitely affecting his personality and their sex life. I hated standing out, but I’d take being known as Produce Lady over Porn Queen any day. And I had to admit it felt good helping other women even if I really didn’t know what I was doing.

“Got it,” Red answered. “And I had a ball doing it.”

I’ll bet she did. I took the file of research from Red and flipped through the pages.

“Yeah, cuz your date was a cool cucumber.” Brownie shook her head. “I got stuck with a shriveled-up pickle. Weirdest guy I ever went out with. He was so desperate he irritated the crap out of me with compliments and gifts. Crappy ones, too, like he could have picked them up last-minute at a gas station.”

“I liked my guy. He was sooooo cute.” Blondie giggled.

“Who wouldn’t like a zucchini who looked like Ashton Kutcher? But I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. He’s probably been with half the campus.” Red cringed. “How could you ever trust a guy like that or believe his answers to your questions?”

I looked up and heard a voice in the back of my head say, See, I told you so. I had to remember that men--zucchinis in particular--could not be trusted. Besides, I hadn’t forgotten about Dylan’s issues. He made a great friend, but that was all I could let him be. Because when he strayed, which I knew he would just like Bob had, it would hurt way too much.

“Yeah, well I’d date him. Trust me, after a pickle, I’d settle for just about any guy. Except another pickle.” Brownie shuddered.

“Thanks, ladies. I appreciate your help more than you know.” I stood.

“You’re not staying to eat?” asked Blondie.

I’d never been part of the popular crowd in school because my parents never let me go anywhere. It felt good knowing they wanted me to stay. I smiled at her, then I sighed. “Can’t. Got a date with a pickle.”

“You poor thing.” Brownie reached out and squeezed my hand.

“You don’t know the half of it.” I hobbled out of the cafeteria, still sore from getting hit by Big Betty and in no mood to do what had to be done. Heading to the lecture center, I didn’t stop until I reached the last door on the right. It was open.

Knock! Knock!

“Who’s there?” Professor Butthead asked from inside his office. He chomped on a dripping sandwich with his shiny balding head bent over a stack of papers.

“Callie,” I answered, standing in his open doorway, wondering how the students would feel when they got their graded quizzes back stinking of rotten eggs.

He raised his head, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and gave me a cocky smile, goopy yellow egg salad pooling in the corners. “Callie who?”

Callie Not-Gonna-Let-You-Win, that’s who, you pickle. “Callie MacDonald. I’m here to update you on my project if you have a minute.”

He glanced beyond me. “Come in and shut the door, please.” I entered, and once I sat in the chair across from him, he continued, “I don’t know. Maybe this topic is too difficult for you.” He paused. “Maybe you should try a different course. I’m sure I could get you transferred if you’d like.” He licked the egg salad away from the corners of his fat lips, and I tried not to gag. I would never eat egg salad again. In fact, I’d lost my appetite completely.

“I don’t want to take a different course. I’ve invested too much time in this project, and I think I deserve a chance at pulling it off.”

He sat back and rubbed his protruding belly. “Really. So the research is going well then?”

“The research is going great.”

“You found all your subjects to interview? Because if you need a--”

“A pickle? No I’ve got it covered, but thanks for the offer.”

A look of confusion puckered his face. God, would I love to explain it to Baby Dill, but I wasn’t so sure he could wrap his gleaming noggin around the subject.

“A pickle? I wasn’t offering lunch, I was offering--” he started to say.

“To help?” I cut him off. “That’s sweet, but no thanks. I want to show you I deserve a good grade even though you don’t like me.” I blinked at him, feigning innocence.

His eyes narrowed. “I would never fail you just because I don’t like you.” He frowned. “Not that I don’t like you.”