Tell Me It's Real(22)
After that, it was white, white bliss until Sandy started trying to get my attention. I didn’t even remember Vince leaving or where he went.
“Oh, Lord,” Sandy said when I admitted this all to him. “You’ve got it bad.”
“I do not,” I said defensively. “Got what?”
“You’re crushing on him.”
“What? I am not!”
“You so are.”
“You shut your mouth, you bitter queen.”
“You loooooove him.”
I scowled at Sandy. “What are we, twelve? You act like I want to get his picture and put it on my Trapper Keeper.”
Sandy squealed. “And then you could write all over it with things like Mrs. Paul Taylor over and over again like you did with Zack Morris from Saved By The Bell when we were in the sixth grade.”
“Oh, Zack,” I sighed. “You were too good for Kelly Kapowski. She was a stupid bitch and I hated her face and her bangs and the fact that she was alive.”
“I really thought it was going to work out between the two of you,” Sandy mused. “You sent him all those fan letters and everything.”
“And he never wrote me back,” I said sadly. “Then they had to do the college-years series and ruin everything about Saved By The Bell that made it wonderful. It was like watching someone you know and love get hooked on heroin and you can’t stop them.”
We gave a moment of silence for Saved By The Bell. Rest in peace, Zack Morris.
“Anyway,” Sandy said as I bit into a crouton. “You love him, and he obviously wants to bone you, so why not go for it.”
“He does not,” I grumbled with another blush. And then said, almost as an afterthought, “And I don’t love him. I don’t even know him.”
He looked at me knowingly, but didn’t call me out on it. “Well, you know what they say. When life hands you lemons—”
“You’ll slice them to make lemonade, only to find you have miniscule little cuts on your hands and it causes it to sting really bad,” I finished for him. “Oh, and lemon juice squirts in your eye and blinds you for like twenty minutes.”
“You’re like that donkey from Winnie the Pooh,” he told me. “On crack.”
“I’m a manic-depressive, drug-addicted donkey?” I asked, incredulous.
“If the tail fits,” he snapped at me.
“Reality would be if Eeyore was on Paxil. No one could be depressed as much as he is for that long without needing antidepressants. Winnie the Pooh and Piglet probably staged an intervention at their house at one point.”
“They didn’t live together,” Sandy said.
“Of course they did. They were life partners.”
“Pooh was porking Piglet?”
“Brings new meaning to the sentence ‘I ate ham for breakfast.’”
“I bet there’s like an Easter egg on one of the DVDs,” Sandy said, taking a drink of his tea. “A deleted scene that shows Eeyore jerking off to a photo of Pooh fucking Piglet while hanging himself with his tail in the closet.”
We laughed quietly, horrified with ourselves for thinking such things.
And, of course, that was when it happened.
God. Hates. Me.
“What’s so funny?” Vince asked as he appeared out of nowhere like some evil, dark, hot wizard. He had a grin on his face as he stood next to the table, looking so freaking awesome in his suspenders and tie. I wanted to snap one against his skin just to hear the sound it made, but somehow I refrained from doing so, only because I was still laughing at the thought of a beloved childhood character committing suicide when he spoke, and tried to distract myself by shoving more salad in my face at the same time. So, naturally, instead of being way cool and snapping his suspenders while letting him in on the joke and winking at him until he became putty in my hands, I inhaled sharply and a piece of raw spinach was sucked into my black hole of a mouth and lodged itself in my throat.
And I started to choke.
At first, it wasn’t so bad. I thought I could still breathe around it and I made a noise that made me sound like an Ewok: “Urka. Urk. Urk.” Sandy was looking up at Vince, staring at his mouth as if all the world’s secrets lay there. I felt an outrageous flash of jealousy rip through me, but it was waylaid as my Ewok noises turned into full-fledged attempts to gasp in air, however futile they were. I became annoyed that I was dying and my best friend hadn’t even noticed because he was making goo-goo eyes at the man who had a knack for showing up at the worst possible times.
I kicked Sandy under the table, who flashed an annoyed glance at me, as if I was the evil one here. But then, it must have sunk into his tiny little brain when he saw my skin color doing an impression of a Smurf orgy (blue everywhere, like Papa Smurf had just smurfed all over the other Smurfs). He started screeching that he didn’t know CPR and wouldn’t someone just save his best friend in the world?