This Star Won't Go Out

“Yeah—him! You went out with him and he offered you a job, right? That’s why you’re excited?” By this time I was, too, seated, and was embarrassed by the silence. “I mean, he’s an Editor. That must mean something. . . .”


“Umm,” she mumbled, coming out of her thoughts, “yeah, it does. Mean something, I mean. I mean,” she seemed alert now, sipping her beer. “Editors have a say in who goes and who stays. But, Jude, that’s not why I’m dating him.”

I stared. I’ve only know Kaity to use men—not actually just date them. Hmm, maybe she’s changed, after all. I looked at her for a second—her beautiful green eyes, her luscious red lips, sipping soda, her many freckles that she, unlike some girls, tried to get more of, her long brown hair, curly and tousled. She was more beautiful than the Mona Lisa, more wanted than the Eiffel Tower, more mesmerizing than Spain’s spring ocean . . . the ideal perfection. And yet I was her friend; the one she shared secrets with, the one she joked with and the only one she’d let see her without makeup on.

After a pause she continued, “I’m dating him because, well, I really like him.”

Did I mention I’m the one she talks to about her men? Yech. Joy, I know.

“He’s—he’s nice, and kind, sexy, funny, hott and, after that date . . .”

I must have mumbled something encouraging her to go on, after a long while of quiet. It was, “Mmph?” to be exact, when I was trying to say, “Are you sure he’s not a jerk like your other shags? And what is the pause for?” because she continued.

“Oh Jude!” she sighed, as if she were on cloud nine, “he’s great! On our first date we went to Le Diamonde—you know, the French restaurant on second? Anyway, I got there after him, and he was up on the roof! Turns out he knows the owners, and they set up a special place for us up top. We laughed and chatted and really got to know each other. He’s from Baltimore, and majored as a writer in college. Get this—he went to Harvard and Harvard Law!!”

I was emotionless. Outwardly, anyway. Inside I was fuming. This guy went to Harvard this and Harvard that while I barely graduated community this, and no that. This psycho majored as a writer, and was now editor of The Work of Art, while lil’ ol’ me majored as a lawyer and am now an owner of a not-known-stupid-icky-Italian restaurant, my salary being nothing (I well, am something, but nothing compared to Mr. Big Shots)! Mr. Stupid was dating Kaity. My Kaity! Well la-di-frickin’-da! I may have lost Kaity ten years ago, but that doesn’t mean I can’t win her back. Yeesh, I sound like a stupid sappy war novel.

“He wants to see me again,” she finished, obviously unaware of how I felt. “Isn’t that great?’

The last question was a bit rhetorical, but since I couldn’t think of anything to say, I responded politely, by saying “Mmhmm, that’s . . . great.”

She smiled one of those huge, “I-just-won-the-lottery-which-was-one-million-dollars” smiles, her face glowing, her features more noticeable than before. Like, not kidding.

“We’re going out Friday night,” she said cautiously, for what reason I don’t know.

There was a pause in which it hit me. Friday—that was when we, me and Kaity, were going bowling. We had been planning it for two weeks, since Kaity’s schedule’s so tight.

“Kait, that’s when we were going to, um, go out, wasn’t it?”

Her grin was fading along with her glow, and normally I would stop so she would get them back. But it was if I couldn’t. I was hurt. I’ve liked her for so, so long, and every time I come a hundredth of a chance of telling her, she ditches me. Not purposely, but still. Ditching is ditching, right?

“Jude . . . we can reschedule . . .”

“Kaity, don’t you ever want to spend time with me?” I tried to calm myself, but my voice was louder than normal. “Don’t you like spending time with me? We’ve been planning this for so long! Geez, Kait. Maybe in between shagging any guy you can find you could find time for me.”

I have a problem. Either I don’t say enough or I say too much. And right now, when it’s too late, I realized I said the wrong thing.

She looked almost angry, and sounded it, too.

“I don’t—I don’t—don’t . . .” she stopped, and went from clenched jaw to a forced smile. “Well, Jude, I have to go. Thanks for lunch.” She gathered her stuff and left, before I could realize what she just did.

I just realized I didn’t find out picture boy’s name. If I had, I might have been able to find him in Yellow Pages and beat him up.

I walked down the familiar street from my house to the subway, and all I could help but think was about, well, Kaity. And yesterday afternoon.

“Excuse me!”