was that?” Jenny hissed before we were even out of earshot.
“Just a girl I went out with once,” I said.
Wow. I couldn’t believe that phrase just came out of my mouth. “A girl I went out with once.” That made it sound like I went out with lots of girls. I sounded so… McDreamy. Or McSteamy. Yeah, more like McSteamy, because he got more action (yes, sadly, I do know the difference between McDreamy and McSteamy. Again, my mother’s fault).
“Did you like her?” Jenny asked.
Jenny would make a great reporter. She always asks a lot of questions. This particular question made me think, though. And when I thought about it, Celine had been elitist and obnoxious and ungrateful. She used these French phrases, probably to make me feel dumb—obviously she was still doing it. Furthermore, Celine had never thanked me for the ridiculously expensive meal I had bought her. Whether or not I had tried too hard, I deserved at least a thank you.
“Not really,” I told Jenny as we took our seats. “I mean, I didn’t like her as much as I liked Kate.”
Jenny swallowed. “Oh,” was all she said, then she shut up like a clam.
Luckily I didn’t have to talk to Celine again, because Gareth started reading and telling stories. He was really funny. All the girls in the audience were going crazy because of his Irish accent. Maybe I should pretend to be foreign, I thought suddenly. I bet I could get a lot of girls that way. Then I remembered I was still kind of busy pretending to be the last thing I had pretended to be to get girls—a vampire.
For some reason, as Jenny and I walked back to Grand Central Station to take the train home, the city seemed quieter than usual. Actually, it wasn’t quiet at all—it was midtown Manhattan on a Saturday night. But it seemed quiet to me, even as I watched the characters around us. Two self-centered women fought over a cab.
“I can’t walk! I have six Bloomingdale’s bags!” the first woman screamed.
“I can’t walk! Look at my shoes!” said the second, displaying a heel too dangerous to make it through airport security.
Two guys who looked younger than I did came tumbling out of a darkened bar called the Lace Lounge. A bouncer the size of Canada told them, “Don’t come back!” before slamming the door. The two guys proceeded to fight about what had given them away as underage.
“It’s because you can’t grow a mustache!” the first guy said.
“No,” the other argued. “It’s because you brought your little brother.”
“Hey, guys! Wait up!” a smaller voice called. When the two guys parted, I could see a ten-year-old trailing along behind them.
I grinned as we walked past the underage kids and came upon a tall street performer guy singing early Mariah Carey hits in a surprisingly convincing voice. Wow, he was really hitting those high notes! Wow, he… might be a she. Or was it a he? Or was it…
I was about to ask for Jenny’s input when I realized what was making it seem quiet. Jenny was quiet. And that was such a rare occurrence that it threw me off completely. Refraining from asking for her input on the diva’s gender ambiguity, I put my hands in my pockets, and Jenny trudged along next to me. Usually she’d be tugging at my sleeves, asking me a million questions, talking about the reading. But she wasn’t saying anything.
When I looked to the side and opened my mouth to make conversation, I saw the reflection of a streetlight streaming down Jenny’s face. She was crying! What the hell? Why was Jenny crying? More important, what was I supposed to do about it? I turned my head away quickly. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen crying. I wouldn’t want anyone to see me crying. I would want everyone around me to ignore the situation completely.
Jenny didn’t want that. When I turned my head away from her, she sniffed pointedly.
Maybe I just had to change the subject, and she would forget whatever had made her cry. It couldn’t have been that big a deal anyway if I hadn’t noticed Jenny get upset (and I had noticed that transvestite singing Mariah Carey songs).
“That Gareth guy was pretty funny,” I said. “You know, when he was reading…”
A high-pitched wail escaped from Jenny’s chest.
Shit. Were people hearing this? Were people watching this, thinking I made her cry? Had I made her cry? Shit. I should