Milkrun by Sarah Mlynowski Page A

Jonathan, for instance. We went out only once, six days ago, and already he’s called seven times. I’ve had four hang-ups and three messages.
    Saturday: “Hey, love. (Love? Aren’t we a little too familiar, here?) It’s Jon calling. Call me. Call me.”
    Sunday: “Hello, dear. (Dear? What am I, over forty?) It’s me. It’s me. Just calling to see how your weekend was. Call me back. Call me back.”
    Tuesday: “Hi, sexy. (Sexy’s good, but from him? Ew…) Want to catch a flick this weekend? Call me back soon. Call me back soon.”
    I know I should be a big girl and call him back to tell him I’m not interested, but then I’ll have to listen to him…twice. However, if I ignore him enough, eventually he’ll go away. His messages remind me of a Doublemint commercial.
    Thank God for call display.
    Well, at least he wasn’t at Orgasm. After six rounds of E-reek’s courtship, in my hazy state of mind I might have let it slip that I thought he was a creep. Or I might have gone home with him. I’m talking about Jonathan, of course. Not E-reek. Although in my condition, who knows?
    I did spot one bleached-blond hottie, a definite potential boyfriend, or at least a potential let’s-get-it-on guy. He was wearing New York rimmed dark glasses and one of those ski sweaters with a beige stripe running across the chest, which are still sexy despite them being so 1996. He sat on a bar stool talking to two other guys, and I decided to try my look-over-right-now telepathic powers on the off chance they might work.
    Like I said, it was an off chance.
    At about two, Nat and I decided to call it quits and head home. Her Jetta was parked in my lot again, since I live so close. We chatted noisily as we headed through the side streets to my house. About three minutes into our walk I noticed a guy in a jean jacket and jeans lurking about a half a block behind us.
    â€œâ€¦I know E-reek’s cute,” Nat was saying, “but I could barely understand anything he said. Maybe if he could make me a princess, or at least an heir to something, but…”
    A block later, the guy was still behind us.
    â€œNat,” I whispered, “there’s a guy behind us that’s really creeping me out. At the corner let’s switch to the other side of the street.”
    â€œIs it Jon?”
    â€œNo, he’s more of a telephone stalker, not a physical one. I don’t know who this guy is.”
    I could see her face turning white even under her perfectly applied MAC foundation. We crossed.
    â€œOkay, now let’s pretend we’re tying our shoes.”
    â€œWe don’t have laces,” she whispered. True, I thought, staring at my knee-highs. Why wasn’t I wearing a solid pair of Sketchers? Why, why?
    We fidgeted with the heels of our boots.
    One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
    I figured that by ten he would be gone. But no, he was crossing the street.
    â€œShit,” Nat whispered. She motioned to the nearest building. “Let’s pretend we live there,” she mouthed. “I can’t run in these things.”
    We moved as fast as our boots would allow, the sound of our heels cracking against the sidewalk. When we reached the white high-rise, Natalie opened the glass door and marched inside. I picked up the phone, struggling to decide on a number to dial.
    â€œDial something already!” Natalie hissed. I dialed one-two-three-four-five, hoping someone nice lived at my old Hotmail account code.
    â€œHe’s going to walk by any second,” Natalie moaned.
    Why isn’t it ringing? Please ring!
    Suddenly, the stalker walked past the door. He peered inside, then continued down the street.
    â€œThat was crazy,” Nat said as we stared into the empty blackness. Empty for a second, anyway. Because suddenly Supercreep reappeared in front of us, this time with his pale blue jeans around his