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“That isn’t a good enough reason!”
“Since when?”
She’s got me there.
I point to the screen and cover my lips with a librarian’s finger. For some reason, she actually shuts up. It works, but now the movie is just going to be two hours of me squirming in my seat, knowing I’m in for a lecture when we’re done watching oiled-up, naked men’s bodies gyrating in fifteen-foot high technicolor.
Okay. So maybe Fiona’s lecture isn’t why I’ll be squirming. Whatever.
Two hours later, I’m proven right. The second the credits start to roll, Fiona chugs the last of her water and says, “Text him now and accept.”
“Come on! I’m trying to enjoy the movie score, you fun sucker.”
“It’s nothing but shouting the word ‘bitch’ in twenty-seven different languages.”
“It’s art.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“That is a form of art, too.”
“You’ve certainly elevated it to one,” she says to me, bright and smiling. Fiona has this way of staring at people with those big, round eyes that are a little too interested in the world. Most of us have our friendly, outgoing edges filed off brutally in middle school.
Fiona was ahead of her time, emotionally darker than the rest of us at a time when optimism was rewarded with scorn and therefore being cynical was justified, but somehow she reclaimed that attentiveness. A pure spirit.
Maybe the four-year-olds she teaches did it.
What it’s created, though, is a deeply dangerous friendship pit I fall into over and over: she can be blunt without being threatening until it’s too late.
Caught.
“Just because you and Perky think I should take this job isn’t good enough. Why? I could lose out on a much better job opportunity if I tie myself up in this one.”
“Are you tied up by other men right now?”
“Fi! I expect Perky to do the double entendre sex-joke crap all the time, but not you.”
“Are you offended?”
“No! If I were offended, I wouldn’t be friends with her. I just didn’t expect it from you.” I giggle through an image of being tied up by Will Lotham.
And suddenly, I’m not giggling. I’m a little swoony.
Standing quickly, I hustle Fiona out of our row and up the incline to the exit of the movie theater. The sun is bright and shining, forcing us both to fish around in our handbags for sunglasses. Without any conversation whatsoever, we turn right, then left, and find ourselves in front of SushiMe and a little Mexican restaurant we both love, Taco Taco Taco, known to the locals as Taco Cubed.
Fiona hesitates, leaning toward the sushi place. “So, Mal—”
“Taco special!” I call back as I walk toward the scent of cumin and affordable. Fiona’s shoulder’s sag. Why is her sigh filled with frustration? Weird. She loves tacos, even if her choices leave much to be desired.
The line is long at Taco Cubed, filled with people who work regular, full-time jobs grabbing whatever bit of hope and luxury they can in their hour respite from being under the thumb of The Man.
That’s what I tell myself as I peel off six of my last dollars and buy the dirt-cheap daily taco special.
“Hey,” I say to her as we wait for our orders, “it’s Monday. Don’t you have to teach today?”
“In-service day. We spent two hours talking about new educational standards and agreed to meet back up at five tonight for classroom cleaning.”
“I could have been spared the high-pressure sales pitch if it weren’t for that?”
