M or F? by Lisa Papademetriou

That’d be real cute.”
    Frannie smiled politely. “I’m not really the midriff type. I was thinking more half tucked, with a corduroy skirt.”
    The way Margaret pursed her lips said everything about how different their tastes were. She’s about twice our age and divorced but likes to be part of the group. That’s the other thing about this job—you end up connected to people you’d never see together anywhere else.
    After Margaret filtered off to seat some customers and Tina went to serve the now-melting Big Deal I had made, Frannie dug back into the bag. She pulled out a big floppy cardigan sweater, like something a professor would wear.
    â€œWhat about this?” she said.
    â€œWell,” I said. “It’s not slutty. . . .”
    She stuffed it back in the bag. “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”
    â€œOh God, I don’t know,” I said. I picked up the next order ticket—a Saturday Sundae and a Raspberry Moo Shake.
    â€œLiar.”
    â€œProbably jeans and that long-sleeved blue tee,” I said quietly. I was embarrassed for anyone but Frannie to hear that I had already thought about it.
    All of a sudden, Calvin was among us. He works the fountain with me and has the ability to appear out of nowhere. I could smell the cigarette break on him.
    When you first meet Cal, you get one of three impressions:
    1. Surfer
    2. Stoner
    3. Surfer-stoner
    He’s either the smartest dumb person I’ve ever known or the dumbest smart person. We called him Cal, not because of Calvin, but because it’s short for California. I don’t even know if he’s ever been there. He just kind of is California, with the long blond hair, the mellow attitude, and the West Coast logic.
    â€œYou’ve got a math problem there, Fran,” Cal said, then picked up an order ticket and went back to work.
    â€œAnd this relates to math how?” I asked him. Cal almost always has a point; you just usually have to look for it.
    â€œWell,” he said, slowly, as always, “it’s like this. Date equals two people, right? And date plus Marcus equals . . .” He stopped to think about it. “Not a date.”
    Before Frannie or I could respond, Tina was back in it again. “Cal’s right,” she said. “I mean, you like this guy, right? You should just go by yourself.” She put a Root Beer Volcano on her tray and flew away, crossing paths with Margaret.
    â€œTina, those people at table three are in a hurry,” she said, and then, “What’d I miss?”
    Cal raised his hand unnecessarily to speak. “I’m just saying Frannie’s thing isn’t a date if Marcus is there. No offense, man.”
    â€œNone taken,” I said. It’s impossible to be offended by anything anyone says at Scoops, ’cause it’s like working inside a cartoon.
    Frannie shifted on her stool. “I don’t know if I want it to be a date yet anyway. It’s too early for that. Besides, what does that word even mean anymore? Dates are like this old-fashioned concept. Dates are—”
    â€œFruit?” I suggested.
    â€œYeah,” Frannie said with a grateful smile my way. “Dates are fruit.”
    The only one who seemed to agree was Calvin, who nodded, although I’d give it a fifty-fifty chance that he was responding to some unrelated thought deep inside his head.
    â€œWell, honey, you can call it what you want,” Margaret said, sliding over to the cash register, “but a girl and a boy going out for lunch? That’s a date.”
    â€œOr a boy and a boy,” I said.
    â€œBut not a boy and a girl and a boy,” Calvin said.
    â€œWell, actually—” I started, but Margaret cut me off.
    â€œLet’s keep it PG, people.” Which was an interesting thing to say, given what I knew about the reasons for Margaret’s divorce.
    Frannie watched the whole thing like a