societies to my one? (Lydia’s secret society freaked me out, quite frankly. They almost destroyed our suite during their initiation last year. Of course, she’d never stand for me grilling her about it.)
“So anyway, that’s where we met. I mean, we’d known each other from class and stuff, but for some reason, after the ceremony we just clicked. Bonded.”
Knowing Lydia, seeing him in Phi Beta Kappa probably convinced her he was good enough for her.
“And now what?”
He looked at me quizzically.
“Is she your girlfriend ?”
He looked down at his lap. “Yeah. I guess she is.”
I shot to my feet.
“Amy—” He grabbed at my arm, but I whisked it away and made a beeline toward my bedroom.
“I’m getting dressed.”
“Amy, your oath!”
“I’m getting dressed!” I yelled, and slammed the door.
What was I going to do? Lydia needed to know what she was getting herself into before she started to regret all of this coyness and Sunday morning sexy bathrobe wearing and cutesy little brunch invites. But what was I supposed to say? Yes, this Josh fellow seems like a lovely guy, but I have it on good authority he’s never been faithful to any of his girlfriends. If I knew Lydia, she’d try to bludgeon my sources out of me.
Why I Don’t Like Sundays (Especially This One): reason number five…
Brunch with Josh and Lydia got stickier than the dining hall’s sweet buns when Lydia left the table for a second helping on her Eli breakfast sandwich. The Eli breakfast sandwich is the best thing our dining halls offer: greasy fried egg, greasier fried bacon, and a greasy, half-melted slice of cheddar on a greasy English muffin. It’s to die for. Josh—who had, apparently, hopped in our shower while I’d been getting dressed—stared intently into his cornflakes. I concentrated on the opinion column in the Eli Daily News and munched a bagel. Neither of us saw it coming.
“This seat taken?” A loaded tray slammed down beside me. I looked up to see George frowning at our little tableau.
“At the risk of reaching critical mass,” Josh said, “go ahead.”
George sat down hard and began to pound the bottom of the ketchup bottle until the contents spurted out over his sandwich. But he wasn’t watching the delectable he was currently drowning in condiment. Instead, he was staring daggers at Josh, whose wet hair was leaving little rivulets on the collar of his day-old shirt.
Oh. I smiled and returned to the newspaper, perfectly willing to let whatever dreadful and delicious conclusion George might have jumped to stand for the time being. That would teach him to stand me up! “Josh,” I said, in the sweetest tone I could muster, “be a darling and pass me a napkin.”
He gave me a curious glance, but did.
“So, Josh,” George said, after a bite of ketchup-drenched sandwich, “you never did get back to us about that trip we wanted to take over Thanksgiving Break. You know, the one where we all go up to Canada for the cheap lap dances?”
“Oh, really ?” I bit my lip to keep from grinning and turned the page to the comics section. Ooh, Doonesbury. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Josh give a non-committal shrug, but I wasn’t sure it was for my benefit. After all, we weren’t under the seal of Rose & Grave right now. If I thought Josh, not Soze, and George, not Puck, were going on a strip-club lost weekend, I could tell Lydia just fine.
Of course, George played right into my hands. “Look, if I’m interrupting the two of you—”
And then Lydia came back and ruined everything. “George, scoot over,” she said, bumping his tray and setting hers back down. “They were out of the kind with bacon.” She pouted. “They always make too many lacto-ovo veggie ones.” Josh sighed and switched his bacon-laden sandwich for hers, and she beamed at him. They were so cute I could just vomit.
George snorted. Great, another snorter in the club. I looked at him and he shook his head, then winked
“So anyway, that’s where we met. I mean, we’d known each other from class and stuff, but for some reason, after the ceremony we just clicked. Bonded.”
Knowing Lydia, seeing him in Phi Beta Kappa probably convinced her he was good enough for her.
“And now what?”
He looked at me quizzically.
“Is she your girlfriend ?”
He looked down at his lap. “Yeah. I guess she is.”
I shot to my feet.
“Amy—” He grabbed at my arm, but I whisked it away and made a beeline toward my bedroom.
“I’m getting dressed.”
“Amy, your oath!”
“I’m getting dressed!” I yelled, and slammed the door.
What was I going to do? Lydia needed to know what she was getting herself into before she started to regret all of this coyness and Sunday morning sexy bathrobe wearing and cutesy little brunch invites. But what was I supposed to say? Yes, this Josh fellow seems like a lovely guy, but I have it on good authority he’s never been faithful to any of his girlfriends. If I knew Lydia, she’d try to bludgeon my sources out of me.
Why I Don’t Like Sundays (Especially This One): reason number five…
Brunch with Josh and Lydia got stickier than the dining hall’s sweet buns when Lydia left the table for a second helping on her Eli breakfast sandwich. The Eli breakfast sandwich is the best thing our dining halls offer: greasy fried egg, greasier fried bacon, and a greasy, half-melted slice of cheddar on a greasy English muffin. It’s to die for. Josh—who had, apparently, hopped in our shower while I’d been getting dressed—stared intently into his cornflakes. I concentrated on the opinion column in the Eli Daily News and munched a bagel. Neither of us saw it coming.
“This seat taken?” A loaded tray slammed down beside me. I looked up to see George frowning at our little tableau.
“At the risk of reaching critical mass,” Josh said, “go ahead.”
George sat down hard and began to pound the bottom of the ketchup bottle until the contents spurted out over his sandwich. But he wasn’t watching the delectable he was currently drowning in condiment. Instead, he was staring daggers at Josh, whose wet hair was leaving little rivulets on the collar of his day-old shirt.
Oh. I smiled and returned to the newspaper, perfectly willing to let whatever dreadful and delicious conclusion George might have jumped to stand for the time being. That would teach him to stand me up! “Josh,” I said, in the sweetest tone I could muster, “be a darling and pass me a napkin.”
He gave me a curious glance, but did.
“So, Josh,” George said, after a bite of ketchup-drenched sandwich, “you never did get back to us about that trip we wanted to take over Thanksgiving Break. You know, the one where we all go up to Canada for the cheap lap dances?”
“Oh, really ?” I bit my lip to keep from grinning and turned the page to the comics section. Ooh, Doonesbury. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Josh give a non-committal shrug, but I wasn’t sure it was for my benefit. After all, we weren’t under the seal of Rose & Grave right now. If I thought Josh, not Soze, and George, not Puck, were going on a strip-club lost weekend, I could tell Lydia just fine.
Of course, George played right into my hands. “Look, if I’m interrupting the two of you—”
And then Lydia came back and ruined everything. “George, scoot over,” she said, bumping his tray and setting hers back down. “They were out of the kind with bacon.” She pouted. “They always make too many lacto-ovo veggie ones.” Josh sighed and switched his bacon-laden sandwich for hers, and she beamed at him. They were so cute I could just vomit.
George snorted. Great, another snorter in the club. I looked at him and he shook his head, then winked
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