Zipped by Laura McNeal Page A

over there and talk to them alone?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Reece said. “In fact, I’m already gone,” and he was. He shambled directly toward the girls until he got within perhaps twenty yards of them and then veered abruptly toward the water fountain, where he took a quick drink before returning to the picnic table. Mick was grinning hugely. “How’d that go?” he said.
    â€œYou know who that is?” Reece said.
    â€œLorena Bobbitt?”
    â€œThat’s rich,” Reece said without smiling.
    Mick, still grinning, said, “Okay. Who?”
    â€œMyra Vidal and Pam Crozier.”
    This was news. Myra Vidal and Pam Crozier had graduated from Jemison High two years earlier and had gotten a lot of publicity as “the brainy beauty queens.” The brainy part came from their 4.0s, but the beauty part got them the press. In her senior year Myra had won the Miss Jemison Beauty Contest, but wouldn’t accept the position unless she could share it with Pam, who’d been runner-up. The contest people, sensing good publicity, acceded, and both Mick and Reece had watched mesmerized as Pam and Myra had stood in minimal swimsuits waving easily from the City of Commerce float in the Jemison Fourth of July parade.
    Mick flung the Frisbee, its long hanging trail of doggy saliva reflected in the sunlight. He said, “So Pam and Myra’s major-babe reputation was too much for the Reececake.”
    Reece smiled. “That’s correct. Froze him solid. Popsicle City.”
    Mick watched Foolish trotting back with his Frisbee. Foolish’s life was simple. He ate, he slept, he fetched Frisbees. He never read other people’s e-mails. He never judged people on the basis of their secret sex lives. He never worried what people thought of him. Mick said, “What would it pay if I went over and talked to those girls?”
    Reece gave him a look. “Depends. Zippo, if you’re just going to go over there and ask what time it is.” Mick had done that once before to collect this kind of bet.
    â€œNo. I mean, what would it pay if I go actually talk to them.”
    Reece narrowed his gaze. “We’d be talking a five-minute minimum.”
    â€œYeah, okay.”
    Reece began to get interested. “And what’s our A.O.? We’ve got to have an attainable objective.”
    Mick laughed. “Getting Myra Vidal and Pam Crozier to give plebes like us five minutes of their time is the objective.”
    But Reece was shaking his head. “Negative on that. Our A.O. is a phone number. You need to go over there and get one of their telephone numbers.”
    Mick chuckled. “Reece, dudester and good buddy, I hate to be the one to tell you, but this is a reality-based show.”
    Reece was unfazed. He said, “Here’s the deal. Five bucks for a minimum five-minute conversation. Twenty for a phone number.” He grinned at Mick. “Okay?”
    Mick knew the one thing he shouldn’t do was think about this too much. “Okay,” he said.
    â€œBut you pay me five for a failure-to-approach. Okay?”
    â€œYeah,” he said, eyeing the girls at the far side of the field, “okay. Five bucks for an F.T.A.”
    He swung his jacket over his shoulder and headed over in the direction of Pam Crozier and Myra Vidal, with Foolish and Reece close behind. “What’re you going to say?” Reece said.
    Mick didn’t answer. He had no idea what he was going to say.
    From behind, Reece said, “I mean, aren’t you supposed to have . . . you know . . . like an opening line?”
    The who-cares-anyway attitude that Mick had set out with was quickly slipping away from him. He began to feel more like himself, and the one thing he knew he wasn’t was the kind of person who strolls up to beautiful girls to strike up casual conversations.
    His heart began to pound wildly.
    Mick’s father had a saying for putting