Not Exactly a Love Story by Audrey Couloumbis Page A

callers are cowardly. Probably impotent except when they’re on the phone.”
    “Not so loud,” Melanie said. “It could be someone we know.”
    “I doubt it,” Patsy said.
    She didn’t feel absolutely certain I went to school with her? I mean, she kept hammering away at making me admit to it. But maybe she wasn’t as sure of herself as she seemed.
    Patsy said, “Here comes the bus,” and Brown Bunny said, “Hey, you didn’t say. Did he ask you out for a real date?”
    “Saturday.”
    Brown Bunny sat down with a guy who was already on the bus. Melanie and Patsy each took possession of two seats, setting their books on the empty one. A girl got on the bus at the next stop, carrying a couple of posters with pink frills. Talk turned to the Valentine’s Day dance.
    I sat at the back of the bus. I didn’t let what Brown Bunny had to say about obscene callers touch me. It had nothing to do with me. She would understand that if she got to know me any better.
    Which didn’t seem very likely.

TWENTY-SEVEN
    Mom called to say she was getting home late, so I made dinner.
    Buttered pumpernickel bread, some kind of soft lettuce that I found in the crisper, canned sardines with red onion and lemon. More of the lettuce as a salad.
    Beer for Mr. B, a Coke for me.
    Mr. B came to the table with a kind of quiet mood on him. He made some approving sounds as he chewed and then asked me, “So what’s your thinking on basketball? You’re tall, agile. You like basketball?”
    Putting me on the spot.
    I was not especially interested in dropping balls into baskets, not that it seemed a good idea to be that blunt.
    Track.
    Dad had an idea there. Nonviolent, big plus. At least I only had to worry about what I was doing, instead of a wholeteam. Also, I’d have the rest of the winter to get fit for spring meets. Longer if I couldn’t qualify until next year. “I’m thinking track sounds like a possibility,” I said, hoping to ease past making an actual commitment again.
    I remembered then that Mr. B didn’t actually coach the swim or track teams. The dean did.
    “Are you fast?”
    Who knew? I angled away with a question of my own. “What would I have to do to sign up?”
    Mr. B said, “Consider yourself signed up.”
    It was almost a relief to be calling Patsy. Vincenzo might fail with Patsy, but his would not be a public embarrassment. Like failing at track. I’d spent most of the evening picturing the various ways in which I could humiliate myself on the track team.
    She answered, saying, “Guess what?”
    “I don’t dare.”
    “Carlito!” she warned.
    “Just tell me. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
    “I’m on the Valentine’s Day dance committee. It’s going to be a masked ball.”
    I sensed something in the air, the way wild animals smell a trap. “Little eye masks?”
    “Whole costumes. Romantic ones. Literary figures or theater characters, that’s what they used to do. The drama teacher said we could do movie couples because it’s, like, modern times.”
    “I guess that’s cool.”
    “You could ask me to dance. Anonymously, of course.”
    “I don’t dance.”
    “Unless you really are afraid of me.” Terse. All business now.
    “Not exactly.”
    “Then what?” she wanted to know. She’d begun using this demanding tone. “Well?”
    “Maybe I don’t want to see disappointment on your face.”
    “You’re very pessimistic tonight.”
    “That’s one word for it.” She was right. Since committing to track, my mood had been low. I was contemplating taking up skiing after all, in hopes of breaking a leg.
    “You’re assuming a lot of not very nice things about me,” she said. “That I wouldn’t like you because you’re … because you need to work, or because you’re not very popular—oh, I don’t know, whatever you are that you think I don’t like.”
    “That’s a deep thought, Patsy.”
    She sighed. “I know that sounds, um—”
    “Have you ever dated someone your crowd wouldn’t