Whenever You Call by Anna King

scored 100%, which was terrific except that Ike hadn’t managed to check my answers adequately, so, really, I’d goofed on the Flaming Orgasm. Didn’t take much thought to figure out why. Despite the excitement of both Al and Rabbitfish in my life, I’d fallen asleep the night before without any satisfaction whatsoever. I should probably own up that I had really scored 95%, but I didn’t think it mattered. Al had enough to deal with as everyone fell apart when they saw their failing grades. Yup, every single student, including my personal favorite, Jelly, had failed.
    “Listen, folks, just calm down!” Al yelled. “You’ll have another chance tomorrow, with a new set of 25. Study tonight, how about? If you improve as the week goes along, you won’t have any problem being certified by Saturday.”
    Right.
    Since I’d done so well, and the rest of them had failed, I was now the most unpopular person in the room. They ganged up on me in their shared mutual loathing.
    I knew I shouldn’t let it bother me, but as I bustled around, setting up my bar space, I felt slightly teary. I wasn’t used to being unpopular. I was used to popular, as in very popular. I wanted to go outside and call Jen, ostensibly to ask whether she and Tom had made love, but mostly so that she could reassure me about my basic good qualities. I mean, what was I supposed to do, fail the test deliberately? As I began to mix drinks, getting into the rhythm and, frankly, having a fine ’ole time, I managed to pretend four people didn’t actually revile me.
    We broke for lunch. While the other students went back to the pizza parlor downstairs, Al and I headed for a French cafe just a block away. We studied the menus and I became aware that Al was the center of attention in the restaurant. Women kept tipping their heads to peek at him, and I never saw so much hair being tossed around, as if a strong wind blew right through the cafe, or we were all in some gigantic convertible with the top down. Visually, he was wildly handsome, but I now began to theorize that he also gave off some kind of must or scent. As his vibes meandered through the restaurant, roping in the women, I found myself less attracted to him. Maybe it was just realizing I didn’t stand a chance, or maybe it was because he put down his menu right away and then began an obsequious riff about my writing.
    I really should have known. It wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before.
    Beautiful bartender Al had written a book and he wanted an agent. My agent, preferably. So, he started his campaign by praising me. Lauding me. If I hadn’t been a levelheaded sort of person, I might have thought I was the best darn writer who’d ever lived, with a Nobel Prize undoubtedly in my future.
    When I truly thought I might puke if I heard another word, I took control of the situation by signaling the waiter and ordering a Nicoise salad. Al asked for a croque monsieur . As soon as we were alone, I began to speak with my usual, canned response to such requests by asking to hear a description of his book. I was open-minded and I had to admit that his idea sounded clever and cute. He’d written a mystery with a bartender as the “detective.” The bar, where the murder occurs and the bartender who solves the murder works, is called Tie Me to the Bedpost, so that was what Al named the book.
    “Damn good title,” I said, grinning.
    He raised both eyebrows in a flirtatious bid.
    My salad and his sandwich arrived. Before taking a bite, I said, “I will sometimes offer to read a person’s writing, if they want me to recommend them to my agent, but only if I honestly feel like their idea has merit. Otherwise, I’d be inundated with material, especially here in Cambridge.”
    Al nodded hard, apparently understanding.
    “Your idea sounds okay, but it’s rare that a good idea is married to good writing. Chances are I won’t pass your name onto my agent. Can you handle that?”
    Triumphant, he said,