30 Guys in 30 Days by MICOL OSTOW

Author:MICOL OSTOW
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SIMON PULSE
Published: 2003-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Seven

9/20, 1:29 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: this weekend

Hey, Claudia—

I looked for you at the roller disco last night after couples-skate, but I guess you’d already left? I was thinking about how you’ve got a guest this weekend, and I wanted to offer you some tickets. Mad Salad is playing at the Tin Room Saturday night. I don’t know what kind of music Drew’s into, but they’re pretty much easy-listening. Think The Strokes. Rock all the way. I bet he’d like it.

Anyway, maybe you’ve already got your own thing planned, but I wanted to put it out there. The passes are down at the paper. If you want them, they’re yours. And you wouldn’t have to cover the show, or anything, since you’ll probably be too busy entertaining to write.

Just lemme know.

—G

9/20, 2:17 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: re: this weekend

Yeah, sorry about the disappearing act. I got really tired all of a sudden and just had to split. Was up late the night before studying and I guess it caught up to me.

Anyway, that’s really cool of you about the tix. I’d love to take them—if you’re sure it’s okay. And I can write it up, no worries. I know you’re always looking to fill the page and stuff.

Thanks again. You rock.

—xx

9/20, 2:44 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: re: re: this weekend

No big, babe. Glad to hook you up.

Ain’t that what friends are for?

;)

9/21, 7:22 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: Just call me Suzie Samaritan

There I was this afternoon, walking back uphill after women’s history. I was stopped at a street corner when a cute little silver VW Jetta pulled up, heavy bass pumping from the windows, which were open. I stepped back to let the car continue on, but it didn’t move. I assumed the driver was letting me cross, so I set forth, but as I passed in front of the car, I could see that the driver was in fact a boy about my age, alone. He was struggling with a map and looking confused.

Hey, now, I thought. Looks like Target #17 to me.

I leaned against the driver’s side door, offering up a wide grin. “Can I help you find your way?” I asked, ever the friendly neighbor.

The boy looked up at me quizzically, but smiled when he realized what I was saying.

Then he shoved the map at me and began to shoot rapid-fire questions at me successively.

Not in English.

Not in Spanish.

Not in French.

Which basically covered it, as far as languages that I spoke, understood or, at the very least, recognized.

I rearranged my features in what I hoped was a gesture of contrition. I flashed my eyes at him: So sorry, my mistake. Judging from his own expression of supreme irritation, he got the picture.

Slowly but surely, I backed away from the car, waving my wayward tourist onward.

—xx

When I got home from classes the next evening, I could hear Madonna blaring through the closed door to my dorm room. This was a good sign. I knew that bids were being given out that

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