Page 90 of Cackle

“Volleyball?”

“No,” I say, “I played soccer.”

“Soccer?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Huh,” he says. He sounds skeptical.

“Pascal, did you play any sports in high school?” Jill asks.

“Erm,” he says. “I ran track. And I was the captain of ski club.”

“Ooh, that’s cool,” Jill says. “Annie, do you ski?”

“No,” I say. “Sorry.”

The waiter comes by. Dan orders another beer and Jill gets a vodka cranberry. Pascal gets a whiskey neat, which is telling. I also order a whiskey.

Jill asks for the pretzel appetizer and the beer cheese dip. Beer cheese doesn’t sound too appealing to me, but I’m operating under the belief that this dinner is a bad dream, and soon I’ll wake up in my apartment with a lump on my head. It seems to be an effective coping mechanism.

If I were to accept this situation as reality, I’m fairly certain I’d immediately be crushed like a bug under the sheer force of unpleasantness.

“I love this cheese,” Jill says, understanding her role as the load-bearing wall. “I love all cheese, but this cheese is my all-time favorite. Dan says I’m cheesy.”

“You are cheesy,” he says.

“See?” she asks.

Where is my whiskey? I wish Sophie were here. I’d love to see the look on her face as she witnessed this conversation.

I understand now why she would choose to live mainly in isolation. I understand now why I spent years content to stay home with Sam and not interact with other people. It’s too much of a gamble. Some people are terrible.

Like Dan, who is blatantly staring at me.

“What do you teach? Math?” he asks me.

“English and ASL,” I say.

“What’s ASL?”

“American Sign Language.”

“Can you say something in sign language?”

“Yes,” I say.

The waiter sets my whiskey down. Pascal reaches for it, thinking it’s his, and our hands touch.

I look up at him, and he’s looking back at me. His face is void of expression. A brick is more emotive.

He retracts his hand. I gulp my whiskey.

“What’s everyone getting for their main?” Jill asks. “I was thinking the brat with the potato salad. Or maybe the schnitzel.”

Nothing on the menu calls to me. I think my appetite has been permanently destroyed by this interaction.

A pretzel that’s so large and twisty that it resembles a crusty brown octopus is plopped down in the center of the table, along with a cast-iron bowl of bubbling orange cheese.