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“Semen, pee, what’s the difference?” Miranda shrugs. “It’s all gross.” She slings a brown saddlebag over her shoulder. “Did you see that guy after all?”
“‘That guy’ happens to have a name. Bernard. And yes, I did see him. I’m pretty crazy about him. We went furniture shopping.”
“So he’s already turned you into his slave.”
“We’re having fun,” I say pointedly.
“Has he tried to get you into bed?”
“No,” I say, somewhat defensively. “I need to go on the pill, first. And I’ve decided I’m not going to sleep with him until my eighteenth birthday.”
“I’ll be sure to mark it on my calendar. ‘Carrie’s birthday and lose-her-virginity day.’”
“Maybe you’d like to be there. For moral support.”
“Does Bernie have any idea you’re planning to use him as a stud service?”
“I believe the word ‘stud’ only applies if you’re planning on reproducing. Which I’m not.”
“In that case, ‘dud’ might be more appropriate.”
“Bernard is no dud,” I say threateningly. “He’s a famous playwright—”
“Yada yada yada.”
“And I’m sure his ‘sword’ is mightier than his word.”
“You’d better hope so,” Miranda says. She raises her index finger and slowly lowers it into a crook as we burst out laughing.
“I just love these prices,” L’il says, scanning the menu.
“I know.” Miranda nods, pleased. “You can get a whole meal for three dollars.”
“And a whole beer for fifty cents,” I add.
We’re seated at a table in the Indian restaurant Miranda kept telling us about, although it wasn’t so easy to find. We walked up and down the block three times past nearly identical restaurants until Miranda insisted this was the place, recognizable by the three peacock feathers in a vase in the window. The tablecloths are red-and-white-checkered plastic; the knives and forks tinny. The air is musty and sweet.
“This reminds me of home,” L’il says.
“You live in India?” Miranda asks, astonished.
“No, silly. North Carolina.” She gestures around the restaurant. “This is exactly like one of those barbecue places tucked off the freeway.”
“Freeway?” Miranda queries.
“Highway,” I translate.
I hope the whole dinner isn’t like this. Miranda and L’il are both intense in their own way, so I assumed they’d like each other. And I need them to get along. I miss having a group of friends. Sometimes it feels like every part of my life is so different, I’m constantly visiting another planet.
“You’re a poet?” Miranda asks L’il.
“Indeed,” she replies. “What about you?”
I jump in. “Miranda’s majoring in Women’s Studies.”
L’il smiles. “No offense, but what can you do with that?”
“Anything.” Miranda glares. She’s probably wondering what you can do with a poetry degree.
