You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(9)

“Okay.”

“What happened with you and this girl? And I want the truth, Joseph.”

“She batted her eyes at me because she wanted to use the toilet.”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t smile at me because she liked me. She was using me.”

“Yes.”

I wish I had a computer in my pocket—did you write back?—and I wish he would stop with this shit, and if you did write back—did you?—and you’re sitting there waiting for a response, you’re probably getting antsy, having second thoughts, thinking it might be wiser to put it all behind you and pee somewhere else next time you’re in a fix.

“Say it, Joseph. Finish it.”

“She was using me because she knew she could use me.”

“And why is that, Joseph?”

“Because I let women walk all over me.”

“And why is that?”

“Because my mom walked all over me.”

He lights a damp stogie. “Remember, Joseph. The best books are hard to read. They strain your eyes, your mind. They challenge you, boy. You’ve a lot more reading to do before you so much as dare to make your way into the hole of some cunt in a cape.”

I barely make it out the door before I fold like a whiny little toddler who couldn’t even get my own mother to like me. I cried too much when I was a baby, and Mooney is right. I’m weak. I get excited when any girl looks at me. I practically come in my fucking pants. I’m a bad seed. Desperate. I can’t believe I didn’t take my time with you. I wish I’d taken out a Moleskine notepad and a fountain pen, tried to match you, meet you, be you. There’s no way I’ll ever see you again and maybe it’s okay. That’s the thing about losing hope. Accepting defeat. I feel nothing as I tap the computer, as it comes back to life. And then I open Hotmail and…

It’s you. As if you felt me jumping ship.

Hi. It’s me, Vail. See you at the movies, Joe.





4


I got here first—I am the man—and I look like a boyfriend, like Romeo in black jeans. I shaved. I ate a banana. I practiced my small talk in the mirror, and I walked all the way here from Stuy Town. There is a whole world out there. Zillions and billions of people and you are not girls, girls, girls. You are just one girl. I’m not risking my life, but my legs won’t stop shaking. It’s good. I’m good. I bought the tickets. They’re a little moist—I am sweating—but first dates are a mind fuck, and I bet you’re sweating too, wondering if I’ll show up, if I’ll still want you when I see you. I need to breathe. Be cool. Don’t say moist. But it’s one of those topics I made for us to discuss, the way it’s always the coldhearted snakes in this world who are so fucking good at being relaxed. Cool.

The other topics are on the Moleskine notepad in my back pocket, but I don’t need to check it. They’re all upstairs, in my head:

- Our favorite Philip Roth books

- Our favorite books from childhood

- My advance copy of The Lovely Bones that I might lend to you

- Pizza

- The horror that is the Virgin Megastore in Times Fucking Square



I’m ready for you, Vail. My feet are planted on the concrete on the corner of Houston and Mercer, right in front of the main steps to the theater. But then a woman smirks at me and fuck. Am I too ready? Yes. There’s this stink about me. Desperation, as if every passerby can tell I jerked off in the shower, the way I went from pulling at my Portnoy to clutching these fucking tickets. Fix it, Joe, fix it. I step aside to lean against the wall like James Fucking Dean, like I’m cool. It’s just a date. You’re just a girl. But my neck is stiff, and the wall is too hard and then…

You are here. Bare legs under a black miniskirt. No tights. Same messenger bag. Your hair is stick straight. Ironed and glossy.

“Hello, Joe.”

“Hi, Vail.”

You throw your arms around me, and I’m a soldier back from the war. You smell like a girl, like powders and peaches, and you have strong arms. Muscles that you use to hold on to me. And then you pull away, as if you think you came on a little strong. You size me up, and do you see good things? Bad things? Did you expect me to have a messenger bag? Should I have worn my brown sweater instead of the black one?

“So,” you say. “Are you as nervous as I am?”

“Oh yeah. Just now I tried to lean against the wall to seem cool.”

“And how’d that work out for you?”

“It didn’t.”

You laugh—you like me—and you pull your hair over one shoulder. You really are nervous, and that means I matter. “Aw, I get it,” you say. “But come on. You guys have it easy. You throw on jeans and a T-shirt and you’re good to go.”

It’s December, and I am wearing a sweater. “True.”

“You have no clue…. Women, us, me, I went nuts this morning. My place is a mess ’cause I still haven’t unpacked since I got home from Christmas…. Did you go home for Christmas…or Hanukkah?”

I laugh like I have a family, like I had a holiday. “I’m from Bed-Stuy, so there’s no suitcase involved.”

“Cool,” you say. “Okay, my point, though…This morning, I changed my clothes ten times. I mean, jeans are okay if I’m feeling them, if they flatter me, but as a girl, every day you have a different body, so you can’t plan these things in advance. And the whole time I’m melting down and worrying if a skirt in the day is too much and my slutty roommate is rolling her eyes and mocking me and oh my God this is so not what I planned on saying to you when I got here.”