H o w To : F i n d a R e b o u n d G i r l
Joe Granato
Joseph Granato Short Fiction How To: Find A Rebound Girl First, it’s 2011. Stop watching The X-Files. If you want to get emotionally attached to something that ended over a decade ago, think about your girlfriend from the sixth grade. Jocelyn Hikenberry. You sit behind her in homeroom. It’s sixth grade. Life is simple. Life is effortless. Mostly, life is alphabetical. Hikenberry. Hink. When read in a roll call your name grossly pokes from behind hers like a prostate exam. Hink. It’s December. Go through mom’s “last minute Christmas gift” closet. A four pack of grippy socks. The rubber bottoms peeling off to look like a triceratops. Jocelyn hates reptiles. Except for the little lizards key chains she makes out of party beads. Fifteen or sixteen of them hanging from her book bag. She’s like a beautiful traveling terrarium. Opt instead for the sterling silver ring with the dolphin on it. Adorned with a wrinkled Bradley’s tag. Think, she’d surely recognize your expensive taste or give you something equally as sentimental. She’ll give you a box of fruit roll ups. She’ll pretend to love the ring, still sticky from the price tag. Ask her to the snowflake dance, with a three-foot long piece of artificial fruit tape hanging out of your mouth, rolling down your hologram Stone Cold Steve Austin tee shirt. She’ll go with Christian Britt instead. So you’ll go out to dinner with Uncle Frank. Suggest going somewhere fancy. You want to get use out of the suit mom bought you. He’ll take you to Lone Star. You’re sandy brown jacket and cummerbund will match practically everything in the restaurant. You’ll look like you’re about to get married to the three foot tall barrel of peanuts next to the bar. Admire the jackrabbit mounted to the wall. Count how many people in the booth next to yours are missing teeth. Then count how many teeth they’re each missing. The song will change. This ones about a man’s love affair with his pick up truck. Sink down in your seat so your perfectly level with Uncle Frank’s dirty fingernails digging at his cowboy cheese fries. In a half shout, just to get over the country music, he’ll say: “whoa now, looks like you made it to the dance after all, boy.” He’ll point over your shoulder at the middle-aged waitresses lining up for their embarrassing nightly gimmick. The square dance. All boot toes out with thumbs in their jean pockets. Sink further into your seat. But wait. Third from the left. With her bedazzled denim vest and surprisingly minimal eye shadow. Squint to read her small cactus nametag. Janet. She’s like an angel in a cowboy hat. Watch her dosey-doe. Intercept her wink meant for the guy at the bar with the “I’d rather die on my bike” Harley shirt. Fix your peanut colored tie. You’re back in the game.