“You’re too young.”
“I’m twenty-one, not sixteen or seventeen.”
“I’m too old.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Okay, that’s old.?
?
My answer surprises him, and he looks at me. Realizing I’m not serious, he lets out a chuckle. I like the sound of it.
“Any other objections?” I press.
“Yes. You’re correct. I prefer blonds or Asians. And non-virgins.”
I look down in disappointment, then up in puzzlement. Remembering I didn’t get a satisfactory answer earlier, I ask, “Then why did you pick me yesterday?”
“I was being nice.”
Oh. Guess I shouldn’t have asked. I purse my lips, then say softly, “I’d rather you not be nice.”
The muscle along his jaw tenses as he shifts into a higher gear so that we’re driving beyond the speed limit, like he’s in a hurry.
Feeling like I have nothing to lose at this point, I say, “Why do you care how I lose my virginity anyway? If I don’t lose it to you, it’d probably be to some half-drunk frat boy whose name I won’t care to remember.”
He weaves between two cars so that he can get ahead of a car that’s only doing seventy-five in the fast lane.
“You’d be doing me a favor,” I try. “The money means a lot. And I don’t know that I can work two jobs while studying at Berkeley. There are so many smart people at that school. Honestly, I don’t know how I got in. I keep thinking there’s another Virginia Mayhew out there who got the rejection letter I was supposed to get.”
After a few minutes of silence, he says, “I’ll give you the money.”
My jaw drops. Is he being serious?
Incredulous, I inquire, “For what?”
“For Berkeley. For whatever you need it for.”
He sounds a little frustrated. At first, I think he’s like Eric, whom I suspect is a scrooge when it doesn’t involve self-indulgence. But my intuition tells me Tony’s different.
“So you’re giving me, like, a scholarship?”
“Sure.”
“And you’re still taking me home?”
“Yes.”
“That’s...very philanthropic of you.” I knit my brows. I should be ecstatic. Instead, I feel unsettled. “I’m sorry I’m not a blond or Asian non-virgin.”
I watch his nostrils flair. He hasn’t looked at me for a while. We sit in silence, which I’m almost used to by now. I tell myself I should keep my trap shut. It’s like I hit the lotto. It doesn’t feel real.
“You know, it’s okay,” I decide, even as a part of me is screaming that I’m a card short of a full deck. “You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to give me the money.”
Now he turns to look at me, and even with his sunglasses on, I can see his disbelief.