Almost Perfect - Brian Katcher [44]
“I-am-fine,” she mocked in a robotic voice. I smiled, remembering the many times she’d made me laugh.
“Hey, listen. Tim is turning eighteen tomorrow. And some of us are going to a comedy club in Columbia.” I said this so rapidly I expected her to ask me to repeat myself.
“Yes?” she asked warily.
“I dunno. If you wanted to meet us there, it’ll be tomorrow, at eight. The Bipolar Comedy Club on Cherry Street.” I didn’t offer to drive her because that would be too much like a date. And I didn’t have a car.
Sage didn’t jump at the chance, but she did hop. “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that.”
“And could you give me a lift back to Boyer afterward?”
Sage laughed. Had she guessed that Tim and Dawn wanted to be alone after the show, or did she think I was only interested in her car? “Sure, Logan.”
“Okay.” Christ, I hoped I wasn’t making a huge mistake. “Just remember—”
“I know, Logan. This isn’t a date.”
“Uh, yeah. See you there.” Actually, I was just going to remind her that parking was bad in Columbia and to get there early. But I was glad we were on the same wavelength about the other thing, too. It was kind of funny. She used to be the one who told me our outings most certainly were not dates. Now we’d flip-flopped.
The Bipolar Comedy Club was located in downtown Columbia. It was just a hole-in-the-wall joint. Any big-name comedian who came to this area would play the Déjà Vu Lounge or at the university. Bipolar would probably never get a headliner, unless it was NIGHTCLUB FIRE KILLS 23.
I stood in the freezing-cold parking lot, watching college couples file in to claim the best tables. Tim and Dawn had gone inside already. Tim said he’d get us a good spot, which probably meant one near the kitchen.
Sage was twenty minutes late. She’d seemed willing when I’d called her, but she could have changed her mind. A lot had passed between us, and maybe Sage had decided some things were better left buried.
Why had I called her? We’d kind of made peace. She wouldn’t blame me for disappearing. And yet here I was, waiting in the bitter February cold, about to take a she-male to an evening of Didja ever notice … ?
I spotted Sage a block away. Even if you ignored her enormous white fake-fur cap, matching muff, and fleece coat, she still stood nearly half a foot higher than the tallest pedestrian.
She didn’t wave or acknowledge me. Just walked up and leaned against someone’s car. Even slouched over like that, we were still almost eye to eye.
“Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find a place to park.”
“Yeah.”
We just stood there for a few seconds. Back when we were friends, we’d have already been laughing and joking. Now things were tense and awkward. There was no way I could ever be relaxed around this person again. To me, Sage would never be just Sage. She’d be Sage-the-boy-who-pretended-to-be-a-girl-and-who-I-kissed-that-one-time. No friendship could survive with that many hyphens. I wondered what she was thinking. I leaned against a cement wall, not looking at her, not talking.
“Well, we better go on in,” I said eventually. I avoided eye contact.
“Okay,” Sage said with resignation. It was like she was about to tackle some dull chore she’d been avoiding. “Who’s performing?”
“Chip Durham.” We joined the line that snaked out the door.
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. They’re billing him as ‘the guy from the Bud Light commercials,’ so I’m not optimistic.” Sage giggled a little.
“Have you ever been here?” I continued.
She shook her head.
“It’s supposed to be pretty fun. My sister says the food’s good and you can sometimes get beer if you’re not too obvious about it.”
“I don’t drink,” she said pointedly.
The guy taking money at the door could have quelled a prison riot with a glance. He was even taller than Sage, with a shaved head and a torso that bulged from beneath his SECURITY T-shirt. Along with paying fifteen dollars, all patrons had to show ID.
I was fishing out my wallet when Sage grabbed my arm.
“Why do we have to show our license if we’re not drinking?” She had a funny look on her face.
“You have to be eighteen to get in.