How to Meet Cute Boys (13 page)

I pretended to think. “My allergies?” I said.

“Those keep me awake at night.”

“The pimple in the middle of my forehead?”

“Your third eye? Hardly noticed it.”

“The fact that I purposely put my faults on full display in hopes that you’ll find them charming instead of revolting?”

“I was thinking about something else.”

“I give up.”

“I like that I never worry about you.” He shrugged.

“You never worry about? …”

“I worried that night that your cat got sick and you had to take him to the vet. I was worried that mean little thing was
going to die and you’d be inconsolable. But other than that, I mean, I don’t worry about
you
. I can just do this …” He shrugged again and smiled. “I dunno, B. I just don’t worry about you.”

I grinned and patted his arm. But inside, I repeated his words to myself.
I don’t worry about you
. I thought,
Don’t worry about what about me? Don’t worry how about me? Should Max worry about me?
I looked at him. He was sipping his Sprite—he loathed alcohol, which I personally found achingly cute—and smoking his four
thousandth cigarette. He looked so harmless. Vulnerable. Sweet, even.
No, it’s good,
I thought.
It’s good that I don’t cause Max any stress. That he’s so comfortable being with me
. I decided I would be the one Max didn’t worry about. I would make Max happy.

My wildest dreams were confirmed when I took Max to that party at the Playboy Mansion a week later. We were checking out the
Grotto, an underground labyrinth of faux lava hot pools where bunnies supposedly cavort naked, and Max was disheartened—we’d
only seen one transsexual with his top off. So I sent him off in search of silicone while I caught up with Steph, who launched
into a monologue that ran along the lines of: “NO WAY CUTE GUY IS HE YOUR BOYFRIEND I AM SO SERIOUSLY BUGGING RIGHT NOW BECAUSE
THE PARKING SITUATION IS FROM FUCKING HELL WHAT ARE THOSE CHAMPAGNE GLASSES DOING IN THE GROTTO SOMEONE COULD GET HURT WAIT
THERE’S MILLA JOVOVICH MILLA! MILLA! …” Just then Max reappeared, thrilled because he’d found triplets in G-strings, and put
his arms around me. “You’re the coolest, B,” he whispered in my ear. “Now that I’ve seen naked girls at the Playboy Mansion—and
I still get to go home with you—I can die a happy man.”

I just smiled, thinking,
This whole younger-guy thing is really going to work out!

The next day I figured it was finally safe to ditch Ashton. It didn’t take any histrionics. I simply told him during dinner
at another lunch-to-late-night restaurant that we were becoming too dependent on one another for people who obviously didn’t
want to be in something serious. That the best thing, really, would be for us to focus on our friendship. We parted on good
terms, both of us assuring the other we’d “get together soon” even though we both knew that wasn’t true. It occurred to me
that Ashton was probably seeing someone on the side—he gave up rather quickly. But what the hell. I was too happy to care.
I thought,
I genuinely hope he’s happy with whoever she is
.

I was awakened by a leaf blower wailing away somewhere down the street, a long
waaaaaaaaaa
that both got on my nerves and made me nostalgic for the childhood I’d spent stranded in the suburbs. I opened my eyes and
could tell immediately that Max’s house was empty—the air was completely undisturbed by any other living thing. I rubbed my
head, which was still cloudy, and sat up. The night before Max had taken me to see Ryan Adams, and the band was so wasted
they played the longest set I’d ever heard. Then we had to say hello to the lead singer, whom Max knew. Made me wonder. Since
when did
Max
know all the cool people? As if reading my mind, he explained that Super Very Good was popular with the musician crowd. Anyhow,
Adams chatted us up for a full hour, telling funny stories about growing up in the South and his father’s taxidermy hobby—stuffed
raccoons hanging over his bed and terrifying the shit out of him when he was a kid. We didn’t get home until after three.

Still trying to wake up, my eyes focused on the clock—11:30
A.M
., shit. But next to it I saw a tall glass of apple juice and one perfect chocolate-covered cherry, both left there by Max,
just for me.

I thought,
I think I’m in love with him
.

Then,
I hope he doesn’t find out
.

I squashed both thoughts like a bug.

Max’s alarm had gone off at seven-fifteen as usual—he always got up earlier than I did because he had a real job. I vaguely
remembered opening my eyes and seeing him sitting on the stool in front of his drums, smoking a cigarette without any clothes
on. (Unlike me, he never seemed embarrassed about being naked.) Later, I think after his shower, he kissed me on the cheek
and I could smell the cigarettes and toothpaste on his breath. Max smoked two packs a day. I’d never seen anyone smoke so
much. When I asked him if he ever thought about quitting, he laughed and said, “Yeah right—I’d need, like, a nicotine
shirt
.”

I liked the weekdays, when I could wake up in his house alone. I showered in Max’s shower. Soaped myself with Max’s soap.
I made his bed. Perfect—no wrinkles, just like he did it. I walked around and looked at his things. Not snooping, because
to snoop you have to open drawers and read journals, stuff like that. His records and CDs, hundreds of them, were neatly catalogued
in multiple bookcases against one wall and alphabetized. I checked to see how many of them I also owned, but his collection
was so extensive I realized he had everything I’d ever heard of, plus at least five hundred more. I stared at the posters
on his bedroom walls. The inevitable Andre the Giant print made me smile. His collection of Japanese manga figurines—sexy
little girls wearing mini skirts with big cartoon eyes frozen in that perfect moment of tension between childhood and maturity—gave
me pause. On a bookshelf there was a watch collection—a whole shoe box full of, from what I could tell, faces dating back
to sometime in the fifties. I didn’t know Max collected watches. Finally I left a mix tape I made for him as a surprise on
his pillow. I found a Post-it on his desk, drew a big smiley face on it, and stuck it on. Max was always getting me little
things. Satisfied, I drank my juice and put the chocolate in my purse. (I wanted to save it.) Then I called Kiki and talked
her into leaving the office to meet me at Madame Matisse for lunch.

I sang the whole way over.
“Some people call it a one night stand but we can call it paradiiise!”

Kiki was waiting outside. She took one look at me and summed up how I felt. “You’re peaking,” she said.

“I am?”

“Totally peaking.” She nodded. “Look at you. You look great, although personally I think you’re too skinny.”

“You’re high on crack. Have you
seen
my stomach?”

“Oh my God you’re the craziest person in the world. Your stomach is practically
concave
.”

While we waited for an outdoor table to open up, we continued our ritual—the one where we extolled one another’s virtues as
a way of keeping at bay paralyzing self-esteem panic attacks while bolstering overall self-confidence.

“You’re the one who’s about five hundred feet tall,” I said. “
With,
may I add, a body I would kill kittens for.”

“Oh please.” Kiki cupped her boobs. “Look at these—they’re
disgusting
. And anyway, the only one who thinks you don’t have a good figure is you. Plus, your hair looks great. You have no zits.
And
you have a new boyfriend who’s obsessed with your very existence. You’re totally peaking. You’re fully realized. Fully
actualized
.”

A couple of Emo-core kids wearing regimentals cleared out of the smoking section. When the table was ready, Kiki waited for
me to choose which seat I wanted. She always gives me the best seat. I don’t know why—pure generosity, I suppose. That and
the fact that she knows I’m fussy about where I sit. I can’t stand to have my back to the door, and I hate facing mirrors
because then I can’t stop looking at myself and thinking negative thoughts. “Thanks, honey,” I said, taking the chair with
the best view of the hills. As I sat down, it occurred to me that the only time I didn’t take the best seat was when I was
with Max.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said, opening a menu.

“He’s
so
your boyfriend.” Kiki rolled her eyes.

The waiter came to take our order, and Kiki convinced herself—against my advice—that all she’d need to get through the day
was a paltry, no-frills green salad. I asked for eggs, bacon, potatoes, and fruit, knowing that she’d eat much of my breakfast.

“He just hasn’t told you he’s your boyfriend yet,” Kiki said. “You got bacon, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You know I can’t resist bacon.”

“Well, it’s the other white meat.”

“Exactly. Look, very soon Max will introduce you to somebody as his girlfriend, but”—she got serious and started pointing
at me—“don’t try to bring that about, do you hear? Ben,
keep your cool
. Wait it out. Remember, guys only want to do something when they think it’s
their
idea. Let him start to wonder if you’re seeing anybody else. I promise, it will drive him crazy and eventually he’ll want
to lock you down. It’s always the way.”

I thought about back when I first started dating Jack. Yeah—I got a little gaga. Not scary gaga, but let’s just say that it’s
a good thing caller ID and *69 were invented, because they stopped me from indulging in the call-to-see-if-he’s-there/hang-up/call-again/hang-up
routine. This time, Kiki was right. Max would have to try to win my affections. It made sense, because I was fully realized
as a complete and totally effective person.

That night I was going to an engagement party for my sister and her fiancé and I felt great. I was not depressed, morose,
or brooding. It was kind of refreshing.

Those in the pop-culture realm who’ve decided irony is dead have never met Audrey, because for her it’s an entirely new concept.
Her engagement party was being held at a cheesy roller-skating rink in Glen-dale that hadn’t been redecorated since 1980.
It had worn carpet-covered benches, metal lockers, and neon signs on the walls that said things like
SKATE FEVER
and
ROLL WITH IT
! To get into the groove I wore a denim mini skirt and a vintage Joan Jett concert tee. I was feeling no pain—Kiki and I stashed
a flask of Beam in a locker as a kind of high school homage. I did miss Max, though. He had to work, poor guy. I could just
picture him, slaving away in his … Wait. I had never seen his office. Did he have a cubicle? A door that shut? Oh well. It
wasn’t our night, and we hadn’t broken the two-evening-in-a-row barrier yet, which was completely fine with me. Besides, I
figured it was too soon to introduce him to the Mother—that would seem too couple-y. I told Kiki, and she was very proud.

“Hi!” Audrey, beaming. She was wearing denim jeans with the cuffs turned up and a little cardigan sweater. Her outfit made
me feel like I was dressed up for Halloween. She looked at my mini skirt and said, “Are you going to be able to skate in that?”
I wasn’t falling for it.

“Actually,” I said, “I intend to skate
backward
in it.”

Audrey shrugged and pulled me over to meet the bridesmaids. I couldn’t keep the four of them straight—Anna, Diana, Tracey,
and Casey. All from her sorority. All blond. All with overenthusiastic expressions that made them look like they were in a
continual state of surprise.

“We’ve got spar-kel-ies!” Diana—or was it Anna?—said, smearing glitter gel on my arms. She handed me a paint-penned shirt
that read
ALWAYS A BRIDESMAID
…
JAMIE
&
AUDREY ARE ENGAGED
! surrounded by little Bedazzled hearts. I noticed that of Anna, Diana, Tracey, and Casey, three of them were wearing engagement
rings and one of them had a wedding band. But I reminded myself I was determined to be the comfortable older sister with the
new almost-boyfriend, who was thrilled beyond belief at her younger sister’s upcoming nuptials.

“These are genius,” I lied, pulling the shirt on over mine.

So I was going around the rink, shaking my thang to Hall & Oates’s “Whoa, Here She Comes.” Every now and then, I’d wave to
Kiki, who refused to skate, claiming she was over the height requirement. It was all going fine until Anna, Diana, Tracey,
and Casey skated by in a daisy chain and one of them grabbed my wrist, screaming, “The bridesmaids who skate together stay
together!” Next thing I knew, I was being pulled along at ridiculous speed. Faces at the side of the rink were whizzing by
and suddenly I thought I saw … Oh no. No no
no
. I saw David Factor, a guy who’d completely blown me off right before I met Jack, standing in front of the lockers talking
to Jamie. I’d totally forgotten about him.

Basically, I’m not in the business of screwing around with my sister’s significant other’s friends. But a couple of New Year’s
ago I’d visited Audrey and Jamie in San Francisco. They threw a huge party, and in walked David Factor, wearing a white button-down,
probably with a Dave Matthews CD somewhere in his car, carrying an unfortunate J. Crew barn jacket. There was once a time—high
school through early twenties—when I wouldn’t have looked twice at a guy like this. I’d have inspected his cultural references,
promptly deemed him an asshole, and moved on. That year, I was trying to be less judgmental. And I can honestly say—post-David-Factor,
post-Jack—that you try to become a good person and all the world does is shit on you.

Anyway, David Factor and I ended up in Jamie’s rec room, making out on the Ping-Pong table. (My sister gave me a somewhat
judgmental look before going to bed, but I was tipsy enough not to care.) I was wearing a tiny cocktail dress that I hoped
made me look like Heidi Klum (it didn’t), and San Francisco in January is freezing. So I asked David if I could borrow his
barn jacket. He gave it up gladly. We made out until the wee hours. When I finally walked him to the door, he said he’d call
to see what we were going to do for the rest of my weekend in the city.