How to Meet Cute Boys by Deanna Kizis, Ed Brogna Read Free Book Online

gets a party thrown for her
. This sucked. It
sucked
.
    “When is this taking place?” I asked.
    “The second weekend in March.”
    I had six months to get a boyfriend.
    “Well …” I offered. “I did just meet someone new. I think.”
    “Someone new. You think. Sounds promising.”
    The waitress put our food on the table—the Mother’s egg white and chicken omelet and my American cheese and bacon scramble.
     To annoy her, I pointed at her plate and said, “Isn’t that like eating the mommy and the baby?”
    She ignored me.
    My breakfast looked delicious—all hot and gooey and just waiting to be eaten—but I couldn’t believe she hadn’t asked me
anything
about Max. So I glumly pushed the food around until the Mother finally asked a couple of perfunctory questions.
    I gave her all the details anyway. How we met, how he owned his own company, how he hadn’t called yet, but how he would call
     because, you know, the three-day rule, and how he said he wanted to hang out sometime …
    “Then hang out.” She took a bite of toast, like,
That’s that
.
    I looked at her like,
Is that all you’re going to say?
    “What? You know, the first time Jamie saw Audrey, he followed her into that Color Me Mine off the
street?
He asked for her number and called her
that day
. Took her to that cute seafood place on the pier for dinner …”
    “Yeah, Mom, because
he’s a stalker
.”
    “And let me guess,” she said, taking a sip of her water. “You met this ‘Max’ person at some party where he was probably cruising
     around looking to get laid. Honey, when are you going to find someone who can
really
give you what you need?”
    I wanted to ask what Max had done to deserve quotation marks around his name, but decided to just give up. The Mother went
     back to talking nonstop about Audrey’s wedding plans. I nodded/smiled until I got a neck cramp, and, finally, lunch with the
     Mother was over.
    Seriously disturbed, I went home and sulked.
Then you should hang out,
I thought. Maybe she doesn’t remember what it was like when she was younger, when she probably picked guys because they were
     into man-perms and liked Pink Floyd. My mom—who used to be cool—was suddenly acting like I should be romancing with gállant
     frat boys who wore pressed chinos and patronized ceramic chain stores. Yuck.
    I stared at the ceiling and blew smoke rings. Maybe this wouldn’t be so jarring if she’d been grooming me from day one to
     hubby hunt. But the first time I told the Mother I was in love—with a boy in a band named Deus ex Machina who wore Dickies
     and drove a Vespa—she simply said, “Go on the pill, wear a condom anyway, and never confuse sex with love.” I entered the
     sexual arms race armed to the teeth.
    As the afternoon wore on, the things she said continued to nag. I put some leftover Chinese food in the microwave and curled
     up to watch Sunday-night HBO in my pajamas. But after the first few minutes I realized the
Six Feet Under
was a rerun. So I sat there, channel-surfing, eating my food out of the box, and I started to feel more and more pathetic.
     Like people were walking by my place outside, hearing the TV and thinking,
That poor, poor girl
. I turned the volume down another notch.
    Jack was reliable,
I thought.
And on a night like tonight he’d have been sitting next to me, which is at least more dignified
. I finished the last of my kung pao chicken and turned off the TV. I figured if Max called that night, at least I could call
     the weekend a success.
    But he didn’t.

CHAPTER
3
    “Five days,” I said, brandishing my drink at Kiki and Nina. I’d been checking my voicemail every day, checking the caller
     ID, too—not even a hang-up from Max. “Five days is too long.” (It came out
daysh
.)
    “Maybe he lost your number.” Kiki was trying to sound hopeful.
    “He didn’t loosh my number,” I said, with a look like,
Who do you think you’re kidding?
“That’s like saying, maybe the phone