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

isn’t working, when you know, deep down inside, that the phone is
working
.”
    “Well, maybe the phone
isn’t
working.”
    “The phone company does not rest!”
I shook my drink in her face, and it spilled over my knuckles onto the dirty wooden table.
“Boys do not lose numbers of girls they intend to call!”
    “Okay. Okay. Take it easy. It’s only been a couple of days since you met the guy,” Kiki said, nervously eyeing my fourth scotch
     like now would be a good time to take it away.
From my cold, dead hand,
I thought.
    Besides, that would have been against the whole Shortstop ethos—we were in the kind of dark, dank, smelly Eastside hole where
     doing your best
Barfly
imitation is strongly encouraged. And I was doing just that.
If I keep going like this,
I mused,
I’m going to end up like Isabella Rossellini in
Blue Velvet,
standing outside naked with my arms stretched out and moaning, “He put his spell into me …”
    Just then, the waitress interrupted to tell me I had to take my cigarette outside.
    “Even
here?
” I was aghast.
    “The city keeps giving us tickets.” She shrugged.
    But the look on my face chased the waitress away. I continued to puff—calling after her, “This is my last one, I swear”—and
     sat back, satisfied. Now I could torment my well-meaning friends in peace. “So back to the subject at hand, girls,” I said.
     “
Five
daysh. Days. Not three. Not four.” I held my fingers up, and gave them a little countdown. “One. Two. Three. Four.
Five
.”
    “It must be really awful for you to wait so long for him to call, particularly when you’re feeling fragile about your sister’s
     engagement,” Nina said in a compassionate tone.
    I turned toward her. “You’re right,” I said. “It
is
awful. Do you think there’s a reason—something about how I look, something that I said—that would make him not want to call
     me?”
    But ever since Nina decided to get her master’s in psychology, she answers every question with a question. As in …
    “Do
you
think there’s a reason why he wouldn’t want to call you?” she asked, with a concerned look on her face.
    “Nina, I don’t know if there’s a reason why he wouldn’t want to call me. That’s why I’m asking
you
.”
    She ignored this last bit, saying, “It must be terrible to feel like there’s something wrong with you.”
    That would be the “reflective listening” she’d learned last semester.
    I looked back at Kiki, exasperated. “A little help?”
    “Okay,” she said. “Just give me a second to think.”
    “Take your time.” I looked away, worried that someone was listening to our conversation and I’d been discovered for the loser
     that I was. Just the opposite, though—some sleazy guy at the bar with greasy hair and a motorcycle jacket was giving me the
     eye. I gave him the finger. He laughed and went back to hitting on the bartender, ogling her bare midriff. Female bartenders
     in L.A. always show their midriffs so they get bigger tips. It’s true. I imagine them at Crunch Fitness, working those abs.
     They probably make more money than I do.
    “All right, I’ve got it,” Kiki said. “Here’s the thing: If he’s not going to call, then I say fuck him and find somebody else.
     I mean, maybe he just broke up with somebody. Maybe he’s still
seeing
somebody. Maybe he’s an asshole.” She shook her head. “If any of the above is true, then be
glad
he hasn’t called you, okay? It means he’s saving you a lot of trouble. So fuck him and find somebody else.”
    I took a look around the bar. “There’s nobody good here.”
    “Well,” said Kiki, “you know, wait a day or two.”
    “So, what are we doing this weekend?” interrupted Nina, who usually gets bored about halfway through most conversations. (That
     her lack of empathy may interfere with her career as a psychologist has never occurred to her.) “Maybe we could go do a nice,
     long day at Malibu, get a tan.”
    “I