How to Meet Cute Boys (14 page)

I passed out in the jacket.

I told my sister and Jamie about our hook-up the next morning, and eventually they seemed genuinely happy for me. But the
thing was, David never did call. I was mortified. Audrey was mortified by association.

Now here was David Factor, who should have been in San Francisco where I left him, and since I’d decided not to bring Max
I’d have to face him without a date. Suddenly my mini skirt, which kept riding up to panty-revealing length while I skated,
seemed like a really bad idea. I tried to extricate myself from Anna, Diana, Tracey, and Casey so I could compose myself before
David saw me.

“Let go of my hand!” I yelled over the music.

They didn’t hear me.

“LET GO OF MY HAND!”

Still nothing.

So I twisted my wrist quickly just before we hit a turn and broke free. I went careening toward the carpet, which, when the
wheels hit it, stopped me cold and I tripped and crashed face-first into the Space Invaders video game.

“Fuuuuck!” I crumpled to the ground, clutching my knee. David and Jamie saw the whole thing.

“Ben, God, are you okay?” Jamie rushed over with this annoying grin on his face. “Lemme help …”

“I’m fine! Thank you! Just …”

“No, come on. You just fell. It’s no big—”

“Go
away
please.” I gave him the hand. As in,
Talk to the hand
. Where I picked up this ridiculous gesture, and why it appeared now, I had no idea. Jamie gave me a look that said
What’s up your ass?
and skated off. Great.

I limped over to an empty bench and sat down, trying not to cry.

“Ben? Is that you?” David Factor, standing right in front of me.

“Oh
HI!
” I said, like this was the best ever. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” (Sounded like a lie, even though it was true.)

“I moved back after graduation.”
(Math in head: That would be last June. It’s October. He’s owed me a call for almost two years.)
“I was thinking about moving to New York, actually, but”—he gave me this phony, self-deprecating smile—“I’m starring in a
play now with Tim Robbins’s theater company, so …”

“Oh yeah?” I thought,
If I could take his skates, tie them together, and push him down a flight of stairs right now, I’d do it
.

“Yeah, and Spielberg came to one of my shows and word on the street is he wants to discuss some projects he has.”

Word on the street.

“Oh. So I …” I racked my brain for what to say next. It came:
Say it was great seeing you, say it was great seeing you, say it was great seeing you and walk—no, skate—away
. Except I said, “You never called me.”
Shit
.

“Well, I …” His eyes were darting here and there, looking for an escape. And I got this impulse.
Fuck this guy,
I thought.
I’m fully realized, and I have a new cute almost-boyfriend—he’s not here, but still. Why not take control of this situation
and laugh in David’s face?

“Why didn’t you call?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t want to hear that.”

“I do.”

“Trust me, you don’t.”

“You’re an actor.
Act
like an adult.” I smiled like, I imagined, a cat with a squirming mouse in its teeth.

David was holding his breath. He let it out in this big
huuhhhh
sound and smiled. “You know what? You’re right. Okay … Well, I was going to call you, but then … Something kind of creeped
me out.”

Maybe I didn’t want to hear this.

“The jacket.” He let the words hang between us, waiting for me to grasp the thread.

“The jacket I borrowed?”

“Yeah. We were having a good time. But then you
had
to ‘borrow’ my jacket”—he made a
quote, unquote
gesture here—“like you were cold so I would
have
to leave it there, and then I’d
have
to see you again to get it back. If we’re being honest, then, it turned me off.”

I explained about the tiny cocktail dress and San Francisco’s winter weather patterns.

“Oh
come on!
” he said. “Are you telling me that you didn’t have
anything
like a jacket or a sweater that you could have run up the little stairs and put on?”

Little stairs? This guy was condescending to me and I was starting to suspect he was some kind of crazy misogynist. I was
suddenly painfully aware that I was wearing a shirt emblazoned
ALWAYS A BRIDESMAID
… I looked for Kiki, who would have easily cut this guy to pieces, but I couldn’t see her. So I said, “I. Was. Cold. Okay?
That’s all. I was just a little cold.”

“If you say so.” David Factor laid a hand on my shoulder and the touch burned. Then he said, “It was great seeing you.” And
he skated away.

I tried to fake it for another half an hour, with a cherry Icee my mom brought over to put on my now very swollen knee. (“What’s
bothering

you now?” she said, handing it to me. I ignored the question and gave her a big, fake smile. She looked scared and left.)
But eventually I got so cold, thanks to the mini skirt and the Icee and my self-immolation, I made excuses and went home.
I obviously wasn’t going to borrow one of Jamie’s friends’ jackets.
Whatever happened to chivalry?
I wondered, limping around my kitchen, making myself a frozen pizza, and trying not to hit my knee.
And how perilous is dating anyway? How can anyone possibly negotiate so many land mines without making a mistake?
If I’d blown it with David Factor so innocently, how could I not be blowing it with Max the same way? I’d mistakenly left
a tube of lip gloss on Max’s nightstand the last time I slept over. Was he sitting at home looking at it and thinking about
what a loser I was? Did I call Max too frequently? Hold his hand too often in public? Stand too close to him when we were
picking out videos at Blockbuster? I thought,
Do I seem, just because of the way I am, desperate?
Was I desperate?

Then it hit me.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh
no
.

The mix tape.

Why do some men run hot, then suddenly turn cold? Not long ago a seemingly interested party asked for my number but never
called. This got me thinking—what turns guys off the most? My mission is to find out. I will not rest until every man I meet
finds me incredibly unattractive, just so you can read, learn, and do the opposite.

CHANNELING GLENN CLOSE

After a canvassing of my male friends, I found they pretty much all think women are too needy. But surely there are guys who
would do anything for a damsel in distress …

Setting:
As Needy Girl, I take myself for drinks poolside at Hollywood’s Mondrian Hotel.

Cute Boy #1:
[A blond, with a good body but disappointing sunburns, approaches.]
Need a light?

Me:
Thanks.
[I try to look sexy in Marlene Dietrich fashion.]
Wanna sit?

CB 1:
Sure! So … what do you do?

Me:
[Looking stricken.]
Actually, I was an assistant, but my boss fired me because I said I wouldn’t get him lattes on my way to work.

CB 1:
That’s bullshit! Jesus, what are you going to do now?

Me:
I don’t know …
[Choking back a sob.]
Oh, God, you don’t know anybody who needs an assistant, do you?

CB 1:
Not really.
[Looking a little uncomfortable, but still game.]
So, are you here with anyone?

Me:
I’m not here with a guy, if that’s what you’re asking. I haven’t had a date in … oh …
[Reaching into purse for a Kleenex, blowing nose.] You
like me, don’t you?

CB 1:
You seem nice enough.

Me:
Are you single? Can I stay over?

CB 1:
Um, actually …
[Cute boy is weighing his options; should he persevere, or am I a psycho?]
You know what? I think my friends are leaving.

Me:
Can I come?

CB 1:
We’re just going home.
[He gets up to leave. I grab his arm.]

Me:
Don’t go! Please! Can you give me a ride home?

CB 1:
I’m seeing somebody, okay?
[I hold on like my life depends on it.]
Let go of my arm. Seriously.
[Starting to freak out as I sob onto his wrist, finally wrenching his arm free.]
Okay then, ’bye. Take care of yourself …

He starts to back away slowly, as if from a wild animal. Walks to his friend and I overhear him say, “Dude, that chick’s,
like, a total bunny boiler.”

HIS EYES SAID NO BUT HIS BODY SAID … MAYBE

“I think some girls come on too strong,” says my friend Dan Shapiro, a writer for
Details,
over lunch one day. “Sometimes I feel like they just want to use me for my schvantz.”

I laugh so hard that the pizza I’m eating comes out my nose and tell him most guys would kill for guilt-free sex. He disagrees.
We put a ten-spot on it.

Setting:
In the role of Total ’Ho, I cruise the sandwich counter at Wild Oats, a chic health food market, during lunch hour.

Cute Boy #2:
[Wearing a suit with tie undone, talking to the guy behind the counter.]
I’ll take a tuna sandwich. What kind of bread do you have?
[Rye, sourdough, or wheat.]
Sourdough. Can you toast that?
[They can.]
Cool.

Me:
I just love a hot tuna sandwich, don’t you?

CB 2:
Excuse me?

Me:
I said, I just love a hot tuna sandwich, don’t you?

CB 2:
Um, yeah. Do you come here often?
[Suddenly aware this sounds like a cheesy pickup line …]
I mean, do you work nearby?

Me:
I live nearby—just around the corner.

CB 2:
[Looking confused.]
You work at home?

Me:
Where you going to eat that sandwich?

CB 2:
At my desk. I’m a lawyer, actually, and I have a pretty heavy caseload …

Me:
Maybe I could help you release some of the tension.
[I reach up to massage his shoulders.]

CB 2:
Wait a sec …
[Shifts away so I’ll stop touching him.]
Are you making fun of me?

Me:
[Looking longingly into his eyes.]
Let’s go have hot, meaningless sex.

CB 2:
Wow. Uh, maybe some other time. I’m really flattered, though.
[Taking his sandwich.]
I have to go back to work now. But … can I get your number?
[I scribble it down on a napkin under the words “Anastasia. Anytime. Anywhere” and he puts it in his pocket.]
Okay, well, nice meeting you, Anika.

He calls “Anika” the next day, leaving directions to the Beauty Bar, where he’ll be at 12:30
A.M
. on Saturday night, in case she wants to meet for a drink. Dan owes me ten bucks.