He takes my hand and I lean against his shoulder. “Okay. Thanks for being there for me, Pinky.”
“Any time, Brain. Now go shower. You stink.”
Way to kill the moment.
Chapter seven
“It’s break-up insanity,” Rachel says later, twisting around from the driver’s seat to face me and Ally in the back. “Get drunk, eat fried food, sleep with an inappropriate guy and get it out of your system. Don’t become Sam.”
“Thanks, Rach.”
She shakes her head at me. “You know what I mean. Your lifestyle is fine for you, but it’s not Ally.”
“Was that supposed to be a compliment?” Ally asks, confused.
“Sure,” Ian replies, climbing into the passenger seat with our pizza. “Go with that.”
“It just seems so…” Rachel pauses.
“Pygmalion?” Ian asks.
“Huh?” Rachel pulls out of the parking lot and makes a sharp left, headed for my place.
“Shaw play. You ignorant lot know it as My Fair Lady.”
“Do they teach you anything modern over there?” I joke.
“Frankenstein,” Rachel pronounces, changing lanes. “What this is like.”
“More like Fuckenstein,” I point out. “Fire up the pitchforks, villagers, she’s on the loose.”
I roar like Frankenstein, arms outstretched and thrusting my hips rapidly to lend to the visual.
Ian laughs.
Rachel radiates disgust as she glances back at Ally through the rearview mirror. “Seriously?”
“Aside from the fact that Fuckenstein is the doctor’s name—,” Ally begins thoughtfully.
“Doubly appropriate,” Ian chips in.
“The loose part sounds nice for a change. See, humans are one of the few monogamous species. Maybe that’s just emotional longing and other species have it right. That biologically speaking, multiple partners are natural.”
“I’ll stay unnatural with you, love,” Ian says sweetly to Rachel.
“You’re already getting the milk for free, cowboy,” I point out. “You don’t have to butter up the cow.”
Rachel grins saucily at Ian. “Butter.”
“Distinct possibilities,” he agrees, sounding intrigued.
Ally gives a small shiver of disgust before getting back to the subject. “But beyond that, for humans and animals alike, relationships involve a power dynamic where one person ends up getting hurt.”
Rachel pulls into my driveway and we pile out.
“That’s not true,” Ian says.
“Just wait,” Ally replies.
I unlock the front door for everyone to enter.
“Okay sunshine,” Rachel cuts in, clearly exasperated. “You want to get out there and make guys fall over themselves for you then leave them broken and wanting in their beds, fine. But call it what it is. Dumpee’s revenge.”
“Biology,” Ally retorts.
“Who wants a drink?” I ask, hoping to cut off WWIII.
“Several, I think,” Rachel mutters. She hands Ian the car keys.
Rach swats the top of Ally’s head as she passes and Ally gives her the finger. Their way of making everything fine between them again.
“What exactly does one drink with veggie pizza?” Rachel asks as we stare at the booze in the fridge.
“White wine,” Ian decides. “Sorted. Now let’s eat.”
“Good choice,” I reply. I nick one of my dad’s bottles of Champagne-type stuff and set it on the counter.
Rachel flips the pizza box open and I snag the biggest piece before Ally can. No way she’ll let me have it after what I’m about to say. “Tomorrow Ally is going for a makeover.”
I time this bombshell just as Ally takes a bite of pizza so as to induce maximum choking.
She wraps her arms around herself. “I’m not a total troll.”
I blink in surprise. “I didn’t say you were.” Not that I’d thought about it one way or the other.
Rachel picks up the bottle to open it and studies her cousin.
“You could use a good hair cut,” she decides.
Ally focuses intently on picking at her pizza. “Wow.”
I can tell she’s feeling totally defensive and picked on so I nudge her. She glances up at me, annoyed, and I grin and nudge her again.
She nudges me back and I know she’s cool now. Mostly.
Rachel tilts the bottle slightly. “I’m just saying. A hair cut wouldn’t kill you. Maybe even some new clothes that have shape and look like something worn in this century. To improve on all the greatness hidden behind the hemp.”
“I’m not wearing mass-marketed clothes that exploit the planet.”
“Who’s telling you to? Sustainable fashion has come a long way, baby. Even vintage is based on recycling. You’re just hiding your lack of fashion sense behind an activist agenda.”
Ally looks like she’s about to protest, then shrugs. “Yeah, pretty much a zero on the fashion front.”
Rachel grins at Ally as she grasps the cork. Ian braces himself.
“You need to shiny up. Men respond well to visual clues,” I explain.
“Much like dogs,” she replies.
“Exactly. It also helps that guys have a sex thought roughly every ten seconds.”
“That’s an urban myth. Sorry to disillusion you.” Ally shakes her head at me.
Rachel pulls the cork out. The force of it not only sends the cork flying with a loud bang into my kitchen ceiling, it knocks Rachel off balance.
She drops the bottle, which shatters on the tile floor, spewing foamy liquid everywhere.
“A swing and a miss,” Ian says.
As Ally scoops up a rag from the counter, I punch her.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“Ten seconds,” I reply.
“You had a sex thought?” Rachel asks, gingerly picking up glass pieces with Ian.
“Sure. Cork popping, foam explosion…”
“You’re sad,” Ally tells me, as I shoo Rach out of the way to sweep up the mess.
“It’s not like it takes much,” I reply. “We’re guys. Back me up here, Ian.”
Ian shakes his head. “I’m Switzerland on this one.”
“Pussy,” I retort, dumping the shards in the garbage and putting away the broom and dustpan.
I punch Ally again.
“No, I’m not,” Ian says. “But my girlfriend is holding a very jagged shard of glass.”
Rachel glances down at the piece in her hand, laughs and tosses it out. She retrieves another bottle of fizzy alcohol from the fridge.
Ian takes it from her and pops the cork. “No way, spitfire.” He pours us all a glass.
I punch Ally one last time.
Just because.
Chapter eight
My slightly drunk, happy haze lasts well into the night. I’m full of cheesy pizza goodness.
Ian and Rachel have left, leaving me and Sam.
I have to pee so I go into the bathroom, thinking about makeovers. Which leads me to Brazilians, which are icky but also the total opposite of the Pubizon jungle I’ve got going.
I’ve always been proud of my “natural woman” self but if I’m to believe the media, I should be naked as the day I was born down there.
Are all girls getting clear-cut or is it just media hype and a few annoyingly visible celebrities?
Are guys going to take one look at me and start laughing? I don’t think I could take that.
I wash my hands then lean over for a better look. Not too bad. I mean, I do trim. And I could again before it becomes open to the public.
I poke the spongy mass. It’s cool for it to look this way, right? Although, inspecting it a little closer, I realize that even from my up here angle, somethi
ng doesn’t look right.
“What’cha doing?” Sam calls out from the hallway.
“Just a sec,” I mumble, horror setting in as the overall shape becomes clear. The front is way too short. And then as it gets closer to my body, it gets longer.
I’ve seen this style before.
“Oh my God!” I wail. “I’ve got a vullet!”
I pull up my pants and fling the door open.
“A what?” he asks.
“A vullet. A vaginal mullet. Party in the back, business in the front.”
“No. Don’t want that visual.”
He hurries away, me following hot on his heels.
“You have to help me.”
“Waaaay beyond the bounds of friendship, Brain.”
“Shut up. Do I need a Brazilian?”
“That’s between you and your lady parts.”
“But you’ve seen more of them than I have. What’s normal?”
“I’m not having this conversation with you.”
He tries to barricade himself in his room but I jam my shoulder in so he can’t shut the door.
“Because if it’s going to save me from full frontal humiliation, then I guess I’ll get one. But I’d rather my garden of delights not look like a smooth kiddie playground.”
I shove the door open and wait.
Sam scowls at me. “Then role play. Jailbait and the pedo.”
“So inappropriate.” I head back to the living room, Sam keeping pace.
“But forcing me up against your…” he waggles his fingers, “is cool?”
“Yes, Obi Wan. If you’re going to help a girl out, then you need to man up and tell me if I need to wax.”
“You don’t need to wax.” He puts on a yokel accent. “Cause them there boys at the gator rasslin’ farm, love themselves a good ole vullet.”
“I hate you.”
“Course if you do wax,” he says, “and you ever forget your ID, you can just let them count the rings on your vagina. Like a tree.” Sam cracks up.
I smack him with a couch cushion. “I don’t want to suck at this.”
He flings it aside and says to me in a serious tone, “You’re overthinking things. As usual. The state of your…”
I want to laugh watching him figure out exactly what to call it.
“Honeypot?” I suggest.
“…is not going to be a deal breaker. If you’re doing things right, he shouldn’t even be in a headspace to notice.”
“Okay.” I grab my coat to head home.
“Tomorrow,” Sam says. “Don’t wuss out.”
“Fine, Dr. Fuckenstein,” I reply. “I won’t.”
“That’s my good little monster.”
All I can think as I head to the bus stop is how I can’t fail. I won’t fail. I’ve never failed at anything in my life. I’m the perfect grades girl who dated her first crush for two years, will probably be voted valedictorian, and will definitely get into all the universities of her choosing.
Fine, so I failed at Jeremy. Are guys my Achilles heel? Am I going to self-destruct in a stinking blaze of loserdom?
This may have been the worst idea of my life.
But I won’t go back to being the girl who gets left.
Chapter nine
After two hours in a girly salon without any chicks in my desired age range to distract me, the pink walls, blaring girl power pop, and endless outdated celebrity gossip magazines may have caused me to sprout a vag.
I’m dying to get out of there by the time Ally finally comes out sporting her new ‘do. For a second I don’t even recognize her because I’m so used to that damn ponytail and the girl before me is, well, sleek. Her boring brown hair is rich and coppery and makes her green eyes pop. Even with the dumb glasses.
The makeup I now realize she’s wearing doesn’t hurt either.
“Waaaay better,” I say, throwing her a thumbs up.
She tosses her hair in a flirty way. “I like,” she beams.
“Good. This is a very solid first step.”
Ally gets a horrified look on her face when she realizes where we’re going. “The mall?” she screeches. “No way, Jose.”
I stop, cross my arms, and face her with the most patient expression I can. “Who is the veritable master?”
“I’m sorry I ever said that,” she grumbles.
“But you admit you did say it?”
Grudgingly, she nods.
I cup my ear. “What’s that? ‘Yes, O great Master.’”
“Don’t push it, buddy. You forget that I have a few incriminating photos of you.”
True. I hustle her into the mall, enjoying her look of horror as we pass trendy store after trendy store.
“I thought I said I wouldn’t wear—”
“Planet destroying clothing. Yeah. That’s why we’re going here.”
I pull her inside a bright store with electronica playing. “Everything is sustainable and they pay people properly to make it.”
Ally fingers a shirt doubtfully. “Really? But it’s…”
“Something earthlings wear in this century? Still true, though. Check. That shirt is bamboo.”
Taking advantage of the gleam of interest I see in her eyes, I load her up with outfits and send her off to the changing room.
One thing about Al is she’s super efficient. Even when trying on clothes.
In no time, she’s jumping in front of me with a “ta da” flourish, outfitted in leggings, a short skirt, and a shirt that doesn’t look like a box.
“Holy shit. You’ve got an ass!” I exclaim.
She turns beet red and mutters something that I don’t think I can anatomically achieve.
“While I’m thrilled you are really human-shaped and not a hempy lump, the bra has to go.” I point at her plain, whitish bra visible under the top.
Ally glances down at herself. “What? It’s comfortable. It’s the right size.”
“The bra is ruining the view. Besides, what do you want guys to think when they see you topless? ‘That looks comfy?’”
“Of course not. I want them incapable of thought. All the better to lead them with.”
“Bossy tendencies aside, that’s the right attitude. Lingerie it is. With color. Lace. Pushup. All that underwire goodness.”
She fiddles nervously with her hair. “I dunno. That’s so half-naked and ‘bring it on.’”
“Exactly.”
There’s something still wrong with the picture. My eyes narrow and I concentrate until it hits me. The glasses. I take them off. “Contacts too. You don’t want to accidentally burst some guy into flame from the reflected rays of the sun. Bad foreplay.”
“I’m blind.”
“Just that much easier for me to lead you.”
I tuck the glasses carefully into my pocket.
The good thing about the mall is that the lingerie store is right there. So I don’t have too far to drag her.
It’s a small boutique selling upscale lingerie. I figure the more personalized service will put her at ease. Plus, while it’s slightly more expensive, their stuff is made in this country, which I know she’ll be happy about.
Since there is no way I’m going to pick out bras for Ally, I send her off with a Barbie doll looking salesgirl, who leads her to the change cubicles for measuring purposes.
It’s the kind of place where the cubicles are just at the back, not hidden away or anything, so I can clearly hear her tell Ally she’s got the wrong size.
“So much for ‘right fit,’” I point out.
The selection that salesgirl brings back looks perfect for our needs. I stand outside the cubicle eyeing the large rack of colorful bras, which lines the opposite wall.
I’ve seen more than a few of them up close and personal. Fondly,
I reminisce.
“Sam,” Ally hisses.
I turn to her door. “What?”
“I need my glasses to see properly. Because I’m not sure about this.”
Her tone worries me.
“How bad can it be?” I ask, bracing myself for the worst.
Ally opens the door a crack and holds out her hand for the glasses, which I hand over. It’s wide enough for me to peek through and see what this major disaster looks like.
Holy. Fuck.
She’s gorgeous. And wearing only a purple pushup bra and matching bikini briefs.
She is about to shut the door when she sees my expression. She glances down at herself. “What do you think?”
Think? Who can think? The blood has rushed away from my head and is pooling in a big throbbing lump. I try to speak but all that comes out is some kind of zombie grunt.
My jeans are now too tight and I don’t want to keep looking at her because it’s wrong and disgusting to be getting hard from Ally, but I can’t seem to move my eyes.
The war between my “flight” brain and my “please Sir may I have some more” dick is causing me to rock back and forth slightly.
“You hate it,” she accuses.
“Definitely don’t hate it,” I manage to mumble. My face is starting to hurt from the scrunched-up expression of “what the…?” that it’s frozen in.
The salesgirl peers in. “Now that’s hot. Gotta adjust the fit though. One sec.”
She adjusts Ally’s breasts to fit better.
Her hands jiggling Ally around, and Ally’s boobs being jiggled, swim ginormously in a warped slow motion in my line of vision.
“Thaaaaat’s beeeet-teeeer,” she roars in slowed down speed, my hearing tunneling.
I swallow. The sound of it in my head is deafening.
Ally turns to the side to catch her reflection. The motion causes more slo-mo shaking in my general direction.
I stumble back like I’ve been burned. Make them stop.
“I’m thinking you could rock a thong,” the salesgirl says.
With that statement, time snaps back in a rush.
“Thong?” I protest.
“You don’t think I could pull it off?” Ally asks, sounding concerned.
Sam Cruz's Infallible Guide to Getting Girls Page 4
