How to Meet Cute Boys

by Deanna Kizis

  First, I planned to make plans with all my friends in order to fill my schedule.

  Second, I would line up a safety boy for an ego-boosting flirtation and—depending on how desperate my situation became—possible physical contact.

  Third, I had to repeat the following mantra to myself over and over: “I am not the hunter, I am the hunted.”

  And fourth, I would project an image of careless self-sufficiency and a complete lack of neediness.

  The first, second, and third seemed pretty easy.

  The last was going to be a little harder.

  I dialed the number. He said hello.

  I said, “Well, hello there, you,” trying to sound as self-sufficient and un-needy as I probably did pre-Max.

  “Who is this?”

  “Duh. Ashton, it’s Ben.”

  “Ben? Oh wow. Where you at?”

  I explained that I was pulling into the parking lot at Fred Segal. I figured ringing my ex up after two months of no communication could look desperate, so I called from my cell while in the midst of a motive-camouflaging activity.

  “So Ash,” I said, “I only have a sec, but I’ve got this stack of Christmas party invitations and I wanted to know if you wanted to accompany me to—oh, hold on—”

  Here I interrupted myself (always a good tactic) so I could exchange bastardized sign language with the parking attendant, who was waving me toward a row filled with SUVs. I couldn’t see an open spot. Oh, there. I squeezed my car between a Ford Explorer and a Lincoln Navigator.

  “I’m back,” I said, turning down the radio.

  Ashton said, “Which party?”

  “Like it matters.” I laughed. “Hey, what about the New Line thing at White Lotus this Saturday?”

  “This Saturday?”

  “Yeah, this Saturday.”

  “Uh … okay.”

  “Don’t sound so excited. Hold on—”

  Where the hell was my wallet? Oh, there.

  “I’m back.”

  “No, I’m excited,” Ashton said. “We just haven’t caught up in a while. I have a lot to tell you actually—”

  “Right, but listen, I’m in a rush so just pick me up at nine. We can get some food first so we won’t get there too early.”

  Ashton said something about how that should be fine.

  “Great. I gotta split.”

  Excellent, I thought as I snapped my cell phone closed. I was now officially busy Friday night, when I had plans with Chandra, and Saturday night, which I would spend flirting with Ashton. This would make it impossible for Max and me to do our weekend thing. That evening I planned to casually mention my hectic schedule to Max while we were watching our movie like it was no big deal. Take that!

  THE FILLY LEXICON

  girlie crack /’ger-lē ’k[[rmacr]]ak / n. 1: highly addictive activities—clothes shopping, expensive beauty treatments, www.Sephora.com—that lead to painful withdrawal symptoms and maxed-out credit cards. Related term:GIRLIE PORN (fashion magazines, Martha Stewart Weddings, et cetera). —B.F.

  Feeling fairly fabulous, I crossed the parking lot and paused briefly at the front-window display—a dummy in a white Chloe suit with a mirrored ball where the head should have been. It was fitting. Ron Herman is more like a disco than a boutique. A place where it’s as much about image and networking as fashion. I wasn’t surprised when I opened the door and got hit full in the face with funk music blaring from hidden speakers. (Jamiroquai, naturally.)

  I squinted my eyes against the track lighting and made my way inside, past a stylist balancing an armful of Katayone Adeli cocktail dresses and her cell phone.

  “Girl, where have you been?” Allegra said from her place of honor, just left of the cash register.

  “In hell.” I slapped my credit card down on the counter. “But I’m back. I must find fabulous outfits immediately.”

  “Seriously, you have to because we have the cutest stuff right now.” Allegra pocketed the card and took my elbow so she could guide me through the store. A stylist in her spare time, Allegra had impeccable taste. I trusted her to pull things off the racks while I tagged behind, every now and then adding one of my own choices to the growing pile. “So how’s the boy?” she asked.

  “Ugh.” I nodded my approval at a top she held up. “Looks like he’s got the Fear.”

  “Nunh-unh.”

  She deposited me in a dressing room and said through the door, “You have to show me everything, okay? Even the things you think don’t work because you don’t know.”

  “I promise.”

  I undressed quickly and pulled a white mesh dress over my head—her choice—and struggled to pull it down without tearing it.

  “Finish your story,” she said.

  “Oh, right.” I was desperately wriggling—this thing was so tight. My head popped out the top. “So this is just one example, okay?” I said. “I purposely stopped answering my phone earlier this week to see what would happen—he hasn’t even called.”

  Now if only I could figure out how to hook the dress up.

  “For how long?”

  “Four days.”

  “Hi? You should dump him.”

  I looked like I was wearing a tampon wrapper. I opened the door so Allegra could see. She glanced briefly up and down.

  “Horrible. Take it off.”

  I resisted the urge to apologize and went back in the room, explaining that I wasn’t going to dump him quite yet—I had better ideas.

  I kept trying things on—some Allegra deemed cute, some she wrinkled her nose at and waved away—as we discussed the finer points of my Max plan. As the “yes” pile grew and grew, so did my confidence. Indeed, Max didn’t stand a chance against the Full Life, I said. He would end up a quivering mass of jelly by the time I was through with him, I said. I mean, really, he just didn’t get it, I said. And all the while Allegra, my fashion pusher, kept saying “I feel you,” and “Right on.”

  Her enthusiasm made me feel just a little bit better when she rang me up and said the damage was one thousand five hundred and seventy-four dollars and thirty-six cents. It would have been too mortifying to go back now, so I handed her a second credit card and asked if she could put half on each.

  Allegra smiled and said, “Of course.”

  By the time I got home, the shopping high had worn off, but I couldn’t afford another hit. No, I’d have to ride out the detox stone-cold sober, without even a Banana Republic catalog to get me by. I couldn’t believe I’d spent so much money—more than my rent and my car payment combined. Why? I pondered my new blouse, which looked like it could have been from Mexico and, if it hadn’t been designed by Stella McCartney, would have cost only about $10 instead of $250.

  It kind of reminded me of a top I’d seen another girl wearing recently. A couple of weeks ago I’d taken Max to a dinner for Collin’s birthday. Kaitlyn, who’s dating one of Collin’s friends, was there. She’s the kind of girl—faux tan, pixie cut, perma sneer—that Kiki and I call “ugly on the inside” because she’s really pretty but incredibly mean to every girl she meets. (Of course, Kaitlyn’s as sweet as pie to all our boyfriends.) So I, stupidly, asked Max if he thought she was pretty. He replied that he thought she was “adorable.” I was crushed. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d said that about me, and the brand-new skirt I was wearing—the skirt that cost 150 bucks—had gone completely unnoticed.

  I was hanging my new blouse up in the closet when it hit me: I was being fantastically insecure at 21.99 percent interest.

  That night I arrived at Max’s house at the appointed time, as always. He’d called in the late afternoon to see if I was still coming over, and I’d waited until the last possible minute to call back. This would be the first time I’d seen him since Palm Springs, and I was nervous.

  “Hey, B,” he said when I walked in the door. He actually got up for a change, and kissed me full on the lips. I tried to contain my surprise.

  “So, what’s over there?” He p
ointed across the room.

  “What’s over where?”

  “The brown box on the floor.”

  “For me?”

  “It’s not for me. Open it.”

  I pulled the cardboard apart, and inside was a stack of clothing.

  “What’s all this?”

  “The Super Very Good women’s spring line,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

  It was like I’d landed on the mother ship, and my people had come to take me home. There were pants, T-shirts, blouses, skirts … Aw, why did I go shopping? I thought. There I was spending money so Max would like me, while he was packing a box full of new clothes for me because he already did. I thanked him, but even though I was bursting with love and gratefulness and relief, I said it casually. Not like I was bowled over or anything. I tossed the clothes aside like they were my due.

  Max smiled and turned to fiddle with the stereo.

  “So,” he said over his shoulder. “Should we order in?”

  “Sure,” I said nonchalantly. “Whatever.”

  He ordered Thai, like always. Our movie selection was Aliens, which Max had bought on DVD because he’d never seen it. We didn’t make it to the “Get away from her, you bitch” part, though. Thank God. The sex was perfect—like last weekend had never happened.

  After, Max said, “So listen, about Saturday …” and my heart sank. Maybe I should just forgive him, I thought. Because now that he was being so nice I really wanted to see him over the weekend. But I remembered what Kiki said—I’d been making it too easy. I had to tell him I was busy for our own good. I was about to do so when he said, “The Japanese buyers are coming into town and I’ve got to show them around.”

  I looked at him like, Say what?

  “It’s going to be crazy, B. They, like, want to go all over and they don’t really speak English. And they obviously can’t drive over here.” He laughed. “I’m going to have to take them to all these big dinners. Probably Disneyland. Shopping. It’s going to be madness.”

  This wasn’t happening.

  But maybe I should offer to help. I smiled. “You know, I love shopping. Disneyland …”

  “Nah. I’m cool.”

  Why? Why? Why?

  “So,” he said, changing the subject, “the Japanese buyers are, like, totally into those skirts I just gave—”

  I interrupted, “I’m busy, too. I have plans. All weekend.”

  “Oh. Great.” He ran a finger up and down my arm. “Then it works out.”

  GO AHEAD, JUMP

  BY BENJAMINA FRANKLIN

  You’re at the edge of a metaphorical precipice, unsure of what to do. But when you ask a friend for directional input, is she really giving you good advice? Take this Filly Quiz to find out if she’s a true friend—or bitter foe.

  FILLYQUIZ

  1.You’re in a fight with your boyfriend. Lately you’re always picking him up, and you think he should do the driving once in a while. Your friend says:

  a.“Dump him. If you capitulate any more you’re just a wimp who’s asking for trouble.”

  b.“At least you have a boyfriend.”

  c.“I know how you feel. The other day, my boyfriend and I were on our way to yoga, and he was all, ‘Can I borrow your mat?’ And I was like, ‘Why didn’t you bring your own mat?’ And he was like, ‘I forgot.’ So I said …”

  d.“He could be taking you for granted—talk to him and suggest splitting the driving time.”

  2.Your boss is a maladjusted skank and if you have to take any more of her mood swings you’re going to brain yourself with your Rolodex. Then again, you think you’re up for a promotion and you have −$172 in the bank. Your friend says:

  a.“You can’t afford to quit. You spend money like it grows like killer mold. Plus the job market is terrible, and frankly it’s amazing you’ve been able to hold a job this long.”

  b.“See if that promotion’s going to pan out. If not, quietly start looking for a better gig and don’t tell her until you have a lock on something.”

  c.“Walk into that fat cow’s office and tell her she’s a flatulent piece of dung and she can take that job and stuff it up her you know what.”

  d.“Remember the time my boss told me to redo all the filing systems like five minutes after I got that manicure? I was totally pissed and she couldn’t have cared less …”

  3.Your cousin can be such a flake. The last three times you had plans with her, she canceled, but that didn’t stop her from calling you drunk on a school night asking if you could pick her up. Your friend says:

  a.“Send an e-mail telling her how you feel, but make sure you let your cousin know you want to hear her side and you’d really like to make your relationship better.”

  b.“At least you don’t have brothers. I have four, and it’s like they’re in their own little club. Take the time when …”

  c.“I would have let her drive her ass home. If she got in an accident, it would have been her own damn fault.”

  d.“I can’t believe you’d talk about your relatives like this! She loves you. And what would you rather she do? Drive home drunk?”

  4.In a moment of fashion lunacy you bought a new dress that’s tight, bedecked with sequins, and extremely expensive. She says:

  a.“Oh my God, that looks just like mine!”

  b.“Oh my God, that makes you look like a prostitute!”

  c.“Oh my God, I had no idea you had such bad taste!”

  d.“Oh my God, please tell me you saved the receipt!”

  → THE FILLY ANSWER KEY

  Match your answers to the following:

  1.a=Mb=Nc=Sd=BFF

  2.a=Mb=BFFc=Nd=S

  3.a=BFFb=Sc=Nd=M

  4.a=Sb=Mc=Nd=BFF

  Mostly M’s: The Mother You love your mom, but do you really need to be best friends with someone exactly like her? The guilt trips are too much—this girl needs to relax and let you take some risks, even if it means you may make the occasional mistake. And you need to ask yourself why you need to be treated like a child. (As in, do you act like one?)

  Mostly N’s: The Nazi We recognize this girl. She’s so bitter she could turn a guy into a prune by giving him a kiss. Ask yourself: How many friends has she alienated? How many boyfriends ran screaming? Even scarier, she could put a contract on your head if you break off the friendship—you’ll be confirming her delusion that the world is against her. Gently tell this paranoid freak you love her, and get her into group therapy.

  Mostly S’s: The Self-Obsessed Girl One time, I had a friend like this, and she was so annoying. I was shopping with her one day at Aero & Co. and she totally bit on my fashion, buying the same belt I had. And I was all, “Wait, if you wear that belt, then when am I going to wear that belt?” Besides the fact that it looked so much better on me … Sound familiar? Don’t let your narcissistic friend use your life as a springboard into endless talking about hers. So, as I was saying about me …

  Mostly BFF’s: The Best Friend 4Ever This Christmas get her one of those cheesy heart necklaces—you know, the ones that break in half and say both your names? This girl’s a keeper. She knows how to listen; she tries to help. She reflects your own feelings, always taking into account what you’re going through, but she also knows when it’s time to say enough is enough and call you on your B.S. And the really cool thing is, you must be a good friend, too—why else would such a great chick hang out with you?

  Even though Max was busy, I still had to go through with my strategic engagements, pointless as they now were.

  Friday night I brought Chandra to a barbecue at Collin’s. It wasn’t the laid-back affair I was expecting—when we arrived, there was a cluster fuck of Industry PIBs (Personas in Black) huddled up on the outdoor patio. I was seriously not in the mood to talk about box-office reports and which executive had done what to whom—not to mention the fact the PIBs, who always claim to have recently quit smoking, help themselves to all my cigarettes. But it would have looked to
o crazy to run screaming back down the front walk, so I found a place to sit in the corner, where I filled Chandra in on my Max hell while watching Collin whipping around mixing sangria and grilling salmon.

  I told Chandra about my attempt to make Max think I was superpopular and thus didn’t have any time for him on the weekend, and how my ruse backfired. I was hoping for some sympathy, and maybe some strategic advice. But I ended up listening to Chandra rant about how we should stuff my pseudo-boyfriend’s body in a wood chipper.

  “You have to fuckin’ leave his sorry white ass, Franklin,” she insisted over her third sangria, alternating between the wine and her new inhaler. (She now has allergies, she explained, they’re “serious,” and she’s never smoking again since if she does she will definitely end up with almost-emphysema like Christy Turlington. Which, she added, was definitely going to happen to me.)

  While Chandra ranted, I let my gaze drift over Beachwood Canyon, quilted with hills, valleys, and million-dollar mansions. The eucalyptus trees were giving off a woodsy perfume. This, I thought, breathing deeply, is what money smells like. Not Collin’s money, of course. The house—and the view—belonged to his roommate, a famous nobody who got his start on a reality TV show where he got buried alive with forty women in an underground town house, and had to marry the one he wanted to kill the least at the end of the season. Since the hunk was away on his book tour—four weeks on the New York Times best-seller list—Collin decided to throw a party and pretend this was his place.

  Still, the liquor was free and the view was pretty. It would have been fine if Chandra wasn’t crowing in my ear.

  “Homeboy has adult acne,” she continued.

  “Oh come on,” I said, snapping back to reality. “Max had one pimple the night you met him.”

  “It looked like a bacterial infection.”

  “You said you thought he was cute.”

  “Who’s cute?” All night, Collin tripped over himself trying to horn in on our conversation. This time he was bearing a platter of roasted tomatoes as his excuse.

  “Not the punk-ass bitch Ben’s hooked on,” Chandra said.