How to Meet Cute Boys

by Deanna Kizis

  Nina waved her hands around her face like she was warding off a mosquito, and added, “Yet he’s socially potty trained, owns his own business, and should know a thing or two about how to act at parties.”

  “I’m all for it,” chimed in Collin, looking over his shoulder at a girl in a sailor-striped top and mandarin jacket. “Is she famous?”

  Me, Kiki, Nina: “No.”

  “Yet,” Kiki added, turning back around, “because of his youth, he can’t really be as experienced as you …”

  “But that’s positive,” interrupted Nina, “in that the women he’s dated couldn’t have been as smart as you or as successful as you, either. Or as good in bed.”

  “He’ll be amazed by your fabulous connections and all the parties that you’re on the list for,” Collin volunteered. “Speaking of which, I was wondering if you could get me into that Playboy Mansion party next week.”

  “She can’t take you,” Kiki said. “She has to take Max. He’ll die when she says hello to Hef, shows him around the Grotto … It’s a real opportunity.”

  Max’s age had been making me feel insecure, but while listening to my friends plotting away, I was suddenly swimming in vast seas of self-confidence. Yes, yes! I thought. I could bring Max to the Playboy Mansion and introduce him to Hef because Steph was his event planner—he’d be so impressed. And when Kiki rightly pointed out that when I met The One I’d have to break things off, I realized that the best thing was nobody would really blame me. I’d magnanimously explain to Max that even though I adored him, I was older, and therefore had more pressing biological-clock concerns that simply couldn’t be ignored. He would pine for a while. Okay, maybe a whole year. But then he’d realize my leaving him was the natural order of things. Years would pass, and one day Max and I would have lunch and he’d almost tell me that he was still in love with me but I wouldn’t let him. I’d change the subject gracefully to my husband’s new film, or how my toddler was faring at Les Enfants, and frankly, he’d love me for that, too, because I would be teaching him how to have dignity. And I would have dignity.

  This would be my future—provided I didn’t take my romance with Max too seriously, of course. Kiki insisted it was simple strategy. Keeping my feelings in check, she said, would help me not get hurt by a younger man who couldn’t be trusted with my heart. But being self-possessed would also be intriguing to Max, making him more and more likely to come through in the end. I couldn’t lose. Even Chandra, who’d called the next morning and given me precisely three minutes of her time—until she had to go scream at her assistant for giving her “the wrong pen”—was on board. “Hit that shit, Franklin,” she said, after I’d told her I’d entered into a tryst with someone who could only just legally drink. “Hit. That. Shit.”

  Max and I settled into a wonderful routine. We had plans to have plans two nights a week. On the weeknight we went to whatever big party was happening, or Max took me to a rock show. He always knew the best bands to see, and we usually got backstage passes because Max seemed to be friends with an awful lot of musicians. On the weekends Max and I avoided the crowds, who would take over all our favorite spots, and ordered in. Usually Thai food. We’d rent a movie that we’d never watch because we always ended up having sex halfway through, and since his roommates were always out at bars looking for girls, we had the house to ourselves, which meant we could make as much noise as we wanted. It was perfect.

  Except. The other night, we were supposed to have dinner with a few of my fancier friends, one of whom promised to procure “the New Coppola” (yet another relative of Francis Ford who had been recently unleashed on society). But since the New Coppola flaked—something about jetting off on the family Gulfstream IV to Paris, you know how it is—Max and I ended up at yet another list party. This one was promoting a new kind of cell phone from Motorola. But anyway. It was being sponsored by Tanqueray, and Max seemed to be having a good time. I caught him staring at me while I sipped my gin daiquiri, and he said, “You know what I like about you, B?”

  I pretended to think. “My allergies?” I said.

  “Those keep me awake at night.”

  “The pimple in the middle of my forehead?”

  “Your third eye? Hardly noticed it.”

  “The fact that I purposely put my faults on full display in hopes that you’ll find them charming instead of revolting?”

  “I was thinking about something else.”

  “I give up.”

  “I like that I never worry about you.” He shrugged.

  “You never worry about? …”

  “I worried that night that your cat got sick and you had to take him to the vet. I was worried that mean little thing was going to die and you’d be inconsolable. But other than that, I mean, I don’t worry about you. I can just do this …” He shrugged again and smiled. “I dunno, B. I just don’t worry about you.”

  I grinned and patted his arm. But inside, I repeated his words to myself. I don’t worry about you. I thought, Don’t worry about what about me? Don’t worry how about me? Should Max worry about me? I looked at him. He was sipping his Sprite—he loathed alcohol, which I personally found achingly cute—and smoking his four thousandth cigarette. He looked so harmless. Vulnerable. Sweet, even. No, it’s good, I thought. It’s good that I don’t cause Max any stress. That he’s so comfortable being with me. I decided I would be the one Max didn’t worry about. I would make Max happy.

  My wildest dreams were confirmed when I took Max to that party at the Playboy Mansion a week later. We were checking out the Grotto, an underground labyrinth of faux lava hot pools where bunnies supposedly cavort naked, and Max was disheartened—we’d only seen one transsexual with his top off. So I sent him off in search of silicone while I caught up with Steph, who launched into a monologue that ran along the lines of: “NO WAY CUTE GUY IS HE YOUR BOYFRIEND I AM SO SERIOUSLY BUGGING RIGHT NOW BECAUSE THE PARKING SITUATION IS FROM FUCKING HELL WHAT ARE THOSE CHAMPAGNE GLASSES DOING IN THE GROTTO SOMEONE COULD GET HURT WAIT THERE’S MILLA JOVOVICH MILLA! MILLA! …” Just then Max reappeared, thrilled because he’d found triplets in G-strings, and put his arms around me. “You’re the coolest, B,” he whispered in my ear. “Now that I’ve seen naked girls at the Playboy Mansion—and I still get to go home with you—I can die a happy man.”

  I just smiled, thinking, This whole younger-guy thing is really going to work out!

  The next day I figured it was finally safe to ditch Ashton. It didn’t take any histrionics. I simply told him during dinner at another lunch-to-late-night restaurant that we were becoming too dependent on one another for people who obviously didn’t want to be in something serious. That the best thing, really, would be for us to focus on our friendship. We parted on good terms, both of us assuring the other we’d “get together soon” even though we both knew that wasn’t true. It occurred to me that Ashton was probably seeing someone on the side—he gave up rather quickly. But what the hell. I was too happy to care. I thought, I genuinely hope he’s happy with whoever she is.

  I was awakened by a leaf blower wailing away somewhere down the street, a long waaaaaaaaaa that both got on my nerves and made me nostalgic for the childhood I’d spent stranded in the suburbs. I opened my eyes and could tell immediately that Max’s house was empty—the air was completely undisturbed by any other living thing. I rubbed my head, which was still cloudy, and sat up. The night before Max had taken me to see Ryan Adams, and the band was so wasted they played the longest set I’d ever heard. Then we had to say hello to the lead singer, whom Max knew. Made me wonder. Since when did Max know all the cool people? As if reading my mind, he explained that Super Very Good was popular with the musician crowd. Anyhow, Adams chatted us up for a full hour, telling funny stories about growing up in the South and his father’s taxidermy hobby—stuffed raccoons hanging over his bed and terrifying the shit out of him when he was a kid. We didn’t get home until after three.

  Still trying to wake up, my eyes focused on the clock—1
1:30 A.M., shit. But next to it I saw a tall glass of apple juice and one perfect chocolate-covered cherry, both left there by Max, just for me.

  I thought, I think I’m in love with him.

  Then, I hope he doesn’t find out.

  I squashed both thoughts like a bug.

  Max’s alarm had gone off at seven-fifteen as usual—he always got up earlier than I did because he had a real job. I vaguely remembered opening my eyes and seeing him sitting on the stool in front of his drums, smoking a cigarette without any clothes on. (Unlike me, he never seemed embarrassed about being naked.) Later, I think after his shower, he kissed me on the cheek and I could smell the cigarettes and toothpaste on his breath. Max smoked two packs a day. I’d never seen anyone smoke so much. When I asked him if he ever thought about quitting, he laughed and said, “Yeah right—I’d need, like, a nicotine shirt.”

  I liked the weekdays, when I could wake up in his house alone. I showered in Max’s shower. Soaped myself with Max’s soap. I made his bed. Perfect—no wrinkles, just like he did it. I walked around and looked at his things. Not snooping, because to snoop you have to open drawers and read journals, stuff like that. His records and CDs, hundreds of them, were neatly catalogued in multiple bookcases against one wall and alphabetized. I checked to see how many of them I also owned, but his collection was so extensive I realized he had everything I’d ever heard of, plus at least five hundred more. I stared at the posters on his bedroom walls. The inevitable Andre the Giant print made me smile. His collection of Japanese manga figurines—sexy little girls wearing mini skirts with big cartoon eyes frozen in that perfect moment of tension between childhood and maturity—gave me pause. On a bookshelf there was a watch collection—a whole shoe box full of, from what I could tell, faces dating back to sometime in the fifties. I didn’t know Max collected watches. Finally I left a mix tape I made for him as a surprise on his pillow. I found a Post-it on his desk, drew a big smiley face on it, and stuck it on. Max was always getting me little things. Satisfied, I drank my juice and put the chocolate in my purse. (I wanted to save it.) Then I called Kiki and talked her into leaving the office to meet me at Madame Matisse for lunch.

  I sang the whole way over. “Some people call it a one night stand but we can call it paradiiise!”

  Kiki was waiting outside. She took one look at me and summed up how I felt. “You’re peaking,” she said.

  “I am?”

  “Totally peaking.” She nodded. “Look at you. You look great, although personally I think you’re too skinny.”

  “You’re high on crack. Have you seen my stomach?”

  “Oh my God you’re the craziest person in the world. Your stomach is practically concave.”

  While we waited for an outdoor table to open up, we continued our ritual—the one where we extolled one another’s virtues as a way of keeping at bay paralyzing self-esteem panic attacks while bolstering overall self-confidence.

  “You’re the one who’s about five hundred feet tall,” I said. “With, may I add, a body I would kill kittens for.”

  “Oh please.” Kiki cupped her boobs. “Look at these—they’re disgusting. And anyway, the only one who thinks you don’t have a good figure is you. Plus, your hair looks great. You have no zits. And you have a new boyfriend who’s obsessed with your very existence. You’re totally peaking. You’re fully realized. Fully actualized.”

  A couple of Emo-core kids wearing regimentals cleared out of the smoking section. When the table was ready, Kiki waited for me to choose which seat I wanted. She always gives me the best seat. I don’t know why—pure generosity, I suppose. That and the fact that she knows I’m fussy about where I sit. I can’t stand to have my back to the door, and I hate facing mirrors because then I can’t stop looking at myself and thinking negative thoughts. “Thanks, honey,” I said, taking the chair with the best view of the hills. As I sat down, it occurred to me that the only time I didn’t take the best seat was when I was with Max.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I said, opening a menu.

  “He’s so your boyfriend.” Kiki rolled her eyes.

  The waiter came to take our order, and Kiki convinced herself—against my advice—that all she’d need to get through the day was a paltry, no-frills green salad. I asked for eggs, bacon, potatoes, and fruit, knowing that she’d eat much of my breakfast.

  “He just hasn’t told you he’s your boyfriend yet,” Kiki said. “You got bacon, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know I can’t resist bacon.”

  “Well, it’s the other white meat.”

  “Exactly. Look, very soon Max will introduce you to somebody as his girlfriend, but”—she got serious and started pointing at me—“don’t try to bring that about, do you hear? Ben, keep your cool. Wait it out. Remember, guys only want to do something when they think it’s their idea. Let him start to wonder if you’re seeing anybody else. I promise, it will drive him crazy and eventually he’ll want to lock you down. It’s always the way.”

  I thought about back when I first started dating Jack. Yeah—I got a little gaga. Not scary gaga, but let’s just say that it’s a good thing caller ID and *69 were invented, because they stopped me from indulging in the call-to-see-if-he’s-there/hang-up/call-again/hang-up routine. This time, Kiki was right. Max would have to try to win my affections. It made sense, because I was fully realized as a complete and totally effective person.

  That night I was going to an engagement party for my sister and her fiancé and I felt great. I was not depressed, morose, or brooding. It was kind of refreshing.

  Those in the pop-culture realm who’ve decided irony is dead have never met Audrey, because for her it’s an entirely new concept. Her engagement party was being held at a cheesy roller-skating rink in Glen-dale that hadn’t been redecorated since 1980. It had worn carpet-covered benches, metal lockers, and neon signs on the walls that said things like SKATE FEVER and ROLL WITH IT! To get into the groove I wore a denim mini skirt and a vintage Joan Jett concert tee. I was feeling no pain—Kiki and I stashed a flask of Beam in a locker as a kind of high school homage. I did miss Max, though. He had to work, poor guy. I could just picture him, slaving away in his … Wait. I had never seen his office. Did he have a cubicle? A door that shut? Oh well. It wasn’t our night, and we hadn’t broken the two-evening-in-a-row barrier yet, which was completely fine with me. Besides, I figured it was too soon to introduce him to the Mother—that would seem too couple-y. I told Kiki, and she was very proud.

  “Hi!” Audrey, beaming. She was wearing denim jeans with the cuffs turned up and a little cardigan sweater. Her outfit made me feel like I was dressed up for Halloween. She looked at my mini skirt and said, “Are you going to be able to skate in that?” I wasn’t falling for it.

  “Actually,” I said, “I intend to skate backward in it.”

  Audrey shrugged and pulled me over to meet the bridesmaids. I couldn’t keep the four of them straight—Anna, Diana, Tracey, and Casey. All from her sorority. All blond. All with overenthusiastic expressions that made them look like they were in a continual state of surprise.

  “We’ve got spar-kel-ies!” Diana—or was it Anna?—said, smearing glitter gel on my arms. She handed me a paint-penned shirt that read ALWAYS A BRIDESMAID … JAMIE & AUDREY ARE ENGAGED! surrounded by little Bedazzled hearts. I noticed that of Anna, Diana, Tracey, and Casey, three of them were wearing engagement rings and one of them had a wedding band. But I reminded myself I was determined to be the comfortable older sister with the new almost-boyfriend, who was thrilled beyond belief at her younger sister’s upcoming nuptials.

  “These are genius,” I lied, pulling the shirt on over mine.

  So I was going around the rink, shaking my thang to Hall & Oates’s “Whoa, Here She Comes.” Every now and then, I’d wave to Kiki, who refused to skate, claiming she was over the height requirement. It was all going fine until Anna, Diana, Tracey, and Casey skated by in a daisy chain and one of them grabbed my wrist,
screaming, “The bridesmaids who skate together stay together!” Next thing I knew, I was being pulled along at ridiculous speed. Faces at the side of the rink were whizzing by and suddenly I thought I saw … Oh no. No no no. I saw David Factor, a guy who’d completely blown me off right before I met Jack, standing in front of the lockers talking to Jamie. I’d totally forgotten about him.

  Basically, I’m not in the business of screwing around with my sister’s significant other’s friends. But a couple of New Year’s ago I’d visited Audrey and Jamie in San Francisco. They threw a huge party, and in walked David Factor, wearing a white button-down, probably with a Dave Matthews CD somewhere in his car, carrying an unfortunate J. Crew barn jacket. There was once a time—high school through early twenties—when I wouldn’t have looked twice at a guy like this. I’d have inspected his cultural references, promptly deemed him an asshole, and moved on. That year, I was trying to be less judgmental. And I can honestly say—post-David-Factor, post-Jack—that you try to become a good person and all the world does is shit on you.

  Anyway, David Factor and I ended up in Jamie’s rec room, making out on the Ping-Pong table. (My sister gave me a somewhat judgmental look before going to bed, but I was tipsy enough not to care.) I was wearing a tiny cocktail dress that I hoped made me look like Heidi Klum (it didn’t), and San Francisco in January is freezing. So I asked David if I could borrow his barn jacket. He gave it up gladly. We made out until the wee hours. When I finally walked him to the door, he said he’d call to see what we were going to do for the rest of my weekend in the city.

  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.