Wicked Jealous: A Love Story (20 page)

Way to make a girl feel guilty.

“Why aren’t you excited?”

I shook my head. “I don’t really want to talk about it. It’s late and—”

He shrugged. “Okay,” he said, as he reached for the remote.

“Okay, I’ll talk about it.” I decided.

He put the remote down and turned to me.

“But I don’t know . . . it just feels so embarrassing.”

He started to reach again. “So . . . you
want
to talk about it, or you
don’t
want to talk about it?” he asked, his hand hovering in midair.

“I’ll talk about it.” I sighed. “See, there’sthisguyinmy gradeandforsomeweirdreasonNicolathinkshemightsort oflikemeeventhoughhe’ssuperpopularndthere’snowaythat wouldeverhappenandeventhoughITOLDhernottoshewent aheadandinvitedhimtotheparty.”

He looked confused. “Was that even in English?”

I should have just stayed up in my room and continued possibly getting asbestos poisoning. “There’s a guy coming to the party on Friday.”

“Well, yeah, there are lots of guys coming,” he said. “For some reason it’s easier to get them than the girls—”

“No. I mean there’s a guy coming who I’m going to have to, you know,
talk
to.”

“Ohhhh . . . I get it,” Narc said. He shrugged. “Well, that’s easy.”

“How so?”

He yawned. “You just, I don’t know, talk to him. Like you would to any other guy. Like me. Or Noob.” He thought about it. “Actually, scratch that—not like Noob. Because with Noob, you kind of have to talk to him like you would a five-year-old. Or someone from a foreign country.”

“But he’s not just any other guy,” I said. “He’s . . . popular. And on the cute side.” Okay, fine, maybe he was on the
cute
cute side, but Narc didn’t need to know that.

“And you’re on the cute side, too,” he said. He cocked his head. “More on the . . . beautiful side.” He got all embarrassed. “I hope that wasn’t inappropriate for me to say that. It’s just that girls fall into three categories: cute, beautiful, or interesting looking. And you’re definitely in the beautiful one.”

“Interesting sounds good, though,” I said. “Why can’t I be interesting?”

He grimaced. “No. You don’t want to be interesting. That’s kind of code for didn’t-hit-the-jackpot-in-the-looks department.”

Maybe Nicola was right. Maybe I could write a book with everything I was learning.

Narc yawned and stood up. “All this talking is exhausting. I don’t know how you girls spend so much time doing it. I’m going to sleep. Good night.”

“Good night,” I said as he walked away.

It couldn’t be that easy . . . could it?

The morning of the party, I woke up out of a dream where I was wearing a dress made out of butterscotch krimpets and eating them one by one so that my maxi dress was soon a mini. I didn’t have to be a shrink like Marcia to know it was anxiety about the fact that in approximately fifteen hours, if he showed up, I would be struggling to find things to talk about with Jason Frank. Although I had been trying not to think too much about that, that was hard to do when I kept getting texts from Nicola that said things like
omg r u so freaked out about the fact that ur crush is coming to a party JUST 2 C U?!!!

As I lay there wondering if the 7-Eleven down the street carried Tastykakes and whether if I had one that would lead to twenty, my phone rang.

“Can we just talk about the fact that in about fifteen hours you’ll be standing next to Jason Frank?” Nicola said. “Or maybe you’ll be sitting. Actually, I vote for sitting. I think everyone looks hotter when they’re sitting versus standing, don’t you? And if you do sit, make sure—”

“Nicola, will you stop?! We don’t even know if he’s coming.”

“He said he was.”

“Yeah, but he could, I don’t know, get hit by a bus,” I said. “Or . . . that clown in a tutu statue on Main Street could fall on him and crush his spine and he could never walk again.”

“What a chipper thought,” she said. “A bit of advice? You might want to keep that super-attractive Eeyore part of your personality on ice until you’ve won him over and he’s totally in love with you. In the meantime, Operation Simone’s First Sort-of Date starts at noon at One Person’s Garbage. See you there.”

When I got to the store, Brad had four dresses set aside for me to try on, including this red halter maxidress I had been eyeing for weeks. Because it had belonged to some sitcom star from the seventies who, according to the tag, had been on the cover of
TV Guide
thirteen times, it was priced pretty high.

“My wardrobe has quadrupled in the last few months,” I said to Nicola as she held up a leather bustier that had belonged to the wife of some action-adventure star from the eighties. “I can’t buy anything else. Especially not for a party.”

Brad rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure what they do for special occasions on
your
planet, but here on Earth, a first date—especially a first date ever—is a bit of a big deal. Especially if said date is taking place within the context of a party.”

“It’s not a date,” I corrected. “It’s a . . . gathering . . . that he may or may not show up at.”

He looked at Nicola. “I don’t envy you.”

She sighed. “Tell me about it.”

“Just try it on,” he ordered. “It would be a loaner.”

Not only did it fit great, but every shopkeeper on Abbot Kinney signed off on its hotness factor when Nicola insisted on parading me around and taking a poll. Which, when you were talking about a group of gay men, carried a lot of weight.

“So. Any last-minute advice for her?” Nicola asked Brad as I paid for the red dress. There was no way I was going to let Brad loan this to me—I’d pay for it fair and square, with my discount. In Nicola’s ongoing attempt to make me look more normal and less like I was being electrocuted with my new look, she was forcing me to wear the dress for the rest of the day rather than put it on right before the party.

He thought about it. “Yes. Try and keep your arms down as much as you can. I’m not saying you’re a big sweater or anything, but this kind of poly blend material tends to be very unforgiving when it comes to that stuff.”

That was just as important as stuff about boys, I decided.

“Whatever you do,
don’t
let him know you’re interested,” Kimmy said as she finished blow-drying my bob a little later. Although I had gotten pretty good at blow-drying my hair, Nicola had insisted I get it professionally done for the party. “Guys don’t like girls who are interested in them. It’s the whole hunting-and-gathering thing.”

“So . . . I should pretend I can’t stand him?” I asked.

“Right.”

“However, there’s one loophole to that,” said Lady GaGantuan as he got a manicure next to us.

“What?”

“If he either (a) is very insecure and/or neurotic, or (b) has ended a relationship between six and eight weeks earlier, then it’s better to give him the full court press and let him know you’re very available and interested.”

I turned to Nicola. “Are you taking notes? Because there’s no way I can keep this all straight.”

“But if it’s only been four or five weeks, definitely act like you’re not interested,” Kimmy added.

“Oh, and if you’re thinking of trying to gauge what’s going on with him from his Facebook status updates, don’t,” Lady GaGantuan said. “Because people are always fudging those to try and make people think they’re doing better than they are.”

“Or worse,” Kimmy added.

Nicola and I looked at each other. Now I was even more confused than before. “Okay, so maybe asking these guys for advice wasn’t the best idea,” she whispered. “We need to go to people with more life experience.”

Which is how, a few hours later—after a stop at a few makeup counters at the Nordstrom in the Westside Pavilion, done in such a way that it didn’t seem like I was totally trying to get an entire free makeover out of the deal even though that was exactly what I
was
trying to do—we ended up at the Coffee Bean, post–three
P.M.
Zumba class.

“So you’re finally ready to admit your crush on Blush,” Cookie said. “You get, lady!”

“I think you mean ‘you go, girl,’” I corrected.

“Ah,” she said, taking out her notebook.

“But actually, this isn’t about Blush. It’s about another boy,” I said. Lucky for me, Cheryl wasn’t there, because having to lie to her and not let on that the boy I was asking for advice about just happened to be her son would have been impossible.

“I know you young people go in for that Rules nonsense,” Marcia said, “but as a therapist and a feminist, I’m a big believer in honest, forthright communication. So if you like this boy, tell him!”

Gwen shook her head. “Sorry, but it’s all about the negotiation. I learned that in law school. You don’t want to show your hand too quickly. So act interested, but not too interested.”

Cookie leaned in. “Sweetie, before you move forward on this, are you sure you’re even attracted to boys?” she asked. “Or do you think you might end up realizing you like girls? The reason I ask is because my granddaughter just came out, and she’s very happy, but before that she went through a lot of heartbreak and aggravation,” she explained. “All I’m suggesting is that you give it a think.”

So much for clarity and experience. I was more confused than ever.