How to Meet Cute Boys (8 page)

He offered to drive. (Good.) And opened my door for me. (Better.)

In the car, he said we were going for shabu shabu in Little Tokyo, and I nodded like I knew what he was talking about. When
we got there, the restaurant looked a little like a diner—white Formica, no-nonsense metal-and-vinyl chairs—except it had
gas burners with huge pots on them on each table, in which customers were cooking their own steak and vegetables. Max, who
had obviously figured out that I had no idea what was going on, explained how
shabu shabu
means “swish swish” in Japanese and gave me a little tutorial on how to do it, stirring long strips of beef in the boiling
water and then dipping them in sauce. I was having a pretty good time. The food was good, even though the hot pot between
us made me feel like I was being steam-cleaned. The other problem was suddenly I couldn’t think of anything to say. My brain
was completely blank—I’d open my mouth and out would come … nothing. I pretty much just sat there, smiling at everything he
said, boiling my meat, and nodding like the village idiot. It was just that he was so
cute
. He made me feel like a troll. Every time I looked at him, I wanted to die. I really did.

On the drive back to his house, I thought,
You blew it. He didn’t even ask if you wanted to go for a drink
. He parked his car outside his house and we both got out. I stood there for a minute, struck dumb, not knowing what to do.
But then he said, “Do you want to come in for a minute? I think my roommates are out …”

“Really?” I said. (I hoped I didn’t sound too eager.)

“Yeah, I got a bottle of wine somewhere.”

“I like wine.”

“Yeah, well”—he grinned—“most people do.”

Inside, Max turned on a couple of lamps. But not, I noticed, all of them.
Maybe dinner didn’t go so bad after all,
I thought.
Now if I could just
relax.

“I have Radiohead,” he said, shaking a vinyl import and doing a funny little dance.

“Nice dance,” I said. “Do it again.”

“Noooo way.” He put the record on the turntable. “Actually, I’m a really bad dancer.”

“You don’t say,” I teased. I sat on the couch with my feet under me and hoped I looked coquettish.

“Oh, come on now.” Max went into the kitchen, and I could hear him rummaging around. He returned with the wine and a corkscrew.
“Is there anything you’re particularly bad at, besides picking up guys?”

“And look at how bad—I got stuck with you.”

“Oh, ‘Ha.’ ” He balanced the bottle on the end of the couch and fiddled with the opener. “No, seriously. What are you bad
at?”

I pretended to ponder his question for a moment. A long list popped into my head. Bad at: parking, driving, watching what
I eat, quitting smoking, keeping boyfriends, hiding my feelings, spelling, not worrying, not picking at my face, sticking
to an exercise regimen, getting up early, driving within the speed limit, thinking before I speak, keeping doctors’ appointments,
cleaning … But I didn’t think he was ready for this much sharing. So I said, “I’m sure I’m bad at something, but I don’t really
know. Bad at thinking up things I’m bad at?”

“Nice try.” The cork popped out.

He poured me a glass of wine and sat next to me on the couch. Draped his arm over the backrest, rested his head on his hand.
His face was close, but not superclose. I tried not to lose my cool. I had to concentrate.

“Can it be a TK?” I said.

“A what?”

“Oh, right, sorry, a TK. It’s a phrase journalists use. When you don’t know a fact yet—like, um, ‘
A Clockwork Orange
was released in nineteen-TK’—it means you’re going to fill it in later.
TK
stands for ‘to come.’ ”

“Then why isn’t it
TC
?” He clinked my glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers. Um, I don’t know.”
I’m so clever,
I thought.
Max forgot his question
. “Like,
lead,
as in the first thing in a story, is spelled l-e-d-e. Head, as in
headline,
is h-e-d.”

“Well, I think that’s kinda weird, Ben, because, like, in my business,
T-shirt
is spelled T-s-h-i-r-t.”

“Omigod, yer
sew
funny.”

I wondered if he would ever kiss me.

“What about something about yourself you don’t like,” he said. “Give me that, and I’ll let it go.”

“I hate my stomach.” I blurted this out before I even had time to think, and I quickly realized this was
not
something I wanted to share this early on.

“Because …”

“No. I mean. No. Because. I don’t know. It’s um …”

There was really no way out of it, so I finally just told him the truth. “Because no matter how skinny I get, it’s never flat.
I know that’s scary but it’s true. It’s a Buddha belly. I hate it.”

“Lemme see.”

“No way.”

“Lemme see.”

“No way.”

A tickling match ensued. Max tickling me and screaming, “I wanna see your Buddha belly!” Me, laughing hysterically and trying
like crazy to fight him off.

Do I really have to tell you how it ends?

“Yeah! Fuck you! How did it end?”

I was curled up on the decrepit old wicker chair that I kept on the patio outside my apartment. There are few times when things
have gone so well that I can just savor it and leave Kiki squirming in anticipation. I switched the phone to the other ear.

“Okay, so basically he kept tickling me until I kicked him in the face by mistake and gave him a bloody nose.”

“You
didn’t,
” she said.

“I did. Yeah, I really did.”

“You’re such a spaz.”

“But it was okay. I mean, it wasn’t
okay,
but he put some ice on it and was pretty nice about the whole thing. And then, well, I kind of kissed his nose, to make it
feel better …”

“And then?”

“And then he kind of kissed me to make me feel better …”

“And then?”

“And then he kind of asked me if I wanted to spend the night …”

“No!”

Yes
. Here’s what happened: After kissing for a bit, Max popped the question. At first I was taken aback. He was gracious enough
to offer me boxers and a T-shirt, and said he didn’t care whether or not anything happened.
Yeah, right,
I thought. Of course something would happen. And that would lead to that horrible, too-much-information feeling when you
know you’ve gone too far for a first date. Like this one time—I was with this guy, first-date situation, and we started messing
around. Everything was going fine until he leaned over right in the middle of things, grabbed a tube of K-Y out of his nightstand,
and squirted a huge glop into my hand.
And it wasn’t even a fresh tube
. Icky moments like this, I decided, were
not
going to be a major part of my new single life. But Max laid the best line on me (if, indeed, it was a line) that I’d ever
heard. He said, “I just want to spend the night with you, sweet girl.”

“Ugh! And you
liked
that?” Kiki howled, making retching noises.

“I know, but picture it. He was being so sincere. He told me he thought I was adorable. He was the
best
kisser I have
ever
kissed …”

“Slut!” she yelled.

Oh, hell. What can I say? The next thing I knew I was in his boxers and a Super Very Good T-shirt. He lit candles. We lay
on his big bed, with its scratchy comforter. (Why is it that most men have never heard of a thread count?) Shortly after that,
the boxers were on the floor. Max kissed my stomach for a full five minutes. I kissed his everything. He was gracious and
kind and there was no K-Y in sight. It was bliss.

Max called three days later, thank God. Just as I was starting to completely bug out. And I was particularly proud of the
fact that
before
the conversation wound down I called myself from my fax machine, told him I had to take the call, and got off the phone first.
Yes
. I had another date with Max on Saturday night. It was Wednesday. I was sure the wait would kill me.

“Don’t you think the sheen on that one is a little
too
white?” I said.

“Ben, she’s a bride,” the Mother said. “It’s supposed to be white.”

“Yeah, Mom, I know, but not Colgate commercial white.”

Audrey looked uncertain. “I don’t know …”

“Vhat she vill love ees thees vone vit ze beadwork. Ze beadwork on thees vone es fabulous,”
interrupted the saleswoman in her impossible, put-on accent. We were in a ritzy bridal shop in Beverly Hills. It was the
third store that day and the air-conditioning was broken. Audrey and the saleswoman from hell went back in the dressing room
to try on her umpteenth dress and my mother went to investigate more gowns, so I wandered around. The carnation pink and baby
blue frescoes on the walls were making me slightly nauseous. A couple of the dresses were okay, though, and I wondered which
one I’d wear if it were me. Before I could decide, Audrey emerged in ze beadwork gown and it was hideous.

“Um …” she said.

“Well, maybe it’s not you,” said the Mother.

I said,
“Eet ees a dress zhat could only be vorn by ze bride of Satan.”

Nobody laughed.

Wearing sample shoes that were two sizes too big, Audrey clumped back behind the heavy velvet curtains.

“What’s wrong with you?” the Mother hissed, pulling me into a corner.

“What’s wrong with
you?
”

“You’re not being very supportive.”

I decided there was no better time to try the reflective-listening thing that Nina’s always using, so I said, “It must be
terrible for you to feel like I’m not being supportive.”

The Mother pursed her lips. “Should we just take you home?”

I hate it when my mom talks to me like I’m ten. Especially since she didn’t talk to me like I was ten when I was actually
ten. “No. I want to go look at more dresses. I do.
I do
.”

Surprisingly enough, I was kind of looking forward to the day. I thought it would be really fun and great and girlie. That
we’d find the perfect dress for Aud and then go to a restaurant to eat quiche and drink mimosas (what ladies-who-lunch eat
and drink, in my mind). But the dresses were awful. The samples were dirty with pen marks and sweat stains from other nervous
brides-to-be, and everything seemed designed with the lowest common denominator in mind. Plus, my second date with Max was
that night—unlike last time, I wanted to plan my outfit early. (We were going to a rock show, always a fashion challenge.)

Just the same, the Mother was being a little borderline, so in the next store I didn’t say a word when Audrey briefly considered
a huge, crinoline puffy cream ball thing. It reminded me of when we used to play dress-up. Audrey liked to be one of two things:
a fairy princess, or a mommy. I’d tackle my mom’s closet and dress up like whatever—the first lady, a corporate attorney,
Superwoman. One time I greeted the Mother in her bedroom wearing red heels, pink lipstick, and a negligee I found in her special
drawer.

“And what are you supposed to be?” she asked.

“A hooker!” I said. I was six.

The fourth store turned out to be a dud, too. Audrey still had one more appointment, and every time I opened my mouth the
Mother looked like she’d just gotten a whiff of the sewer. Fortunately she got paged by a client who wanted her to show him
a house in Hancock Park. After bringing us back to the first bridal shop so I could get my car, she said pointedly, “I trust
you can take it from here?”