How to Meet Cute Boys by Deanna Kizis, Ed Brogna Page B

amazing nor asshole. The best thing about it was at certain key moments I didn’t
     have to be alone.
    I got out of bed and tried to wake myself up.
    “Let’s go out tonight,” Ashton said.
So the question is,
I thought while pulling my bathrobe on over my pajamas,
is it pathetic to go out with another guy because I haven’t heard from Max? Or is it pathetic
not
to go out with another guy because I haven’t heard from Max?
    “Ben—are you there?”
    “I’m here.”
    I couldn’t make up my mind. What if Max called and I had plans? It was hopeless. “Ash,” I said, “I’m gonna call you back when
     I’m not asleep.”
    “Word.”
    I fed Freak. Drank my morning diet Coke. Read my e-mails, which were mostly dispatches from the Whip,
Filly
’s editor in chief, who thought the tone on my last piece was off. I checked for an e-mail from Max, but there was none.
Oh yeah,
I remembered. He said if we exchanged addresses then we’d just become those people who e-mailed one another all the time
     and never actually talked. At the time, I thought this was romantic. Now I think I should have pushed. Because you can e-mail
     casually. But you can never, ever call casually.
They see through you
.
    By two, there was still no call.
Maybe I should tell Ashton I’m free
… I knew what the Mother would say. (“Just
go
. What are you moping around here for? Get your nose out of that
book
. You’re driving your mother crazy.”) She’d date through a bad case of polio.
    I finally sent Ashton a casual e-mail: “We’re on.”
    I spent the rest of my afternoon wishing I had a real job. I had a celebrity interview to prepare for, but sitting at my computer
     reading bios on upcomingmovies.com and poking at the keys to write questions more interesting than “What was it really like
     to work with [insert director name here]?” made me feel like I was wasting my life. I wanted to be
out
. To see the world. I thought about going for coffee, but sitting outside the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf with all those people
     circling want ads in
Variety
always makes me depressed. Exercise was out of the question. So I started a load of laundry, which I then forgot about and
     left in the washer for half the day. (When I finally pulled it out it smelled mildewed and I had to scrounge up quarters so
     I could wash it all over again.) Then I tried to interest Freak in a toy called the “Cat Dancer” that I’d bought at the grocery
     store—five bucks for wire with a little piece of cardboard at the end. He just looked at me like,
Why are you jumping around with that wire with a little piece of cardboard at the end?
I started a book about Orson Welles because I want to better myself and not be a total idiot my whole life, but I got bored
     during Truffaut’s foreword and realized I just didn’t give a damn. In a last-ditch attempt to jazz up my day I went to Ron
     Herman, and Allegra, who’d picked out practically every piece of clothing I owned, did her best to make me look cute even
     though I wasn’t really in a shopping mood. She worked on commission, though, so I bought two wool pencil skirts I’d never
     wear because I didn’t actually work in an office, a snazzy-looking top I couldn’t afford that was tight and made me feel self-conscious,
     and—who knows why?—a wristband. When I walked in the front door with the shopping bags, I had my first pang of guilt over
     the money I’d spent.
    Maybe I’ll just wear the shirt tonight as a little test run,
I thought, pulling the top out and inspecting the tag.
I can probably just tuck this in my bra
…
    “Heyyy, look at you!” Ashton said when I answered the door. He was admiring my new top.
    “Oh.” I pulled at it self-consciously, trying to keep my left boob from making an unscheduled appearance. “Thanks.”
    “The tag’s sticking out the side.”
    He crossed the living room to pet the cat, which I’d told him a million times never to do. Freak happily sunk a claw into