And the fact is I am a romantic. I am in love with the feminine species. It’s a shame you only get to pick one, but since that’s the rule, I’m very grateful for the one I have, and I want nothing more than for my best buddy to have the same thing.
Chapter 6
Twelfth Street’s busy tonight. I wasn’t exaggerating either—the girls are out in bold numbers. I’m being picky, though. This is a girl for Ricky after all, the dude I played Justice League with in fifth grade. He had my back then and I’ve got his now.
“You’re not going to embarrass me, are you?” he asks.
“When did I ever embarrass you?”
“Do you really need me to list the times?” He pulls out a blaze and flicks his lighter.
“Dude, what are you doing?” I’ve got nothing against the weed—I just don’t happen to see it as a good social lubricant.
“You don’t have to smoke any if you don’t want to,” he says, taking a long drag.
“Just go easy on it, okay. I don’t want to round up a carful of girls and have you go quiet on me, spiraling off into weird cosmos land and shit.”
He exhales a rush of smoke. “Don’t worry. I’ll be entertaining.”
“Yeah, sure. But I don’t know how much girls like talking about the commercialization of God or whatever that was you were going on about last Saturday.”
“It was, What would happen if they discovered the actual physical existence of God? I mean, there’d probably be this humongous battle over the patent rights. Like this whole competition over whether you should get God on cable or satellite. And then they’d have to launch a marketing plan too. They’d have these commercials: ‘Call today and get God for $19.95 a month. Get the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost bundle for only $24.95!’”
“Right,” I say, chuckling. “And when you can’t pay your bill they come in and cut off your God connection.”
“See, dude,” Ricky says. “That’s some entertaining stuff.”
I have to admit he’s right. “But, still, what you and I find entertaining isn’t necessarily going to cut it with the female kind.”
“I know that. What do you think, I’m some kind of moron?”
There’s no time to debate that question. Suddenly, a gigantic SUV loaded with girls draws up beside us. I don’t recognize any of them, but the blonde in back rolls down her window, flashes her tits, and dies laughing.
Ricky goes, “Dude, did you see that?”
“Yeah, I saw it. I gave her the thumbs-up.”
“Well, don’t let them get away. Follow them.”
“Relax, dude. Those girls aren’t even from around here.”
“So?”
“So, we could follow them all night long, but they aren’t going to pull over. You know why a girl like that flashes her tits, don’t you? Because she gets off on thinking guys are churning the chubby to her. Anyway, you need someone more natural.”
“She looked pretty natural to me.”
“She had me-me-me hair.”
“I wasn’t looking at her hair, dude.”
Ricky’s a little put out with me for not following them, but not really. I know him. The only reason he wants to chase after them in the first place is because he knows nothing will ever happen. It’s just make-believe—no real chance of hooking up or getting shut down, either one. But I won’t let him get away with that, not this time.
We make a couple trips up and down Twelfth Street with no luck until I see these headlights flashing at me from behind—Tara Thompson’s little gold Camry. At the stoplight, she sticks her head out of the window and shouts for me to pull over in the Conoco parking lot. This looks promising. I know Tara pretty well—we have English together—and while she’s not really right for Ricky, her friend Bethany Marks is.
Tara and Bethany are pretty much always together. They’re mid-level girls—not hot hot or super popular but way above the dank outcast level. Softball players. Tara’s a dyed-blonde and a little stocky but not in an unattractive way at all. Bethany’s a brunette and more wiry with these spanktacular long legs and kind of a disproportionately short upper body. Nice tits. Her only drawback is that her nose always looks a little oily. But the way she is with Tara reminds me of Ricky. She’s the quieter one next to Tara’s outgoing personality. Guys don’t notice her so much, but she’s got a good laugh, and for jocks, she and Tara like to get a party on.
I pull up on Tara’s side of the car and roll down my window.
“Sutter,” she says, “you’re just who I’m looking for. Know where we can get some beer?”
“Beer? Aren’t you girls in training?”
“We’re celebrating. My mom finally kicked my stepdad out of the house.” They both laugh.
I tell them to park, and I’ll see if I can help them out.
“Step around to my office, girls.” I lead them to the back of my car and pop the trunk to reveal a treasure trove of beer. We’ve lined the whole trunk with plastic, covered that with ice, laid down row after row of beer, and poured more ice over that.
“You guys rule,” Tara says.
“We were just getting ready to go cruise Bricktown,” I say, which we weren’t really planning to do, but we might as well now. “Why don’t you come with us?”
Bethany goes, “We’re on our way to Michelle’s house.”
So I’m like, “Hey, I’m ready to celebrate somebody’s stepfather getting kicked out of the house since my mom won’t kick mine out.”