Babe in Boyland (2 page)

“All right, see you,” Chas says, heading for the exit. “Get to work on that H-FAB piece. Sounds like a front-page feature.”

They’re still laughing as they walk out the door.

When they’re gone, I go back to the Day-Glo announcement and read it again. I try to picture the expressions Chas and Rachel will wear when they learn I’ve won. For once in their lives, they won’t look so smug. They think Dr. Aphrodite’s a big joke, huh? Think she can’t investigate? They’re about to realize just how serious Dr. Aphrodite can get.

Chapter Two

A
s I’m driving away from campus, I get a text from Darcy that reads simply
My house. Now. Rob’s a dick.
Between reading her text and thinking about that damn message board, I’m so distracted I almost drive up onto the sidewalk, where a startled blonde is walking her Pomeranian. Fantastic—just what I need to make my day complete: vehicular man-slaughter plus first-degree dogicide.

At Darcy’s house, I park the Buick haphazardly in the general vicinity of the curb, throw open the gate, and dash straight to Darcy’s room, which has its own entrance. Her walls are completely covered with posters of Jim Morrison. She’s got a thing for him, don’t ask me why.

Darcy’s a drama nerd, big-time. We’ve been in plays together since we were like seven. Up until the end of fresh-man year, I was way into theater too. That’s when Summer Sheers moved up from LA and started stealing every single role from me, instantly demoting me from ingénue to understudy. It pissed me off so much that I stopped auditioning and started pouring my creative energy into a new role: Dr. Aphrodite. Now that’s going downhill too. Great. I’m seventeen with two failed careers already.

“Darcy?!”

She appears in her bedroom doorway, eyes red from crying. “He blew me off again.”

“No!”

“Yes!” she wails. “He was supposed to meet me after fifth period, but he never showed. I saw him drive off with Michiko Tanabe. Stupid prick!”

I pull her into my arms and she unleashes a torrent of hiccupping sobs. “Shh . . .”

“I saw Michiko wearing a Dave Matthews T-shirt the other day! Do you have any idea how much Rob hates Dave Matthews?”

“Sit down,” I say, pulling her down onto the oversized beanbag at our feet. “Tell me everything.”

“So you know we hooked up last weekend, right?”

I nod. Rob is Darcy’s on-again-off-again messed-up angstridden mini-rocker boyfriend. He’s like five foot three with a concave chest. Amazingly, the chicks dig him. He’s in a band called PigHead. Going to their gigs makes me want to rupture my own eardrums with an ice pick.

“I know this sounds stupid after everything we’ve been through . . .” she says, her throat thick with phlegm from all the crying, “but I seriously thought we were at a new level. He told me . . . he actually said . . .”

“Okay, hold on.” I dig through my purse and produce a Kleenex.

She blows her nose violently a couple times, then resumes. “He said he could picture us in LA together.”

I furrow my brow. “What, like you’d live there together after high school, you mean?”

“Well,” she hedges, “he didn’t exactly specify . . .”

I nod encouragement at her.

“But he plans on moving there after graduation, so what else could he mean, right? It seemed like . . . not a commitment, exactly, but a step in that direction . . .” She trails off.

“You’re probably right,” I say, trying to sound positive.

Suddenly the door flies open and Chloe saunters in, cell pressed to her ear. “Okay then, see you tomorrow? . . . No can do, rehearsal at six—how about four? . . . Perfect. Ciao!” She shoves the phone into her giant purse, then slumps into the dilapidated La-Z-Boy in the corner. “My emergency Darcy ringtone went off. Make it quick, though, I’ve got a mani-pedi in twenty minutes.”

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” I scold. “What’s more important? Darcy’s emotional health, or your nails?”

Chloe holds both hands out, examining them. “Can I think about that a minute?”

I look at them—my two best friends—and feel a pang of affection. They’re about as different from each other as two people can possibly be. Darcy’s short and curvy with a pierced tongue, hot pink hair, and a wicked sense of humor. She’s the girl you’d want with you if you ever got stranded in some deadly Amazonian jungle; despite her current Rob-related meltdown, she’s totally level-headed and possesses MacGyver-like ingenuity in a crisis, so long as it’s someone else’s. Chloe, in contrast, has long auburn hair, olive skin, designer everything, and a body to die for. Her sense of humor is an acquired taste, seeing as it’s wry and a little sadistic, but her loyalty runs deep. The three of us have been best friends since the second grade, when we were cast together in
The Wizard of Oz
. Darcy was Glinda, Chloe was the Wicked Witch, and I was Dorothy; that right there speaks volumes about our dynamics.

Chloe rolls her eyes. “I’m kidding! Darcy’s freak-out is way more important.”

“Thank you.” I turn back to Darcy. “Now, you were saying . . . ?”

“Although it would be nice if we could wrap this up in fifteen,” Chloe adds, looking at her watch.

“Ignore her,” I growl. “So, last weekend with Rob seemed promising, right?”

Darcy sniffles, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. “Yeah! We went to his house after the gig, and he was really sweet and considerate—”

“Was he stoned?” Chloe interrupts.

Darcy avoids her eyes. “A little.”

“Darcy!” Chloe leans forward, forcing Darcy to look at her. “How many times are you going to put yourself through this? He’s all lovey-dovey when he’s high, and then Monday he’s an asshole! You can’t base a relationship on his bong.”

“Don’t be so harsh!” I say to Chloe, wrapping an arm around Darcy’s shoulder protectively.

Chloe crosses her arms and says to me, “Go on . . .”

“What?”

“Isn’t this where you weave elaborate excuses for him?” Chloe imitates my voice. “ ‘He’s afraid of the passion he feels for you, Darcy! He can only love you openly when he’s stoned because that’s the only time he can deal with your bewitching power over him, blah blah blah.’ ”

I just stare at her, speechless. She’s right. I do say that kind of stuff. All the time. It’s my role—the optimistic, innocent Dorothy. I tell my friends what they want to hear: that they’re amazing, and the guy they like is only frightened of his feelings, and they should just believe in themselves and hang in there and not let his insecurities get in the way. I think of all those comments from the message board today.

Who do you think you are, Dr. Aphrodite?

Can anyone say “delusions of grandeur”?

What does Dr. Aphrodite know about love or sex? When’s the last time she got any?

“Um . . . Natalie?” Darcy looks worried. “What’s wrong?”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

All the chicks at Mountain View High listen to you and all you do is fill their heads with BS!!!

Not once have you ever told them anything useful or sane from a guy’s point of view.

You have no idea how guys think or feel about anything!

“Oh my God.” I blink at Darcy and Chloe, feeling dazed. “They’re totally right.”

“Who’s right?” Chloe squints at me, confused.

“All those guys who want me fired. I’m a complete fake.”

Darcy shoots a look at Chloe. “What’s she talking about?”

“I have no idea.” Chloe snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Natalie? You with us? You hearing voices?”

I quickly fill them in on the whole message board fiasco. They make sympathetic noises, though Chloe surreptitiously glances at her watch.

“They’re just threatened because you’re on our side,” Darcy says.

“Maybe that’s the problem. I tell girls what they want to hear, but does that really help them? I have no idea how guys see things.” I stand up and start pacing. “Take your relationship with Rob, for example. How long have you been with him?”

“On and off for about a year.”

“And when he ditches you for some other girl, what happens?”

Darcy winces at my out-of-character bluntness, then looks doubtful. “I call you . . . ?”

“Right! You call us, and Chloe makes some snide remark, usually about Rob’s lack of hygiene—”

“Because he seriously needs to wash his hair at least once a week,” Chloe says.

“And then I launch into a complicated analysis of his modus operandi, always assuming that he adores you (because who wouldn’t?) and he worships you (because he should).” I stop pacing and look Darcy in the eye. “But what if I’m wrong? What if he doesn’t even like you that much?”

Darcy’s lower lip quivers slightly, but I press on.

“And all this time I’ve been encouraging you to give him the benefit of the doubt, when really the situation is hopeless because he doesn’t respect you and he’s not going to change.”

A stunned silence. They both stare at me.

“The point is, who am I to give advice about love? I haven’t had a real boyfriend like . . . ever.”

Chloe raises an eyebrow. “She seems to be having what they call an ‘epiphany.’”

“You really think Rob doesn’t like or respect me?” Darcy whispers.

“I don’t have the slightest idea what Rob feels!” My voice rises with increasing urgency. “That’s the problem! I’m a terrible advice columnist because I only understand half of the equation—the girl side. The other half is a complete mystery.”

“I’m confused,” Chloe says. “Is this Natalie’s identity crisis, or Darcy’s love crisis? Because I only have time for one or the other.”

I collapse next to Darcy again on the beanbag. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive. You’re sad about Rob and we should just, you know, focus on that.”

To my surprise, Darcy doesn’t look all that tearful anymore. “You know what? I’m sick of being sad about Rob.”

“Thank God,” Chloe says under her breath.

Darcy sits up straighter. “I think you’re right, Natalie. I’ve made way too many excuses for him, and I’m sick of it.”

“Amen,” Chloe sighs.

“I was supposed to go to his gig tonight, but screw it! My parents are out of town all weekend. You know what we’re going to do?” Darcy’s eyes light up with mischief. “We’re going to party!”

“Now you’re talking,” Chloe says.

Darcy jumps up and claps her hands. “Sound the alarms, girls. I’m officially single, starting now, and I feel a serious case of rebound coming on!”

Chloe pulls out her cell. “Okay, screw it. I’m canceling my appointment. If we’re throwing a spontaneous rebound bash, you’re going to need my help.”

The two of them launch into preparations with serious verve; they blast music, text everyone we know, dig through the pantry in search of plastic cups. I try to get into the spirit of things for Darcy’s sake, but I’m still reeling from the day’s events. It’s a little hard to concentrate on a party when my whole world is collapsing. How can I possibly keep Dr. Aphrodite alive now that I know what a phony she is? Maybe Rachel and Chas were right—maybe I am a total joke. Who do I think I am, posing as an expert in spite of my cluelessness about guys’ hearts, brains, and other vital organs? All this time I’ve been telling Darcy and hundreds of others just like her exactly what they want to hear. It turns out I’ve been harming them, not helping. I’ve been reckless and irresponsible, handing out advice when I’m completely unqualified. Dr. Aphrodite is a quack! I feel all naked and exposed. Everyone else can see what a fool I was, what a sham; I’m the last to get it.

“Natalie, you okay?” Darcy notices me staring out the window and puts a hand on my shoulder, interrupting my morbid shame spiral.

“Yeah. Just got a lot to think about, I guess.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” She squints at me, reading my mind. She’s always been able to do that—see right through my shell, into my messy internal world. “Dr. Aphrodite kicks ass.”

“You might be her only fan.”

“Already your advice has helped me.” She holds up a frosty glass. “Well, that and these mocha shakes Chloe made. You’ve got to try one.”

“Okay, okay, twist my arm.” I allow her to lead me into the kitchen, where Chloe’s dancing, pouring espresso into the blender, and checking her messages all at the same time.

Yes, I might be a washed-up advice columnist, a failed love goddess, a journalistic joke. I do have a couple reasons to live, though: It’s Friday and I’ve got caffeine-wielding friends.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

Chapter Three

I
get the idea for my exposé in Darcy’s parents’ bathroom. The three of us are in there getting ready for the party. Darcy’s applying canary yellow eye shadow and Chloe is trying out her new flatiron. I’m sitting on the edge of the tub painting my toenails a shiny candy apple red. Chloe’s going on about this guy she met recently, Josh.

“He’s gorgeous,” she’s saying. “Bright blue eyes, perfect skin, great body. Plus he smells so clean!”

Darcy laughs. “You’re obsessed with hygiene.”

“So? There are worse obsessions. I started carrying hand sanitizer, and I’m not above using it on others. Bacteria, germs, bodily fluids—ew! Such a turn-off.”

Chloe’s mom is a toxicologist; I think she may have gone a little overboard in teaching her daughter about the importance of cleanliness. Chloe once broke up with a guy because he stopped by her house after a run. She said the smell of sweat lingered in her nasal cavities for days.

“Get over it,” I tell her for the millionth time, “a little dirt is natural. You shouldn’t be so phobic.”

“I have standards! What can I say?” She pulls out her compact to examine how her hair looks in the back. “I just want to know how Josh really feels. I mean, he flirts with me, but what’s that say? Doesn’t mean he actually likes me. Guys are so hard to read.”

Darcy scoffs. “Tell me about it. I would pay so much money just to know what Rob’s thinking for like five minutes.”

I stop painting my toes and look up. “That’s it!”

Darcy pauses in her makeup application. “What?”

“That’s my Story of the Year. It’s perfect.”

Chloe grabs a bottle of hairspray and squirts some on her bangs. “Rob’s thought process is your story? Sounds like a short one.”

“No,
guys
—how they think, what they really want, all the shit they do that makes no sense finally decoded and demystified. What girl wouldn’t want to read that?” I’m getting so excited I knock the nail polish over and have to scramble to right it before it stains the tub. “It’s socially relevant, right? Haven’t women throughout the ages worried about this stuff?”

Darcy nods, thinking it over. “That is a good idea.”

I scramble for my bag, grab a notebook and pen, and start scribbling. “We’ll call it ‘A Girl’s Guide to Guys: Their Top Secrets Revealed.’”

“Ooh, I like it,” Darcy says. “Very catchy! Except you should put in a number. You know how
Cosmo
always does that—‘Top Ten Techniques for Better Orgasms,’ that sort of thing?”

“Right! Good thinking. ‘Their Top Seven Secrets Revealed.’ How’s that?”

“Not to be the voice of doom,” Chloe says in a total voice-of-doom tone, “but what makes you think guys will just
volunteer
this information?”

“I’ll do interviews—tonight! We can figure out what we most want to know, and I’ll ask every guy at the party until I get some honest answers.”

“Oh-kay”—Chloe draws the word out, all dubious and sarcastic—“but why would they tell you the truth?”

“Because I’m disarming.” I smile my most disarming smile.

“You better hope nobody suspects you’re Dr. Aphrodite, or they’ll really clam up. Last I checked, most the guys at our school weren’t terribly happy about that column.”

“Yeah, but their major complaint is that I don’t know how guys think, right?” I hold out my hands. “Here’s their chance to explain. I’m all ears!”

Darcy rubs some gel into her pink hair and catches my eye in the mirror. “I think it’s a great idea! I can’t wait to hear what they say.”

Chloe still looks unconvinced. “I’ve asked plenty of guys why they do what they do, and I’ve yet to get a straight answer.”

“Yeah, but you can’t be dating someone and expect him to be completely honest,” I say. “There’s too much at stake. Luckily, I’m not seeing anyone. None of these guys will care what I think.”

“Except you’ll go broadcasting the information to every girl on campus,” Chloe says.

“It’ll be
anonymous
. I’m a journalist—there’s a strict code of ethics.” I put the cap back on the nail polish even though I’ve only painted four of my toes. I’m too excited about this exposé to worry about grooming. I hold my pen over the paper, poised to strike. “Okay, so what do we most want to know?”

Darcy jumps right in. “When a guy says he’s going to call and then just doesn’t, what
is
that? If he’s not going to call, why does he have to say he will? And what are we supposed to do about it? Pretend it doesn’t bug us? Assume he’ll call when he’s ready? What?”

“Good!” I say, writing furiously. “Keep it coming.”

“Ask about the every eight seconds thing,” Chloe suggests.

I look at her blankly. “Every eight seconds?”

“Supposedly, guys think about sex every eight seconds. If that’s true, how can they talk to their grandmothers? Gross!”

“Okay,” I say, still writing, “I’ll ask.”

By eleven, Darcy’s place is packed and the music is so loud you can feel it thrumming in every room. There’s a keg out on the deck, a bunch of sophomore girls from the volleyball team are doing Jell-O shots in the kitchen, a gaggle of drama kids are playing beer pong in the basement, and the living room is just one huge dance floor. Darcy’s a little buzzed and Chloe’s working her way through her standard two drinks, sipped very slowly—more than that makes her feel out of control, which isn’t something Chloe savors. I’m the only one among us who’s stone-cold sober, though. I need to be clearheaded for my interviews.

I’ve read over the questions we came up with so many times, I’ve practically memorized them. I think they’re pertinent. God knows I’d like them answered, not just for my article, but for my future relations with the opposite sex. That’s assuming, of course, that I ever
have
relations; given the show of major male hostility on the message board today, my chances of finding a boyfriend in this town have dwindled from slim to miniscule.

1. When you say you’re going to call and you don’t, what happened?

2. Why are you so different when your friends are around? Which one is the real you?

3. What do you
really
look for in a girl?

4. Is it true that guys think about sex every eight seconds, or is that just a myth?

5. What’s the surest way to tell the difference between a guy who’s being sincere and one who’s just looking to score?

6. What can make you lose interest in a girl overnight?

7. If you won’t talk about your feelings, how are we supposed to know what they are?

I’ve been stalling, tell you the truth. The thought of actually approaching a guy and asking him these questions makes me feel a little queasy. Three hours ago, when I came up with the idea, it seemed so straightforward. I’d just go up to whoever and start firing away. What’s so hard about conducting a few interviews? I’m not exactly shy. I mean, I’ve been doing theater forever. You can’t get up onstage if you’re self-conscious or inhibited, so this should be easy.

In the living room, I climb up onto an ottoman that’s been shoved into a corner and look around. A huge mob of people are dancing, their shoes pounding on the hardwood floors as the bass beat throbs, rattling the framed prints on the walls. Darcy’s dancing with Kevin Snodgrass, who’s not exactly boyfriend material. He’s what Chloe would call a POKSI (Physically Okay but Socially Inept). He’s the sort of guy moms always want you to fall for, with his fastidious, perfectly parted blond hair, cherubic cheeks, and belted chinos. The Kevin Snodgrasses of the world are always nice, but hooking up with him would be like getting it on with your kid brother—too creepy. Hopefully, though, dancing with him is getting Darcy’s mind off Rob, who had the nerve to show up with Michiko for fifteen minutes before Chloe and I made it clear they weren’t welcome. What a jerk!

Okay, so who should be my first interviewee? Nathan Rease is over by the stereo, clutching a blue plastic cup, doing that little head bobbing thing guys do when they can’t dance. He’s in my math class; we studied for a test together one time. I could totally ask him. Of course, we’ll have to find someplace quiet—maybe Darcy’s room. But then he might think I’m coming on to him. When we studied together, there was this weird moment when we both reached for his calculator and our fingers touched and he stammered something about differential equations and I got the fleeting impression that he might have a tiny crush on me—just right then, never before or after—but still. It could be weird.

Right. Not Nathan, obviously.

Okay, how about Mick Matheson? He’s never had a crush on me, he’s sweet, harmless and . . . time suckage personified. The boy could put a horde of rabid zombies to sleep with his monotone voice and bland, incredibly obvious observations. Yeah, that’ll make for some scintillating reading. Not.

This is getting ridiculous! I’ll never have my exposé by next Monday if I keep putting this off. Chas’s and Rachel’s smug faces pop into my mind. They think they’re serious writers, real journalists with a future, whereas I’m just a chick churning out brain candy for the unsophisticated masses. How can I show them they’re wrong unless I write something with real depth and insight? How can I even keep writing my column knowing how ignorant I am about the inner workings of guys? I’ve got to plow ahead and interview someone—anyone! Who cares who it is? I squeeze my eyes shut, wave my finger around, and point it randomly. When I open my eyes again, I’m staring right at Tony Brown.

And he’s staring at me.

“What’s up, Natalie?” Tony’s a surfer with shaggy, unkempt hair and a boyish smile.

“Hey.” Time to take the plunge. “Tony, can I ask you some questions?”

He leans closer. “Huh? Music’s too loud.”

“Yeah. Want to go outside?” I’m definitely not going into Darcy’s bedroom with Tony Brown. Outside will have to do.

Tony waggles his eyebrows and follows me out the sliding glass doors to the deck. It’s balmy out, the September heat lingering like it always does for the first few weeks of fall semester. I lead him to the corner farthest from the keg, where a couple deck chairs sit near the railing. I brush the leaves off one and sit. Tony yanks the other chair as close as he can to mine and drops into it, knees splayed, grinning.

“You look good tonight. That—what do you call it?” He gestures vaguely at my neckline.

“Um . . . halter top?”

“Halter top!” I can tell he’s had a few beers. “Looks good on you.”

“Oh, thanks.” I’m glad it’s dark enough out here to make my blush less obvious. “So, I’m working on this article? It’s about, um, guys?” I can hear myself doing that annoying up-speak thing, turning statements into questions. I clear my throat.

“Yeah?” His smile looks forced now. “What about guys?”

“I’m trying to understand how they think and—you know—why they do what they do.” I pull out my digital recorder. “Is it okay if I interview you?”

He shoots the recorder a suspicious glance. “I guess.”

“Great!” I fish my notebook and pen from my purse, press RECORD, and smile at him with friendly interest. “Okay, first question: When you say you’re going to call and you don’t, what happened?”

He squints at me, confused. “I never told you I would call.”

“No, not you and me—in general, say, if you were to tell a girl you’d call, and you didn’t actually call her, what might be the reason for—”

“Did Jen put you up to this?”

Now it’s my turn to look confused. “Jen?”

“I didn’t promise I’d call her. Just because you ask for someone’s number, it’s not like you’re engaged or anything.” He takes a swig from his beer and scans the crowd around the keg.

“I’m not accusing you of anything! It’s a hypothetical—”

“She’s seeing Randy now anyway, so why should she care?”

I purse my lips, holding in my frustration. This isn’t going well. He’s obviously defensive. Maybe the questions are too accusatory? But I can’t help it if the stuff we want to know is mostly about their maddening habits. I’ll try a different angle; what’s the least negative question? Something neutral.