Free How to Meet Cute Boys by Deanna Kizis, Ed Brogna

company, I said.
     He’s a graphic designer, too, I added. He’s tall and thin. Has a modern house in the hills. We’re going to honeymoon in Africa,
     I said, and we’re going to have two children, Kurt and … um … Courtney. Isn’t that cute? Yes, isn’t it?
    Audrey started throwing wedding gown after wedding gown through the doorway. I tried on five Vera Wangs before we found The
     Dress. It was a dramatic, creamy strapless number by Christian Dior with a huger-than-huge skirt featuring enormous pale pink
     silk cabbage roses tumbling down the back. It was bold. It was dramatic. It was hopelessly romantic. The saleswoman led me
     out of the dressing room and put me on a little pedestal in front of the mirror. I looked at my reflection and burst into
     tears. “I love it!” I screamed at my sister, who also started to cry and was clapping her hands with glee.
“I absolutely love it!”
    The saleswoman handed me a tissue. “Please, hon,” she said. “Not on the dress.”
    Later that night, Max came to pick me up. When I opened the door, he handed me a bouquet of carnations and a bag with SUPER VERY GOOD emblazoned on the side, saying, “This is for you, my dear.”
    Where does he get these terms?
I thought, taking the bag and showing him into the living room.
My dear. Sweet girl. If he calls me baby doll I’m going to dissolve into a puddle of happy mushy femaleness
. I made a crack that nobody gives carnations anymore and Max shrugged. He said, “You can take the boy out of Ohio …”
    I opened the bag, and in it was a navy blue T-shirt. On it was a big, fat, smiling Chinese Buddha and below him read the words FOR GOOD LUCK, RUB MY BELLY in Asian-style script.
    “I
love
it,” I said. “But”—I held it up to myself—“what are you getting at?”
    Max smiled and gave my stomach a little pat. “For luck. Let’s go. We’re going to be late.”
    We were going to Spaceland to see a band I’d never heard of before called The New Year. In the car on the way over, Max explained
     they were pretty much think-tank-indie-rock types, two of whom used to be in a band called Bedhead, all of whom took their
     music as seriously as anyone currently studying at Juilliard. Apparently the drummer was a friend who stopped by the warehouse
     sometimes for free Super Very Good clothes. I was curious, so I asked Max how he got to start his own company anyway. He told
     me how he’d gone to Rhode Island School of Design, but he wasn’t that interested in studying so he left. He’d started the
     company with twenty thousand dollars, mostly money scraped together from some professional skateboarder friends. I imagined
     Super Very Good was worth a lot more now. His house, however, was a rental. Max said he didn’t feel ready to buy, and he was
     pouring all his money back into the company. This explained the roommates, Seth and Stuart (Max called them Fred and Barney),
     whose presence I’d sensed the night I slept over (the pizza boxes and a photo of Britney Spears taped to the refrigerator
     were dead giveaways), but whom I’d never actually gotten to meet. I was so impressed by Max, by his job, by every blond hair
     on his head …
    “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” I asked.
    “Oh. God. I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school.” He laughed. “It’s fine. Although, you know, I hate sleeping alone.”
    I gave him my best sidelong glance. “Don’t even try it.”
    We parked and Max took my hand as we walked to the club. I gave my ID to the bouncer. But then I saw something bizarre—Max’s
     was fake.
    Now, I’ve seen some fake IDs in my life. When I was in college, I put myself through my last year of school by working nights
     as a bartender. Because I was sick of cleaning up kiddie puke, I used to cut up fake IDs with a pair of scissors I hung on
     the wall with a big red ribbon. It was one of the only times in my life that I’ve ever really been in a position of power,
     and I got a good