Free Every Girl's Guide to Boys by Marla Miniano

alright?” and I yell back, “I’m
still alive!” I was busy practicing my dance moves to Britney’s “Womanizer” (I
always knew she’d be hot again), and have just stubbed my big left toe on the
ancient wooden cabinet. My poor toe is bleeding, staining my cotton candy
pink-polished toenail a deep red, and I sit on the edge of my bed to inspect
the damage. I take a Band-Aid from the box on my dresser drawer and wrap it
around my toe. I guess this means I won’t be wearing my new open-toed kitten
heels tonight. Hmm. Now what? I am wearing a royal blue minidress that would
have looked fabulous with them, and I stare at my shoe rack willing it to
magically produce a pair that would hide the ugly Band-Aid and still look
presentable for a night out. I wish I had unlimited footwear options, or at
least predicted this would happen so I could ask Rickie for help. I am
considering wearing my purple Chucks and pretending that I am making a fashion
statement instead of hiding a bloody toe, but suddenly, a glimmer of hope
presents itself to me, literally. At the very bottom of my shoe rack, a silver
box sparkles, and I remember—it contains a pair of black pointy pumps
that I only wore once and swore never to touch again because they made walking
hell. Those pumps would make my legs look amazing, and would match my
minidress. I tentatively slip them on, take several quick steps, and start
yelping. Ouch, ouch, OUCH. But I really don’t have a choice, because my phone
starts ringing, Nico’s name flashing across the screen, and I grab my purse and
head downstairs. As long as I walk slooooowly enough, I can travel a few meters
without fainting, and I guess they’d have to do. “Mom, Dad, I’m leaving,” I
announce, peeking into the kitchen. “We’ll
be back from our party by two AM,” Dad says. “Make sure you’re home and in bed
at least thirty minutes before then.” I nod. Fair enough.
    Black pointy pumps are
sexy, but not when the klutz wearing them is hobbling around and grimacing in
pain. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Nico asks as we pull to a stop in front of
the party venue and he helps me out of the car. I wince and nod. It’s not like
I’d change my mind and ask him to bring me home. At least I know the rest of me
looks great: My hair has been ironed into submission, I have managed to put on
mascara and liquid liner without getting raccoon eyes, my lips are still glossy,
and my cheeks and shoulders have been carefully bronzed. If I can get away with
sitting down the whole night, nobody has to notice my unsightly limp.
      Fortunately, we find an empty table, and
Nico and Enzo sit on either side of me. They both look gorgeous, and when Nico
reaches for my hand, I think, We are holding hands in front of everyone. Who
cares about stubbed toes? Enzo glances at us and actually winks at me, and I laugh.
“Hey, I’m the only one who can’t walk properly,” I tell them. I am doing this to
prove that I am not KJ or uptight—just because I can’t have as much fun
as I expected doesn’t mean I have to ruin their evening. “You guys go and
mingle. Or whatever it is you’re supposed to do at parties like these.”
    Enzo looks at Nico, and
Nico nods. He lets go of my hand and tells me, “We’ll be back.”
    Enzo grins. “Don’t run
off anywhere.”
    I laugh again. “Go,
seriously. Don’t let me cramp your style. Go mingle and be single.” I sound
like a cheerleader, only instead of cheering them on to run faster and score
better and make the perfect shot, I’m cheering them on to, well, go mingle and
be single. Way to go, Chrissy. That’s very generous of you.
    Nico doesn’t correct
me. He doesn’t say, I don’t want to be single, or Technically, I’m not single . He stands up, ready
to jumpstart their Friday night. They head off to the bar to take advantage of
the free-flowing drinks, and I sit back to indulge in one of my favorite
pastimes: people-watching.
    If the designer’s goal
was