Chapter 1, Part 3

How to Meet Cute Boys
by Deanna Kizis

(Page 3 of 3)

FILLY TIPS AVOID SPERMY How to get the perfect eyebrow in six steps, courtesy of a Beverly Hills star plucker.-B.F. 1. Determine your face shape. If your mug is a big circle, you want a brow that doesn't go too far across. A small pointy face needs a thin arch. A long, oval face wants wide, thin brows. 2. Take a pencil and hold it against your nose, then align it with the inside corner of your eye. Where the pencil hits the brow line is where your eyebrows should start. Now hold it from the end of your nose to the end of your eyelid. This is where your brows should end. 3. With a makeup brush, cover the hairs you want to tweeze with concealer. 4. If tweezing hurts, numb the area with an ice cube first. 5. Tweeze the tiny hairs that grow underneath your arch-they make the area around your eyes look wrinkled. Who needs that? 6. Brush the inside hair of your brows upward with a toothbrush, then trim them with scissors to make them even. Otherwise you could get what star pluckers call the dreaded "spermy brow," which is shaped like a, uh, you know.

"HEY YOU GUYS OH MY GOD IT'S SO GOOD TO SEE YOU WHAT'S UP DO YOU HAVE A LIGHT I CAN'T FIND MY FUCKING LIGHTER THOSE PEARLS ARE GENIUS!" It was Steph, Fill y's publicist, a stick-thin party thrower/socialite, who, because she spent most of her evenings at events where music was blasting and chitchat was rampant, did her own brand of yell talk and could never focus on one topic. Jack used to call her "Minnie Mouth."

"Hey, Steph. I'm good. Take these matches. Thank you," I said.

"DID YOU GUYS HAVE ANY TROUBLE AT THE DOOR THE LIST IS ALL FUCKED UP CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW MANY CUTE GUYS THERE ARE HERE OH MY GOD I SAW THIS GUY WHO I AM SO IN LOVE WITH HE'S AN ACTOR BUT MY FRIEND SAYS HE'S ALSO A DRUG DEALER AND I CAN'T DECIDE IF THAT'S BAD WHAT DO YOU THINK?"

I let Kiki take this one. "It was hectic, but we got in," she said. "If you really like him then it's probably okay." She shot me a he's-a-drug-dealer? look. "But you should probably find out if he's, you know, the right guy for you."

"TOTALLY I SO HEAR YOU WAIT OH MY GOD J'AI IS HERE SHE'S SUCH A FUCKING GENIUS I HAVE TO TALK TO HER AND SEE IF I CAN GET AN APPOINTMENT MY EYEBROWS ARE A DISASTER BYE-BYE DAHLINGS!"

We watched Steph cut her way expertly down the stairwell and thrust herself in the path of an eyebrow shaper who, thanks to journalists like myself, is now a celebrity complete with first-name-only recognition. Like Madonna.

It was my turn. I walked into the dimly lit motel room, and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the candlelight. I made out the fortune-teller waving me toward an empty upholstered chair. I sat at the table, which was covered with glittery scarves, but the presence of two double beds with green and blue comforters and a cheap-looking nightstand sort of detracted from the gypsy ambience. Not to mention that my fortune-teller, who introduced herself as Olivia, looked bored out of her turban. She told me to shuffle the tarot cards; then she laid them out on the table, the bangles on her arms making a fake-gold clinking sound.

"This one," Olivia said, taking a swig of bottled water, "says you are a creative person whose strengths lie in the arts."

Flattering, but not exactly what I had in mind.

"This one says there will be a big change for someone close to you. Maybe family."

Unlikely-my mother dated so often that a new guy could hardly constitute a big change, and Audrey was in a perma relationship with the Commando.

"This one"-she pointed to another-"says you recently had your heart broken, but you're starting to realize that it's all for the best."

No kidding.

"Is there a question you want to ask?" Olivia looked at me and yawned.

Suddenly I realized how pathetic my question really was: Would I ever fall madly in love? Would I ever want to give someone everything I had? Would I ever want to share everything, want him to touch every-thing, want to tell him everything? They were probably the same questions everyone asked. What the fortune-teller should do was start taking down everybody's phone number and become a matchmaker instead. I shook my head. "No, no questions. Thank you, though."

Olivia was too tired to put up a fight, so she just shrugged, giving me an incriminating, it's-not-my-fault-you-didn't-come-prepared look. I felt like I'd wasted her valuable psychic energy, so I put four dollars in the tip jar-my valet money-and met Kiki outside.

"How was it?" she said.

"I'm good at the arts, I've had my heart broken, blah blah blah. Are you going in?"

Kiki peered into the gloom at Olivia lighting a cigarette off a candle and hesitated. "No, forget it. I can't face the future," she said. "Let's go get another drink and obliterate it instead."

With our territory staked out at the bar so we wouldn't have to wait in line for refills, Kiki finally went there. "I'm never going to meet anyone again," she said.

"Of course you are," I said.

"I don't think so. Seriously. I don't even have the energy to try anymore. Edward took the will right out of me."

"Kiki, you can't give up because of Mrs. Doubtfire."

She raised her eyebrows at me, like, Quoi?

"He was so hairy he looked like Robin Williams on Rogaine."

"Good one," she said. But it wasn't the direct hit I was hoping for.

"Look, meeting cute boys is easy." I bobbed my head up and down like one of those little nodding dolls. "All you have to do is find someone you might be into, and put yourself in his way. If he's into you, too, you'll strike up a conversation."

"Really." She raised an eyebrow. "Quoting our own articles, are we?"

"A, it was your idea. And, B, you edited it, so supposedly you agreed with it."

"All right, then." She took a look around the courtyard. "Show me."

"What, now?"

"Yeah!" She gave me a playful shove toward the masses. "Do it now!"

"You can't be serious."

"Ben, lemme ask you something." Kiki leaned back in her chair and studied me. "Why do you think I keep assigning you those dating stories?"

"I give up. Why?"

"Because if I didn't, you'd never go out on a date ."

"Bullshit."

"Bull true. You broke up with Jack, but instead of getting busy you just go to parties and watch me and Nina flirt with everyone. So I figured, you're a good reporter, if I give you an assignment, I know you'll do it. And you do. But then you sit at home, right, type type typing away. Never do this; always do that . . ."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. She was dissing my stuff.

"What?" she said. "I'm not saying I don't love your articles. Look, think of this as fact checking. You claim the techniques in your article work, so show me. Go meet a cute guy."

Okay, so I was just saying that stuff to make her feel better. And I was a little peeved that she'd called me on it but . . . Well, I figured, maybe if I humiliate myself it will cheer her up. And in terms of my not trying, I don't know. I mean, I've picked up guys post-Jack. Ashton, for one. In a way.

"Ben?" Kiki said. "Are you going?"

"Yes," I snapped. "Jesus, Kiki. You're being really pushy, you know that?"

She just smiled and waved me on.

I didn't seem to have much of a choice, so I insisted we do another lap. I needed time to strategize while I picked out my prey. At first I didn't see anybody. There was this one devastatingly cute boy standing off to the side, over by the motel soda machine. Nothing like Jack. Jack's style was conservative, button-down, premature male pattern baldness. This guy was tall and very thin, pure Hugo Boss. I got a little closer so I could get a better look. His hair was perfectly mussed and just gritty enough to be cool. Kind of a dark blond color. He had huge brown eyes that were wide and looked innocent, but also . . . self-aware, if you know what I mean. And maybe just a little aloof. He was like that sexy, self-possessed high school senior you know you're not supposed to be attracted to but you are. And he had full lips that were just ...Well, I could think of a lot of really dirty things to do with those lips. I mean, those lips could be a novel in and of themselves. He was just standing there, alone, yet perfectly at ease. How does he do it? I wondered. He was beautiful.

Then I looked at his clothes and was shattered. Navy blue nylon jacket, zipped up all the way, a hint of blindingly white T-shirt underneath. Immaculate khakis, with crease. White Converse AllStars, unscuffed. He could have been a skateboarder/Beastie Boys fan/East Coaster, but I was picking up a very different vibe.

"What about him?" I said to Kiki, with a discreet nod in his direction.

"Gay," she said.

Damn, I was just thinking that.

We did another lap, but it was hopeless. I saw one guy who looked good-hair, with product, vintage-rock T-shirt . . .

"Him?" I said.

Her eyes narrowed. "Not the guy for you."

"Why?"

"He's wearing tapered jeans."

"Right." She was right.

Everyone else was either too buff (I hate buff guys), looked like an actor (never, ever date an actor), or had another girl on his arm. The guy with the lips was still in the corner, lighting a cigarette.

"I'm going for the gay guy," I told Kiki.

"Dude! You can't go for a gay guy. That's totally not the point."

But I had a feeling.

I started to sidle. Like I'd said in my article, this must look like a chance encounter. I mean, any guy who sees a girl walking purposefully toward him at a party will probably think she's either desperate or a crazy person. When I got in his immediate vicinity, I tried to look lost. Little girl lost, that's what I was going for. I'm no actress, so I probably looked ridiculous. But it worked. He noticed me, started watching me a little. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him scan the crowd. I was surprised, but it looked like he was actually wondering who I was looking for. I took a deep breath and moved in for the kill. I looked in his general direction, let him catch my eye, and said ...

"I think I lost my friends."

He frowned like he wasn't really sure I was talking to him. Like I was some insane maniac walking around the party looking lost and muttering to myself, which was basically the case. I started to panic. Abort! Abort! my brain screamed. This was a dumb scheme!

When suddenly I was saved.

"Well," he said, cocking his head to the side and giving me a little smile. "What do your friends look like?"

Now, I could have started lying my ass off, giving fake descriptions and seeing if he offered to help me find them. Or I could have said something vague like, "Oh, I don't know. Maybe they left," and tried to keep the conversation going. Or I could have tried the full-on flirt. Very risky.

But then I thought to myself, You know what? I can do this.

"Actually, they look a lot like you," I said, and grimaced in something I hoped looked like a captivating smile. Now, I know They look a lot like you is a total line. But I was improvising. And I could see Kiki just over his shoulder, watching everything, which was putting me off my game.

"Really?" he said. "Then I guess you and I were meant to be friends."

Success! Success! Success!

The conversation grew from there. He said his name was Max. That he owned a T-shirt company, Super Very Good, thus the crispness of the clothes he was wearing, which were from the new line. (He didn't have a close, personal relationship with the ironing board, as Kiki and I had feared.) He said he traveled a lot between L.A., New York, Paris, Hong Kong, and London. He designed the graphics himself. I was impressed, although, you know, I tried not to act like I was. Still, I had to ask him if he knew Radiohead, because they wear Super Very Good clothes. Max shrugged and said, "Oh yeah, we hang out all the time."

"Really?" I said.

"No. Not really. But one time Heather Graham came in to try on samples for a photo shoot and I got to see her breasts."

Okay. I'm what people call proportional when they're trying to think of something nice to say, so this stumped me. But then he leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "They weren't that great."

"Really." I tried to sound all sad for poor bad-breasted Heather Graham. This was information.

"No." He started laughing again. "Not really."

He's gorgeous, I thought. He's confident. He's making fun of me. I'm in love with him.

Kiki finally joined us, saying, "Oh, there you are! I've been looking for you everywhere!" (Love Kiki.) She did what she could to help me along, laughing at my jokes, acting like we were the most carefree, fun girls in the world even though inside she was aching for that loser Edward. We asked him where he lived. (Silver Lake.) He asked me where I lived. (Silver Lake. Aha!) He asked me what I did. ("I'm a writer. Uh, journalist.") I asked him what he did for fun. ("Nothing. Collect vinyl, I guess.") He asked me what I did for fun. ("Hang out with Kiki.") I asked him why he was at this party. (" No idea.") He asked me what I'd written recently and Kiki flipped open an issue of Filly and pointed to one of my stories. Unfortunately, it was "How to Meet Cute Boys." (Hate Kiki.)

The article clearly laid out my whole game plan, complete with subject headings in bold, large font-The Lap, The Sidle, The Full-On Flirt, The Pickup. I was busted. But I made a vain attempt at sounding casual. Like I wasn't some hussy who trolled parties and picked up guys for a living. So I said, "Look, I'm not some hussy who trolls parties and picks up guys for a living." I stammered about how, well, Kiki was my editor and she'd assigned it to me so, heh heh, I couldn't really say no and ...

"Everybody, time to go home! Make your way to the nearest exit! Now, people!"

Of course. This awkward moment had to be when the fire department would arrive to bust up the party. It wasn't an entirely bad thing-for Filly, that is. If the fire department's called, the party is over capacity, which means the event is a success. But it was woefully ill timed. A helicopter appeared overhead, shining its spotlight down on people. My new crush and I were suddenly smack in the middle of an Oliver Stone movie, and in the blinding glare I became convinced I had a seriously bad lighting situation going. We stood there, frozen, gawking at one another, while I glanced around looking for a friendly shadow, wondering if my mascara was raccooning around my eyes. Men in uniforms with bullhorns were screaming, "Party's over! Go home!" while hipsters scrambled for their cell phones to call people who were only five feet away so they could plan where they were going next.

I didn't know what to do. According to my own article, I was supposed to close. Get his number. Seal the deal. But it was harder in real life than it was when I was telling other people to do it from the safety of my laptop. "Well, can I . . ." I started to say.

"I'd really like to . . ." he started to say.

"Oh, I interrupted you," I said. "Go ahead."

"No, you go."

"Um. You first."

"Well, you're the one who tried to pull off the I'm-looking-for-my-friends strategy," he said. "Very inventive by the way, so I guess it's my turn."

He leaned toward me, and for a split second I thought he was going to kiss me. The really crazy part is I was going to let him. I raised my chin slightly, my lips quivered forward, and then he said, "Ben, can I have your phone number?"

But I didn't lose my cool.

"Of course!" I said, scrambling in my purse for a pen. I couldn't find one. "Kiki- do you have a pen?"

He had one.

"Oh. Thanks." I took it, and I scribbled "Did it work?" with my number on his courtesy copy of the "How to Meet Cute Boys" article. Before we could say anything else, a cop grabbed me by the arm and escorted Kiki and me out the door, past a riot of people fighting for their free Puma gift bags. Steph was standing behind the gift table throwing bags out to the crowd and screaming at the top of her lungs, "IF YOU DON'T FORM A FUCKING LINE YOU DON'T GET A FUCKING GIFT BAG YOU FUCKING CHEAP BASTARDS!"

I kind of wanted a bag, too, but I knew from experience that it would just be filled with a few shampoo samples, a cheesy CD compilation from one of the record companies, and a free Filly T-shirt, so I decided to let it go. I craned my head around to see if I could at least wave good-bye to Max, but he was gone. Not that it mattered. I got what I came for.

"See," I said to Kiki while the cop shoved us out onto the street, where I almost got sideswiped by a departing limousine. I did a little Cabbage Patch victory dance, thumbs up, shoulders swinging back and forth, and yelled, "Meeting cute boys is easy!"

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About the Author

DEANNA KIZIS is a West Coast editor at Elle magazine. Her work has appeared in Harper's Bazaar, Entertainment Weekly, People, Cosmopolitan, Nylon, Details, Premiere, and Variety, among other publications. Ms. Kizis lives in Los Angeles. You can visit the author at www.howtomeetcuteboys.com.

More by Deanna Kizis

3. With a makeup brush, cover the hairs you want to tweeze with concealer.

4. If tweezing hurts, numb the area with an ice cube first.

5. Tweeze the tiny hairs that grow underneath your arch-they make the area around your eyes look wrinkled. Who needs that?

6. Brush the inside hair of your brows upward with a toothbrush, then trim them with scissors to make them even. Otherwise you could get what star pluckers call the dreaded "spermy brow," which is shaped like a, uh, you know.