Sam Cruz's Infallible Guide to Getting Girls Part 2

The tradition on Ally's birthday is that we only eat dessert for lunch. And since I know that Ally will be eating mine at some point, I didn't order the chocolate chip bacon cookies Matt recently put on the menu and instead went for lacto-vegetarian-friendly cheesecake.

Ian bites into his pecan pie that Matt has just served.

"Superb. This beats the h.e.l.l out of the supermarket Black Forest c.r.a.p me mum used to foist on me," he declares.

He feeds a bite to Rachel. Ally and I make identical gagging noises.

"I'll make you a cake next year," Rachel says to him, ignoring us.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and check the text.

"Maybe it's the phenylethylamine talking, but d.a.m.n this is good."

I glance up from my screen at Ally, gushing over her chocolate cake. "Left brain, Einstein," I scold.

Rachel grins while Ian looks blank. I keep texting because it's from the luscious Heather I met a while back. And Ally will fill him in. It's science. The girl doesn't have an "off" b.u.t.ton.

"Sam thinks I'm too a.n.a.lytical. Too left brain. He'd prefer we all live in our right brain."

"The creative, conceptual part," Ian says.

I forgot. There's two of them.

"The side tied to o.r.g.a.s.ms," I add, finishing my text and sliding my phone back into my pocket.

Ally frowns. "Being in love actually enhances o.r.g.a.s.ms. It's proven fact."

"Not according to any of the girls I've been with."

Rachel gasps. "You've actually spoken to them?"

Ha. Ha.

"Relax," Ally continues. "You can still believe in the power of your magical p.e.n.i.s."

She goes for my cake so I spin the plate to give her better access. I've learned the hard way that getting between Ally and dessert is dangerous.

Also, I'm hoping she'll eat and not discuss my d.i.c.k. "Don't talk about that. It's weird."

Ally leans over to Rachel and Ian and mock whispers, "He's scared naming it will kill his power."

She begins to chant. "One p.e.n.i.s to rule them all, one p.e.n.i.s to find them, one p.e.n.i.s to bring them all and in the darkness bind them."

I put on my best "Pinky" imitation from Animaniacs, our favorite show when we were kids, in response. "Egad, Brain, I wish I was as smart as you."

Ally answers in her "Brain" voice like Orson Welles. "Don't vex me, Pinky, or I shall turn on you."

When we're all happily sugared up, we say our goodbyes outside the diner. The wind has picked up so I don't want to hang around too long.

Ally and I hug then she blurts out, "Jeremy is taking me to Grill Boyz tonight."

"Wow. Real menus. Whaddya do to deserve that?" I shove my hands in my pockets to keep them warm.

She ignores me. "I think he's going to stay here for university."

Ian and I exchange glances. We're on the same page about Jeremy, who I think is a pompous douche and who Ian sums up in perfect Brit-speak as a "w.a.n.ker".

"About time," Rachel says loyally. I know this is only out of duty to her cousin's wishes because I've heard her rant about Jeremy too.

"Yay!" I echo, slightly too late to mean it.

Ally glares at all of us.

Rachel and Ian look away. Cowards. It's up to me to man up and say it. "He's a smug d.i.c.k."

"He's smart. We have a meeting of the minds."

"Please. If you're gonna be shackled to this guy, your minds shouldn't be what's meeting. Where's the fire?" I launch into a little p.o.r.ntastic "bow chicka wow wow" music complete with suggestive hand gestures.

Ally gets this prim look on her face. "We have a very full intimacy of which *bow chicka wow wow' is only one part."

She gloats as if she's won some major debate. Smarty pants forgets that I've literally known her forever and have more than a few things to toss back in her face.

"That lab you hang out at? You named the research parrots Buffy and Angel, after one of the greatest forbidden vampire love affairs ever memorialized on TV. You want fire. You're settling for comfortable. Or breathing. The jury's still out."

"Sam!" Rachel admonishes.

"Bad form, mate," Ian mutters.

They don't need to worry. Ally can defend herself.

"You can psychoa.n.a.lyze my relationship once you've actually had one," she tosses back at me.

"Why? You heckle the Oscars and you haven't seen all the films."

"How is that the same thing?" she demands.

"Look, all I'm saying is before you waste your best years on him, screw someone else. Make sure you know what you're missing. Get past the love baggage."

Now everyone stares at me with various degrees of disbelief. What? It's common sense.

"There's no baggage," Ally insists.

"747, baby."

"People on gla.s.s runways..." Ally places a hand on my shoulder. "Sweet, idiotic boy, contrary to your belief that you respect women, treating them like socks to jack off into is not actually respect. So forgive me if I don't follow your brilliant advice."

I shrug it off, knowing we're polar opposites on this one. "Just trying to help."

"I know." She sloppily smooches my cheek. "Thank you for my present. Now go. You're going to be late for your study group."

"Yes, mom."

It's not exactly study group but I do have to meet my cla.s.smate Monica for our marketing a.s.signment. We've been given the task of pretending to be an ad agency and their client. The ad agency (me) must work with the client (Monica) to meet her needs on this specific campaign.

After a brief stop home to pick up my roughed out ideas, I head to the teen lounge room at the library where a bunch of us are meeting up in our groups.

Monica shyly waves me over to her table. She's her usual twitchy self, like a little anxious mouse.

The a.s.signment we've pulled is that she's a chocolatiere and I'm designing a new campaign for her. I pull out a couple of small, kick a.s.s mock-ups of chocolate wrappers with designed blocks of text on display around them.

I'm a whiz with graphics. All about the visuals. Screw university, I'm headed for an electronic design program.

Monica squints to read the text, then looks at me, confused. "But chocolate is all about love and romance."

"You make ninety percent of your sales on Valentine's Day," I say, having researched this fact. "What about the rest of the year?"

I explain the concept. "Once your accompanying site is launched, people will send in real-life, funny, date-from-h.e.l.l and love-gone-wrong stories. They'll be printed on this packaging."

I point out the tag line written in script along the bottom of one of the mock-ups. "Treat yourself."

Then I sit back, pleased with the slam-dunk of an "A" I'll be getting.

"I don't know," she says.

So pull your finger out and offer up an idea, I think but instead say, "You're ignoring those who either don't want or can't find love, but don't want to turn to chocolate as a pity measure."

Props to Google and pop psychology.

"We're changing how they think about chocolate," I continue. "Making it funny and empowering instead of pathetic. *Treat yourself.' Trust me."

Monica hesitates. Under the weight of my pressured stare (I mean, I spent at least an hour looking this stuff up), she caves and gives a tiny nod of okay.

By this point, my head is killing me. Under the unholy trifecta of Ca.s.s, Ally, and Monica busting my b.a.l.l.s, this weekend has sucked.

I brighten as I spot my buddy Etienne enter. Ally accuses me of being a dog? He makes me look like a guitar-strumming sensitive. The brother is French. Enough said.

Of course his attention is stalker fixated on trying to run into Clarissa, most popular girl at his school. Etienne has the kind of rugged good looks and a Frenchie French accent that can totally pull chicks. The problem is what comes out of his mouth.

"What'cha up to today?" I ask.

"First I'll beat you five times at foosball, then I'll go home and plow this piece of a.s.s till she can't see straight. Merveilleux."

See?

"There's three minutes she'll never get back," I retort.

"It'll be five at least. I'll pull her like a hamstring. She'll beg for more."

"Is that what you teach them after *fetch and play dead'?"

"Encule." Which is "f.u.c.ker" in French, and Etienne's favorite word for me.

"Trou duc." a.s.shole. Thanks to Google Translate, I could have chosen Icelandic, Urdu, or Yiddish for the insult but choose to honor the p.r.i.c.k in his native French.

Etienne laughs. "Nice. Where'd you learn that?"

"Your sister. Three months ago? It was the last thing I heard."

Etienne nods gravely. "Oui. She swears like a sailor. Ssh. Clarissa. A feast in f.u.c.k-me pumps. I must have her."

I glance over at the recently arrived Clarissa, who's waving to a friend. Despite Etienne making her sound like a truck stop ho, she's actually this smiling, pretty Jamaican girl.

"Two words, buddy. Restraining. Order."

Etienne claps me on the shoulder. "Come. We will go on a coffee run as a distraction for my erection."

"An extra small then." You can never diss the size of your friend's d.i.c.k enough.

Chapter four.

I head to the lab to see the parrots since it beats staying home and waiting until I can see Jeremy again.

I'd managed to wrangle a volunteer position at one of the local universities in the biology research lab. I love all animals but especially birds, so they a.s.signed me to help out this PhD student care for the parrots in her dissertation. It's fun and will look good on my university applications.

Miyuki, my "boss", throws me a smile as I come in. "Hey birthday girl, didn't think I'd see you today."

She tosses me a stopwatch. "Help a girl out. Start it when I nod." Easy enough.

Miyuki takes Buffy, a White-Fronted parrot out of a large cage running along one side of the lab. The cage contains mirrors mounted on horizontal bars and toys strewn inside.

Miyuki gently presses the back of her finger against the parrot's lower abdomen and nods at me. I start timing as Buffy takes flight.

Buffy lands on a large metal table, beside another parrot, Spike, who preens. She spends a moment checking Spike out, then tosses her head dismissively, heading for a small covered cage next to him. Take that.

Protruding from the cage's door is a two-foot-long gla.s.s tube, large enough for her to walk through but obstructed by a colorful wooden block.

"Ally?"

"Twenty-seven seconds," I reply as Miyuki makes a note.