Babe in Boyland Read Online Free PDF Page A

Why not? My first technique bombed miserably, so this time I’m going to be all business.
    As I’m making my way through the shadowy yard toward the house, I spot Kevin Snodgrass toting a bag of garbage outside. He tosses it in the big gray bin, then looks down at it regretfully.
    “What’s wrong?” My question makes him jump. “Sorry—didn’t mean to startle you. What are you looking at?”
    “Oh, nothing. I just know there’s probably lots of recyclables in there. I should have sorted through it first.”
    I don’t know whether to laugh or hug the poor guy; he’s so earnest and sincere. Is that why he’s also so unsexy, or is it the belted chinos? Maybe I should interview Kevin. Okay, so he’s not exactly on Mountain View High’s Most Desired list, but if anyone’s going to cut the games and give it to me straight, it’s him. I can start with pure-hearted, unsophisticated Kevin and work my way up to the sexier players once I’ve got my reporting chops down, right?
    “Kevin, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
    He pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and blinks at me owlishly. “About what?”
    “Well, I’m working on an article about the way guys think. Would you help me out with an interview?” I concentrate on keeping my tone completely straightforward—no flirtation, no nothing, just what-you-see-is-what-you-get.
    “Is it for a class?”
    “Journalism. You know, for the school paper.”
    He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Natalie, I’d like to help you out, but I don’t think I can.”
    “Why not?”
    “If you quote me as an expert or something, Brent and those guys might hassle me even more than they do now.”
    “Brent and those guys” translates as jocks. The kind of guys who are forever compelled to deposit the Kevin Snodgrasses of the world into garbage cans.
    “It would be anonymous,” I assure him. “I totally respect your need for privacy.”
    “Still, they might find out.” He’s already backing away from me. “Sorry.”
    “Wait, can’t you just—?” But it’s too late. He’s already ducked inside.
    Gawwwwd! What am I supposed to do? My potential sources either fear me or feel me up. All those guys who posted complaints about my cluelessness should witness this! Here I am, busting my butt to get a few measly insights, and you’d think I’m after classified information or something. I mean really, what the hell? Is being a guy so fascinating and controversial that they have to protect their trade secrets at any cost?
    I hear the doorknob rattle on the back door before it flies open with extreme force. Chuck Hughes stumbles out, burping with such force it sounds painful. He zigzags unsteadily across the grass, obviously wasted. Chuck Hughes is always the super-trashed-puking-guy at every party. Ever since junior high, he’s ended up in someone’s bushes by midnight. Nobody ever invites him, but he’s got bionic party-sensing powers; he can sniff out a keg from a hundred miles away.
    Okay, I really don’t feel like talking to Chuck Hughes, especially because of the potential puke factor, but watching him weave his way across the yard does give me an idea. Tony wouldn’t be straight with me because he had sex on the brain, and Kevin wouldn’t talk because he didn’t want to snitch. Maybe my best chance at honest dishing is with someone too inebriated to make a play or to fear the consequences. In vino veritas, right? So maybe in Budweiser there’s a little truth too.
    “Hey, Chuck,” I call. “Come over here a second, will you?”
    He stops his loopy waltz across the lawn and looks around, confused. “Huh?”
    I walk up to him, eager to get this over with. If I wait for his damaged brain cells to locate me and command his legs to carry him in my direction, it could take hours.
    “What’s up?” I’m going for home-girl casual this time.
    “Natalie,” he says, stumbling over the syllables. “How you?”
    “Not bad. Listen, I want