Getting to Happy Read Online Free PDF Page B

changed, Mom. Okay? You have to look for a guy the same way you look for a job. Online is the way to go.”
    “How do you know so much about this?”
    “Mom, this is 2005 in case you weren’t aware. Anyway, seventy-five to ninety percent of my friends’ parents are divorced, and their moms are always meeting cool dudes with paper and very little baggage, except for those monthly support payments. This, of course, is not something I’ve had the privilege of experiencing firsthand since my dad is a jailbird and all, but I don’t blame you for that. I just want you to be happy! I want you to fall into that deep hole called love I know nothing about except what I’ve seen on TV. Until then, can’t you at least get laid?”
    “Didn’t you wear that yesterday?”
    “You shouldn’t limit your options to just black men, either.”
    “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
    She leans forward, turns her head to the side and points one of those blue nails at me.
    “Just because you only like white boys, don’t try to get me to follow in your footsteps, sweetie.”
    “I don’t like them because they’re white, Mom. I just like them. A lot of black guys at school aren’t attracted to girls like me.”
    “And what kind of girl are you?”
    “I’m my own person. I don’t fit the mold.”
    “Oh, so you’re saying that white boys don’t mind your not fitting it?”
    “They make me feel special. Unique. To be honest, they make me feel even prouder than I already am to be black.”
    “To each his own.”
    “Have you ever even dated a white guy?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I’ve just never thought about it. I have always been attracted to black men.”
    “Yeah, and look where it’s gotten you.”
    “What did you say?”
    “Nothing, Mom.”
    “I’ve never been attracted to white men.”
    “It’s because you didn’t look at them as men because they were white. I’ve heard that inside, they’re all just guys.”
    “You still haven’t answered my question. Didn’t you wear that getup yesterday?”
    “And?” she asks, looking down at this potpourri of clothing even I know is a Glamour Don’t. She’s rolling the window down and I swear I wish every stitch she has on would fly straight out of this car into one of those trash bins lined up along the curb. Even though it’s January, she’s wearing too much of everything: a dingy white sweater that was once mine, jeans cut off at the knee and purple tights with holes or runs in them, and she has the nerve to wear them with teal blue hightop sneakers. She is clearly confused. As are a lot of teenagers. They don’t care how they look. Sparrow’s five ten. An inch taller than me. So she looks twice as bad as most of her girlfriends, most of whom happen to be white, which doesn’t bother me, but she’s a black Valley Girl even though all of Phoenix is a valley. All I know is the more missmatched they look, the cooler or more original they think they are. I have never had good taste, but I know from tacky. The only things on her that do make sense are the clusters of twisted hair that fall like branches of a weeping willow all over her head and over her eyes so she’s constantly pushing them to the side, more for effect than anything. Like using a bobby pin would kill her.
    “I am trying to be a conservationist, Mom, in case you aren’t aware of our dwindling ozone layer. Look at that clay-colored cloud out there. Don’t you want me to live long enough to see that disappear?”
    “Shut up, would you, Sparrow? You’re starting to get on my nerves and it’s not even nine o’clock. I’m going to be late for work as it is, and you better pass the stupid test or I might make you walk back to school.”
    “I’d call the cops on you.”
    “I’d pretend like I didn’t know you so they’d have to go to prison and ask to have your dad sprung so he could come get you.”
    “Mom, you’re not playing fair! You promised never to bring him