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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!”

CHAPTER
2
    I woke up expecting my