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an adequate if uninspired second-chair flute, dating other band geeks for the convenience of it. I was short and overweight, with frizzy curly hair that was waiting impatiently for the invention of mousse, which was still a year away. Mina was a gorgeous almond-eyed African American girl with killer cheekbones, who simply decided she was incharge, got elected president of the freshman class (and subsequently sophomore, junior, and senior, the only student in school history to serve for four years), and eventually led the debate team to three consecutive city championships and two state titles, while handily maintaining a solid A average and one besotted boyfriend per annum. Emily was a cheerleader of the whip-smart and snarky (but not mean girl) variety. She was also head of the Young Republicans (a shockingly big club during the Reagan era), always perfectly put together, and dated the quarterback of the football team, whomever that happened to be at the moment. Lacey was an athlete, five eleven, strong as anything, played varsity softball and basketball, ran track, and tended to always be dating friends of her older brother, who was in college ROTC.
    But there we were, freshman year, sitting in first-period biology, hating life and crushing on Adam Ant, having snagged the four chairs in the back of the room. And when the super-popular blond bombshell in the front row misread “organism” as “orgasm,” the four of us made eye contact, and before the end of the period, little folded notes were flying back and forth along that row like we had invented the method. By October we were completely inseparable—thank god everyone had two-way calling for group discussions, and for Lacey’s parents being so generous about allowing sleepovers. Despite losing one another for a bit during college and immediately following during the era before e-mail and cell phones, we reconnected at our five-year reunion and discovered that we liked the women we had become just as much as we loved the memories of the girls we had been. So we agreed to make a once-a-month date so that we didn’t lose each other again. And for the past fourteen years, we have kept that date pretty sacred. We don’t talk on the phone or gettogether much beyond that one night a month, except for big parties and the occasional birthday and random girls’ weekends. But we are the kind of friends that don’t need to spend all our time together, as long as we keep the connection alive.
    “Okay, seriously, where the fuck do they
find
these guys?” Lacey asked, incredulous.
    “Um, are you really one to talk?” Mina raised one perfectly threaded eyebrow. “Didn’t your last date from Match take you to
Hooters
?”
    “He did, but just for the wings,” Lacey said, smirking.
    “Yeah, and he subscribes to
Playboy
for the articles.” Emily snorts.
    We all convulsed in laughter, poured another round of gimlets, and I got up to answer the door. That was the night Patrick showed up unexpectedly in the middle of our entertainment. And I’d been drinking just enough to let him in, and let him participate.
    “Wait a minute,” he said, swigging a gimlet and finishing the last piece of beet bruschetta and pointing at me. “Has she ever once met any of these guys?”
    “Hell, no,” Emily said. “None of these guys are even worth the free drinks.”
    “She might be missing out on her soul mate.” Patrick dipped his finger in the hummus and let Dumpling lick it off.
    “Nah, I’m reasonably sure her soul mate isn’t a card-carrying member of the Tea Party!” Mina said.
    “Or related to her by blood,” Lacey offered
    “Or a little person,” Emily added.
    “Or older than her dad,” Mina says.
    “Or living in the Upper Peninsula,” Lacey pipes up.
    “Besides, she is not going to settle, ever again,” Emily assures the room.
    “Yeah, she is not going to just date someone to date someone. It is going to have to be the right someone,” Mina