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them—hey, are you doing it? Are you flirting with me?”
    “I'm on fire,” I said.
    Donny wagged a finger at me. “Never say that phrase in a kitchen.”
    I hung my borrowed brown jacket up on the wall. Usually, I wore a loose cardigan over my shirt so guys wouldn't eye-grope my boobs, but I was turning over a new leaf in my quest for love, and they could eye-grope away, within reason. The ivory dress I'd borrowed had shirring at the top, so it wasn't too clingy. I felt like a Roman goddess, or at least like someone playing one on HBO.
    I stepped out to the dining area and was greeted by an appreciative wolf whistle, courtesy of my best friend, Courtney. I can whistle a pretty good tune, mostly on-pitch, but I can't do the big, loud whistle with my fingers in my mouth, like Courtney can. It's one of the many, many awesome things about her.
    Another awesome thing about Courtney is she came out as a lesbian when she was sixteen, and she'd been so cool about it. For example, if someone at our high school called someone gay in a mocking way, Courtney wouldn't make a big scene and embarrass them if it was their first offense. She would gently take them aside and explain how insensitive it was, unless you were genuinely saying it as a compliment and you were also an out gay person. If it was a person's second offense, though, Courtney would let them have it. I saw her punch a big guy in the face once, and while I know it's wrong to use violence to support a cause, it was still pretty damn cool.
    Courtney is Chinese-Canadian and barely over five feet tall, so she can get away with stuff like that, like how tiny chihuahuas can bite people or hump their legs and not get put down for public safety and decency.
    The Whistle was still empty, with the first of the Monday morning breakfast customers not there yet, and Courtney was filling the ketchups, using a funnel. “Stay back,” she called out in warning. “I just crop-dusted over here.”
    I kept a safe distance from her morning fart zone, on the other side of the bar, where I rolled up sets of utensils in napkins.
    “I take it by the wolf whistle, you like my new hair?”
    “I thought you were joking when you texted me. Give me a minute and I want to come over there and pet you like a llama.” She made a face. “Too much broccoli.”
    For the record, Courtney doesn't look like someone who would be so proud of the power of her methane production. She always has perfect hair—a chin-length bob—and her makeup is magazine-perfect. The girl wears false eyelashes, and not just for special events, but every single day . The eyelashes are pretty, and they change the fold of her upper eyelids, giving her a more Western eye. She'd alternate between moaning about Asian girls who had eyelid-fold surgery done, berating them, and talking about getting it done herself. Like most people, she was a study in contradiction.
    After Courtney was done with the ketchup, she ran over to me at the bar and admired my hair close up. “It's darker than I remember. Must be because you're older now.”
    “I'm eighteen, not nineteen like you, old lady.” My hair had air-dried and was fluffy and soft around my face. “What do you think? Is this boy-friendly hair? I want to get some dates, like, immediately.”
    “Who are you, and what have you done to Perry?”
    “I've had an attack of the boy crazies.”
    She tilted her head and looked wistful. “I miss your hair snakes. Did you keep them? I'm doing some found-art pieces and I could use something disturbing. Ooh, can I have your old dreads? Can I?”
    Before I could tell her they were in my bathroom garbage bin, we both turned to look at the front door, still closed. This happens all the time, and my best guess, other than we're psychic, is that a human body in front of the restaurant's doorway absorbs both street noise and sunlight—not dramatically, but just enough that you can always tell when you're about to get the first customer of the