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“Oh, I get it. We’re going to kind of close in. Come at it from all other directions first. Leave the best for last.” She elbows me. “Sort of the story of your love life, isn’t it? Leaving the best for last. Or at least for much later.”
“There’s no rush to—”
“Or even much, much later, poor baby.”
“Legs!” I yell the word. I don’t mean to yell the word. I just do.
“Fine, legs,” Aislin concedes. “Short and stumpy?”
“No,” I say. “Although we can try them out. I mean, what am I doing here? Eliminating every imperfection?”
“Well, duh.”
“But who’s to say what’s perfect?”
Aislin shrugs like it’s a stupid question. Maybe it is. But I’d rather
debate philosophical questions than sit here with my best friend and design things I’ve never actually, you know … seen. Except in diagrams in health class. And the occasional Google image by accident.
“Really, Aislin. Everybody’s messed up in their own unique way, right? Nobody’s perfect.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” I insist.
“Right. This from the girl who wouldn’t let Finnian Lenzer ask her out because his hair was too blond?”
“He’s practically an albino,” I say. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“’Toine Talbert was too short. And John Hanover was too thin. And Lorenzo whose last name I forget had a funny face. And you blew off Carol because you’re not a lesbian.”
“That’s not exactly my fault,” I say.
“What did you expect Carol to think? You kept saying no to boys. Naturally she was going to think you played for her team.”
“I’m not attracted to girls.”
“But you are attracted to boys?”
“You know I am!”
“In theory. Not so much in reality.”
“I’m selective.”
“You said you couldn’t go out with Tad. Why?”
I mumble something.
Aislin cups a hand to her ear. “What was that, now? You couldn’t go out with Tad because…?”
“Because his name is Tad!” I yell in frustration. “How can I date a guy named Tad? It’s a ridiculous name.”
“Also Chet.”
“Chet? I’m going to date a guy named Chet? What is this, 1952? No one’s named Chet.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
