Sam Cruz's Infallible Guide to Getting Girls Part 1

Sam Cruz's infallible guide to getting girls.

Tellulah Darling.

The Rules.

1) Stay cool. Never let girls see you jonsing. Especially if you want to get them back to your place.

2) Never take them back to your place. Ditching them will be harder by a billion and make you look like an a.s.shole. Good times, happy parting.

3) "Friends with benefits" is the greatest phrase ever invented by a guy. Enough said.

4) Never refuse s.e.x when it's on the table. Life's too short. There is no such thing as "I have a headache" for guys.

5) Desperation is ugly, man. Girls like cool moves, not filing restraining orders.

6) Never get caught up in that love c.r.a.p. It will just wreck everything. Trust me.

Chapter one.

Like other chica chasers of the grade twelve persuasion, I've got my preferred player strategy: hit *em with a killer charm offensive, rock the pleasure palace, and everyone gets respected in the morning.

Though it's harder when pus.h.i.+ng a giant broom, dressed in a blindingly turquoise T-s.h.i.+rt with Come see stars at the Galaxy written in gold like a shooting star on it, courtesy of my lame job at the movie theatre.

There's supposed to be this other dude, Todd, helping me but he's busy bragging to the concession guy about feeding string to some stray cat hanging around the parking garage. And since nothing says psycho like hurting animals, I decide it's not worth the potential carnage to try and get him to do his job. I can't wait to get "promoted" to front of house where at least I get to upgrade from janitorial bottom feeder, cleaning up random sticky liquids I can only pray are pop.

So when I hear my name called by a familiar, s.e.xy voice from across the lobby, I shove the broom behind a giant cardboard movie ad and take a sec to re-rumple my dark hair in the "I don't even bother with it" way that is Kryptonite to females before I turn around with my most charming grin. Not ideal but the best I can do right now.

It's the super hot Ca.s.s, nineteen and naughty in her barely there miniskirt, from the perfume store across the mall. Come back for her fourth visit in as many days, which I figure means something good. My player strategy guiding rule number one (stay cool) is firmly in play and now it's time to jack it up to rule two so we can get to the excellence of rule three.

Ca.s.s tucks her jet-black hair behind her ear before holding out a small square of paper to me. "Smell."

I take it from her.

"What do you think?"

I shrug. "Eau de cardboard?"

"Funny boy." Ca.s.s holds up her wrist and wafts it under my nose. "How about now?" she asks, all flirty.

"You smell how happy feels," I tell her. Because she does.

I'm rewarded with a big smile.

"Is it your break time yet?" Ca.s.s looks hopeful.

I hate to disappoint her. "Sorry. Another half hour."

She pouts. "Could you switch? I reeaallly need some help jump starting my car."

I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress, so I grab my gray and black striped sweater to cover the hideous work s.h.i.+rt and follow her out of the theatre.

Ca.s.s leads me to her sweet sports car out in a deserted corner of the underground parking garage and unlocks her door with a click.

She notices my admiration for the wheels. "Daddy bribed me with this, thinking it would get me to behave," she laughs.

I'm betting he regrets having spent the cash.

"Okay. Let me pop your hood and see what's going on." I reach for the driver's side door but she stops me, directing me to the back seat instead.

Inside, Ca.s.s stretches back against the seat, propped on her elbows, and stares up at me through half-closed eyes. "It's not the hood I need popped."

No dead car battery? I smile. "You lying little minx."

She c.o.c.ks an eyebrow at me.

"While I'm all about the blatant invitation, maybe we could move this somewhere less public? Away from the security camera?"

Ca.s.s pulls a condom package from her skirt pocket and flicks it at me. "Let them watch."

Looking at Ca.s.s lying there all "do me", I see she is the definition of "a hot mess." However, if that's why I'm about to get unexpectedly laid, then go "team crazy" and security cameras be d.a.m.ned.

Rule four, kids.

I'm in.

And out in about ten minutes. But I am in a car on my break, so cut me some slack.

"Short but sweet," Ca.s.s sighs happily, as we stand back up.

"I aim to please. Even on a tight schedule." I hand her a chocolate bar I snagged for her back at the theatre.

She takes it and with her other hand twines her fingers through mine. "What do you feel like doing, Sam?"

"I have to get back to work."

Ca.s.s wraps her arms around me and pulls me toward her. In a death grip. "Tonight, dummy. Where should we go on our date?"

Just like that, Ca.s.s morphs from rebel delight to buzzkill destructo, coiling herself around me like a metal snake as she spouts off about connections. Bad emotional ones; not good, blow-my-mind ones.

"We just had s.e.x in your car."

"Yeah."

"And that means we go on a date why?"

She waves the chocolate bar at me. "You bought me candy."

Oh come on.

"That's not some w.i.l.l.y Wonka loophole to what was so obviously on the table." I give a good wrench and manage to fling myself backward, out of her hold.

Ca.s.s sends a furious glare my way. "You are such a d.i.c.k."

While unfair and undeserved in this situation, I can't argue with the truth of it. Teenaged bros are dogs. We're walking, talking, idiots driven by s.e.x and food. We bow before girls' much more complicated minds and don't get why they keep holding our nature against us.

But that argument won't get me anywhere. Believe me. I've tried. It's my fault. I need a better exit strategy because it's the rare gazelle who enjoys the bounce then throws you your pants with a "don't let the door hit you in the a.s.s on the way out."

I try reason. "You faked a dead battery to trick me into coming out here so I would have s.e.x with you."

"Well, it's not like you said *no,'" she retorts.

"Because I'm male and breathing. If there were going to be other conditions on this offer you should have shown me the small print. Beforehand."

"If I'd done that, you would have freaked out."

And there you have it, boys and girls. The place where my rules, carefully constructed to ensure a mutual good time, fall to s.h.i.+t.

The fundamental problem between the s.e.xes.

You girls keep s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the game plan with relations.h.i.+p c.r.a.p.

I mean, I try and take precautions. I stay away from my female high school cla.s.smates. Those red flags of p.u.b.erty induced insanity and jailbait awkwardness? Back away. Quickly.

But Ca.s.s is an entry-level college girl, high on freedom and experimentation. So you'd think she'd know better.

I throw Ca.s.s my most charming grin but it fails to remove her scowl. Her eyes narrow. She leans forward, arms out to grab onto some part of me, but I'm faster: the gold medalist of the morning-after dash.

I fly through the parking lot, trying not to pay too much attention to the stream of impressively foul names she's calling me, which echo off the walls.

It's a b.u.mmer but kind of a rush. Can I escape the garage without getting caught?

Some QB-type opens his car door, hears a particularly inventive phrase from Ca.s.s, and smirks at my predicament, throwing me a look like I'm some loser who can't handle himself.

Suck it, monkey. What happened to solidarity?

I round the corner to the lower level and slow down, pretty sure I'm safe. Feeling stoked, I strut across the cement because until she went postal it was a hot time. I'm still riding high off it when I trip over something that doesn't like being tripped over, because it attacks.

I check my ankle and find red scratch marks from a gray, collarless kitten, who hisses from a few feet away. It's the kind of furball you could stuff a stick up its b.u.t.t and use as a mop, it's so fluffy.

Whatever. I've got to get back to work, so I step over her but she snags her claws on the hem of my jeans, refusing to let go, even when I try and shake her off. That's when I notice the string hanging out of her b.u.t.t, killing her cute factor but marking her as Todd's furry victim.

Just because I'm a dog, doesn't mean I'm cruel to cats. Especially scared little ones.

Gingerly, I pick her up. She barely weighs anything. I gently flick her ear and am rewarded with a lazy bat of her paw before she snuggles into me and purrs. Soft and cuddly, just like a girl, I think fondly. Her claws come out again. Yeah. Definitely a trend.

Just then, Ca.s.s peels around the corner, gunning for me with her car. As I jump the kitten and myself out of the way to safety, an age-old question pops into my head: Why the h.e.l.l can't chicks be more like guys?

And what am I supposed to do with a cat?

Chapter two.

My boyfriend's head smells like cheese. Jeremy is completely brilliant though and can be forgiven for the occasional shampoo lapse. That's not the weird part.

What is weird, is that he also smells like that disgusting body spray pimped out to teen boys, like that's going to miraculously eradicate their natural musk of feet and pit. Just take a shower.

Which Jeremy is actually really good about, so the body spray is a puzzle.

I remove my arms from around his neck, where I've been hugging him from behind, and slide in next to him at our usual table in the dusty back corner of the public library.

This morning's agenda? Finis.h.i.+ng our essays for our twelfth grade Honors Environmental Science cla.s.s. I push my gla.s.ses up, b.u.t.ton my plaid hemp s.h.i.+rt up over my "Animals are friends, not food" T-s.h.i.+rt because of the wicked AC chill, and take my books out of my backpack.

Jeremy has that adorable look of complete concentration on his face that he gets when he's working out a problem. I watch him, noting absently that he's gotten a haircut. His ginger *fro-like hair is mostly tamed and shaped.

He's in his favorite green bamboo skater top with a picture of the Flying Spaghetti Monster printed across it. My guy is wiry but he towers over my five-foot-five self, so there's enough of him for me to feel girly.

"I'm gonna miss you, pookie," I tell him. Jer is off to attend a big rally against a proposed pipeline through an animal sanctuary. So he won't be at my birthday lunch.

"Me too. But if we can get the authorities to listen, we can prevent a lot of damage down the road. There's no *I' in Earth, right?"

I stiffen. I know it's not fair. I'm probably being clingy, which I try not to do, but sometimes I think maybe Jer is a little too rigid at putting Mother Earth first and his girlfriend second.

Jeremy must see the hurt look on my face because he squeezes my shoulder.

"Did you pack me cookies?" he asks.

Of course, but he doesn't have to ask me with his fake cheerful voice that he saves for children and idiots.

Deep breath. He's just stressed about saving the world. Besides, social awkwardness goes hand-in-hand with brilliance and we've had two great years together, so it's not as if I don't know what he's like.

I pull a PVC-free container from my backpack and toss the cookies with double carob chips to him. Jeremy is vegan, which means no chocolate for him and cookies that taste like, well, tree stumps, in my opinion. But as his fabulous girlfriend, I'm supportive of his choices.

Get between me and my chocolate though, and I'll shoot you. This happy vegetarian ain't never giving up dairy.