How To Get a Boyfriend 101

17 : Tuesday

Step Seventeen: Don't gossip or talk about drama. If a boy realizes that you have lots of drama surrounding you, he might think that there'll be a dramatic scene between the two of you!

"Happy llama, sad llama, mentally disturbed llama, super llama, drama llama, big fat mama llama..." I hum to myself. Right now, I don't feel like any of these except the mentally disturbed llama. I don't know why someone added that to a children's song, though. That gave me nightmares as a youngin'.

Blake laughs, recognizing the tune. Amanda has been drilling it into our heads ever since she first heard it, and FROG wouldn't be the same without a good ol' nursery rhyme. Or so she claims. Anyway, Blake has been awfully nice to me since our argument yesterday. He winks at me. "Don't be a drama llama!"

"I won't," I promise.

Shrugging, Blake leaves the room to make another poisonous creation. Apparently, yesterday's dish didn't kill him. When I walk in, I make a disgusted face at the strawberry-garlic product defacing my beautiful kitchenesque niche. If my nose doesn't lie to me (although it usually does lie), then I may sense a hint of peanut butter. His creativity is only growing, to my dismay.

Blake probably has some kind of obsession with peanut butter. Maybe, I should stop buying it, so that he pays for it himself. I still owe Russell money for my green turtleneck and acid-bath-whatever-whatever jeans. I need to repay that.

I'm also in debt to Bar-Taco. The other day, I went there and got a custom taco made for me. Three, actually. They don't offer fewer than three, and unfortunately there's only one decent taco joint in the Bay. We're not big in non-boutique establishments. That doesn't leave much room for variety.

Anyway, so I went to Bar-Taco and got my tacos. I was about to pay, when...

"My wallet!" I cried, looking at the depleted piece of leather. "It's empty!"

The cashier looked at me, raising an eyebrow. "You can't pay?"

I quickly looked up at her, then back at my tacos. Then back at her. Then at the tacos.

I was screwed. There was nothing to do, except...

I could feel it.

The beginning of a haiku, forming on the tip of my tongue.

Maybe there was hope left for me, after all.

"If I make up a haiku on the spot, will you let me go into debt to Bar-Taco?" I asked the cashier. She nodded, seeming confused.

"Make it fast," she said, leaning forward. The next part came as a whisper. "There's a scary, buff dude behind you, next in line."

I took a deep breath.

"I call it, 'The Tacos,'" I began.

She nodded, interested.

"The tacos call me.
The tacos are destiny.
The tacos mean life."

The girl blinked, pushing her hair back in surprise. I caught a glimpse of her name tag; Haven Walker was her name. Someday I would show my respect for what she did next, somehow tribute her. What. A. Legend.

"Pay me back by Saturday," she said, saving my life. "Don't forget."

I nodded, then frowned. "Take a picture of me so you remember what I look like."

"Nah, I know who you are. Felix Gray, a.k.a. ThatOneGuyFromYourLocalFrenchClass. You're the one who did the orange justice on top of a lunch table a while ago. You must have seen it, that video went viral big time! I've watched it a couple times."