A Girl Like You by vinnie Kinsella (good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT) 📕

roots. Doesn’t sound artificial at all.”

I threw a dishtowel at his head.

“Go ahead, let’s hear it,” he said.

“It’s where you meet like twelve people in one night, talk for a few minutes, then discreetly decide if you want to see them again.”

“OK, strange, but go on.”

“It was popular years ago. I don’t even know if they have it anymore, but it’s all very discreet.”

“Yeah, you said that.”

I got out the grater to shred the block of sharp cheddar cheese. “How’s urban planning?” It was Ian’s least favorite class in his environmental studies courses for his four-year degree.

“Sucks.”

“Teacher still talk about himself and not the actual class material?”

“Yeah. We know all about the birth of his first child.”

“Well that’s TMI,” I said, sliding the veggies into a frying pan.

“OK,” Ian said suddenly, making me jump. “They do still have it. It’s called Flash Pre-dating. There are some right down in Ashton.”

“Geez, you scared me. Let me see.”

I leaned over his laptop at the cheerful logo: two entwined love birds texting one another.

The flash sessions ran two hours, during which I would meet up to ten men. At the end, I would choose the men I wanted to have an actual real-life date with.

“Yeah, but look at the age groups,” I said, turning down the heat when the zucchini began to sizzle and pop on the stove.

“Well obviously you’re in the over-fifty group,” Ian chuckled.

“Stop it! Everyone takes a few years off their age, so if I was going to do it, I’d go to the 39-49 group.”

“That’s a stretch, Mom.”

“Thank you for your support, Ian.” I returned to the stove.

“There’s one next Tuesday night in downtown Ashton. Give me your credit card. I’ll sign you up now. And when’s that quiche going to be done? Smells delish.”

“It’s technically a frittata, but I’m not sure how it’s different from quiche, actually.”

“Whatever,” Ian said, getting out a plate and fork. “I’ll take a big hunk.”

I spent the weekend worrying about speed dating and what questions I would ask the ragingly cute, highly intelligent men.

Tuesday morning at my desk, I wrote practice questions on the back of some old invoices:

“Where did you grow up?

“What’s your favorite color?”

“What do you do?”

“Like, what’s your sign, man?”

I was so disgusted I crumpled the paper and tossed it. Then I started again:

“Italian food or Mexican?”

“Vanilla or chocolate?”

“Red or black licorice?”

“Raisinettes or M&M’s?”

I realized every question was about food, and tried again.

“Betty or Veronica?”

“Mary Ann or Ginger?”

“Summer or fall?”

“Travel to Ireland, or to Cancun?”

“Mustard or ketchup on a hot dog? Relish?”

Whoops, I was back to food. I tucked the list in my purse for later.

Madison was working, so I made Ian my wardrobe consultant before he headed to the gym. I modelled Elvira leggings, a long skirt, and a shorter blue-and-white striped skirt, all topped with my oldest denim jacket.

“The jean jacket is to look a little casual, you know, laid back,” I said, so nervous I considered pre-gaming for the pre-dating with a glass of wine. “I want to look young and thin. As if that’s even possible.”

“I like the jean jacket,” Ian said. “Turn around. OK, definitely the striped skirt. It makes your butt look smaller.”

“Thanks,” I said, really wanting the wine.

“You know what I mean.”

“Striped skirt it is,” I said.

“And don’t wear sneakers with it,” Ian yelled on his way out the back door.

Shit. I was planning on sneakers, but I dug through my closet to find my one pair of walkable heels, ankle-strap with a cork wedge heel.

I didn’t achieve the bouncy curls I’d left the salon with. I flipped my head upside down, then stood back up, a bit dizzy, and smiled in the mirror. My smile looked fake and my hair flat. Oh well. I’d done my best.

I was ready. I had to leave at 6:15. It was 5:45.

Penny followed me around, confused by all the activity. I knelt down in my wedge heels to stroke her chin and sing to her.

I texted Madison at work.

“I’m scared to death. I don’t think I can do this.”

“Mom, if you don’t want to go, don’t.”

“Are you kidding? I paid $32 to register!”

“So go. Just try to have a good time. Even if it kills you.”

On the drive to Ashton, I practiced smiling and saying a casual hello.

“How are you tonight?”

“How you doin’?”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Hey, whassup?”

At red lights, I tried to arrange my face into a friendly, not desperate-looking, casual smile. I failed. Definitely not good in the pre-dating world.

“Oh, shit, just go with it,” I told myself.

45

Downtown Ashton was a nightmare with its unfamiliar one-way streets. I circled three times before I found the restaurant, Ocean, then drove another four blocks looking for a parking lot.

I found a $25 lot, then searched until I saw one last spot at the end of a row.

“Hey, lady!”

A man rolled down his window and started yelling at me.

I left my window rolled up and pretended not to hear him, fiddling with my purse.

“Hey lady! That was my spot! I was just about to pull in when you cut me off!”

I opened my purse and pretended to intently be looking for something.

“Nice, lady, real nice. Have a good night!”

Well, that’s a good start, I thought.

Ocean was down a cobblestoned street that made me walk in my wedge heels like a drunk person, which I wished I were—or at least buzzed. By the glass front door was a sign that read: “Closed for private party.”

Inside, there was a ridiculously thin, bouncy young woman who greeted me before the door even shut behind me.

“Hi!” She thrust out her small hand. “I’m Laney!”

“Jessica Gabriel.”

“Shush!!!! Don’t use your last name!!!! Hahaha. First names only.” She slapped a sticker on me with my name embellished with the lovebird logo.

The group of women clustered at the small u-shaped bar were all wearing jeans, khakis, jean skirts, or khaki skirts. I cursed myself for the heels; even sneakers would have made my striped skirt look less dressy.

I made a run for the bar, ordering