THE HUNKY DOUGH BOY
My phone seems to be ringing
louder than usual today. And there’s a certain urgency in
its tone that makes this incoming call somehow sound more
important than most.
I stare at it for a moment and
then quickly decide to ignore the call. I’m in the middle of
studying for a very important European history test and I
really don’t want to be bothered.
The phone rings
again.
I don’t need to look at the caller ID to know
that it’s Angie who’s being so freaking persistent. My
friends all have their own ring tones. Angie’s happens to be
a very popular hip-hop song that she insists she started
liking way before everyone else did. Personally, I think she
just doesn’t want to admit that she’s in any way
"mainstream." It would damage that subtle counterculture
reputation she’s spent so long perfecting.
Either way,
I think this particular song lost its appeal after about
twelve rings. And given the fact that Angie calls me at
least sixteen times a day, I am now officially sick of
it.
I ignore Angie’s call again and continue reading
about the storming of the Bastille. Whatever is so important
can at least wait until King Louis XVI gets his head chopped
off.
The phone rings a third time.
Finally, I
groan and pick it up. "What?"
Normally, Angie would
berate me for my unfriendly greeting, but this afternoon,
apparently, she has bigger things to worry about than my
tone. "Maddy, get down to Miller’s now."
"I can’t. I’m
studying for my history test," I say, slightly
annoyed.
"Drop everything and get your butt down
here," she practically growls into the phone. "I promise,
it’s more exciting than the French Revolution."
"Yeah,
like that’s hard," I reply sarcastically.
"Just come."
And with that she hangs up the phone.
Angie has been
my best friend since the sixth grade. She probably knows me
better than anyone else in my life. For instance, she knows
that, right now, I’ll sulk around my room for the next few
minutes debating about whether or not I really want to give
in to her demands. Then I’ll eventually close my textbook
with a scowl, slip on my shoes, and drive the twelve blocks
to Miller’s Drug Store, where she works quarter-time as a
cashier. I say quarter-time instead of part-time, because
although it is a part-time job, she spends only half of the
time working and the other half reading magazines from the
rack next to the register.
I pull into the store
parking lot exactly nine minutes later, and I know she’ll be
patting herself on the back when I walk through the door,
incredibly proud of her ability to clock my decision-making
process down to the minute.
I trudge into the empty
store and approach the register, where she’s flipping
through the new February issue of Contempo Girl, our
mutually favorite magazine. Although we have completely
different reasons for liking it. I enjoy reading the
sections about the new fashion trends, latest celebrity
gossip, and relationship advice, while Angie, as far as I
can tell, just likes reading it so she can have a
replenishing supply of people and products to
criticize.
"What’s so important you couldn’t just tell
me on the phone?"
Angie looks up and, without even so
much as a hello, shoves the magazine into my hands. I manage
to catch it just before it falls to the floor.
"Turn
to page thirty-five."
I shift my weight onto one foot
and, with a frustrated sigh, open the now crumpled magazine.
As I flick brusquely through the pages, I say, "You know,
this history test tomorrow is my only chance to bring my B
up to an A and I don’t really appreciate the fact that you
dragged me down here just to gripe about whatever—" I stop
suddenly with a gasp when I see the page in front of
me.
Angie watches me with a satisfied I-told-you-so
grin on her face.
"Oh my God!" I exclaim as I stare
down at the page in disbelief. "They published
it?"
She nods excitedly. "Yes!"
"They actually
published it?" I still can’t seem to wrap my head around
what I’m seeing in front of me.
"I told you it was
more exciting than the French Revolution."
I fold over
the front half of the magazine and bring it closer to my
face so I can study the paragraph-long block of text that
takes up approximately one fifth of the page. Above it is
the name MASON BROOKS printed in large, bold letters, and
right next to that is a picture of my boyfriend. Yes, my
boyfriend, in Contempo Girl magazine for all to see!
I
submitted his picture to the magazine’s monthly "Meet My
Boyfriend" competition. But that was like six months ago.
And after three months of running to the store the minute
the latest issue was released to see if they had chosen my
submission, I pretty much gave up on the whole
thing.
You see, each month they pick only five guys to
feature. Mason is our senior class president, just recently
scored a 2350 on his SATs, is one of the best players on our
varsity soccer team, and he already has an early acceptance
letter to Amherst College for next year. Plus, I think he’s
hot. Like really hot. I know I’m biased and everything, but
he’s got these incredible green eyes and long dark lashes.
His skin is olive colored, and the hair on his head is dark
and thick, really good for running your fingers
through.
Anyway, I know the fact that he’s hot and an
amazing soccer player and manages to juggle being class
president is really impressive. I mean, personally I’m
impressed by him every day. But I never thought in a million
years that Contempo Girl would actually pick him. Well,
maybe I’ve had a few fleeting fantasies about it. Something
along the lines of Mason’s picture gets selected, everyone
at the school sees it, I experience one of those
insta-popularities that only happens in cheesy teen movies
and maybe even score a nomination for prom queen. My clothes
magically become more trendy (either because I suddenly know
how to pick out trendy clothes or because everyone simply
idolizes anything I wear and so it doesn’t even matter), and
just like that, Mason and I become the most popular couple
at Colonial High.
However, this is far more exciting
than anything I ever imagined. Not to mention totally
surreal.
"Read it aloud," Angie insists. "It’s a
really good article."
I grasp the magazine tightly and
begin reading from the page. "Mason Brooks, senior at
Colonial High School in Pine Valley, CA, has been hopelessly
devoted to his girlfriend, Madison Kasparkova, since
sophomore year." I stop reading and look up at Angie with a
dopey smile on my face. "That’s me!"
"I know." She
rolls her eyes. "Keep reading."
I drop my head back
down and pick up where I left off. "In a graduating class of
just over four hundred students, they didn’t meet until both
of them decided to take jobs working as counselors at a
local summer camp. They have been together ever since. ‘He’s
so sweet to me,’ says Madison, age seventeen. ‘He always
knows when I’m in a bad mood or not having a good day and
shows up at my door with my favorite candy: Chewy Runts.
They’re really hard to find sometimes. They don’t sell them
everywhere. But somehow he always manages to find them. Like
he has a Chewy Runts Locating Device hidden in his closet or
something.’ "
I look up again. "Yeah, I wrote that! I
really did!" I beam.
"I know," Angie replies again.
"You only made me read the letter like fifty times before
you sent it."
"It’s funny, right? Do you think it’s
funny?" I ask, suddenly paranoid about everyone in the world
reading these lines and thinking I’m totally lame for saying
"Chewy Runts Locating Device."
"Yes," Angie grudgingly
reassures me. "It’s funny. It was funny when you wrote it.
It’s still funny now."
Somewhat satisfied, I turn back
to the magazine. "When Mason Brooks isn’t spending time with
his smitten, sweet-toothed girlfriend, he fulfills his
duties as senior class president and a part-time chef at a
local pizzeria. But don’t get too floured by this hunky
dough boy, ladies. Mason and Madison have already made plans
to attend the same college after graduation. It sounds like
this perfect pairing was made to last."
I stand in
complete astonishment as I try to grasp everything that has
happened in the last five minutes. My boyfriend, Mason
Brooks, featured in Contempo Girl magazine! They even called
him a "hunky dough boy." Well, yeah, it’s a bit cheesy, but
so what? This is huge! Every girl in the country is going to
see this. Every girl in the country is going to be pining
after my boyfriend.
Suddenly, I hear a high-pitched,
overly excited shriek coming from the direction of the
drugstore’s front entrance and I realize that I wasn’t the
only person Angie called with the news.
"Where is it?
Let me see it. How does he look? Oh my God, this is so
exciting!"
Angie and I turn to see our other best
friend, Jade, running into the store, completely red faced,
her shoulder-length, sandy blond hair flipping wildly behind
her. She scurries over to the register and tries to grab the
magazine from my tightly grasping fingers. "Lemme see!" she
squeals.
I pass the magazine to Jade and watch
intently as her face lights up like a Christmas tree and her
eyes skim the article.
Her head pops up. "They quoted
you!"
My beaming grin never falters. "I
know."
"That’s so cool," she muses as she continues
reading. I watch her face for further reaction, and then
finally she cracks up laughing. " ‘Chewy Runts Locating
Device.’ That’s hilarious."
"You think?" I ask
again.
Jade nods with decisiveness. "Definitely
funny."
Angie shakes her head at us and turns to help
a customer who has just appeared at the register.