Why Girls Are Weird Read Online Free Page B

boyfriend, Jason, actually hated all of us, which was why we rarely saw him. Apparently Jason didn’t want Dale to feel like his relationship had to be his entire life, but I think the truth was that Jason couldn’t stand us.
    â€œHey,” Shannon said, and I could picture her grin. I could see her leaning forward, her brown hair brushing over her forearms as she giggled into the phone. “Don’t you think that those masks over their bed leave this deep mark on Jason’s psyche that never goes away? They’re trying to have sex and it’s like, ‘Mask in your face! Mask far away. Laughing at you! Crying far away. Laughing! Crying. Closer! Closer! Closer!’ You think Jason ever sleeps? I mean, no wonder he’s such a grouch.”
    â€œShannon, you’re scaring me. Are you coming to my apartment or are we meeting up at Dale’s?”
    â€œGo to Dale’s. I don’t know exactly what time I’ll get in. I’ve got a test in my three o’clock I can’t skip. Traffic’s gonna be a bitch.”
    â€œAre you staying the night?” I asked. I wondered if I had any clean sheets in the apartment for the futon. I thought about the monster laundry beast that was squeezed up against the closet door, threatening to take over my bedroom. I debated doing laundry for the fifth time that week.
    â€œNah, probably not. Just in and out. I don’t know. If we drink I might crash at your place. Or Dale’s. Jason makes yummy omelets.”
    â€œSo now you’re a big Jason fan,” I said.
    â€œLove his omelets; don’t necessarily love him. Are you going to Hartford for Mom’s birthday?”
    â€œMaybe I’m not invited. She hasn’t said anything about it to me.”
    â€œShe will. I gotta go, Stinky.”
    We hung up and I went back in to feed Taylor.
    I found my cat slumped around the pillow on my futon, sleeping with one eye open. He always crawled into the place I just left, hoping to find the warm spot made by my ass.
    He jumped down onto the hardwood floor and stretched out his hind legs. His gray and white fur spiked up around his neck as he hunched himself forward. His tail lowered as he pulled himself back. He stopped to sniff at the coffee table but saw that I had already cleaned my sandwich plate.
    He jumped to the counter. He brushed up against the coffee maker as I offered him a choice: “Chicken or fish?”
    He mewed, brushing his left side along a bottle of wine. I caught the bottle before it tipped into the sink. I opened the can and plopped the solid hockey puck of food into a small bowl. The kitchen filled with the sharp scent of cheap tuna fish as I sang “The Taylor Song.” It goes: “Taylor! Taylor! The cat with the fur on his face! Taylor!” I was confident the song didn’t make me a crazy cat lady, by the way.
    Once back on the futon, I held a pillow to my chest. Taylor had recently been eating the corner of the pillow, so the damp stuffing was pushing though the cheap green fabric on one side. It was quiet in the small room. I glanced at my television, my laptop, and my stereo. Nothing was calling to me. I bounced in place. I thought about doing my nails, but it seemed like too much work. The sound of Taylor’s wet chomping filled the room. I was so restless, I was excited to hear the phone suddenly ring.
    The Caller ID said it was Becca. I hadn’t heard from her in a long time. I searched for the cordless, hoping for a twenty-minute chat that ended with an invite to go out with a group of her friends. Dinner and a movie, maybe, or even just watching television at someone’s apartment. Becca’s timing couldn’t have been better.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œAnna, it’s Becca! I’m getting married!” She said it quickly, like I’d been expecting her to call and say exactly that.
    Normally those three words produce shrieks and giggles, sending a room or