Read From Butt to Booty for Free Online Page B

everything better?”
    “Wasn’t that in a song somewhere?” And true. So freakin’ true.
    “Maybe.”
    “Aren’t we too young to be this cynical?” Clarice asks. A good point.
    “This coming from the world’s hugest femme rock fan?” I say.
    She blushes. “I am not.”
    “But cynical you are.”
    “At least we’re not bitter.” Maggie pops open another can of Dr Pepper.
    “Bitter comes in the twenties,” Clarice adds.
    “Says who?” I don’t want to be bitter. A survivor’s pointed perspective is not bitter.
    “My sister.”
    “Miss French-kiss-candle-girl says the twenties are bitter?”
    “She did just break up with the love of her life.”
    “Oh.”
    “Her fourth soul mate in six years.”
    “Do we really have that many?” Is it possible that we all have multiple soul mates? People who could be the ONE but aren’t the ONLY?
    “She hasn’t exactly been in a long-term relationship with any of them, so I hesitate to say yes.”
    “Point.” Maggie pauses the movie. “Don’t you think if we have a soul mate, the divorce rate should be lower? I mean, we must have more than one since people keep looking.
    “Or are they impossible to see? Like everyone’s soul mate is on the other side of the world and unless you join the Peace Corps, or backpack through Europe, you’re destined to never find him.”
    Clarice swallows, then says, “Let’s say there’s always a soul mate somewhere near you.”
    “What do you mean?” I ask.
    “What if there’s always a soul mate around and you only have to recognize him?”
    Lucas? Yeah, my soul ain’t that pretty. But maybe he’s my beautiful half and I’m the smart half. That would make me ugly and him stupid. Not quite the halves divided equally.
    “Who’s yours?” Clarice pins me with a dare-you expression.
    Mine? Like I’m going to say it out loud. Am I an idiot? You say these things out loud and one way or another something irreversibly bad happens. Like he vomits on you, or you move to Florida, or it’s printed in the school paper in the editorial section under the title “Get Real.”
    “Mine’s Spenser,” Clarice says.
    Shocking. “No, really?” I laugh.
    “Come on. I know it’s obvious. I’m making progress, though.”
    Uh-huh. What is progress, exactly? The boy doesn’t run away, he walks?
    “Maggie, who’s yours?”
    “I don’t know.” Maggie looks about to cry.
    “Is it a girl?” I’d never gotten the lesbian vibe from Maggie, but I could be wrong.
    She doesn’t even seem offended. “No. I’m just not really interested.”
    “Really?” Is she a freak? Is it normal to not be crazy about the idea of penises on the premises? I mean, if guys think about sex every three seconds, then we must think about it almost as often, or more, since our brains are bigger and more efficient.
    “I’m a freak.” Maggie pulls at the carpet with her fingers.
    “No, you’re not.” Clarice hands her a tissue and a box of Runts.
    “I think maybe I am.”
    I’d tend to agree, but that doesn’t seem helpful at the moment. Maggie doesn’t seem freakish to me, but then, I’m dating a guy who thinks sharing his insecurity is a necessity for a good relationship. Maybe I’m the freak of nature.
    “Why?” I ask. Seems the safest question.
    Maggie shrugs. “I mean, I like looking at men. I really do get all Jell-O-ey over biceps and washboard abs, but the idea of dating feels far-fetched and too soon. I like Jesse, but I can’t even imagine it going anywhere beyond smiling.”
    “My sister says her college roommate had never been on a date until her senior year when she met her senior advisor.”
    Dare I ask? Clarice’s stories don’t always have a happy, pointy reason for the addition to the conversation. “And?” I can’t help myself.
    “And they have like six kids and are so blissfully happy my sister had to stop speaking to her because it was disgusting.”
    “Your sister has issues,” I say, feeling the need to