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me, Mr. February. There was even a lipstick smear on Joe’s bulging biceps. I tore it into a billion pieces, and she never spoke to me again.
    â€œWhat about you?” I countered. “What was the logic behind you dumping Teresa last month?” Teresa is Don’s ex. She’s going to have trouble deciding whether to be a high-fashion model or a nuclear physicist.
    But Don just smiled. “That was a masterstroke. A perfect move.”
    â€œHow do you figure that? It doesn’t make sense.”
    â€œThat’s the whole point,” Mr. Wonderful argued smugly. “There was no reason to end it with Teresa, so when I did, what did everybody think?”
    â€œThat you’re stupid?” suggested Ferguson innocently.
    â€œThat I’ve got something going for me even beyond what everybody sees. So I’ve kind of
traded
Teresa for future considerations — and in September I’ll have my pick of any chick I want all year.”
    â€œBut you lost Teresa when you still like her,” I protested.
    Don shrugged. “Let’s concentrate on tonight. Now, what’s the key to hooking up with a chick?”
    I wasn’t prepared for a quiz. “Uh — I guess if she thinks you’re a nice person —”
    â€œNo, no, no,” interrupted Don in exasperation. “Girls say they want nice guys, but they never do.”
    The cab stopped in front of a giant neon sign that blazed:
    CLUB MOONTRIX — TORONTO’S PREMIER TEEN CLUB
    â€œThe first impression is the most important thing,” whispered Don as we paid our admission. “So watch what you do, how you walk, what you say. Take medium-sized steps, and try not to smile so much. It’s better if you look like you’re p.o.-ed about something. Not too much. Just a little.”
    Club Moontrix was huge — bigger than the entire Plastics Unlimited plant area. The dancing hadn’t started yet because they were still serving dinner. We got a table and ordered three burgers. The Peach and I wanted pizza, but Mr. Wonderful insisted it would do too much damage to our breath.
    â€œAs soon as a girl steps into a place like this,” he told us as we sipped on our Cokes, “she divides all the guys into the nimrods and the cool people. You haven’t even said ‘Hi’ to her yet, and it could be all over if you’re in the wrong category.”
    Ferguson signaled the waitress. “Excuse me, do you know if these napkins are made of recycled paper?”
    Don held his head. “If you look up nimrod in the dictionary, there’s probably a picture of Peachfuzz.”
    As we were eating, the place was steadily filling up. By the time the music started, it was wall-to-wall people. The beat was bone-jarring, and colored lights and lasers electrified the dance floor. If they moved a great place like this to Owen Sound, it would probably be shut down by the police. For this kind of excitement, you couldn’t beat downtown Toronto. We just stood there for a long time, soaking up the atmosphere, and then Don said it was time to mingle with the ladies — “catch a rap,” as he put it.
    But we didn’t. Instead, we walked around the club while Don looked at every girl in the place — and I mean
every
girl. It was like he was shopping for a house. He would walk ten feet, stop, check out the scene, walk ten feet, stop, check out the scene. We must have circled the club five times that way. After about an hour, Ferguson gave up and went to the bathroom to read a book. I was dying to ask somebody to dance, but Don said no.
    â€œJust watch. And take notes.”
    Who was I to argue with the guy who dumped Teresa Barstow? Finally, after all that walking and staring, he headed over to the soda bar.
    â€œI guess it’s not our night —” I began sympathetically.
    â€œAre you crazy?” he gasped. “I can’t miss!” He