“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he hissed at me. He looked absolutely livid.
“If you think he’s so awesome, why don’t you ask him out,” I retorted.
“Because he doesn’t want to make babies with me, you stupid idiot! He asked you out and you said no. I taught you better than that!”
“Go away.”
“Oh, Paul. It probably would have been better for your sake had you not told me that.”
That didn’t sound ominous or anything. “What do you mean?” I asked warily.
Sandy glared at me. “It’s become painfully obvious that you can no longer handle your own affairs. So from this point on, I’m going to do everything for you. You’re going out with Vince.”
“Knock it off.”
“No. You had your chance to do this your way. It’s not working. You’re making things worse. Now I’m taking over.”
“Sandy, I mean it.”
“First order of business: What are you going to wear on your first date?”
“I will punch you in the balls, so help me God—”
“If he’s taking you somewhere nice, then you should wear those gray slacks that make your butt look hot.”
“By hot, you mean fat. Besides, I’m not going—”
“If it’s going to be someplace casual, then you could probably go with jeans and that leather jacket I bought you for Christmas that you never wear.”
“I wore it that one time at that thing we went to! Then someone asked what kind of motorcycle I rode and I told them I didn’t have one, but I’d always wanted a Vespa—”
“And then we’ll obviously need to figure out some kind of first-date etiquette. Do you hug him? Do you give him a rim job? Do you ride him? I don’t want you to be out of your comfort zone. Or seem like a whore.”
“Ride him? Did you smoke meth on your way back from lunch? You are out of your damn mind—”
“We’ll figure it out. Now, do you want me to RSVP with him for you, or are you going to tell him yes?”
“We’re through. I no longer want to be friends with you. My love for you has died like a dusty flower in the desert with no rain. I hate you.”
“I’ll give you until Wednesday.”
“Fuck you.”
“Until five o’clock on Wednesday. If you don’t do it, I’ll give him your phone number and tell him where you live.”
I looked at him, scandalized. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Bitch, please,” he said with a smirk. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“Sandy, I’m warning you.”
“Oh, like I’m scared of you.”
“You should be,” I tried to say menacingly.
“That almost worked, but then I remembered how when we were eight, you cried because your mom wouldn’t buy you the My Little Pony that had the little jewel thing on its ass.”
I gasped. “Morning Star? He was so pretty.”