How to Ruin Series Part 32

Five don't put their pictures on the site.

Questionable. What if the supposed woman is a man?

Seven are over fifty. Ten have more than two kids. Out. Out. My dad can hardly handle me. How would he be able to handle a whole tribe?

That leaves two.

One is in human resources, the other a lawyer. I e-mail both of them and ask them if they want to have coffee sometime.

Okay, it's a little creepy asking women out on dates. But even more daunting is having to manipulate my dad somehow to get him to go on the date. I know meeting for coffee isn't the most original date, but at least it's not a dinner or lunch where you have to sit and talk the entire time, waiting for that uncomfortable silence when you both want to escape.

"Does your dad know about this?"

I shriek and scold Jessica. "Didn't your mother tell you it's not nice to sneak up on people?"

"No."

My best friend shakes her head and puts her hand over her eyes. "Please tell me you didn't sign your dad up for an online dating service."

"I didn't sign my dad up for an online dating service."

"You're lying, Amy."

"Of course I'm lying."

"Amy, one of these days your little plans are gonna backfire and come cras.h.i.+ng in your face."

"Oh, ye of little faith," I say. "My dad will have a girlfriend by Pa.s.sover."

"Oh, ye of too many scatterbrained ideas," Jess says. "Your head is getting bigger than your b.o.o.bs."

"Shut up. Haven't you ever needed something you didn't want?"

"Yeah, a flu shot. And it hurt me way more than it hurt my mom who made me get one."

Jessica doesn't understand. "You don't expect me to sit around as my mom makes babies with Marc while my dad stays alone for the rest of his life, do you?" It makes me sad thinking he's pining for my mom.

"Your dad doesn't seem to mind," Jess says.

I turn in my chair and face her. I admit my dad doesn't outwardly show his unhappiness, but it's in there. Deep down.

And he's starting to age. "He's got a few gray hairs already."

"Your parents are way younger than mine, Amy. My dad is totally bald and my mom's almost fifty and is totally white . . .

well, underneath all of the hair dye she's as white as a s...o...b..ll."

"Great. In a few years my mom'll turn gray and people will think my little sister or brother is my own kid. They'll think my mom is the grandma."

"People in their late thirties have babies all the time. Don't stress about it."

I put my hands over my heart. "Me, stress? I never stress about anything."

Jess raises her eyebrows at me and chuckles. Because we both know it's not true.

My cell phone is ringing. I click the little green b.u.t.ton. It's my dad. "Hey, Aba."

"Amy, I just took my clients out for dinner. I'm about to pay the bill."

"So?"

"So," he says in a distressed voice. "Do you by any chance know where my credit card is?"

Oh, no. I forgot to put it back in his wallet after my run-in with Geek Boy.

"Umm ... Aba ... you're not gonna believe this-"

5.

To make a sin offering to G.o.d: a) sacrifice an animal to the Lord (Leviticus 6:18) or b) wait until Yom Kippur and fast a whole day.

(Leviticus 16:29) So good to know I can erase my sins.

(Erasing guilt is outlined in Leviticus 5.

If G.o.d can forgive, surely humans should, too.) I'm grounded for the rest of my life.

My dad laid down that law a few minutes ago, and he sounded dead serious.

Now I hear his little outbursts of anger coming from the kitchen.

The phone rings. It's probably Jessica.

"Don't you dare pick dat phone up!" he yells from the other end of the condo, his thick Hebrew accent getting thicker by the minute. I swear, the neighbors are going to start calling the police soon if he doesn't calm down.

I hear him stomping closer to my room.

He opens the door and scowls at me while running a hand through his hair, his signature and patented I-am-frustrated-and- don't-know-what-to-do-with-my-teenage- daughter move. "Do you not understand what you did was wrong on so many levels, Amy? You stole my credit card-"

"Borrowed it," I correct him.

"You made me look like a fool in front of clients. You sign me up for a dating service ... what's next?"

Before I can open my mouth to defend myself, he says, "How much did it cost me?"

"The dating service?"

He nods.

"Um ... less than sixty dollars a month,"

I answer.

"How much less?"

"One penny."

"Go on the computer now and cancel it before I have to pay for two months."

"Um, Aba?"

"What?"

"I got you a six-month subscription. It was cheaper to pay it all up front. I got a deal. Think of me as your Yente from Fiddler on the Roof. Your personal matchmaker."

This time he laughs, and I think he's broken way past the anger barrier and is quickly gliding toward delirium. A delirious Israeli ex-commando is not a good thing.

"What's the problem with a dating service? It's for Jews," I interject, hoping to lessen the blow. "You gotta love Jewish women. You're Israeli."

"That's not the point. You used my credit card without asking."

"Yeah, well, I don't exactly have one of my own."

I swear I hear him praising that fact under his breath.

The doorbell rings. Mutt is going nuts, barking nonstop. "Arg! Arg! Arg! Arg!" It gets my dad's attention. He's afraid he'll have to pay a fine if we get too many complaints from the neighbors about Mutt's excessive barking. I'm saved from my dad's rant for now. Thank you, Mutt!

"Stay here," my dad orders, leaving my room.

So now I'm sitting on my bed, alone once again. And I'm grounded. I wonder how long I'll be stuck here before he gives in.

"Amy, come here!" he calls out.

"Yeah?" I say innocently as I head to the foyer of our condo. Dad is holding Mutt's collar, holding him back from jumping on and sniffing the crotch of whoever is at the door. I've had the talk with Mutt, but he doesn't listen. I don't know what the big deal about crotches is. I a.s.sume once you've smelled one, you've smelled them all. Not that I'd know. I have no desire to go near anyone else's to test my theory.

"You know Mrs. Keener, don't you?"

I scan the suit and tailored attire of the woman, sure she hasn't smiled in at least a year. Can she pull that 1970s bun tighter on her skull? I turn my gaze to the person beside her. Oh, no. It's Concerned Citizen Boy, in the flesh.

Mrs. Keener pushes him closer to us and directs her conversation to my dad. "This is my nephew, Nathan. He's come to live with us for a while." She shakes her head as she says, "It's a long story. I know your daughter is about the same age and was wondering if she'd be able to show him around the city."

Nathan looks about as happy as I do to be in this situation. But I suppose being grounded and stuck in my room is worse than being stuck with Nathan Keener.

Nathan Keener.

Just the name alone could get a kid beat up.

"Amy's grounded," my dad says.

Thanks a lot for sharing that humiliating piece of information, Dad.

"Oh," Mrs. Keener says, obviously put in an awkward situation.

"But I guess if she takes Mutt for a walk, she could go out for a bit-"

Needing no further push, I grab Mutt's leash off our hall tree and snap it on his collar. "Come on, Nathan," I call over my shoulder as I hurry to the elevator with a very excited and very large puppy.

Nathan, it seems, needs no further push either. He follows right behind me and enters the elevator as soon as Mutt and I step inside.

We have no elevator music in our building, so it's just silence except for heavy panting courtesy of my dog.

"You don't have to babysit me, you know," he says while crossing his arms over his chest, trying to look tough. He doesn't.

"Your aunt seems to think I do," I reply.

The elevator door opens. Nathan Keener is right behind me, not missing a step when I exit our building. But once I turn toward the dog park, I don't hear his footsteps behind me anymore. Turning around, I find Nathan walking in the opposite direction.

With his long, corduroy-wrapped legs, he's already half a block away.

Mutt is pulling me toward the park.

"Hey, Nathan!" I yell, but the guy doesn't turn around. Now what am I supposed to do?

6.

Chicken soup can help heal you when you're sick. Is there a recipe for healing relations.h.i.+ps?

If you can believe it, I found out this morning Nathan Keener is going to my school, a private prep school called Chicago Academy. Yep, it's true. I also have the pleasure of sitting behind him in English cla.s.s and he's even in gym cla.s.s with me. It wouldn't be so bad, but he's already the talk of the entire school.

What is it about transfer students that fascinates people so much? If I hear one more time, Amy, did you see the new guy?

I swear I'm gonna scream. It's fifth period.

I have study hall. I sit next to Kyle Sanderson, the varsity center for Chicago Academy's basketball team and all-around popular guy. The only flaw is that Kyle wears no less than a half a bottle of cologne every day. You can tell when Kyle leaves a cla.s.sroom that he's been there.

He's like a bear, leaving his scent behind for girls.