Tina couldn’t just reach into the tackle box where she kept her beauty potions. She had to give me the academia behind image.
“They say put your best face forward. It’s true,” she said. “I mean, do you want to score Matt or not?”
I pictured myself winning him in a game, poker maybe, or something more physical like badminton. Matt as prize, Matt as reward. All you needed to forfeit was your pride.
“You make it sound like a fucking lottery ticket. He’s not a Scratcher, you know.”
“He’s a dude,” she said. “He might as well be.”
I hopped up on the granite countertop and swung my feet against her bleached-wood cabinets. I didn’t know dick about home design, but I did know that the 1990s called and were demanding their elements back.
“Anyway,” I said.