Weird Girl and What's His Name by Meagan Brothers Page A

watch off and helped her tilt her head back into the sink. I rinsed her hair until the water ran clear, added conditioner, rinsed that, finally squeezed the water out of the ends and blew it dry. I could tell right away she was happy. Her head was a bright cap of flame.
    â€œScully Red,” I presented the mirror.
    â€œOh my gosh. It’s perfect.” She looked at the back with the hand mirror. “I’m so super hot now.”
    I laughed as I gathered the empty dye bottles and tossed them in the trash.
    â€œSeriously. I’m really into myself with this hair. I’m the FBI’s Most Wanted. What do you think? I’m the hotness, right?” She puckered and made a supermodel face at herself in the mirror.
    â€œI think it’s remotely plausible that someone might think you’re hot,” I said, quoting The X-Files in my best Mulder deadpan. But Lula didn’t laugh. I tried John Keats. “Actually, you’re dangerously hot. Try not to swoon to death while gazing upon your steadfast hotness.” At this, Lula cracked a brief half-smile. She really was pretty, with or without the Scully hair. She had Janet’s model cheekbones. Lula didn’t think she was pretty, though. She thought she was too skinny, too flat-chested. And, worst of all, she had Leo’s nose.
    â€œWould you go straight for Scully?” Lula asked. She was still looking at herself in the mirror. “Like, what if, one boring afternoon at Andy’s, you’re restocking the Harry Potters, and in walks Gillian Anderson—”
    â€œWhy on earth would Gillian Anderson walk in to Andy’s Books?”
    â€œBecause she’s shooting a movie on location in Hawthorne. And she’s super bored, because it’s Hawthorne.”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t she just drive into Raleigh, where something interesting might actually happen?”
    â€œBecause . . . traffic is terrible! I-40 is backed up in both directions for miles. So, she’s stuck in Hawthorne, and you charm her with your legendary no-foam cappuccino and your extensive knowledge of the Edith Wharton oeuvre.”
    â€œThe Edith Wharton oeuvre ?” I laughed.
    â€œYep. And next thing you know, Scully’s all ‘Ooh, Theodore. You’re such a charming young man . . .’” Lula giggled.
    â€œWait, Gillian Anderson, or Scully?”
    â€œSame difference,” Lula waved her hand. “For the purposes of this argument. A hot redhead walks into a bookstore. Would you go straight for her? If you liked her and she was into you? Would you just say, what the hell, and go for it?”
    â€œFor starters,” I asked, “why would some famous actress be interested in me? Never mind a fictional federal agent who clearly has a thing for her partner.”
    Lula sighed. “Don’t be so literal, Rorysaurus. This is a theoretical discussion. Theoretically, some chick thinks you’re the bee’s knees. Would you do it?”
    â€œI don’t think—it doesn’t really work that way,” I told her. I don’t see how anyone can just “go straight” for someone. You either are or you’re not, in my opinion. And I don’t really want to think those kinds of thoughts about Gillian Anderson. She’s probably my favorite actress ever; she’s in the movie version of my favorite non-sci-fi novel, The House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton, who is, next to Jane Austen, probably my favorite writer of all time. The House of Mirth is so tragic and beautiful, and the movie’s great. I’ve made Andy watch it, like, twenty times. Gillian’s so amazing in it. I cry every time I see it. But I can’t picture myself going to bed with her. It’s not like that for me.
    â€œYou mean even if some hot girl wanted to sleep with you, you think you’d be unable to, uh . . .”
    â€œLula, this is getting into kind of a weird area, here.”
    â€œSorry, I