So, Tiffany's going to ask Drew (the crushee) to the Winter Formal. She's sitting with her friends in the hallway and wonders aloud whether someone named "Fabio" will give a note she's written to Drew. Just when I'm wondering who the hell "Fabio" is, the camera clues me in. Oh. My. God. What. Is. Wrong. With. His. Hair. Dude. "Fabio" is a security guard at the school, and he's apparently spent countless hours and purchased endless streams of Final Net in order to get his hair to resemble a poodle with a scalp problem. He has OBVIOUSLY seen the cover of one too many dime-store romance novels where the bare-chested hero embraces the bosomy heroine and his hair actually ENTWINES with hers. Ew. And, you know, ew.
Okay, anyway, Tiffany hands the note to Fabio and Fabio, being a security guard at Highland Park High School where the most dangerous incident to occur might be, say, one kid threatening another kid that he's going to key his Beemer if he doesn't, like, back off, actually PASSES Tiffany's note to Drew while he's in class. Tiffany's friends watch Drew read the note and describe his reaction (which is largely to blush heartily and smile widely as if it's all a big joke) to a waiting Tiffany. "So," asks Tiffany, "what does that mean?" "Means you got a date, dude," says her bud. No, DUDE. It means she got the bad-hair-having Fabio to pass her crush a note during fucking study hall and her crush LAUGHED AT IT. He didn't give a thumbs up. He didn't write something on the note like "Yes" or "Sure" or "I would be honored." HE LAUGHED AT IT. There will be no date. There will be no dance. There will be a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey in Tiffany's near future.
Okay, um. In Suzy's bedroom, she introduces us to her "boyfriend." Yeah. You know. Her boyfriend, THE BACKSTREET BOY. Oh, man. Suzy. Dude. DUDE. Put down the Backstreet Boys book and back away. I mean it. Just put it down, walk over to the opposite side of the room, and I'll just pick the book up with these asbestos gloves I've been saving for this occasion, and then I'll just drop it into a vat of battery acid. Okay? Suzy. SUZY. Gimme the book, Suzy. Drop it. DROP IT.
"It's a weird situation," says Suzy, after I've removed the Backstreet Boys to their permanent home IN HELL, "to be in at this age. To be so totally inexperienced. To be seventeen and not have had your first kiss is, like, freakish. I wonder if kissing is fun?" Oh, God. She's got her hands on another Boys book and, oh, I can't look. SHE'S KISSING THE PICTURE. She is KISSING the picture. Okay, A) there's nothing wrong with being totally inexperienced at age seventeen. Sex is overrated, and this is something Suzy will learn much later in life. Don't get me wrong. I LOVE SEX. It's just that, at seventeen, you're hardly ready to handle it. Especially if you're someone like Suzy. But B) DON'T KISS BOYS IN MAGAZINES. EVER. Not having your first kiss by the time you're seventeen is not freakish. Kissing boys in magazines is. And kissing Backstreet Boys in magazines is just plain uncalled for.