The Oracle of Dating

by Allison van Diepen

  “I usually don’t bring it to school.”

  “Too much talking with friends. No time for music.”

  “What are you listening to?”

  “Vengeance Against the Establishment.”

  I laugh. It comes out as a girlish giggle, unfortunately.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s a classic name. I bet a band with a name like that has mass appeal, even if their gimmick is that they don’t care about the music industry. I’m not saying their music isn’t good.”

  “It is good. But I see what you mean. These guys are pretend anarchists. They say they don’t give a shit who they appeal to, and then they get all glammed up for Rolling Stone.”

  “Yeah, they speak out against the commercialization of music, but they’re not exactly shying away from the spotlight.”

  He stares at me for a few seconds. “I’m starting to think you’re as cynical as I am. That’s cool.”

  “So which are you? A pretend anarchist or a real one?”

  “I’m not an anything. I don’t buy into any belief system. These days my foster mom, Gina, is always begging me to go to mass with her. She just wants to confess her sins and get out of there. Tries to get me to confess, but I won’t. She’s the one who runs an illegal business, not me.”

  “Are you serious? What does she do?”

  “She sells lingerie and kinky stuff to transvestites. If you look at the back of the New York Post, she’s always advertising her products.”

  “You’re kidding me. And she’s your foster mom?”

  “Best one I ever had. Maybe taking me in is a way to atone for her sins, like the fact that she doesn’t have a business license and she’s not paying taxes. I think she’s lived a wild life. Gina’s, like, seventy-five—she won’t tell me exactly how old. But she’s not like the other foster parents I’ve had—she doesn’t do it for the money. She doesn’t treat me like a piece of furniture. She’s a good person. A businesswoman through and through. If you know a guy who needs sexy lingerie, I’ll put him in touch with her.” Jared doesn’t seem embarrassed about any of this. I bet he has a thousand crazy stories.

  “You must have some weird people coming in and out of the house.”

  “I rarely run into anyone. When I do, they look down like they’re embarrassed. These guys are shy and pretty normal-looking. They don’t want anyone to know.”

  “So how long have you been at Gina’s?”

  “About two years.”

  “Where were you before that?”

  “Got bounced from one home to another since I was ten. My mom’s messed up on drugs. Never knew my dad.” He shrugs. “I’ll be eighteen at the end of June. Free to go my own way for a change.”

  I’m shocked that he’s being so open. I don’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “It must’ve been rough.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “The pity thing.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “There it is again. Relax, Kayla. We’ve all dealt with our own shit, haven’t we?”

  True, but I doubt my parents’ divorce and the arrival of the Swede match what he’s been through.

  “Rodrigo, my social worker, says we’re on this earth for a reason. And some of us are dealt a shittier hand than others, but if we can overcome it, we can do big things. I know it sounds cheesy. He explains it better than I do.” As if he’s suddenly embarrassed, he glances out the window. “When I was in juvie, I made a decision to turn around for myself, not for anyone else. I’m sick of being part of the system—the foster care system, the detention system. So I keep my head down and live my life. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah. Definitely.” Definitely not. He’s been in juvie? I probably shouldn’t ask why. It’s none of my business.

  “I stole things.” He turns back to me, crooking his mouth. “What, you think I’d beat up an old lady or something?”

  “You better not have. I like old people.”

  He’s studying my face, as if he’s gauging how I’m responding to all this. He probably thinks I’m sheltered. I guess I am.

  But it’s weird. I like that he’s looking at my face. That we’re close together in the cocoon of the bus seat. It’s like we’re in our own little world. And he’s so cute it makes my stomach queasy. Now that I know his background, there’s something even more raw, something dangerous, about him.

  I shouldn’t be more attracted. But I am.

  A sheltered girl being attracted to a dangerous guy. Talk about cliché. The Oracle side of me would have a field day.

  There’s another presence here between us, a presence I didn’t entirely recognize until now. A presence that rears up when a guy and a girl get close, when there’s only two inches of bus seat between them, and their thighs are almost touching.

  Sexual tension.

  It’s just like in the romance novel I’m reading. My heart is fluttering and my bosom (meager as it is) is heaving.

  I glance at him. His eyes twinkle, as if he’s amused. He must feel it, too.

  Dear Crazed and Confused,

  Don’t worry—your problem is not unique. In fact, many people are attracted to their classmates. The Oracle herself has experienced sexual tension—

  I delete my response. Okay, I’ll admit it. A certain school bus episode is preventing me from concentrating. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s not like we spent the afternoon strolling around the museum together. Jared went off by himself, and I hung out with Lauren and Cara. On the way back, he was the last one on the bus. I’d sort of tried to save a seat for him, but eventually someone asked to sit there, and I couldn’t say no. If he’d wanted to sit with me, wouldn’t he have made an effort to get on the bus sooner?

  I remind myself that I’m not in the market for a boyfriend. And even if I were, it would be ridiculous to bet on a guy who’s been in juvie. While I’m comforted that he wasn’t locked up for a violent crime, stealing is still very serious. I doubt they put you in juvie for stealing candy bars or CDs. It’s probably something bigger, like a car. Or what if he stole a kid’s bicycle—how cruel is that?

  True, Jared says that he’s turned around. It doesn’t sound like it was a moral epiphany so much as the fact that he didn’t want to be part of the juvie system anymore. Fair enough. But Dr. Phil does say that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.

  Okay, so I’m sounding judgmental. I’m not saying that if I dated him I’d have to lock up my purse in a safe or anything. It’s just well-known that when couples have similar backgrounds, their relationship has a higher chance of success. Our backgrounds couldn’t be more different. And while the idea that opposites attract is true, opposites don’t generally stay together.

  This is the universe conspiring to tempt me, that’s what it is. And I don’t know why I’m wasting time thinking about this, because a perceived moment of sexual tension doesn’t mean he’s interested in me at all. He’s probably used to girls being intrigued by his bad-boy past and drooling over his gorgeousness. I bet he finds the whole thing as funny as my ridiculous drawings in art class.

  six

  IT’S HARD TO BELIEVE I’m turning sixteen. I feel old.

  Ms. Goff always tells us it’s a myth that high school is the best time of your life. She says we should count ourselves lucky if we get through it with only a few emotional scars. She says the older we get, the more freedom we’ll have to study what we want, work at a job we want and hang out with the people we want. Amy thinks she’s just saying that to make the depressed people in the class feel better.

  But I kind of agree with Ms. Goff. Being a teen isn’t easy with so many reeling emotions, whirling hormones, excruciating classes and heinous part-time jobs. According to Oprah, our twenties are pretty much a write-off, too. She says that in your twenties, you’re confused, struggling to find your place in the world and chasing after the wrong kind of men
.

  Fast-forward to when I’m thirty. Maybe then, I’ll have a great career, great guy and great hair.

  And now they’re saying forty is the new thirty. And fifty is the new forty. And sex after fifty is better than ever because you’re suddenly unselfconscious and free, even though your body isn’t what it was when you were twenty. I don’t want to wait until I’m fifty to be comfortable with myself and have good sex!

  Maybe that’s why Mom’s friend, Sister Margaret, left the convent at age fifty-two to marry Father Caldwell. She was waiting for the good sex!

  If I keep thinking like this, my head will explode.

  DAD NEVER FORGETS my birthday. It’s programmed into his BlackBerry and reminders pop up every hour until he calls me.

  “Happy sweet sixteen, Mickey!”

  I cringe. He’s been calling me that since I was a baby. I told him I hated it the moment I was able to speak. I am not Mickey Mouse.

  “What are you doing tonight, Mickey? Going out for dinner?”

  “Mom, Erland and Tracey took me out for lunch. Tonight I’m going out with my friends. I don’t know where. It’s a surprise.”

  “That’s great! You know, you should fly up for the weekend one of these days. It’s only an hour flight.”

  Dad invites me to Ottawa all the time. One of these days I’ll have to go. But playing tourist with my dad isn’t my idea of a fun time, especially when I’ll have to make nice with his girlfriend of the month. I don’t know how he gets women, all at least a decade younger than he is. He hasn’t aged half as well as Mom.

  The conversation drones on for another twenty minutes until his cell goes off. “I’ve got to take this.”

  “What’s her name?”

  He laughs. “Her name is Megan. I hope you’ll meet her when you come to visit. Bye for now, honey. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, Dad.” Somehow it never feels honest when I say it. It’s not that I don’t love him. I do.

  I just don’t like him much.

  BIRTHDAYS ARE A BIG DEAL to my friends. They’re an excuse to shop for gifts, eat too much and find ways to drink. For Amy’s birthday we got our hands on some rum and had a bush party. One bottle of rum doesn’t go a long way among five people, though. I didn’t even get a buzz.

  Viv turned sixteen in August. Her party was hosted by her parents and attended by a hundred relatives and family friends. I ate too many samosas, had wicked gas and left early.

  My friends are convinced that we should crank it up for my birthday. They tell me to pack for a sleepover and be at Ryan’s at six sharp. When I arrive, everybody is already there, looking fabulous. I’m wearing my gift from Tracey, a candy-striped cami, with black skinny jeans and black suede booties. I hardly have the chance to sit down before my friends pelt me with gifts: a pair of earrings, a scarf, a chick-lit book, a personal manicure kit, a sampler of Victoria’s Secret perfumes.

  Ryan’s parents are obviously away for the night, because he opens the liquor cabinet and uses his mom’s smoothie maker to concoct piña coladas and strawberry daiquiris.

  “Tonight is going to be wild,” Ryan informs me.

  “All your master plan, right?”

  “Uh-huh. Drink up.”

  He doesn’t have to convince me. I get a buzz going after the first drink. Yes, I’m a cheap drunk. Then I switch to water because I don’t want to pass out on his couch at seven. That would not be conducive to having a good time.

  We laugh and gossip and sing along to music. We do one another’s hair and makeup. We take silly pics to post online.

  Around ten, Ryan announces that we’re heading out.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as we pile into a cab.

  “As if we’re going to tell you!” Sharese fluffs my hair.

  We go over the Manhattan Bridge and end up in a shady-looking part of the Meatpacking District.

  “You can let us out here,” Ryan says to the cab driver.

  They’re fumbling for cash to pay the driver. I go into my handbag and Sharese slaps my hand away. “Don’t even think about it.”

  We follow Ryan around the corner. The neighborhood is looking no less shady. We lock arms. Ryan is walking farther and farther ahead of us.

  After a couple of blocks, he runs back. “We’re here. Ready with your IDs?”

  I see them pull laminated cards from their handbags. Holy crap—they’ve got fake IDs!

  Amy hands me mine.

  “How’d you get these?”

  “Chad has a contact.”

  I study the ID. Whoever Chad’s contact is, he obviously has access to the Hunter College student ID template. Do you really think the bouncers are going to let us in with these?”

  “If we don’t blow it, they will,” Ryan says. “They don’t care if you’re underage as long as you have some ID. Now, let’s go.”

  My stomach does a little flip as we walk toward the entrance. There’s a big door with the number 257 on it. Ryan knocks and the door opens.

  A huge bald guy with a goatee looks us over. I’m so nervous I feel my knees knock together. His eyes stop on me. Damn it! My baby face is going to blow it for us!

  But his gaze moves on. “ID?”

  One by one, my friends give him their ID, he looks at it and lets them go in. I’m last and having heart palpitations.

  He takes my ID and asks me, “When’s your birthday?”

  “Uh—today!”

  “Happy twenty-first.”

  “Thanks!” I rush past him and join my friends. They’re all paying the ten-dollar cover charge. I reach for my money and this time it’s Viv who slaps my hand.

  We walk down a flight of stairs. I can feel the heavy pump of music beneath us. At the bottom of the stairs, we go through a steel door. “Holy mother of—”

  It’s a massive underground storeroom transformed into a pimped-out club. Bloodred lights cast an eerie glow. The music is deafening. I don’t recognize the song, it’s just a solid hard beat. The dance floor is packed. There isn’t much in the way of seating, only a few chairs, but then, this isn’t a place for sitting.

  Ryan snaps his fingers in front of my face. I must’ve been looking around like an idiot. “Drink?”

  I nod, then hug him tight because I’m so happy to be here.

  I can’t believe it’s my sixteenth birthday and I’m in a real club! This isn’t one of those alcohol-free teen dance nights we sometimes go to. This is the real deal. Most people look like they’re actually legal.

  And there are a lot of cute guys around. At least, I think there are. It’s hard to tell with the lights flashing.

  My friends pull me onto the dance floor and we all lose our minds. The music is fast and frenzied. The beat pours through our blood and makes us dance with the spineless funk of jellyfish.

  Ryan puts a drink in my hand and I guzzle it as I dance. I have a buzz from the music and the booze. There’s a guy on the dance floor who keeps bumping into me. Can’t he watch where he’s dancing? Wait a minute—now he’s grinding behind me. And he’s actually pretty cute. I turn and we’re dancing together. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, catching the scent of his cologne. He smells good. Not as good as Jared Stewart, but good. Stop thinking about Jared!

  He’s nuzzling my neck, sucking on it. I hope he doesn’t give me a hickey. Ouch! I pull away. He apologizes and goes back to nuzzling.

  I look over to see Sharese grinding with my guy’s friend, and Amy grinding with some other guy.

  Viv and Ryan are dancing together, but no grinding is involved.

  I feel his lips move up to my mouth. I tilt my head toward him. His lips are on mine. It’s been ages since I’ve kissed someone, and it feels damned good. I wonder what it would be like to kiss Jared. Damn it, I’ve got to stop thinking about him!

  When the song is over, he takes my hand and buys me a drink at the bar. I don’t take my eyes off the drink—I may be tipsy, but I’ve heard lots of stories of girls having date rape drugs slipped into their
drinks.

  The guy is talking to me but I can barely hear him. His name is Kevin or Devin or something. He’s twenty-one and works as a bike courier. I can picture him weaving in and out of Manhattan traffic, fearless, his twelve-speed burning up the pavement, his hair flying in the wind (well, really, if he doesn’t wear a helmet he’s insane). I tell him I’m in high school. He’s surprised, or at least pretends to be. He doesn’t ask my age. I don’t offer it.

  I’m under no illusions about dating this guy. He’s cute, but there’s no real connection. Since the conversation doesn’t go anywhere, we go back to the dance floor. By now Sharese and Amy are making out with guys. Amy’s cheating on Chad! Wait—this isn’t new; Amy’s been known to make out with other guys behind Chad’s back. And Ryan and Viv still have absolutely no interest in touching each other.

  What’s-his-name can hardly keep up with me, but he seems to enjoy trying. I do get a bit insane when I’m dancing. I think I was born to dance. Maybe I’ll get spotted and asked to dance in a music video.

  I know that time is going by, but as long as there’s music, I’ll be dancing. I hear the DJ announce last call. Oh, no! I don’t want this night to end!

  I’m still dancing with What’s-his-name when the music goes off and the lights go on. He’s got a few acne scars, but I don’t hold that against him. Sharese and Amy say goodbye to their respective hotties, and I give Kevin (Devin?) one last kiss. We go to the bar, where he scrawls something on a napkin and gives it to me.

  “Call me if you want.” And with another dazzling kiss, we part.

  Sigh.

  On the cab ride home, I uncrumple the napkin. It says:

  Melvin 555-3456.

  “What is it? What’d he write?” Amy asks.

  “His name is Melvin.”

  My friends crack up.

  Sharese is ROTFLOL. “Melvin? Doesn’t he have the decency to call himself Mel?”

  “I guess not.”

  My friends are still laughing when my head rolls back against the seat and I conk out.

  IF THERE WERE A CONTEST to name the most pathetic kid in school, Evgeney Vraslov would win hands-down. He is too nerdy even for the nerds to be seen with. He came from Bulgaria two years ago and still wears bell-bottoms and butterfly collars, as if his wardrobe comes from a seventies time capsule.