by Aaron Karo
I must admit, Reed can be quite clever. And I’m happy to be the fall guy. But he’s testing my limits.
“I mean, Tristen,” Reed continues, “what do you see in him? He thought World War One was started by Franz Ferdinand. The band.”
Now Tristen and Marisol are both laughing with Reed and at me. I think that’s enough.
I grab Tristen’s arm. “Why don’t we, uh, get outta here or take a walk or something?”
“All right,” she says. Then, turning to Marisol, she adds, “He’s funny.” She’s talking about Reed.
Pickup artists much more professional than me call this “social proof.” It’s basically when a girl gets approval about a guy from the people around her. Marisol just witnessed Reed getting social proof from Tristen, the prettiest girl in school. That’s no small accomplishment.
Tristen and I say our goodbyes. Tristen and Marisol still have the giggles, and I can’t get out of there fast enough. I nod to Reed as we exit, as in: I did my part; now it’s time for you to do yours.
As me and Tristen are walking away, Tristen says to me, “Oh, that’s Reed. You know what, Marisol said she had gone out with a guy, but I didn’t realize that was him.”
So Marisol did mention Reed after all. Even better.
Tristen reaches out to hold my hand. In the moment, I almost don’t fully appreciate it.
“You know he was kidding about me failing history,” I say.
She doesn’t seem to care either way.
When I casually glance back to see how Reed is getting along with Marisol by himself, I am absolutely astounded. They’ve been on their own for thirty seconds. We’re on school grounds. It’s the middle of the afternoon. And it’s now clear to me what Reed’s third instinct was, after puking and running.
Reed and Marisol are making out!
21
JAK WOKE UP THIS MORNING to find two more complimentary passes to Sweat Republic in her e-mail. I figure it was either a display of persistent marketing or a misguided apology for our odd encounter with Sarah with an h. Regardless, Jak decided it was a sign that we should continue our workout kick. So we geared up in headbands and Under Armour, drove to the gym, walked the floor several times to determine just how we were gonna kick off this most sweat-tastic of days, and then beelined to the smoothie bar, having completed exactly zero exercise. My Fitbit just reads YOU DISGUST ME.
We ordered our smoothies from a bewildering menu inside and are now drinking them outside, sitting in silver metal chairs under an umbrella on the sidewalk. From here we can observe our fellow Sweat Republicans—as I’m sure they’re not called—enter and exit the gym (sorry, more than just a gym).
This QT is long overdue for several reasons. The rest of Jak and Adam’s coffee date went well, and they went out again. I’m happy for Jak but slightly concerned that things between us have been a little . . . let’s just say “off” lately. Certainly the presence of Tristen and Adam in our lives has begun to put a crunch on our already dwindling time together. But it’s more than that. Crushes have come and gone in the past, and it’s never before affected me and Jak’s status as partners-in-crime. I can’t quite put my finger on what’s wrong, but I’m glad we have this chance to catch up.
“What did you end up getting?” Jak asks me.
“Black pepper mango pumpkin.”
She looks at my smoothie. “Why is it brown?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I thought it would be orange.”
“How does it taste?”
“Honestly, it’s the best thing I’ve ever had in my entire life.”
Jak smiles.
“What’s yours?” I ask.
“Jicama honey basil.”
“Gross. And?”
“I don’t even know what jicama is, but this is so good I want an IV directly in my bloodstream.”
“Basically, they should close the gym part and just open up a chain of smoothie bars.”
“I would invest,” Jak says.
She sucks down half her smoothie in one go. She’s still wearing her headband, and it’s nice to see her without all that hair in her face for the first time in, well, probably years.
“So,” Jak says, “let’s get down to business. I need all the dirt on Tristen. Tell. Me. Everything.”
“Things are going well. You know, we haven’t had a conversation or anything about it, but I’d say we’re seeing each other.”
“Oh I figured that.”
“Well, that’s really everything.”
Jak doesn’t say a word.
“You want to know about her boobs, don’t you?”
She shrugs.
“I told you I don’t boob-touch and tell.”
“Aha! So you have touched them!”
“That’s not fair. You tricked me. Fine, yes, I’ve touched them.”
“Well?”
“Tristen is a very interesting, well-rounded person . . . who just also happens to have very well-rounded boobs.”
“Ha! I need to tweet: ‘Shane Remains the Mane! #tristenaccomplished.’”
“Don’t tweet that.”
“What, you don’t want the world to know you’re dating the hottest girl in Kingsview?”
“She’s also a good person.”
Jak bursts out laughing. My face doesn’t change.
“Oh,” Jak says. “You weren’t kidding.”
“No, I wasn’t kidding. You think I’m that superficial?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Well I’m not. Tristen is cool.”
“This is the same Tristen Kellog who writes about jeggings in the Chronicle?”
“Yes. Why? Do you not like her?”
The million-dollar question.
“I like her,” Jak insists. “But you promise you’re not just dating her because her body is both a temple and a wonderland? It’s like a temple in Wonderland.”
“I promise.”
I guess I feel a little better having asked Jak flat-out about Tristen, although I still don’t totally believe her. It’s strange; it’s not like Jak to be territorial. No one wants me to get over Voldemort more than she does. Maybe I’m looking too far into it.
“I’m just watching out for you, Chambliss,” she says. “You’re a boy, so you have a brain the size of a pea.”
“Yeah, maybe like a really big pea.”
“Good one,” she says sarcastically. And then she polishes off her smoothie.
“What about you?” I ask. “What’s going on with Adam? Spill it.”
“You know, we’re hanging out. He seems all right.”
“Come on, Jak, don’t get shy on me now. Details.”
“Well,” she says, “he complains a lot, which I can appreciate. He’s really tall, which I like. I mean, he wears these stupid-looking glasses that someone must have told him looked good.”
Ouch. “I think they’re hip,” I offer.
“Nothing is hip if you have to say, ‘I think they’re hip.’”
Fair enough.
“But besides that, I dig him,” she says.
“I’m surprised, Jak. Usually you can come up with more flaws than just a pair of glasses.”
“What can I say? I’m getting soft in my old age.”
“Have you . . . hooked up?”
I’m surprised by how nervous I am to hear the answer to this question.
“Maybe we kissed or whatever.”
Hmm. There you have it. Reed is kissing Marisol. Adam is kissing Jak. I’m so proud of my clients. Well, more so Reed. I’m not sure how I feel about Jak and Adam yet. He’s right for her, but is he, like, perfect for her? I don’t know.
“You promise you’re not hanging out with Adam just because you’re—”
I catch myself.
J
ak is quick to pounce.
“What were you about to say? Lonely? Desperate?”
“No, no, no not at all.”
“Wait, are you jealous?”
“No!” I insist.
“Because you’re the one who told me that guys talk about me with their penises out in the locker room.”
I laugh, and this breaks the tension.
“I know,” I say. “I didn’t mean anything like that. I was just being dumb.”
I finish my smoothie.
“I miss this,” Jak says. “You. Us. Sitting around talking about nothing. The last few months you’ve been like totally distracted. We need to do this more.”
“I agree.”
She reaches across the table and takes my hand. It’s an odd gesture, but it’s also really nice. We look at each other and smile—a smile only two best friends can share.
“It feels so good,” Jak says wistfully, “to be holding the hand that touched Tristen’s boobs.”
I grab my hand back. “Come on, Jak.”
She cackles.
“I’m sorry, Chambliss, but—”
“I know, I know. It was a perfect moment and you had to ruin it.”
I shake my head. Jak is just so darn pleased with herself right now.
“Hey, remember we were joking about going to one of these house parties before the school year is up?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, “to drink a lot and make poor decisions. I remember.”
“There’s gonna be a big kegger next week. We should go. If you’re feeling up to it.”
“So a house full of alcohol and people being friendly?”
“Yup, that’s basically the definition of a party.”
“Shane, I know you usually don’t go to these things because—”
“You get anxious and freak out.”
“Exactly. And that’s pretty cool of you to have my back. But for you, I think I can handle one party. I’m game if you’re game.”
“I’m game if you’re game.”
“Then it’s settled,” Jak says. “We’re in. I’m kinda excited. Is someone gonna spike the punch? Does everyone put their keys in a fishbowl and go home with a stranger?”
“If you’re going to a party in an eighties movie, then yes.”
“What? I don’t know.”
“It’s probably just gonna be a lot of standing around,” I say.
Jak smiles at me.
“Now that I can handle.”
22
IT TOOK A LOT OF pleading and a little subterfuge, but I managed to convince my parents to move this week’s Taco Tuesday from our house to Laredo Grill. They’re under the impression that I merely wanted to change things up a bit and check out a new restaurant, but of course I have ulterior motives. Mr. Kimbrough and Ms. Solomon are having a date here tonight, and I promised Mr. K. that I would be on hand should he need me. I told him that I would help him with Deb, but I have not copped to my other consulting duties and clients, nor have I mentioned the Galgorithm. He just thinks I’m good at giving friendly advice, and I plan on keeping it that way.
There’s no shortage of Mexican food in Kingsview, and it seems Laredo Grill has chosen to differentiate itself by offering unnecessarily trendy spins on typical dishes and charging an arm and leg for them. I guess there’s demand out there for thirty-dollar grilled sea bass tacos, because the place is packed. While my parents are out of earshot, I talk to the hostess and request a specific table I see available. I want to be close enough to observe Bob and Deb, who are already seated, but far enough away that I won’t be made.
I rejoin my parents in the waiting area, but soon get a nice surprise: Hedgehog and Balloon have just finished dinner and are walking our way.
“Shane! Hey!” Anthony says.
The three of us exchange hugs and greetings. Anthony’s little spikes have been gelled flat—the executive Hedgehog look.
“I want you to meet my parents. Mom, Dad, this is Anthony and Brooke, my friends from school.”
They all shake hands. “It’s lovely to meet you,” Mom says.
“Have you eaten here before?” Brooke asks.
“First time,” Dad says.
“You’re gonna love it,” Anthony says.
“Is it a special occasion?” Mom asks.
Hedgehog and Balloon gaze at each other lovingly.
“It’s our eight-and-a-half-month anniversary,” they say simultaneously.
“Aw, jinx,” Brooke says, and kisses Anthony on the nose.
Mom thinks this is utterly adorable. My dad is too hungry to care.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Chambliss,” Anthony says, “but my dad is waiting to pick us up outside.”
“No problem. It was great meeting you. Have a good night,” Mom says.
“You too,” Brooke says.
I take a moment to recognize that I’m standing with two of the most amazing couples I know. For all the hoops I jump through—and instruct my clients to jump through—that’s all anyone’s really looking for: a partner who gets you, who loves you unconditionally, and who’s always there to listen.
“Aren’t they cute?” Mom says to my dad.
“Blue-cheese enchiladas,” he replies. He’s now reading the menu and not paying attention.
Hedgehog and Balloon exit and the hostess arrives to take us to our seats—but not the seats I requested. Our table is much farther from Bob and Deb than I would have liked, but before we sit down, I notice Deb get up and walk away. She’s wearing a flowery dress and heels; she came to play.
“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” I say to my parents. “I’ll be right back.”
“Have you thought about what you want to order?” Mom asks.
“Mom, it’s Taco Tuesday. I want tacos.” I turn to my dad. “Wait, you’re not gonna take your shirt off, are you?”
Dad shrugs, as if you never know.
I leave our table, take the long way around the restaurant, and get to Bob. He’s wearing a button-down shirt and navy blazer, and is pulling it off nicely. I’m grateful I won’t have to take him to the mall for an episode of Extreme Makeover: Slovenly Man Edition. I double-check that my parents can’t see me from here.
“Shane, you made it!” Mr. K. says.
“I told you I would. How’s it going?”
“So far, so good.” He dabs beads of sweat from his forehead with a cloth napkin. “Deb went to the restroom.”
“Listen,” I say, “I can’t really see you well from where I’m sitting, so you’re pretty much on your own unless there’s an emergency. Do you have it under control?”
“Yes. I think so. I mean, I could use all the help I can get.”
What works on a high school girl might not work on a more sophisticated woman like Ms. Solomon, so I’ve been doing some research.
“When Deb gets back,” I say, “look her in the eyes and ask her if she uses Latisse.”
“Latisse? I don’t know what that is.”
“But women do. It’s prescription eyelash lengthener. By asking her if she uses it, you’re indirectly complimenting her on having nice long eyelashes.”
“Shane, you’re a genius.”
“Nah, just a kid trying to help you out.”
I manage to jet from Bob’s table just before Deb gets back from the bathroom and blows my cover. I take the long way around the other way and end up back at my parents’ table.
“Did I miss anything?” I say.
“Your father just ordered a very expensive cocktail,” Mom says.
“Kathryn, enough. We’re having a nice dinner. When in Rome.”
“I don’t think they had eighteen-dollar mojitos in Rome.”
Dad considers this. “Then why don’t you split it with me?”
“
Sure. But it better be the best nine bucks I ever drink.”
It’s always unsettling when my parents squabble in front of me, even if it’s good-natured.
My mom turns to me. “You really couldn’t comb your hair? You look like you’re in an out-of-work boy band.”
“Mom . . .”
“Well, coming here was your idea,” she continues. “So are we celebrating something? How was your day? How was your week? Your mother needs some news about her favorite and, coincidentally, only son.”
Crap. I’ve drawn too much attention to myself by insisting we take Taco Tuesday out on the road. I’m about to get grilled like the sea bass. I definitely don’t want to talk about Tristen.
“Uh, actually, I was wondering if you guys could tell me the story of how you met.”
My parents look at each other.
“We met at a cocktail party,” Dad says. “You know that.”
“Come on,” I say. “You were at the same college at the same time and you’re saying you didn’t meet until after you graduated?”
My parents look at each other again. They have their own brand of telepathy, and my mom silently gives my dad permission to tell the real story.
“Okay, fine,” Dad says. “Freshman year of college your mom was in an a cappella group. She had—and still has—a very beautiful voice. I was in the AV club. A real nerd, unlike the super-cool guy you see before you today. They were recording a CD, and I was the sound engineer. Me and your mom just hit it off.”
“What’s a CD?” I deadpan.
“Ha ha,” Mom says. “Just you wait. One day you’ll be old too.”
“So you met recording an album? That’s the whole story?”
“Well that’s how we met,” Dad continues. “After that we were just friends. Then we became best friends. And it wasn’t until five years later, after college, that we finally got together as a couple.”
“At the cocktail party in New York,” I say.
“Well,” Mom admits, “actually it was a rave.”
I knew it!
“But we were already best friends,” she says. “That’s just when we first . . . as you would say, hooked up.”
“Gross, Mom.”
“It’s what happened.”