Take My Advice

by Robin Palmer

  “More e-mails about the dance?” Pete asked.

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “How’d you know?”

  “From the eye roll,” he replied. “It’s different from the one you give when you’re reading an e-mail from Marissa, or when Laurel’s going on about some organizing system she wants to try.”

  “Wow. You can really tell the difference in my eye rolls?” I asked, impressed.

  He pfft’d like he did whenever I asked a dumb question—like, say, “You really think V&T’s has better pizza than Patsy’s?”

  “Of course I can tell the difference!” he replied. “You’re one of my closest friends. Friends notice these type of things.”

  This was true. I could tell how freaked out Laurel was about having to look at my messy room from how much she scratched the inside of her arm. And how annoyed Beatrice was about something from how wide her nostrils flared.

  “Plus, there’s the whole doorman thing of it all,” he added. “You know, ’cause—”

  “—you’re a doorman, and doormen know these things.” I finished. That was another thing about friends—you could finish their sentences for them. Especially when they happened to say one particular sentence over and over.

  “Exactly,” he agreed. “So what’s that e-mail say?”

  “‘Dear Annie,’” I read out loud. “‘You know the Sadie Hawkins dance that’s coming up in less than a week? Well, there’s this boy I want to ask, but the problem is he recently broke his leg so he has a cast, which makes it so that he wouldn’t be able to dance and we’d have to spend the night sitting on the bleachers talking. I already know him a little bit because we’re lab partners, but a forty-minute science class is a lot different than having to come up with things to say for an entire evening. Do you have any advice for me? Sincerely, A girl who likes a boy with a cast.’” I looked at Pete. “She should’ve just written ‘Sincerely, Ashley Robertson’ because that’s who it is.”

  “How do you know?” asked Pete.

  “Because the boy she’s talking about is Noah Kreisman,” I replied. “He broke it when he fell down the escalator at the subway stop at Sixty-third and Lexington.” Like me, Noah had coordination issues. Or . . . maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just pretending it was broken because he had a feeling Ashley was going to ask him and he knew she smelled like mothballs. “‘Dear Ash—’” I said aloud as I typed. Then I stopped and deleted it. “‘Dear Cast Liker,’” I wrote instead. “‘Even though I don’t know why you’d want to go to the dance when you could stay home that night and watch the Hoarders marathon on A&E—’”

  Pete shook his head. “I dunno—I’m thinking that might sound too much like an editorial.” We had recently learned about editorials in class. They were the part of the paper where people gave their opinions rather than just reporting the facts of a news story. And then people would write mean letters to the editor about them, saying the people who wrote the editorials were unhappy people who were big know-it-alls.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I agreed as I pushed the delete key. “‘I think you should go ahead and ask him to the dance,’” I typed. “‘Luckily for you, I have a lot of experience with having to talk to people who I’m worried I don’t have a lot to talk about with.’”

  This was true—when Dad first started dating Sarah and he decided it would be a great idea if she and I spent a Saturday afternoon alone so we could have some Quality Bonding Time (sort of like Alan’s IBSs, but not as organized, on account of the fact that Dad is a “creative type” because he’s a photographer), I was really nervous that I wouldn’t have much to say to her because she’s so weird.

  That day, as we sat across the table staring at each other at this vegetarian place where they only served gross stuff like tofu and tempeh, I realized I was right—I didn’t have anything to talk to her about. Which is why I just asked her questions about herself, and let her talk. And talk. And talk. And before I knew it, it was time to go home, and I knew way more about yoga poses and essential oils than I ever needed to know.

  “‘And what I’ve found is that if you’re having trouble making conversation, just ask the person about themselves. Because it turns out that people LOVE to talk about themselves. Plus, by doing that, you get to see what they’re really like. For instance, if they don’t end up asking you about you at all, you probably don’t want to be their friend, you know? So my advice is to ask Noah’”—I stopped and deleted that last word—“‘the guy with the cast to the dance. Because not only will you get to see if he’s selfish, but that way you won’t have to worry about looking silly dancing in front of people. Which is the way I know I’d feel.’” I looked at Pete. “How’s that?”

  He nodded. “It’s pretty good. I think you have a real knack for this advice stuff. You know, if you ever wanted to look into a career as a doorwoman, I think you’d be real good at it.”

  I smiled. Coming from Pete, that was huge. “Thanks, Pete.” I scrolled down. “Here’s another one. ‘Dear Annie,’” I read, “‘I’m hoping you can help me. You’ve probably heard about this Sadie Hawkins dance thing, right?’” I rolled my eyes before realizing it was a form of editorializing. “‘If so, then you know the girls have to ask the boys. Well, I’m a boy, and there’s this girl that I’m hoping will ask me. She sits in front of me in homeroom and we’ve had some really good conversations. (That is, if someone saying, “Do you have an extra pencil?,” and you saying, “Sure,” counts as a conversation?) But there’s a problem . . . a few weeks ago I broke my leg, and now it’s in a cast’”—I looked up at Pete, my eyes wide—“‘so I’m afraid she won’t ask me because it would be hard for me to actually dance,’” I continued. “‘And I know that America’s Worst Dancers is one of her favorite TV shows because I heard her talking about it one morning. How can I let her know that I’d like her to ask me and convince her that we’d have a really good time even if we couldn’t take part in the dance part of the dance? Thanks in advance, Guy with a Broken Leg.’”

  I gasped. “Uh-oh. Noah’s the only guy in the school with a cast.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Pete said. “Then this one’s gonna have a happy ending.”

  I shook my head. “But the girl who sits in front of him isn’t Ashley—it’s Romy Lucas! Now what am I supposed to do?”

  “Whattya mean what are you supposed to do?” he asked. “You give them advice, that’s what you do. It’s your job.”

  “Yeah, but this isn’t your regular run-of-the-mill-how-do-I-get-out-of-cleaning-my-room question,” I said. “This is complicated. It’s like . . . a word problem or something. And you know how I feel about math.”

  Pete shrugged. “Yeah, but when you took this gig, you took an oath—” he said.

  I did? I didn’t remember that part.

  “—to be as helpful and honest as possible, no matter what your personal view is on the situation and how you feel about the person,” he went on. “Like when you agree to walk someone’s dog for a measly ten bucks a walk when they have more money than a small country, and then they try and stiff you on a tip when the holidays roll around,” he grumbled.

  I knew who he was talking about—Mrs. Spitzer in 17G. As rich as she was, she was that much cheaper. Beatrice said that the cheapness was the reason she was so rich. “Yeah, but what about the fact that because I know who all these kids are, I know that even though Ashley’s a little on the boring side and she smells like mothballs, Noah would have a much better time at the dance with her because Romy’s stuck-up and talks about people behind their backs? Including her best friend Caroline McNamara?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, but technically, you’re not supposed to know who they all are. Which is why you just have to answer the question as if you didn’t.”

  I sighed. Up until now, I hadn’t cared that I wasn’t getting paid for this job, but now it felt like a whole different story. This was hard.

  “‘Dear Broken Leg Guy,’” I wrote. “‘What I tend to do in these
types of situations where I want someone to know something but I don’t want to say it directly is that I just sort of keep announcing things so that I know they’ll hear it and hopefully get the point. For instance, the next time you’re in homeroom, you could say, “Boy, I’d sure like to go to that Sadie Hawkins dance” REALLY LOUD. And then the next day you could say—again, REALLY LOUD—“Even if I can’t dance at the moment because of my broken foot, I’d sure like to go to the Sadie Hawkins dance and TALK about dancing. Like, say, the dancing on America’s Worst Dancers, which is one of my favorite shows.” (But, if it’s not one of your favorite shows, don’t say that last part because that would be lying, which tends to bring you bad karma and probably wouldn’t be helpful with this dance situation. So if that’s the case, instead you could say something like “. . . which is a show that I haven’t seen all that often but I have a feeling is really good, and I’m going to make an effort to watch more regularly.”) Hopefully, if you keep doing that kind of thing on a daily basis, Romy’”—I stopped and deleted that part—“‘the girl you want to ask you to the dance will get the point and ask you. Oh, but when you’re doing all that, try and make it sound natural, you know? Otherwise, it’s going to be really obvious that you’re trying to get her attention and plant an idea in her head, as if you’re trying to brainwash her. I mean, yes, you ARE kind of trying to brainwash her, but she doesn’t need to know that. Good luck, Annie.’”

  I looked up at Pete. “What do you think?”

  He nodded. “That’s excellent advice.”

  “I just want to add one last thing,” I said. “‘P.S.’” I typed. “‘Obviously you can do whatever you want, but just one more thing: I know you SAY that you want to go with the girl who sits in front of you in homeroom, but maybe there are some girls in your class who you might have an even better time with at the dance. Like, for instance, girls who you know from . . . science class. Maybe even girls who sit NEXT to you in science class. Just something to think about.’” I looked up at Pete. “Is that okay?”

  He started stroking his chin, which was not a good sign because it meant that he was going to start giving some long lecture. Usually, one that started with, “You know, Lucy, back when I was your age” which, because he was fifty, was almost a million years ago.

  “You know, Lucy, back when I was your age—” he began.

  “How come adults always say that?” came a voice from behind me. “Oh, hey, Lucy.”

  Uh-oh. I knew that voice. The one with the stuffed-up-nose-as-if-the-person-was-always-suffering-from-allergies-because-he-was sound. Did this really have to happen now?

  I turned around. “Hey, Blair,” I mumbled.

  “Stalking Dr. Maude again?” he asked as he plopped down next to me on the couch and reached for a handful of my chocolate-covered pretzels without asking. He may have been my local crush, but that didn’t mean he could take like half the bag in one grab. That was just rude.

  “No,” I said. I knew that telling him about my letters to Dr. Maude had been a mistake. It’s just that when you’re hanging out in Central Park while shooting a video for your election, totally stuffed from hot dogs and papaya drinks from Gray’s Papaya, you find yourself talking about things that you wouldn’t normally bring up.

  He gave me a look before using the corner of his T-shirt to swipe at the chocolate on the side of his face. Some people might have thought that was gross, but sometimes when I was alone and didn’t feel like getting up to get a napkin, I did the same thing.

  I felt myself turning red. “Okay, fine. If Dr. Maude walked by, would I introduce myself? Probably.” I pointed to my computer. “But what I’m really doing is working.”

  “Did you hear that Lucy is the new advice columnist for her school paper?” Pete asked. “Except she’s going by the name Annie to keep her identity a secret.”

  So much for the secret part being kept a secret.

  “That’s cool,” Blair said, reaching for more pretzels. If he took any more after that, I was going to have to seriously rethink whether I could possibly have a crush on someone so greedy. “What kind of questions do you get?”

  I felt myself turning red. “Nothing interesting. Just questions about—” Questions about what? They were all about the dance, and there was no way I was bringing that up, even though it was the perfect opportunity.

  “The dance that’s coming up at her school in a week,” Pete chimed in. “One where the girls have to ask the boys.”

  I gave him a look. What was he doing?!

  “Yeah. Last night I walked past my sister’s room and she was practicing asking some guy named Chris in front of her mirror.” He snorted. “I can’t wait to tease her about that.”

  Oh my God—that was awful! Even though that particular embarrassing thing had nothing to do with me, Beatrice and I were so close that my armpits started to sweat for her.

  “Did you also know that Lucy hasn’t asked anyone yet?” Pete added.

  It had been nice being friends with Pete, but now I was obviously going to have to kill him. “That’s because I’m not sure I’m going,” I hissed.

  “But you’re class president,” Blair said. “Won’t it look weird if you’re not there?”

  “Well, I mean, I’m not going . . . as of yet,” I sputtered. I bit down on my lip to stop myself from bloversharing. “I mean, I might go. But I might not. It all depends on whether . . . or not I go. Which, as of right now, I’m not. But I might.”

  Pete cringed and shook his head. That wasn’t even bloversharing. That was . . . I didn’t even know what that was.

  I stood up and started toward the elevator. “I have to go,” I announced. “I just remembered I have to . . . go do something . . . that makes it so I have to go now,” I sputtered nervously. It was only when I was safely in the elevator with the doors closed that I let out all the breath I was holding.

  How could I ask Blair to the dance when I couldn’t even have a two-minute conversation with him before having to run away?

  Dear Dr. Maude,

  Just in case you were wondering, this advice thing has gotten completely out of control.

  Like so out of control that I can’t even go into it at the moment.

  yours truly,

  Lucy B. Parker

  * * *

  Some people (e.g., Alice and Marissa) tend to exaggerate a lot. Other people (e.g., me) do not. So when I said that it had gotten completely out of control, it had gotten completely out of control.

  The out-of-control stuff started a few days after wimping out in front of Blair in the lobby. Because I didn’t want to risk running into him so I could not ask him to the dance again—like in the elevator—I had started to take the stairs to and from our apartment. Which, when you’re talking twenty-one floors, makes up for an entire lifetime of missing gym.

  I had just made it up and through the door and was wondering if I had done permanent damage to my legs because they felt like wiggly strands of spaghetti when I saw Alan pacing. Alan had a bunch of different pacing styles. When he was on the phone, he paced slowly. When he was thinking hard, he paced really fast. Those kinds of pacing didn’t worry me. In fact, I found it to be kind of soothing—like when Mom tickled my arm when we were on the couch together watching TV.

  But when he was really nervous or worried, his pacing was more like stomping, and included his rubbing the sides of his head. Not so soothing. In fact, it made me nervous. And if he was pulling at the little hair he had left while he paced? Really not good.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked nervously when I saw him stomping and pulling at his hair.

  “It’s this anniversary thing!” he cried. “We just can’t seem to agree on where to go. And now your mom is so upset about the whole thing, she said we just shouldn’t do anything!”

  I knew that was Mom just trying to make the whole thing even more of a surprise, but Alan didn’t know that, so it made sense that he was worried. Well, because he was a worrier to begin with, more
worried than usual.

  He sighed. “It figures that Dr. Heath would choose now to go on a three-week vacation to India.” Dr. Heath was Alan’s therapist. And her cousin was Laurel’s therapist. And her cousin’s husband was Mom’s therapist, but only as of two weeks ago. (When I had asked Mom why she was going to a therapist now, she said there wasn’t any real reason other than it was “rite of passage when you lived in Manhattan”—kind of like taking the wrong train and ending up in Queens when you meant to go downtown, which was something I did when we first moved here.) So far I had managed to avoid having to go to a therapist, but Beatrice said that if I did go, I shouldn’t worry because it wasn’t so bad. She had been going to one since she was eight, so she would know (“When you’re born into a family where you have two mothers or two fathers, I think there’s a list of shrinks’ names in the welcome kit they give you at the hospital”). She also said that some doctors had bowls of M&M’s or Hershey’s Kisses in their offices, so if possible, I should try to get one of those.

  “I don’t know who else to go to for advice on how to handle this,” he said. Then he stopped pacing and looked at me. “Wait a minute—Lucy, have you ever gotten a letter about anything that’s like this?”

  Oh no. Alan was asking me for advice now?! While I had been hoping for an opportunity to prove to him how talented I was, now didn’t seem like the greatest time. “Well, not really, because most kids I know other than Laurel don’t have enough money saved up to plan a vacation, but I do have some experience with something similar to this,” I replied. Actually, I had experience with the exact same question, but I couldn’t tell Alan that because it would mean ruining the surprise.