Me You Us

by Aaron Karo

  It’s still the transition period between classes, and I meet Jak at the front of the school, inside the main doors that lead to the courtyard. A surly-looking security guard in a yellow polo shirt keeps a watchful eye over the frenzy of students passing by.

  “You’re late,” Jak says.

  “Do I have time to go to the bathroom?”

  Jak sighs dramatically.

  “What?” I say. “I’ve had to go all morning. I’m dying here.”

  “Fine,” she says.

  I hurry to the nearby men’s room. When I leave Jak, it strikes me that in all the conversations I’ve had with her recently, we’ve never once discussed running into each other at the mall when I was with Tristen. That’s the kind of thing we’d usually break down frame by frame like the Zapruder film. I sort of got the impression that maybe Jak didn’t like Tristen . . . but Jak never brought it up, so neither did I. ­Probably best to leave it alone.

  When I return from the restroom, I notice that Jak isn’t standing by herself anymore. She’s talking to Adam. He’s trying to explain something to her, and she’s laughing. That in itself isn’t weird. Adam and Jak know each other and have shared a handful of classes together over the years. But when I join them, Adam seems surprised—and perhaps ­disappointed—to see me.

  “Oh, uh, hey, Shane,” he says.

  “What’s up, Adam? How are ya?”

  “Not much,” he replies.

  What a doofus.

  “Listen to what just happened,” Jak says to me. “Adam asked me to borrow a pen for class, but he already had a pen behind his ear.” She shakes her head in amusement.

  That’s odd, I think.

  Adam turns slightly red and holds up the pen in question. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Yeah you are,” Jak says.

  “It’s the glasses,” Adam says. “Sometimes I forget I have things behind my ear.”

  “That’s what she said,” Jak adds.

  Adam forces a laugh, but I don’t even think it’s one of Jak’s better jokes.

  “Right,” I say. “Adam, so you’re all sorted with pens? ’Cause we’re gonna grab some lunch. Let’s talk later.”

  Jak and I turn to leave, but suddenly Adam spouts, “I like your sneakers!”

  We pause and instinctively look at our feet. I’m wearing flip-flops. So he must be talking to Jak, who’s wearing her usual grimy Chucks.

  “Um, thanks,” Jak says, genuinely appreciative.

  “I like Converse, too,” Adam says. “What do you think about their new line?”

  “They’re cool. And everyone says I should get a new pair,” Jak says. “Or at least wash these. But that seems like a lot of effort.”

  “I agree,” Adam says. “You shouldn’t do either of those things.”

  Wait a minute.

  I suddenly realize what’s happening. Adam is hitting on Jak.

  That’s why he’s all awkward and nervous. That’s why he’s laughing at Jak’s dumb jokes. Jak must be the girl Adam told me he had a crush on at the beach! The one I encouraged him to go after!

  The pen trick was an icebreaker I mentioned to Adam when he was pursuing Olivia and was afraid to talk to her: Go up to a girl with a pen behind your ear and ask her to borrow one. She’ll notice you already have one and call you out on in it. Next thing you know, you’re in a conversation. Not only that, but . . . complimenting her on something unusual, demonstrating common interests, asking open-ended questions, agreeing with whatever she says . . . these are all tips I’ve imparted to Adam before.

  He’s using the Galgorithm on Jak.

  Adam definitely knows that Jak is my best friend. So why wouldn’t he just tell me that he was interested in her? I mean, I guess I did insist he didn’t need me anymore and that he’d be better served by going it alone. But still. That must be why he was so thrown when he saw me come back from the bathroom.

  Between mentioning getting set up and coveting a textual relationship, Jak has, in her own special way, been insinuating that she’s looking for a boyfriend. Jak likes tall guys, and Adam is towering over her right now as they continue their inane conversation, which has branched out from sneakers and into shoelaces. Adam is smart enough to be able to understand most of Jak’s obscure references and picky enough to appreciate Jak’s aversions to, well, just about everything.

  Adam and Jak . . . it could happen.

  That said, it doesn’t have to happen right now. And I’m hungry.

  “Guys,” I interject. “Are we gonna . . .” I motion to Jak and the exit.

  “Oh, right. Lunch,” Jak says.

  “Cool. No problem,” Adam says. “Sorry about the pen thing. I’ve been a little all over the place since things ended between me and Olivia.” He lowers his chin toward his chest for effect, a shameless play of the pity card.

  “I heard you guys broke up,” Jak says. “That sucks.” This may be the most empathy I’ve ever seen her display.

  “Thanks. It’s been tough,” Adam says. “But I’m doing my best to get over it.” He glances at me briefly and then turns back to Jak. “We should hang out sometime.”

  “Sure,” Jak says.

  Adam says nothing. It feels like he had scripted the entire conversation up to this point and is now drawing a blank.

  Jak is forced to chime in. “Maybe one day after school. Wednesday?”

  “Ooh, I have anime club on Wednesdays.” Adam says.

  Now it’s Jak who doesn’t respond. So awkward. I feel like I’m on shore, waving bon voyage to the Titanic.

  Adam at least attempts to continue the conversation. “Have you heard of anime club?” he asks.

  “I know you have to be a virgin to join,” she replies.

  Ooh, jab right to the gut.

  I’m taking great pleasure in this, and I don’t quite know why.

  “I’m just joshin’,” Jak adds quickly.

  “You know what?” Adam says. “Screw it. Wednesday would be perfect.”

  Skipping anime club is as carpe diem as Adam gets.

  “Cool,” Jak says.

  “I have all your contact info,” Adam says. “From that project we did in earth science freshman year.”

  A little weird, but okay.

  “I’ll, uh, text you or whatever,” he continues.

  Jak nods.

  Adam looks at Jak and then he looks at me, not quite sure what to do next.

  “I gotta get to class,” he says finally, before turning and hurrying way.

  Jak and I look at each other, both a bit bewildered. I raise my hand in the air.

  “Up top,” I say.

  She smiles and high-fives me, and then we head out the door to lunch.

  I try to push any uneasiness I have about this development deep, deep down, as far as it will go.

  17

  BEHIND THE MYSTERIOUS DOOR that leads to the teachers’ lounge I always imagine the faculty in their underwear, drinking beer and smoking cigars. The reality is much more mundane. The room is about twice the size of a normal classroom and has a few couches, coffee tables, desks, and a semi-enclosed kitchenette area. Everyone is fully clothed, sober, and smoke-free.

  I’m dropping off a thank-you note for one of my teachers who wrote me a college recommendation, but she’s not here, so I put it in her mailbox. I’m about to leave when I hear a voice I was truly hoping not to hear.

  “Shane!”

  It’s Mr. Kimbrough, who emerges from the kitchenette area with a cup of coffee and waves at me. Although I told him during our last conversation that I would try to think of a way for him to secure a real date with Ms. Solomon, I’ve actually been trying to avoid him. Between my own love life and my actual clients’ love lives, I’ve got a lot on my plate.

  Mr. K. beckons me to join him at one of the desks in the lounge. I sigh and then head over to him. He greets me with what I find to be an overly enthusiastic handshake. “Good to see you, Shane!” Well, at least he doesn’t hug me.

  “What’
s going on, Mr. K.?” I ask. “Sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

  “I figured you were cooking up some really good advice for me.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I’m been trying to get my mind off . . .” He looks around warily at the handful of other teachers in the room. None are within earshot. “Deb. You know, so I don’t obsess and what have you.”

  This is him not obsessing?

  “I started a blog,” he says. “I want you to check it out.”

  Eleven words that no one ever wants to hear.

  “A blog?” I say.

  “Yeah.” He opens an old IBM laptop. “I’m gonna post interesting math stories. Maybe a few jokes and cartoons.” He launches the site and then steps back for me to see. “I call it Humble Pi.”

  The blog features a caricature of Mr. Kimbrough, which, given the generous hairline and stingy waistline, he probably drew himself. Under the title BOB KIMBROUGH’S HUMBLE is another drawing, this one of a literal pie—like the dessert—with a pi symbol bursting out of it.

  “Humble Pi. Get it? ‘Pi’ as in 3.14?”

  “I get it,” I say.

  “It was either that or Divide and Conquer.”

  “Stick with Humble Pi.”

  “Okay. Good idea.”

  “You haven’t posted anything yet,” I mention.

  “I just started it. It’s only for me and a few of my math-teacher friends. I doubt anyone else will even care.”

  Now that’s the understatement of the century.

  Mr. K. is admiring this WordPress site like it’s his firstborn. I’m not really sure what he wants from me right now.

  “So . . . I’m gonna take off,” I say.

  “Crap!” Mr. Kimbrough exclaims suddenly. He slams the laptop shut, almost clipping my fingers.

  “What?” I say.

  Mr. K. motions with his chin: Across the room, Ms. ­Solomon has entered the lounge and is walking toward us.

  I continue to be impressed by Mr. K.’s taste. Ms. ­Solomon has stunning green eyes and long, Rapunzel-worthy dirty-blond hair. She’s slender and wears a white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt—teacher-appropriate but sexy enough to inspire, I’m sure, a few naughty daydreams from her male students. She smiles as she approaches us.

  For some reason, Mr. Kimbrough panics and tries to hide his laptop under a stack of papers.

  “Hey, Bob,” Ms. Solomon says as she reaches the desk. “I forgot my lesson plan.”

  She plucks it right from the top of the stack on the laptop, without ever noticing or caring what’s underneath.

  “Hey, Deb,” Bob says.

  Ms. Solomon smiles again and then turns to leave. Mr. K. speaks up.

  “Deb, do you know Shane? He was one of my best students.”

  She pauses and turns back. “No, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Hi,” I say. Finally I am formally introduced to the mythical Deb! “My best friend is actually in your class. Jak.”

  “Jack?”

  “Jennifer Kalkland.”

  “Oh, right, of course. She’s wonderful. Very quiet.”

  I chuckle at the thought of Jak ever being quiet. “That’s only when there’s a roomful of people,” I say. “Around me I can’t get her to stop talking. And it’s usually nonsense.”

  “Lines on curves, huh?” Mr. K. interjects.

  “Lines on curves?” I say.

  “Tangents. Your friend goes off on tangents.”

  I look at Mr. Kimbrough. Now is not the time for esoteric geometry humor.

  “Tangents,” Deb says. “I get it. Very clever.”

  She grins. Bob blushes, but seems to loosen up.

  “Come on, Shane, I taught you geometry. And I just told Deb you were one of my best students!”

  “That’s okay,” Deb says. “We can give Shane a free pass on that one.”

  Alas, like Adam with Jak, Mr. Kimbrough doesn’t seem to have a follow-up to keep the repartee going. Conversing with girls is not easy!

  But I notice the way Deb looks at Bob. She didn’t cringe at his terrible joke. In fact, she seemed to genuinely enjoy it. She clearly has to get back to class yet is still lingering. She just used the word “we.” Obviously she was joking, but subconscious actions explain a great deal.

  Damn it, Shane, I think. I’m such a sucker for a long-shot love story. And observing Mr. Kimbrough and Ms. Solomon right now . . . well, I think they’ve got a chance. Despite Mr. K. being a little needy and all my instincts telling me not to get involved, I know I have to help him. What kind of dating coach leaves a man behind? I gotta come up with a plan on the spot.

  “Mr. Kimbrough,” I say, improvising, “I meant to thank you for that restaurant recommendation. My parents went to Laredo Grill and they loved it.”

  Mr. Kimbrough looks at me quizzically. “What?”

  “You know . . . ,” I say, trying to relay as much subtext as humanly possible. “Laredo Grill, that Mexican place you recommended I tell my parents about. Remember?”

  This conversation never happened, of course. I saw ­Laredo Grill on a banner ad on Yelp the other day. But I think Mr. Kimbrough is starting to catch my drift.

  “Oh. Right. Yeah . . .”

  “Supposedly they have great margaritas,” I say. I glance at Ms. Solomon. She arches her eyebrows ever so slightly. I have no idea what that means.

  “And also awesome fresh guacamole,” I add.

  “I love fresh guacamole!” Ms. Solomon exclaims.

  I don’t know much about women in their twenties, but from what I’ve seen on TV they usually like margaritas and/or guacamole.

  There’s another lull in the conversation. I feel like I am boring holes in Mr. Kimbrough’s head as I try to convey to him what to say next. Unfortunately, we don’t have best friend telepathy like me and Jak.

  Mr. K. gasps slightly—the lightbulb goes on; I think he’s got it! He turns to Deb.

  “If you like guacamole, maybe the two of us could go to ­Laredo Grill together and eat some. You know, at night. My treat.”

  Ms. Solomon looks at me and then back at Mr. ­Kimbrough. “Like a date?”

  Mr. Kimbrough glances at me. I try to imperceptibly but still perceptibly nod my head yes.

  “Sure,” Mr. Kimbrough says, thankfully taking my cue. “Like a date.”

  Ms. Solomon smiles. “That would be great. I’d love to.”

  Booyah!

  Now Mr. Kimbrough is just standing there with a permagrin on his face. Ms. Solomon checks her watch.

  “Oh no!” she says. “I totally lost track of time. I’m late for class. I’ll talk to you later, Bob.” She smiles at him. “Nice to meet you, Shane.”

  “You too.”

  She hurries off. When she closes the door of the teachers’ lounge behind her, Mr. Kimbrough has still not stopped smiling.

  “It’s okay, Bob. She’s gone. You did good.”

  Mr. Kimbrough suddenly embraces me in a great big bear hug. I’m about an inch off the floor. I go stiff as a board. He finally puts me down. The other teachers are oblivious.

  “Shane, thank you! You are the best wingman ever.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Does this mean you’ll keep helping me?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Yeah, I’ll help. As long as you—”

  Before I can finish, he embraces me again.

  This time I roll with it.

  18

  WHEN WE FIRST GOT to the theater, and the movie we wanted to see was sold out, I thought this date with ­Tristen was gonna be a bust. Then she suggested we go back to her house and watch TV, and I tried to play it cool but also couldn’t drive fast enough. Her parents are out for the night, and her younger sister is at a friend’s house. The only problem is, Tristen hasn’t given me any indication as to when any of them will be home, so there’s both excitement and terror in the air.

  There are clothes and bo
oks and shoes and makeup scattered all over the floor in Tristen’s bedroom. You can barely see any carpet. She has a MacBook in a pink case with a Greenpeace sticker on it. We sit on the edge of her bed both because it’s in front of the TV and also because there is literally no place else to sit. Tristen sits to my left and loads the On Demand menu to look for something for us to watch.

  “What are you in the mood for?” I ask.

  “Something funny,” she says. “Maybe something with Will Ferrell. Or, there’s this documentary about fracking I’ve been dying to see.”

  These are confusing times. Tristen and I have really hit it off. She’s sweet and kooky and opinionated. It’s been a while since I allowed myself to like like anyone. This could be the real deal. But even though Jak and I have never explicitly discussed it, it does still kind of bother me that Jak doesn’t like Tristen. Again, that’s not based on any empirical data, just more of a hunch. I know I shouldn’t care, but she’s my best friend and I can’t help it.

  Tristen scrolls through the movies on-screen. She’s wearing ripped, super-faded jeans. Considering her usual wardrobe, the top she has on is fairly conservative, meaning it’s sleeveless and pretty sheer.

  If I were advising one of my clients in this situation, I would tell him to be patient. When a girl wants you to make a move, she’ll give you the signal.

  “So,” Tristen says, “when was the last time you were in a relationship?”

  I’m caught off guard.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “What do you mean, what do I mean?” she says. “Like when was the last time you had a girlfriend?”

  Wow, Tristen does not mince words. I respect that.

  “It’s been a while,” I admit. “A few years.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I’ve ‘seen’ girls here and there. But nothing serious.”

  “Why not?”

  Yeah, Shane, why not?

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I haven’t found the right person.”

  “So you’re picky?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Maybe I just know what I like?”

  I say it like a question because I have no idea if it’s true or not.

  “Have you ever had your heart broken?”

  “Boy, I’m really getting interrogated tonight.”