by Aaron Karo
“If it’s all the same,” Jak says, “I think I’d rather just stay home and order takeout in my sweatpants.”
“Sure,” I say, deflated. “I guess we can do that.”
Jak tries to stick the entire gobstopper in her mouth.
“How do I wook?” she mumbles.
I stare at her.
She wooks like a girl I can’t get out of my head.
28
TRUE TO HER CAMPAIGN promise and our conversations at both the college fair and the keg party, Rebecca fixed the administrative issue that had been causing problems in the senior parking lot. New permits were distributed, and our long national nightmare is over. I am currently headed to the lot to affix my new permit and move my car. Jak and Tristen are weighing heavily on my mind, so it feels good to be carrying out a stupid, mundane task that doesn’t require considering the butterfly effect of consequences across dozens of people for generations to come.
When I cut through the faculty lot to get to my parking spot, I encounter one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen: Mr. Kimbrough, slumped in his reasonably priced, midsize sedan, staring into space. It looks like he’s been there all day.
Mr. K. has been off the grid lately. Jak hypothesized at the keg party that Ms. Solomon had recently gotten lucky, and I chose to think positive and surmise that it was with him. Not having heard from him in a while seemed to confirm that assumption. But this sight definitely makes me think otherwise. Sigh. I feel like I joined an adopt-a-teacher program. I can’t just abandon him now.
I walk up to the passenger side of his car and knock on the window. Mr. K. startles upright. He might have been sleeping, for all I know.
“Bob, are you okay?”
He rubs his bloodshot eyes and tries to play it off.
“Shane, how nice to see you. I was just working off the after-lunch snoozes.”
“It’s ten a.m.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Hold on. I’m getting in.”
At this point I don’t even care who sees me talking to Mr. Kimbrough. Or getting into his car, for that matter. If I can’t get my own love life in order, it gives me some solace to at least help my fellow man in need.
I climb into the passenger seat. “Okay, Bob. Let me have it.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been doing everything you told me to do. Every time Deb gets a paycheck and is all smiles, I’m there.”
“Great.”
“After I saw you at Laredo Grill, I asked her if she uses Latisse.”
“And?”
“She doesn’t. But she was flattered and really impressed I even knew what it was.”
“Nice.”
“At the end of dinner, I insisted on paying. Like I had to get borderline aggressive.”
“Gotta do what it takes.”
“And then that night we kissed.”
“Amazing!”
“And then a few nights later we . . . you know . . .”
“Yes!” (Side note: Jak was right!)
“And then,” Mr. Kimbrough continues, “and then . . . nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“Radio silence. She avoids me at work. She doesn’t pick up the phone. Nothing. I don’t know what I did wrong.”
I pat Mr. K. on the shoulder. I feel for the guy, I really do. Perhaps the only thing worse than getting flat-out rejected by a girl is getting a peek at the promised land and then having her slam the window shut in your face.
Mr. Kimbrough looks so downright pathetic right now, so lost, so hopeless, that I just decide . . . what the hell, it’s time for the truth.
“Bob, I have to level with you,” I say. “When you thought I was some sort of consultant, a dating guru, a Svengali, well, you were right.”
“Yeah, I mean, you’ve been so helpful.”
“No, you don’t understand. You’re not the only guy I’ve been advising. This is like . . . a real service that I offer.”
“It is?”
“Yeah. I help guys who are down on their luck win over the girls of their dreams. I try to at least even the playing field between the jocks and the have-nots. You know, I’m like . . . the Robin Hood of romance.”
“I knew it!”
“It started out as kind of a hobby, but now it’s become this all-consuming thing. I did help Adam Foster date Olivia Reyes. You were right from the beginning. I wish I had been more honest with you.”
“Wow,” Mr. K. says. “But I understand. I get why you would want to keep something like that a secret. Especially at this school. You kids are cruel.”
“There’s more,” I say. “All of the tips I’ve been giving you, they’re part of a formula I call the Galgorithm—you know, like gal plus algorithm? That’s probably what you heard whispers about.”
Mr. Kimbrough smirks. “Galgorithm. Huh. And people make fun of me for my math puns.”
“You got me there,” I say.
“So can I see the formula?” he asks.
“I don’t think you’re ready. Not yet. And besides, it’s never really been used on a grown woman before. Just high school girls. But you seem like a good guy, and I wanted to help you.”
“I appreciate that, Shane. Everything you’ve done for me.” He exhales. “I guess you can file me under lost causes.”
“Well, not so fast. You never know. Is Deb teaching right now?”
Mr. Kimbrough checks the time on his phone. “No. She’s off.”
“Okay, let’s text her.”
“I’m telling you, she won’t respond.”
“Let’s try the Galgorithm.”
Mr. K. considers it, then relents and picks up his phone.
“Try writing: ‘Can you pick up the tickets at will call?’”
“Huh?” Mr. K. says. “What tickets?”
“Just try it.”
“Okay . . .” He sends her the text.
A moment later he gets a response.
“Holy cow, she wrote back!” he says.
“See?” I say. “There’s hope. What did she write?”
“She wrote, ‘Did you mean to send this to me?’”
“Perfect,” I say. “We just needed a breezy nonsense text to get her to reply. Now let’s engage her. Write: ‘Sorry. I sent that to the wrong person. How are you?’”
He sends the text. Now Mr. Kimbrough is sitting on the edge of the driver’s seat.
She writes back immediately, and he shows me the text: Good, u??
“Two question marks and a comma,” I say. “That’s a great sign. Now write: ‘It’s been a long week..’ Make sure to put two dots at the end.”
“Why two dots?”
“It’s more than a period but less than an ellipsis. It makes you seem intriguing.”
He types it.
“Shane, this is unbelievable. You need to be charging for this.”
“I do it for the love,” I say.
She writes back again, and Mr. Kimbrough reads it out loud: “‘Same here.’”
And then a second text in quick succession: “‘It’s so hot today.’ But instead of ‘hot’ it’s a little picture of a fire.”
“Good cadence on her replies,” I say. “Great pace. And she sent two texts in a row. And she used an emoji. All excellent signs.”
Mr. Kimbrough looks at me like I just discovered the atom.
“Let’s take a shot downfield,” I say. “Write: ‘Beers?’”
Mr. Kimbrough types and sends as fast as he possibly can. And then . . . nothing.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Just give it a minute.”
A minute goes by. No response.
“I’ll just write, ‘Maybe another time.’”
“No!” I say, and actually slap his hand. “Never write two texts in a row. Two texts in a row demonstrates weakness. We’re not weak. We’re strong.”
Mr. Kimbrough pulls his fingers off the keyboard.
“Wait a second,” I say.
Waitin
g . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . and then a ping that she’s responded! Me and Bob cheer in his car in the middle of the parking lot like we just won the Super Bowl.
Our glee is short-lived, though. “She wrote: ‘Don’t think I’m up for beers.’”
Mr. Kimbrough is immediately discouraged. I’m not.
“Write back: ‘LOL. Didn’t even write that. One of the kids grabbed my phone. #brats.’”
Mr. Kimbrough looks at me.
“You can use that as a believable mulligan like once a year.”
He shakes his head incredulously and sends the text.
She responds quickly and he shows me: OMG. Totallyyy. These kids are a pain in my neck ;)
“Good,” I say. “Now shut your phone off.”
“What? Why?”
“You got an acronym, a triple consonant, and an old school emoticon. You hit the jackpot.”
“So shouldn’t I write back?”
“Nope. Not now at least. You’re in a good spot. Always let her send the last text. It shows poise and keeps her on her toes.”
“Genius,” Mr. Kimbrough says, as he dutifully shuts his phone off.
“You’re back in the mix with Deb,” I say. “I’m not sure what happened before, but things should start to flow now. I can also give you a few more pointers later. And there are some rules you need to follow if we’re gonna be working together officially. But that’s enough for today.”
Mr. Kimbrough sits back in his seat and looks up at the roof, relieved.
Cyrano has nothing on me.
29
STUDENT GOVERNMENT IS just a few doors down from anime club but has much more luxurious digs, meeting in an extra-large conference room with a lectern, a gavel, and a whiteboard. It’s from this lectern, with said gavel, that Rebecca, as Student Council president, wields influence.
Rebecca and Adam have also been using this room to finalize their proposal for a second extra period after school. They posted fliers around the hallways promoting the idea and announcing an “open meeting,” which they are hosting together, to discuss it and seek approval. Approval from who, as Tristen would say, or whom, as Jak would say, I have no idea. It’s really the nerdiest idea ever, and one they’ll only get to enjoy for a couple more months anyway. But you know these overachieving types, always trying to leave a legacy.
I haven’t come to the open meeting to check on their progress, though. No, after hearing some pretty unbelievable chitchat in the halls, I’ve come here to see if Rebecca and Adam are hooking up.
When I told Adam what I was feeling, or thought I was feeling, for Jak, I never meant to come between them. At least not explicitly. But that’s exactly what happened, and I should have seen it coming. According to the dribbles of information I get from Jak, Adam has remained aloof. Making matters worse is Jak herself, who is ambivalent on her best day and standoffish on her worst, and has not made much of an effort to show Adam she’s still interested.
When I first heard gossip about Adam and Rebecca, I dismissed it out of hand. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. They have been spending a lot of time together. And they do have a lot in common, considering they both already have two-page resumes. Sure, Rebecca is a put-together prep and Adam is a disheveled doofus, but he learned enough from me to win over Olivia and charm Jak, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility that he could succeed a third time.
When I open the door to the student-government office, Rebecca and Adam are standing at the conference table. Rebecca is wearing a fashionable gray button-down, and Adam looks like he robbed a big and tall store under the cover of darkness. But together they pass for the cliché version of an illicit office romance: sleeves rolled up, hands accidentally touching over a stack of paperwork. I half expect Adam to sweep everything off the desk and take Rebecca right there in front of me.
Alas, they just greet me warmly and invite me inside. I’m not surprised that I’m the only one who bothered to show up for this thing.
“How’s it going, guys?” I ask innocently.
“Pretty good so far,” Adam says.
“What do you think about these names for the extra period, Shane?” Rebecca asks. “Extra Extracurricular, Double Extracurricular, or ECX, which stands for Extracurricular Extreme.”
“Definitely ECX.”
“See, I told you,” Adam says to Rebecca. “Your idea is the best.”
“You’re sweet,” Rebecca says, and brushes his shoulder with her hand.
I can’t confirm that something is happening between them, but something is definitely not not happening. The whole thing makes me kind of squeamish. I feel bad for Jak. I need to get out of here.
I am starting to offer hasty goodbyes and retreat when Rebecca suddenly gasps.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Get out of here!” she yells.
At first I think she’s yelling at me. But then I spin around and realize she’s talking to Harrison, who has appeared in the doorway behind me.
“Hi, Rebecca,” he says.
Rebecca shakes her head. “Not now, Harrison. I can’t do this.”
“What’s going on?” Adam asks.
No one responds. I’m willing to bet that Adam still doesn’t know about Rebecca and Harrison’s history.
“Is he the problem?” Harrison asks, as he enters the room. I can see he’s clutching one of the fliers advertising the open meeting. “Is he why you won’t return my texts? Why do I have to track you down like this?”
“He has nothing to do with this!” Rebecca says.
The “he” Harrison is referring to is me. Not Adam, who is standing shoulder to shoulder with Rebecca, but me, who is standing across the table.
“I’m not doing anything!” I insist.
“You better shut up, dude,” Harrison says to me. There’s only five feet of space between us.
“Um, am I missing something?” Adam asks.
“Harrison,” Rebecca says calmly, “you know as well as I do that we’re not dating anymore because of your temper and your need to sneak around. I’ve had enough. I want someone stable, who can be my partner. In public.”
She places her hand on top of Adam’s on the desk.
“Wait, you guys used to date?” Adam says.
All of a sudden Harrison steps to me, grabs me by the front of my collar, and pushes me against the wall of the room.
“Harrison, stop!” Rebecca pleads.
Adam doesn’t move.
Harrison cocks his fist back to punch me. I recoil in fear.
“Harrison,” I plead. “Lemme go!”
Harrison keeps his fist cocked and considers his options. He’s not making any sense. I wish I could get inside his head and see how he ticks. Probably like a time bomb.
“What’s going on in here? Let go of him!”
Harrison freezes. We both look up. It’s Ms. Solomon. Yes, Deb, who also happens to be the student-government faculty advisor, and who has just entered the room to play savior.
Harrison sneers at this missed opportunity, lets go of my collar, and even straightens it out a bit. “Just fooling around,” he says to Ms. Solomon. “Right, Shane?”
He glares at me. “Right,” I mumble.
“Everyone out except student-government participants!” Ms. Solomon says. “I don’t want to see any more horsing around!” She points at the door.
But the doorway is now blocked—by Tristen.
Harrison continues anyway, nearly bumping into her once again. They barely acknowledge each other, and then Harrison slips by and exits.
I take a moment to breathe.
“Out!” Deb says to me.
“Come on, Tristen,” I say.
I grab her by the hand and pull her out of the room. Harrison is already halfway down the hall by the time we exit, and then he takes the stairs to another floor. Deb closes the door behind us. It’s now just me and Tristen in the hallway alone.
My head is spinning, metaphoric
ally and literally. I’m dizzy.
“Are you okay, Shane?” Tristen asks. “You’re all red. What happened to your collar?” She must have just missed the action.
“What? Yeah. I’m fine. How did you know I was in there?”
“I didn’t. But I saw Adam’s name on some fliers and I figured I would ask him where you were. I messaged you, I tweeted you, I sent you like a million snaps.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s been a crazy week.”
Since our rendezvous in the park I’ve been trying to slow things down with Tristen. Just long enough to clear my head and reconcile my feelings for Jak.
“You want to come over to my house tonight and watch a movie?” she asks. “My parents will be home, but they’ll let me keep the door closed.”
I hesitate.
A growing chorus inside my head is telling me to just go with it. When in my life will a girl like Tristen be this obsessed with me? Things with Jak have gone nowhere. Why am I putting myself through all this?
“Just come over,” Tristen says. “I have new brochures from that save the dolphins organization I want to show you. They’re so cute! Just like you!”
She takes my hand. I consider the sordid game I’m playing between Tristen and Jak and Adam and Rebecca and Harrison. Like those dolphins, I’ve entered into dangerous territory. The question is, who will be there to save me?
30
“HERE YOU GO,” JAK SAYS as she tosses my Fitbit at me. “You think just because you were all sweet and helped me when I was drunk you could get out of this? Nuh uh. Besides, they’re waterproof. You didn’t even need to take them off.”
We’re sitting at Jak’s kitchen table, and she’s returning the Fitbit I left in her bathroom when I took her home from the party.
“I charged them and everything,” she says.
She slips hers back on her wrist and I do the same.
Jak’s kitchen is rustic and eclectic—wooden table and chairs and purposefully mismatched place mats and utensils. Too many containers of Chinese takeout sit in front of us. We’ve been slowly but surely working our way through them. Jak is wearing sweatpants, as promised.
“I’m not gonna lie,” I say. “I thought the step competition was over.”
“Never.”