Me You Us

by Aaron Karo

  “Well, do the steps I took while carrying you home count as double?”

  “Touché, Chambliss. Touché.”

  It’s been a rocky couple of weeks since the keg party, but I think things with Jak are finally getting back to normal. We’ve returned to the rhythms of joking and poking fun that have made our friendship special from the beginning. I don’t know if I will ever be able to look at her the same way I did before I saw her soaking wet and half-naked, but I’ve begun to realize there is no way to further explore my feelings for her without actually telling her about them. And that’s just not something I’m willing to do. It’s too risky. Those are words I can’t take back.

  “By the way,” Jak says, “have you heard about Adam?”

  “Uh, what about him?”

  “Supposedly he’s seeing Rebecca Larabie.”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess I heard something about that.”

  “I thought she was dating Harrison.”

  “No, that’s definitely over.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you upset?”

  “Nah,” Jak says. “I did like Adam. But we only hung out a few times. It is what it is. He sent me a nice text the other day, just saying hello.”

  I could have talked to Adam as soon as I realized he was backing off from Jak. But Jak never really seemed very broken up about it, as near as I could tell, so I figured why get myself further involved? And now Adam and Rebecca are together, and Jak is . . . well, now Jak is available. Theoretically.

  “At least I can officially cross Adam off my list of potential prom dates,” Jak says.

  Prom. It’s barely even been on my radar.

  “You have a list of potential dates?” I say. “You never talk about prom. I thought you said it was . . . what do you always say it is?”

  “Part of the prom-industrial complex.”

  “Right, that.”

  “Yeah, well, it is super lame,” she says. “But I want to go anyway just to prove to everyone how lame it is.”

  “Yeah that’ll show ’em.”

  “What’s going on with Tristen? Now she could fill out a dress.”

  “Status quo.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means the same.”

  “Are you kidding me, Chambliss? I’m in the ninety-ninth percentile of all English students. I know what ‘status quo’ means.”

  She flicks an unopened soy sauce packet at me. I let it hit me in the cheek and fall onto my plate.

  “You have superlative reflexes,” she says, before adding, “That means good.”

  Jak smiles at her own cleverness. She takes out some ChapStick and applies it.

  “What kind is that?” I venture.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. The black tube is just regular, I guess. I like it ’cause it’s the same kind my dad uses. When I use it it’s like getting a kiss from my dad!”

  Well, that didn’t go in the direction I was hoping.

  She puts some more on. “Why?”

  “No reason. Just curious.”

  “Which kind do you use?”

  “You know I use the blue tube, with moisturizer.”

  “Eww, blue is the worst. It tastes like cough medicine.”

  “Well, then you can’t have any of mine.”

  Jak shrugs and goes back to eating.

  When I used ChapStick to lay groundwork for future physicality with Tristen, it went so smoothly, unlike this. I’m reminded of the conversation I had with Jak in the cafeteria, when she was making fun of me for not being able to take off her bra. Even though we were joking, that was a pretty racy topic. Is it possible that, in her own way, Jak was laying groundwork for future physicality with me? Or am I just grasping at straws and bra straps?

  The Galgorithm has been wearing on me lately. Guys constantly expecting advice and direction. It’s a grind. I don’t have all the answers. And that’s never been truer than right now, when I’m desperately trying to use my “expertise” in my own life.

  “Jak,” I say, “you know what I never noticed about you before? Your eyelashes. They’re so long.”

  “My eyelashes?” she says, and instinctively bats her eyes.

  “Yeah.”

  Jak thinks about this. Probably for the first time in her life, she is silent for more than fifteen seconds.

  Finally she says: “My eyelashes are the worst. They’re so short and dry. And I think they have split ends, which I didn’t even know was possible. Like, how can you have split eyelashes? It’s probably because I always forget to wash my face.”

  She goes back to eating. “Why are you even looking at my eyelashes? Stalker.”

  So much for that.

  Whatever I may feel for Jak, it’s pretty obvious she doesn’t feel the same way about me. I’m sick of being confused, and I’m fed up with carrying the burden of everyone else’s dating issues on my shoulders to boot. AP exams are approaching. And then finals and then prom and then graduation and then summer and then college. It’s all happening too fast. Something’s gotta change between now and then. Before everything changes.

  31

  I’VE ALWAYS SAID THAT one day Reed Wanamaker could be president of the United States. He could own a yacht. He could host a beauty pageant. He could do all those things if he only saw the potential in himself that I see in him.

  Now the rest of the world finally sees that potential.

  It didn’t surprise me much when Reed dropped off the face of the earth. After he made out with Marisol in the courtyard of the school in broad daylight, there was nothing more I could do for him. He was my masterpiece, and he had leveled up.

  But Reed was always a good friend, and devoted to the cause, so when I made the momentous decision that I made today, I knew I had to seek him out.

  I find him in the gym during his phys ed period. Both basketball courts are full of students running drills. The air is filled with the sound of dribbling balls and sneaker squeaks and the smell of Spalding rubber.

  Reed, however, is not participating and is instead standing on the sidelines in street clothes, intently playing with his iPhone. Those street clothes, it’s worth noting, are pretty stylish and a complete departure from the outfits he wore when we first met, though he hasn’t added a pound to his skeletal frame.

  “There’s the man,” I say as I approach him.

  “Shane!” He pockets the phone and hugs me.

  “Wait,” I say. “Why aren’t you playing? Are you sick?”

  “Nope.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Just didn’t feel like it.”

  The new and improved Reed has swagger!

  We sit in a couple of stray folding chairs that are next to the court.

  “It’s been a little while,” I say. “I feel like I never got the nitty-gritty.”

  “I know. Things have just gotten so busy with school and SATs . . . and Marisol.”

  He motions to the basketball court, where Marisol is chatting with a bunch of her friends. She blows Reed a kiss. This is of course the class where they first met. And to think she’ll never even know I was behind it. There’s something poetic about that.

  “Well, you did text me that you were officially a couple,” I say.

  Reed smiles.

  “I’m happy for you, man,” I add.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Shane. You changed my life. All the pointers. All the advice.”

  “Hey, it was in you the whole time. You really went for it that day in the courtyard.”

  “I don’t know what came over me,” he says. “Maybe it was just sixteen years of frustration. But Marisol was laughing at my jokes and it was a beautiful day outside and suddenly I didn’t care anymore. I just kissed her. And she kissed me back! Everything clicked. We’ve been together ever since. I guess when it’s right it’s right.”

  I pat Reed on the back. I almost want to cry I’m so proud.

  “Thanks for letting me make fun of you in front of ­Tristen,” he adds. “I
felt bad about that.”

  “Yeah, she didn’t care.” I can’t seem to do any wrong in Tristen’s eyes.

  “Phew. Good,” he says. “So did you just come here to say hey or what?”

  “No,” I say. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s just . . . well, I’m really glad you were one of my final clients, Reed.”

  “The pleasure was all mine. Wait—what do you mean, final clients?”

  “I thought you should be the first to know.”

  “First to know what?”

  “I’m retiring from the dating business.”

  “You mean like when you graduate?”

  “No, I mean right now. I’m done. No more coaching. No more advising. No more telling guys what to say. No more hearing their sob stories. I’m finished.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Dead serious. I’m gonna start reaching out to my clients to let them know I’m through. I’ve taken them as far as I can anyway.”

  “I don’t understand,” Reed says.

  The fact is, my mental state is beginning to fray. The trials and tribulations of one budding relationship are plenty to keep anyone occupied around the clock. But facilitating multiple relationships at once? It’s enough to drive a guy insane. And how can I be a dating expert when I can’t even get my own house in order? I used to be passionate about helping guys find true love. Now it just reminds me what I lack in my own life.

  “It’s better this way,” is all I say. “It’s time.”

  “I just . . . I can’t believe it,” Reed says. “I always thought you would do this forever.”

  “I used to think so too. But it wears on you. I’m ready to move on. I think I’ve contributed enough. And I hoped you of all people would understand that.”

  “Of course. I absolutely do. It’s just . . .”

  “It’s just what?”

  “It’s just . . . what about the Galgorithm?”

  “What about it?”

  “What’s gonna happen to it? Are you ever gonna share it?”

  “I think maybe it’s better if it stays a secret forever.”

  “Come on, Shane! You have to tell me.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes!”

  “And you promise not to tell anyone else?”

  “Yes!”

  I take a deep breath. Here goes.

  “Well, Reed, the truth is . . . the Galgorithm doesn’t exist.”

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t exist?”

  “I mean, there’s no such thing as the Galgorithm. I made it up.”

  He’s silent. Words replaced by background sounds of basketball and gossip.

  “But—”

  I cut him off. “No. No code. No formula. No Galgorithm. It’s not real.”

  “But I’ve asked you before what it was,” he says.

  “And every time I told you that you weren’t ready to hear the truth yet. The thing is, you’ll never be ready, because there’s no secret to reveal.”

  “Then why did you tell me there was one!”

  “To gain your trust.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I’ve spent years trying to observe and learn everything I could about girls and couples and relationships. All the moves and the techniques I shared with you, those were all real. But for guys like you to truly get on board, I needed you to think everything was part of a master plan. So I started calling my wisdom the Galgorithm.”

  Reed is speechless.

  “Look, every girl is different. There’s no singular formula. Guys are just much more willing to go along with the program if they believe there is one. The Galgorithm was just me telling you what to do next.”

  “But it really did seem like there was a code,” Reed says. “Like it worked.”

  “That’s because it did work. By distracting you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At the end of the day, all that matters is confidence. That’s the one common denominator I found in every guy who is successful with women. It doesn’t matter if you’re tall or a jock or good-looking or rich. But the problem is, confidence is not a thing. You can’t see it. You can’t measure it. You can’t buy it. You can’t just tell a guy, ‘Be more confident.’ But what you can do, I discovered, is create the illusion of confidence.”

  The wheels are turning in Reed’s head.

  “By pumping you up with all these rules and tricks, and by making you think you were following a formula, I distracted you from fixating on how ungettable the girl standing in front of you seemed. I made you less nervous. And that made you more confident.”

  I think about Mr. Kimbrough, reluctant to try to text Deb again—that is, until I told him we were using “the Galgorithm.”

  “I didn’t even know any of this was happening,” Reed says.

  “Exactly. Because you were thinking about your haircut and the jeans and how long to wait to text her back and how much cologne to put on and what is the Galgorithm? It’s a decoy. Figuring out that Marisol likes pizza from her ­Facebook profile wasn’t rocket science. But convincing you that the intel was invaluable—now, that was what made your conversation with her less daunting. When you think you have the ­Galgorithm behind you, guiding you, you’re much more confident, and it shows.”

  I think about Adam putting a pen behind his ear and then asking Olivia—and Jak—for another one. Simply a ruse to distract him from the fact that he was approaching a girl he considered out of his league. Otherwise he would have overthought it and psyched himself out.

  “My brain is throbbing right now,” Reed says. “So there’s no spreadsheet? No hieroglyphics carved into a rock somewhere?”

  “Let me ask you this, Reed: Did you ever really believe that I had unlocked the mystery of girls?”

  “Well, I was vulnerable. I would have believed anything at that point. And then it worked, so . . . I would have to say, yes. I did believe you. Or at least I chose not to not believe you.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much how it works.”

  “So all those tips and hints . . .”

  “In here,” I say, pointing to my head. “I am the Galgorithm.”

  “But you’re done.”

  “That’s right. So I guess, in a way, I’m destroying it by retiring. The Galgorithm is gone.”

  “It seems like such a waste.”

  “Yeah, well, you have Marisol and I have . . .” I trail off. What do I have?

  The bell rings for the end of class.

  “Hey, Reed,” I say. “Let’s just keep this between me and you for now.”

  “Of course,” he says. “I’m still trying to digest it all.”

  We stand up. Reed digs his phone out of his pocket. “Thanks for telling me,” he says. “I really appreciate it.” We hug.

  “I’ll see you around, Reed. Good luck.”

  “You too, Shane.”

  I’m proud of what we accomplished together. I’m proud of the man he’s become.

  Reed turns and leaves, but as soon as he does, I notice he is immediately engrossed by his phone again, in a not-even-normal-for-a-high-school-kid kind of way.

  “Hey,” I call out. “What are you doing over there?”

  He scurries back to me sheepishly so that no one else can hear us and shows me an app on his phone.

  “I’m playing Dungeons and Dragons. Don’t tell Marisol.”

  I shake my head with pride.

  Some nerds never change.

  32

  I’M ENJOYING MY FIRST day of freedom in a long time.

  I’m surprised by how good it feels to have this weight off my shoulders. I woke up this morning with no clients to check up on and no advice to dole out. There are a handful of guys that I do still need to inform about my retirement, but that’s a task for another day.

  As soon as I left for school in the morning, I knew I wasn’t a
ctually gonna go. I need a break. I deserve it. And I’m prepared for my upcoming AP exams. I left the house at the proper time so that my parents wouldn’t suspect anything, but as soon as I was a block away, I changed direction and started driving to the mall. Not exactly Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, but it’s a start.

  My phone pings. It’s Jak. The texts begin around this time every morning and continue until she falls asleep. They are usually entertaining, but today they start to eat away at that nice feeling of relief, so I just shut my phone off.

  There’s only one thing at the mall open this early, a diner that’s accessible from the street. It’s a real greasy spoon, and the waitresses are dressed liked it’s the fifties. I order black coffee with my breakfast. I never drink black coffee. But it seems like what a normal, soon-to-be-collegiate guy would do. It’s bitter as hell. I have two cups and get a third to go.

  When the rest of the mall finally opens, I wander about aimlessly, past stores I’ve browsed with Reed or Tristen or Jak. This time I have the place pretty much to myself. I pass a trendy women’s boutique. There’s one girl shopping in the store, and she looks cute. She’s about fifteen feet away from me, and I can only see her from behind. I pause to look at her.

  I start to take another step but can’t keep my eyes off her. Her hair is long and jet black. She fiddles with it while she browses a rack of shirts.

  I’m struck with a sudden sense of déjà vu, but my brain can’t yet articulate what’s happening.

  Time slows to a crawl.

  The girl takes a hair tie off her wrist and puts her hair in a bun.

  She has a bar code tattoo on the back of her neck.

  I drop my cup.

  Voldemort.

  The coffee splatters all over the floor and my sneakers, and echoes in the concourse loud enough for her to hear.

  She turns and spots me, and her face lights up.

  “Shane!” she says, and immediately stops what she was doing and walks in my direction. My stomach drops.

  When we dated, she was a sixteen-year-old high school junior, and that’s how I remember her. Now she’s a nineteen-year-old college sophomore, and the years have been very kind to her. Her hair is dyed black, but she’s still rocking that red lipstick and nail polish. Any trace of a baby face is gone. Those two perfect dimples are now accenting a pair of taut cheekbones. She wears a white off-the-shoulder T-shirt and black jeans, and she looks damn good.