Me You Us

by Aaron Karo

  Luckily, the coffee was half empty. I quickly wipe off my sneakers with a napkin and throw the spilled cup in a nearby garbage can just as Voldemort reaches me.

  “This is so crazy!” she says. She gives me a big hug. I hug her back. She smells the same. Our entire relationship flashes before my eyes. It doesn’t take very long.

  “Faith,” I stammer. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have reading days, so I decided to visit my folks.”

  “Reading days?”

  “We get a couple of days off before finals start. I should be studying, but I decided to come home. The mall in Valley Hills sucks, though.”

  “Got it,” I manage.

  My synapses are overrun. I hate her. I’m happy to see her. I’m shocked. I’m curious. I’m upset. I’m weak.

  “So,” she says, “it’s been forever. How have you been? What have you been up to?”

  Oh, just obsessing over our breakup until it metastasized into the creation of a new identity for myself. You know, silly high school stuff.

  “Not much,” I say. “Looking forward to graduation and whatever.”

  “Right on,” she says. “Well you look great. Something is different about you.”

  She’s gonna mention my jeans. . . .

  “New jeans?”

  “Yeah.” I try to play it off. “I think so.”

  “They look good. Hey . . . shouldn’t you be at school?”

  “Nah. I decided to cut a few periods.”

  “Senioritis. Nice. I remember it well.”

  We’ve exhausted our supply of pleasantries. She bites her lower lip. Still gets me after all these years.

  “Well, it was great to see you, Shane. Such a happy coincidence.”

  “You too.”

  “I’m gonna take off. I should probably actually do a little studying.”

  She hugs me again. My hand grazes her bare shoulder. It’s weird; I never thought our skin would ever touch again.

  “Take care,” she says.

  She’s about to turn and leave.

  “Faith, wait.”

  She stops and looks at me expectantly.

  I’m five inches taller than her, but I feel so small.

  “Um,” I manage. “I have to ask . . .”

  If I don’t, I will regret it for the rest of my life. But I can’t get the goddamn words out. I’m so flustered.

  “Us . . . ,” I say.

  She nods her head. She understands. Of course she does.

  “What happened between us, you mean.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I feel like . . . you never told me why.”

  “Why we broke up? A lot of reasons,” she says. “And also no reason.”

  Dating Faith was certainly a whirlwind. She took a shine to me, and I just got swept up in it. Back then I had no clue. I was ill-equipped to handle a girlfriend, let alone an older one. But the abruptness with which Faith ended things still vexes me.

  “I mean,” she continues, “you were young. A little immature. We both were. I guess . . . it was clear it was much more serious for you than it was for me. I just wanted to have fun, you know?”

  “So it wasn’t like I did anything or said anything or something like that?”

  “No, not at all,” she says. “I mean, not that I can remember. It was like forever ago already.”

  Yeah, forever ago.

  “You aren’t still upset about it, are you?” she asks.

  “No,” I lie. “It’s just . . . you know. It sucked.”

  “I know,” she says. “I feel bad. But some things just aren’t meant to be. And you can’t force it. Trust me, you’re gonna have a lot of relationships. And not every one is gonna be perfect. You just have to go with it sometimes.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Life is easier said than done, Shane.”

  “That’s true” is all I mutter.

  “What about now?” she asks. “Any girls in your life?”

  A loaded question if there ever was one.

  “Yeah.” I waver. “I don’t know.”

  “Hmm,” she says. “Funny, I totally would have guessed you would’ve gotten together with Jak by now.”

  I blink.

  “What did you say?”

  “Jak. I met her a few times when we were hanging out.”

  “I know, but why would you think we would have gotten together?”

  “Um, because you’re, like, so obviously in love with her.”

  I go slack-jawed.

  “Jak?”

  “Yes, Jak.” She laughs. “You talked about her all the time. Like, in front of me. Like, rudely in front of me. I’ve never seen two people more clearly in love.”

  I’m dazed. I feel like there are cartoon birds flying around my head.

  “You’re totally perfect for each other,” she continues. “Literally everyone in the world knows that except for you.”

  “But she’s my best friend.”

  “Duh. You think people want to date their worst enemy?”

  I feel a little woozy.

  Of course.

  How could I have been such an idiot?

  This is what I’ve been feeling the whole time!

  Jak knows me better than anyone and she still sticks around.

  I feel lost when she’s not by my side.

  I’m her soul mate.

  And she’s mine.

  I’m in love with Jak.

  I’m in love with Jak!

  “Shane? Hello?” Faith asks. “Are you okay?”

  “You’re right,” I say finally. “I . . . just . . . can’t believe how stupid I am. Of course I’m in love with Jak!”

  There. I said it.

  Faith sighs and grins. “Boys. You are so dumb.”

  “I’m in love with Jak,” I say again, still processing.

  “That’s a good start,” Faith says. “But the question is, does Jak know?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Well, luckily, you know where to find her.”

  “Where?” I ask eagerly.

  “School, probably.”

  “Oh, right.”

  I’ve not only lost track of time, but also the space-time continuum.

  “You should go,” she says.

  “Okay. I’m going.”

  “Good luck, Shane. It was nice to see you.”

  “Thanks, Vo—”

  She looks at me quizzically.

  I correct myself. “Faith.”

  And then I turn and run.

  33

  MY HEART IS POUNDING, and it’s not the two and half cups of black coffee.

  I peel into my parking spot at school. I park over the lines in two places, but I don’t care. All I can think about is getting inside to talk to Jak.

  I ran from Faith to my car in the parking lot at the mall, and now I’m running from my car toward school and toward Jak. I smile to myself, thinking about how many Fitbit steps I’ve already racked up today on the way to this grand gesture.

  I knew I felt something deep in my gut when I spent half the night in Jak’s bathtub nursing her back to sobriety. But maybe my subconscious was protecting me from realizing the truth. There were so many obstacles that would have prevented us from getting together: our friendship, Adam, Tristen, the pledge Jak swore to remain platonic after Faith left me heartbroken.

  Tristen certainly remains an issue, but my feelings for her are complicated. I do care about her. Just . . . not in the way I care about Jak. I’m not in love with Tristen. I’m in love with Jak. I’m in love with Jak! I have to end things with Tristen. I don’t know how she’ll take it, but I can’t even think about that right now. No, all that’s important right now is proclaiming my true love to Jak and convincing her that it will not only preserve our friendship, but also strengthen it.

  I enter school through a side door that is just off the senior hallway, the quicker to get to Jak’s locker. As soon as I take a step inside, though, I can tell someth
ing is wrong. There’s a buzz in the hallway. Lots of whispering and giggling. At first I think it’s just the Kingsview rumor mill being kicked into overdrive by some silly hookup gossip. But as I get closer to Jak’s locker, I start to realize that things are very, very wrong. My classmates are staring. Those whispers, those giggles, they’re directed at me.

  My heart beats even faster. I rack my brain for any possible reason why I am suddenly the center of attention. I remember I turned off my phone hours ago, so I pull it out of my pocket and turn it back on. I get to Jak’s locker, but she’s not there, which is odd. I know her schedule down to the second. I look at my phone: dozens of texts and e-mails and missed calls from my clients, but nothing recent from Jak. That’s weird.

  Everyone around me is snickering. What the hell is going on?

  I notice that several onlookers are holding today’s edition of the Kingsview Chronicle, which is also kinda odd because the paper is usually cafeteria or bathroom reading, not water-cooler fodder. I find a copy on the floor a few steps from Jak’s locker. Kids are Snapchatting pictures of me and laughing as I pick it up. WTF?

  I open the paper and feel like I am having an out-of-body experience. I cannot believe my eyes. The banner headline reads:

  GALGORITHM: A DATING GURU AND HIS SECRET FORMULA

  This cannot be happening. This. Cannot. Be happening.

  I read the first couple of lines:

  In a shocking Chronicle exclusive, senior Shane Chambliss has been exposed as the resident dating doctor at Kingsview High School, boasting a roster of unlucky-in-love classmates and a powerful algorithm he claims will attract female students. The scheme was first discovered when it was referenced on math teacher Robert Kimbrough’s personal blog . . .

  Noooooooooo!

  I’m having trouble breathing. What? How? Mr. K., what the hell did you do?

  I look at the byline of the article. It was written by . . . Brooke Nast? You’ve got to be kidding me. Balloon?

  I pull out my phone again and launch the browser. No service. Goddamn it!

  With all eyes on me, and still holding the paper, I sprint toward the computer lab down the hall. I’ve never run so much in one day in my life. I make a hard left and burst into the lab. Thankfully, the room is empty.

  There are five rows of computers, all relatively new iMac desktops. I sit at the terminal closest to the door and log in with my Kingsview High ID. I google Mr. Kimbrough’s Humble Pi blog. I curse the stupid caricature of him when it loads. Most of the entries are just random ruminations and xkcd-esque cartoons. Then I get about ten posts down, and my jaw drops.

  If I’m reading this correctly . . .

  It can’t be.

  It is.

  Mr. Kimbrough has created an actual Galgorithm.

  Under the misleadingly academic and, I’m assuming, tongue-in-cheek heading “A Mathematical Look at ­Conversing with Women,” he’s taken all the texting tips I’ve given him, formatted them into an Excel spreadsheet, and created a real algorithm that analyzes text messages from girls.

  It’s actually pretty sophisticated, and I’m starting to go numb trying to decipher it, but I eventually figure out that there are five variables in the formula: pace (how quickly she responds and how frequently), cadence (if she sends multiple texts in a row and who sent the last text), ­punctuation (use of commas, exclamation points, and question marks), shorthand (use of acronyms, emojis, and emoticons), and format (repeating of vowels, repeating of consonants, and capitalization). Each variable is calculated separately using its own individual formula, and then all the factors are weighted by statistical significance and added together, revealing in one final number—concludes the post—exactly how interested in you a woman is based on her texts.

  It’s mad. It’s genius. It’s scary. And the subtitle reads “Galgorithm—courtesy of Anonymous.”

  If Mr. Kimbrough didn’t name names, then how the hell did it get linked to me?

  To make matters much, much worse, beneath the spreadsheet are some of the tips and techniques I’ve been periodically doling out to Mr. Kimbrough over the past few months. Only he calls them “Corollaries to the Galgorithm,” has given some of them overly fancy technical names, and follows each one with a detailed explanation.

  • Social media initiation window

  • Blind carbon copy trapdoor method

  • Female Pavlovian response mechanism

  • Prejection avoidance and warning signs

  • Nonsense text beachhead establishment

  • Two-dot ellipsis/period hybrid character

  • Laying groundwork for future physicality

  • Eyelash fail-safe with Latisse modification

  • Cloud-based fragrance application strategy

  This doesn’t sound like advice on talking to women; it sounds like instructions for installing new enterprise software or launching a counterterrorism offensive.

  I think I’m gonna have a panic attack. At the very bottom of the post is a crude visitor counter. It reads 15,014.

  I look at the school paper again. Brooke has taken all of this nonsense from the blog and attributed it to me in far-from-flattering fashion.

  I’ve been outed.

  Before I can even figure out what to do next, the door to the computer lab opens, and Mr. Kimbrough himself rushes in. He looks distressed. So I can only imagine what I look like.

  I glare at him. He puts his hands up as if he comes in peace.

  “Some students told me you were in here. Are you okay?”

  “Bob, what the hell is this? What did you do?”

  “I was just messing around, and I decided to take all the advice you gave me and . . . see if I could reverse-engineer the formula. It was just a goof.”

  “A goof? A goof  ? Bob, this is insane!”

  “I didn’t mean for everyone to see it. It was just for a few of my nerdy math-teacher friends who read my blog. It’s supposed to be a joke. I didn’t even put your name on it.”

  “Then why the hell is my name all over the front page of the paper!”

  “I don’t know! I swear!”

  “This article makes me look like some kind of freak!”

  “Now, Shane, just take it easy. We’ll figure this out.”

  I look back at the computer screen, as well as the newspaper. This feels like it isn’t real, like it’s some kind of nightmare.

  “You have to delete this!” I say.

  “It’s too late. It’s already been duplicated on the Chronicle website and God knows where else. If I delete it now, it will only make things worse.”

  “Goddamn it, Bob. You do know this isn’t right, right? You can’t put girls into a formula. You can’t predict what they’re gonna do. They’re girls. This is creepy!”

  “But you have a formula, Shane.”

  “It’s not real! There’s no such thing as the Galgorithm! It was just a ploy to bolster your confidence, to get you to believe in yourself and listen to my advice! Which, by the way, I’m not even giving out anymore. I’m done with the whole thing. I gave it up. I’m being humiliated for something that doesn’t even exist! People are gonna think I’m some kind of insane stalker!”

  “I’m so sorry, Shane. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how it got out. I posted this stuff weeks ago, and no one even said anything. It had twenty-six views the last time I checked.”

  I rub my temples and run my hands through my hair.

  “This can’t be happening.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bob repeats. “I didn’t mean for any of this. The Chronicle picked it up and it just went viral. I only found out this morn—oh no. Deb! Deb is gonna see this!” Bob suddenly gets lost in his own thoughts.

  But I don’t have any time to deal with his problems. I have to get to Balloon!

  I jump up from my seat, but then stop for a moment to shake my head.

  “Bob, you were supposed to deny till you die!”

  34

  I BRAVE MORE
HALLWAYS full of leering classmates. Everyone loves a scandal, especially cruel and hormonal high school kids. The article in the Chronicle not only makes me look like a creep who has reduced girls to a formula and gives his pickup lines military-grade nicknames, but also a puppet master who is deviously pulling the strings behind the ­Kingsview dating scene. It’s a total hatchet job.

  There’s detail and dirt in the article that didn’t come from Humble Pi, though, including my identity, so Balloon better be able to shed some light on what the hell is going on, and fast.

  I manage to make it to the newspaper office, which is in the administration hallway between Student Council and Model UN. Fake government, fake diplomacy, and now fake news.

  I’ve never actually been inside the Chronicle’s offices before and for some reason half expect it to be filled with whirring, steampunk-style printing presses. Instead it’s just a bunch of desks arranged in bullpens. Oh, and there’s a giant map of the world tacked to a bulletin board, laughably implying that anyone here really cares about what happens outside the stucco towers of Kingsview.

  When I walk in, everyone in the room stops what they’re doing and stares at me. I ignore them and zero in on Brooke, who is standing in an alcove in the back, talking to another student. I figure she’s been in the office all day, moderating the sure-to-be-entertaining comments section for the story on the newspaper’s website. When Brooke sees me, she sends the other kid on his way. I approach her. Cute, bubbly, cherubic Balloon is actually the devil in disguise.

  “What the hell, Brooke?”

  I can tell she’s been preparing for this confrontation.

  “I could say the same thing to you, Shane.”

  “You have to retract this story. Or delete it.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because it misrepresents me.”

  “Is anything I wrote not true?”

  “I mean . . . you don’t understand,” I stammer. “First of all, how did you even find out about all this stuff?”

  Brooke crosses her arms. “I’ll never reveal my sources!”

  “Brooke,” I growl.

  “Fine. A few weeks ago, Tristen was working on a puff piece about style trends among teachers. She googled Mr. Kimbrough to try to find some pictures of him and came across Humble Pi. She sent it to me and I started doing some digging.”