Me You Us

by Aaron Karo

  “Tristen?” This is not computing.

  “I saw the Galgorithm post on the blog,” she continues, “and it immediately looked familiar. I recognized some of those tricks from when Anthony and I first started going out. I confronted him about it, and he caved pretty quickly.”

  Goddamn it, Hedgehog.

  “He told me all about your little scheme.”

  “It’s not a scheme!”

  She ignores me.

  “I looked through all of your Facebook friends and noticed that you had a few random older friends.”

  Somehow I’ve always known that Mark Zuckerberg would screw me.

  “I also noticed that some of those friends had one thing in common: They were dating girls way out of their league.”

  No such thing!

  I keep my mouth shut.

  “I put two and two together,” she continues, “and reached out to them. A few of them were former clients who had already graduated. They agreed to talk to me if I kept them anonymous.”

  So cold. Sold out by my own clients.

  “And you didn’t think to come to me to get my side before you printed anything?”

  “I knew you would have just freaked out and denied everything and had Mr. Kimbrough take it down.”

  “Damn right I would have freaked out!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh, so you have your little scoop and that’s all that matters?” I say. “I thought we were friends. Well, congratulations, this is much bigger than Watermelongate.”

  “If fruit salad is advertised on the menu, it should include watermelon! Our tax dollars pay for that food!”

  I try to get back to the point.

  “Brooke, you don’t understand. There’s no such thing as the Galgorithm. That thing on Mr. Kimbrough’s blog, I’ve never seen it before in my life. He created it on his own. There was no Galgorithm until he made one!”

  “So all those pickup lines and little tricks, those aren’t yours?” She arches an eyebrow.

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean, they used to be. It’s complicated.”

  “Try me.”

  “That thing on the blog, it makes it seem like there is some algorithm to get girls. There’s not. You can’t distill everything they do down to a number. That’s not how it works. The whole thing needs a human touch. Someone to interpret everything.”

  “So that’s what you do? You’re an interpreter for guys who you label nerds? Like some kind of dork whisperer?”

  I don’t even know where to begin. “Brooke, this isn’t even me anymore. I’m retired. Out of the game.”

  This does not satisfy her in the slightest.

  “I just want to make sure I’m clear. So you never advised your clients to use the same technique as Pavlov’s dogs?”

  I sigh. “Yes and no.”

  “Go on.”

  “Obviously Pavlovian conditioning doesn’t work on human girls.”

  Just saying these words makes me feel like such a tool. Brooke rolls her eyes. I need to explain.

  “I mean, the reason I advise—advised—my clients to be near the girl they like when the girl gets good news is not so that the girl will somehow eventually associate good news with the guy.”

  “Then what’s the reason?”

  “It’s to help the guy start to feel comfortable around the girl. It’s to give him a specific time and place every day or every week when all he’s thinking about is the girl. It’s to give the guy a moment to look forward to when he knows the girl he is pining after will be all smiles and good vibrations. It’s to give him hope.”

  “Uh huh,” Brooke says, unconvinced. “Yeah, well, I didn’t really appreciate finding out that Anthony was stalking me for months before we went out.”

  “He wasn’t stalking you! I was there. He was learning about you so that he could have a meaningful conversation with you once he got up the nerve to even talk to you. Anthony will tell you himself. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. We broke up.”

  No.

  “What do you mean you broke up?”

  “I mean, when I found out what he did, and I put all the pieces together, I ended it. Just before we went to press.”

  “What he did? He adored you. He was devoted to you. Years before you even knew he existed.”

  “I know. And that’s weird.”

  “But you can’t break up. You’re Hedgehog and Balloon. You’re the perfect couple. You’re totes adorbs.”

  “We’re not Hedgehog and Balloon anymore.”

  “Okay, time-out: I understand why Anthony is Hedgehog, but why are you called Balloon?”

  She loudly CLAPS her hands in front of my face, startling me.

  “Because I pop when you least expect it.”

  “Jesus Christ. Really?”

  “No, it’s because when I laugh it sounds really squeaky, like a balloon.”

  “Oh.”

  “You messed up, Shane. You lied to a lot of people. And a lot of people are hurt.”

  My mind suddenly starts to wander. . . .

  “Shane,” she continues, “are you listening to me? Shane?”

  I need to find Jak.

  35

  JAK HAS VANISHED. She didn’t respond to any of my calls or texts. She wasn’t at her locker at any of her usual times. She didn’t even go to any of her afternoon classes—including Ms. Solomon’s history class, which I barged into only to find Jak’s seat in the back row unoccupied. I checked all our usual haunts. She wasn’t in the cafeteria or the courtyard. I called her house, and her mom said she hadn’t come home from school yet. I even drove to Perkin’s Beanery to see if she was hiding out there. No dice.

  It’s a million-to-one shot, but I decide to look one more place and blow right past Zoey with a y or Sofia with an f or whoever is currently manning the front desk at Sweat ­Republic. I search the gym floor and the treadmills, but Jak’s not there. Finally I check the yoga studio in the back. It has clear glass windows, but the lights are off. I walk inside and flick the lights on, and that’s where I find her: sitting on an oversize ab ball in the corner, staring at the wall. It would be a depressing sight if she didn’t look so beautiful.

  “Jak!”

  She doesn’t respond. I cross the hardwood floor, grab another ab ball, and sit on it next to her. She’s furious and doesn’t acknowledge me.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you. Are you okay?” She doesn’t answer. I’m not sure what to do. “I guess neither of us is having a sweat-tastic day,” I offer.

  She rotates away from me on her ball. My attempt at lightening the mood has fallen flat.

  “Jak, the whole thing in the paper is totally blown out of proportion. Is that what you’re upset about? Because I don’t do that stuff anymore. The whole Galgorithm thing is made up.”

  She rotates back so that we are side by side but she doesn’t have to look at me.

  “I thought I knew you,” she says.

  “You do know me, Jak. You do know me. You knew I helped some of the nerdy guys talk to girls.”

  “I thought you were just messing around. I thought it was just for fun. Shane, I didn’t know the extent. I didn’t know that you had half the school on your roster.”

  “Come on, Jak. I didn’t have half the school on my roster.”

  “And that formula?”

  “It’s not real, Jak. Mr. Kimbrough created it. The ­Galgorithm was just a silly name I made up for my services. The whole thing is silly.”

  “Your services?”

  I realize this is having the opposite of the intended effect and making me sound even more creepy.

  “Not services. My . . . assistance.”

  “It couldn’t have been that silly a thing, Shane. You kept it a secret from me.”

  She’s got me there.

  “Jak . . .”

  “I thought we told each other everything.”

  “We do. It was just this one dumb thing that I didn’t even think was worth t
elling you. I had one secret. Sue me.”

  I contemplate why I didn’t tell Jak about everything in the first place, years ago. I wonder if, just maybe, these feelings I have for her now have been there all along. Maybe a part of me has always been in love with Jak. Maybe that’s why I didn’t want her to judge me for what I was doing.

  “He used it on me,” she murmurs.

  “Huh?”

  “That thing. The Galgorithm. Adam used some of that stuff on me. He’s one of your clients, isn’t he?”

  I hesitate.

  “Was. Yeah. I guess that’s another thing I should have told you.”

  “So you tricked him into liking me?”

  “No! Not at all! He liked you all on his own. In fact, he didn’t even tell me that he was interested in you. I actually kinda got mad that he went behind my back to talk to you. He did it by himself.”

  “But he used the stuff you taught him.”

  “Jak, it doesn’t really work like that. Every case is different.”

  “Case.”

  “I don’t mean it like that. I mean just because Adam used to be a client doesn’t mean I taught him how to hit on you.”

  That doesn’t sound much better.

  “But then all of a sudden he was over me and into Rebecca. Was that you too?”

  “No! I mean . . . not technically.”

  “Why, Shane? Why did you get involved?”

  This is not the moment to tell her how I feel. Not here. Not like this. I can’t drop a bombshell like that on her now. It’s not fair. It will feel like an excuse. It will put all the pressure on her.

  “Why, Shane?” she repeats.

  I shrug. I feel awful. I never should have gotten involved in Jak’s dating life, no matter what I was thinking at the time.

  “I thought I did something dumb at the party,” she says. “I thought that was why Adam didn’t like me anymore.”

  Jak is more upset about Adam than she was letting on. But mostly, I can tell, she’s disappointed in me.

  She rotates away from me again. She’s crying. I have not seen Jak cry since we were little kids. It’s heartbreaking.

  “Please don’t cry.”

  “Am I not enough for you?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Am I not enough for you? Is your life so empty that you need to fill it with other people’s problems? You’ve been MIA for months. Why do you think I got the Fitbits and the gym membership? So you would actually hang out with me. But this is how you’ve been spending your time? I counted on you. Do you know how much that hurts?”

  “Jak, all of this is behind me. The clients, the cases, the formula. I gave it up.”

  “Well, it’s not behind me. I . . . I don’t know. I thought we had something special.”

  “We do have something special.”

  She starts to sob. She shakes her head. “No. Not anymore. You’ve changed. You’re different now.”

  “I’m not, Jak. I’m still the same. It’s me, Shane the Mane. Please stop crying.”

  She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her shirt like a little kid. So damn endearing.

  “You’re not the same. I liked the old Shane. I liked baggy-jeans Shane. Pocket-protector Shane. That Shane was all right.”

  “I’m still that Shane!”

  “That Shane wasn’t too busy for me. That Shane didn’t backstab me. That Shane was my best friend.”

  I get off my ab ball and get down on one knee in front of Jak so she is forced to look at me.

  “Please, Jak. Don’t do this.”

  “I didn’t do anything, Shane. You did this.”

  “We can work this out. We always do. We can still be besties.”

  “We can’t,” she says. “You lied to me. You kept secrets from me. You betrayed me.”

  “One day we’ll look back at this and laugh.”

  “Maybe you will,” she says as she stands up.

  I’m still on my knee on the floor. She takes her Fitbit off and gives it to me. I feel like she is handing me her bloodied heart on a platter.

  “Don’t talk to me anymore. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. I don’t want to know you.”

  “Please,” I say. “Jak, let me make it up to you. I can make this right.”

  “I thought I was different,” she says. “I thought you treated me better.”

  “You are! I do!”

  “Yeah, well, I hope your next best friend is more understanding.”

  And with that she walks out of the room, but not before shutting off the lights and leaving me in the dark.

  36

  THE PAST WEEK OR SO has been a blur. And not the good kind of blur, either. A really, really bad blur. Devastated by the Galgorithm exposé and my falling out with Jak, I’ve tried to avoid my other classmates as much as possible. Fortunately, AP exams were administered at the middle school in ­Kingsview, which kept me away from much of the high school population for a few days. On the other days, I stayed home, either claiming to be studying or faking sick.

  I think my exams went fine. I felt strangely in the zone during the tests because it was a bit of relief from the chaos in my personal life. Who knew that humiliation and heartbreak could be a substitute for Adderall.

  Meanwhile, the baseball team has begun its playoff push, led by my archnemesis Harrison. I have stayed far away from the games, of course. I don’t really care about baseball anyway, but am secretly rooting for us to maintain this winning streak. It keeps Harrison focused more on charging the batter’s box at the tiniest provocation and less on charging at me.

  We’ve reached mid-May and there’s only six weeks of high school left, but I feel totally numb. Being without Jak has been the hardest part. She’s completely shut me out. Won’t return my texts. Blocked me on Insta. Something that has been a part of me my whole life is now suddenly gone; I feel like I’m missing a limb. I’ve tried to apologize to her every way I know how, but nothing seems sufficient.

  My feelings for Jak have not diminished or wavered in any way. If anything, they’ve only intensified. I love her and I want to spend every waking moment we have left together, which makes our rift that much more painful. She’s totally disappeared from my world. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, then my heart has grown as fond as possible and is about to burst out of my chest.

  I’ve tried to tell Tristen that she should move on, that I’m not the right guy for her, and that she deserves better. But as much as Jak refuses to let me in, Tristen refuses to let me go.

  I feel like I’ve been misunderstood. Not just by Jak, but by everyone who read the article about me and gasped. People seem to think that I was pulling strings and scheming behind the scenes. But all my advice ever did was stop guys from being their own worst enemies.

  Right now, though, I’m learning that the benefits of all my advice are only temporary. When I spot Reed sitting in a booth at the pizza place on Hickory—the site of his and ­Marisol’s first date—I immediately notice a difference in him. His posture is poor. His hair is unkempt. His T-shirt is rumpled. I’m pretty sure he’s wearing those dumpy jeans his mom bought him. Probably no belt, either. In the time since the ­Galgorithm was exposed, Reed has regressed to his old self. His swagger is gone.

  I join him in the booth. “Hey, man.”

  “Hey, Shane,” he says, not as enthusiastically as the last time we chatted, but friendly nonetheless.

  “Thanks for suggesting this,” I say. “I really needed to get out of the house.”

  “No problem,” he says. “I have a lot of good memories of this place.”

  The restaurant is small, only a few tables, and there’s no air-conditioning, just two ceiling fans. It’s hot, and the walls are red brick, so it feels like you’re actually inside a brick pizza oven.

  Reed hasn’t ordered yet, so I figure I’ll just wait until he’s ready. In the meantime, there are some unfortunate developments that need to be discussed.

  “I heard about Mariso
l,” I say.

  Reed hangs his head.

  Like Brooke, when Marisol saw the article and blog post about the Galgorithm, she thought some of the “techniques” seemed familiar. Eventually she figured out that Reed was a client of mine. Then she broke up with him.

  “It sucks, Shane.”

  “Remember how one of the very first things I ever taught you was to be positive as much as possible and to apologize as little as possible?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “I think it’s okay to be negative now. And also: I’m sorry.”

  Something makes me think I’m gonna be apologizing a lot in the coming weeks.

  “Hey, if it wasn’t for you, I never would have been dating Marisol in the first place.”

  “Still, if she broke up with you over something I did, then it’s my fault. What did she say?”

  “Just that she was embarrassed. And she felt like I lied to her. Like our whole relationship was based on me being creepy.”

  “Have you tried talking to her since? Given her some time to cool off?”

  “Right now she’s not returning any of my calls.” He sighs. “I figure if I can’t be with Marisol, then I don’t want to be with anyone else. So I changed back to my old clothes. That way no one will ever want to date me, like it’s supposed to be.”

  “Don’t say that, Reed. You know as well as I do that ­Marisol never went for you because you updated your wardrobe.”

  “Is this where you give me the ‘it’s what’s inside that counts’ speech? Because I’m really not in the mood.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, allowing him space. “So what’s the scene been like at school?”

  “Oh, you know Kingsview. Everyone’s got the attention span of a fruit fly. A lot of people have moved on. The baseball team is all the rage now. Some of the girls are still pissed. But you’ve developed quite the cult following among the, let’s say, socially challenged crowd.”

  This I knew. Every nerd, geek, and dweeb in town has been messaging me asking for advice. Advice for what? I think to myself. How to end up alone? I haven’t responded to any of them.