The Boyfriend Whisperer

by Linda Budzinski

  I pluck a marshmallow out of my cup and pop it into my mouth. Mmm. Perhaps the yummiest marshmallow I’ve ever tasted.

  Chris and I came back to the hotel, changed, and found a couch by the fireplace. His game starts in less than two hours, so we have just enough time for a cup of cocoa and, I’m hoping, some serious eye-gazing. Despite the fire, I’m still shivering, so Chris drapes his jacket across my shoulders. So far, so good.

  “How come you were so scared back there?” I tuck my chin and peer up at him in what I hope is a flirtatious manner.

  “I don’t know. Maybe the fact that your lips were blue? Or that you weren’t speaking? Or that your legs seemed paralyzed?”

  “That was the weirdest part—losing the feeling in my calves.” I lean toward him. “You saved my life, you know. I was going down.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true.”

  Chris blanches. I place my hand on his and bat my lashes. “First the guy in the movie theater and now this. You’re my hero.” My tone teases, but I’m hoping to appeal to the protector, the conqueror, the he-man inside of him.

  Chris shakes his head and scowls. “Right. Except the guy in the theater never did apologize, and today never even would have happened if I hadn’t pushed you into it. Some hero.” He starts to pull his hand away, but then he stops and looks into my eyes. “Lexi?” His stare is intense. Is he gazing?

  “Yes?”

  “Did you get sand in your eyes? It seems like you’re blinking a lot.”

  I shrink back. “Oh. Maybe.” Why do I suck so badly at this? My flirting advice always looks so good on paper, and it seems to work for everyone else, but whenever I try it, I somehow manage to—

  “Is anyone sitting here?”

  Lindsay LaRouche, one of the cheerleaders, is standing in front of us, pointing at the three inches that separate Chris and me. I frown at Chris, but he shrugs and scoots away.

  “Have a seat.” He fluffs up a pillow against the seat back.

  Seriously?

  She squeezes between us and turns to Chris. “Where have you been all afternoon? I’ve been looking for you.”

  “You have?” His face reddens. Or at least, I imagine it reddening based on the tone of his voice. I can’t actually see it since the back of Lindsay’s red-white-and-blue uniform is about four inches from my face.

  No, Lindsay. No one was sitting here because it’s a small couch, maybe even a loveseat, meant for two people to cuddle up and enjoy the fire. I daydream for a moment about spilling my hot chocolate all over her bright white cheer shoes but decide that would be a waste of perfectly good cocoa.

  Lindsay squeals at something Chris says and somehow manages to scoot even closer to him. Another couple of centimeters and she’d be in his lap. “What are you doing tonight after the game?”

  My heart sinks. Is she asking him out? Lindsay is everything I’m not. She has perfect hair, a perfect smile, a perfect body. And apparently, she is not at all awkward when it comes to flirting with Chris.

  He scoots forward and peers at me. “I think a few of us are planning to check out the Tex-Mex place across the street, right, Lexi?”

  “Um, I’m not sure if that’s a firm plan or—”

  “You can come if you want,” he says. “Should be fun.”

  I hold my breath. Please say no. Please say no.

  “Sounds great, but I probably shouldn’t. A bunch of the cheerleaders are planning a girl’s night out.” Lindsay leans toward him, and it’s obvious from her tone that she wants him to beg her to join us.

  Fortunately, Chris is oblivious. “Too bad. Maybe next time.” He glances at his phone. “I should probably take off. Warm ups start in twenty minutes.”

  Lindsay pouts. “Good luck. I’ll be cheering for you.”

  Well, duh.

  Chris stands, and for a brief moment he reverts back to his once-scrawny younger self. His legs shift clumsily beneath him and he stammers. “Thanks. I … I guess I’ll see you over there.”

  He starts to leave, then turns back around and points to me. “I almost forgot.”

  My heart quickens, and I smile up at him. Forgot what? To tell me how much it will mean to him to have me in the stands cheering as well?

  “My jacket.”

  Oh. Right. I strip it off and hand it to him. As he slips it on over his jersey, Lindsay jumps up and gives him a quick hug. “For good luck!”

  “Wow. Thanks.” Chris’s face burns as red as the stripe in his jacket as he pulls away. “We probably need it.”

  He takes off without another word to me. The hot chocolate sits heavy in my stomach, and the sticky sweet taste of marshmallow coats my throat.

  Chris may not or may not have fallen for Lindsay’s flirting tactics. He may or may not even understand she’s into him. But one thing is certain: He is fully aware of the fact that Lindsay LaRouche is a girl.

  The Tex-Mex place is loud in every sense of the word. It’s a cacophony of bright yellow and orange walls, tables decorated with murals, patterned tiles on the floor, and rhythmic mariachi music pulsing through the sound system. The entire boys’ team and a few of my teammates from the girls’ team have taken over the front half of the restaurant, and we are doing our part to add to the ruckus.

  “Dude, try a few drops. It’s not that hot.” I hold out the bottle of Tabasco sauce, but Chris pushes it away.

  “I’d need a whole pitcher of Mountain Dew to use that stuff.”

  I roll my eyes as I shake the sauce onto my taco salad. “Wimp. Wimp, wimp, wimp.”

  Chris takes a bite of his extra mild chicken burrito. “Guilty as charged,” he mumbles, mostly to himself.

  “Come on.” I tilt the bottle over a slice of his chicken. “One drop. You might like it.”

  He looks doubtful, but he relents. “One drop.”

  By now our whole table is watching. Massey leans in and slaps him on the back. “You got this, bro. You can do it.”

  Chris pushes him away. “Shut up.” He nibbles at the chicken and nods. “Not bad.”

  He tries to play it cool, but I notice his hand reaching for his Dew and can’t help but smile. He’s adorable, even when he is being a wimp. “Well done.” I give him a high five and wave off the onlookers. “Excitement’s over, folks. Nothing more to see here.”

  “I’d say the excitement’s just getting started.” Jerod Wilkins appears at the front door. Jerod plays center for Pine Bridge, one of our rival schools from back home. He, Chris, and I hung out together last summer at basketball camp.

  “Hey, man, how’s it going?” Chris stands and gives him a bro hug. “How was your game?”

  Jerod pulls up a chair from the next table, swivels it around, and sits down next to me. “Close, but we pulled it out. You?”

  Chris shrugs. “We lost. Bad.”

  “Chris lit it up, though,” I pipe in. “Nine baskets and four assists. And a bunch of scouts were there to see it.”

  Jerod turns toward me. “Speaking of great games, that shot you took at the halftime buzzer was sick.”

  “You saw that?”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it.”

  I raise one eyebrow at Chris and give Jerod my sweetest smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I really do.”

  “I tried to track you down afterward, but you left.” Jerod is staring at me with his big dark eyes. He stared like that sometimes at basketball camp, but I never thought much of it. I just assumed he was an intense guy.

  “Sorry I missed you.”

  “Yeah. It’s been a while.” He takes a lock of my hair and lets it fall through his fingers. “Your hair’s gotten long. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it down before. Looks good on you.”

  My face grows warm. “Thanks.” I glance over to see whether Chris has taken notice of Jerod’s obvious flirting, but he’s guzzling down his drink.

  “So where’d you disappear to?” Jerod asks.


  I shift in my chair. “I, um, wasn’t feeling well. A stomach thing.”

  Jerod glances at my taco salad smothered with Tabasco sauce. Ugh. Fortunately, I don’t have to explain, because, at that moment, the already impressive decibel level in the restaurant practically doubles. The cheer squad has arrived. Apparently “girl’s night out” means, “put on a bunch of makeup and semi-revealing outfits and find the guys.”

  I expect Lindsay to make a beeline toward Chris, but she barely even acknowledges him as she takes a seat two tables away.

  For the rest of the evening, I split my attention between listening to Chris and Jerod break down the tournament scouting action and keeping tabs on the number of times Lindsay checks out our table, which isn’t that many. Maybe I was wrong about her liking Chris, or maybe she has a short attention span when it comes to guys. Or maybe she’s playing hard to get. How many times have I advised my clients not to initiate contact?

  Abi is sitting next to Lindsay, and she seems miserable, probably because two of the other cheerleaders are hanging all over Briggs. For two seemingly simple people, Abi and Briggs have a very complicated relationship. I want to go over there and smack him upside the head. This is exactly the kind of stuff he cannot afford to pull if he wants to get back together with her.

  When the waitress finally brings our checks, Jerod throws some cash on the table and stands to leave. He leans down and puts his hand on the back of my chair. “Catch you later, Lexi. Or maybe sooner?” He walks away without waiting for an answer. Thank goodness. I have no idea what to say to that.

  I glance over for Chris’s reaction, but he’s studying his check, frowning as though he’s trying to calculate the square root of Pi rather than a simple twenty percent tip. I sigh. It felt nice to have someone flirt with me, but it would have been even nicer to see a hint of jealousy from across the table.

  As I count out my share of the bill, Briggs plants himself in Jerod’s chair. He’s grinning from ear to ear and practically bouncing in his seat. “So was that the dude?” he asks.

  “Was who what dude?”

  “The dude who just left. Was he the Boyfriend Whisperer dude?”

  “What?” Chris finally looks up from his check.

  Briggs slaps the table. “You haven’t heard? Lexi hired the Boyfriend Whisperer. That was the dude, wasn’t it?”

  “Shut up.” The Tabasco sauce is burning up my stomach, my throat, my face. “Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “It’s true. I saw her hand Abi an env—”

  “I said, shut it!” I clap my hand over his mouth. “Mind your own business, Briggsy.”

  “It’s cool.” Chris folds the check in half. “Jerod seems like a good guy. If you want to go out with him—”

  “Omigod. I do not want to go out with him. Briggs doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  But Chris isn’t listening. He’s folding his check up smaller and smaller—into quarters, eighths, sixteenths. “I mean, personally, I don’t think you need some stupid Boyfriend Whisperer to make it happen, but if that’s what you want to do, why shouldn’t you? He’s—”

  “Enough.” I grab the check away from him, and Chris finally shuts up. “You really think I should go out with Jerod?”

  He shrugs. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Because it did seem like he was flirting with me.”

  “Oh, he was.” Chris imitates Jerod’s smooth voice. “Nice halftime shot. Love your hair. Catch you sooner, babe.”

  So he was paying attention. He heard every word Jerod said to me. The bad news is, none of it made him jealous.

  “Well, then. Maybe I’ll text him when we get back home.”

  Chris looks away. “You should. Nothing’s stopping you.”

  I slap his check back down onto the table. “Good to know.”

  Monday after school, I sneak down past the football field to the recycling center. Abi sent me a text saying we needed to meet. Our normal meeting times are Friday mornings, when she hands off the payments, and Tuesday mornings, when she gives me the new client applications. What could be so important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?

  I find her pacing and mumbling to herself behind the last dumpster. Maybe she really is about to crack.

  “What’s up?”

  I’m expecting her to announce for the hundredth time that she’s quitting, but to my surprise, she shrugs. “Nothing’s up. It’s just … we received a few new applications, and I wanted to give them to you now instead of tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Because …?”

  “No reason. Just didn’t want to hang onto them. Figured it might be better for you to look them over tonight at home, without having to face … never mind. Just take them.” She avoids my eyes as she hands over the large manila envelope. I’m not sure which is shaking more, her voice or her hands. “I have to run and catch the bus.”

  She slips away behind the tree line and breaks into a jog toward the parking lot.

  Oh, man. I think I know what this is about. One of those cheerleaders who was hanging all over Briggs the other night must want me to set them up.

  Poor Abi. I know part of her still really cares for Briggsy. Even if it was her decision to break up, it can’t be easy to watch someone else go after him.

  I slump against one of the recycling dumpsters. What am I going to do? Only once have I ever turned away an applicant, and that was because she wanted to date a guy who was already seeing someone. I won’t break up existing couples. That’s a hard and fast policy, and it says so right on my website. Otherwise, I promise no reasonable application will be denied. And success is guaranteed.

  I take a deep breath and tear open the envelope. The first two applications are simple enough—a girl with a small part in the spring musical pining after the leading man and a freshman tuba player with her eye on a junior marching band drummer. Typical stuff.

  My heart pounds as I pull out the third application. I brace myself and flip over the sheet.

  No. Oh, please, no.

  Your Name: Lindsay LaRouche

  Your BFTB (Boyfriend to Be): Chris Broder

  Dear Jolene:

  Why on earth do you want to go out with Brendon anyway? He’s kind of an idiot. Did you know he wipes his mouth with his sleeve? And he refers to his mother as his “old lady”? Who does that?

  I hate to break it to you, but love’s not really a thing. It’s a chemical reaction—a bunch of pheromones colliding with hormones. Do you want to be a slave to your endocrine glands?

  Research shows that the same endorphin that makes you feel like you’re in love can be found in chocolate. Do yourself a favor: BUY SOME HERSHEY’S KISSES. Less stress, less drama, and infinitely less heartache. Plus, they’re delicious.

  I slump back in my chair and pull my hands through my hair, adjusting and readjusting my ponytail. Crap. Crappity crap, crap, crap. Why does my life have to suck so bad?

  I sigh and hit “delete.”

  Lindsay LaRouche could have any guy she wanted. Why in the name of all that is good and holy does it have to be Chris? And why did she have to hire me to set them up? I glare at the offending envelope lying on my desk and try to console myself: Come on, Lexi, it’s not all bad. This will be the easiest $125 you’ve ever made.

  Nope. Not feeling any better.

  What would it be like with the two of them together? I picture them walking down the hall holding hands. Chris whispers something into Lindsay’s ear, sending her into giggles. They stop at her locker, and Chris holds her books for her while she fools with her combination. Chris taps his left foot the way he always does when he’s waiting, letting off nervous energy. As he hands her books back, Lindsay smiles up at him, and he leans down and—

  “Lexi!” Dad calls from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”

  I shake my head and try to lose the visual. Before heading downstairs, I slip into the ba
throom to splash some cool water on my face.

  Dad made his specialty tonight—chicken stir-fry with jasmine rice. I usually devour his stir-fry, but tonight I have no appetite. I nibble at a snow pea and hope my parents won’t notice.

  “Tell us about your game,” Mom says. “And how was Virginia Beach?”

  I shrug. I so do not want to talk about it. Part of me wishes I could tell them what’s going on with Chris and me—or more accurately, not going on—but that’ll never happen. Mom and Dad aren’t exactly touchy-feely types. I’ve never really had a heart-to-heart with them, or even a conversation about anything too personal. Unless, of course, you count having the talk with my mom in the sixth grade, also known as the most excruciating fifteen minutes of my life.

  “What’s the matter, Lexi?” Mom reaches over and feels my forehead. “You look rather pale. And your eyes are puffy.”

  “I’m fine. A little tired.”

  “We would have come down for the tournament if we could. You know that, don’t you? I mean, Carol’s my boss, so I couldn’t miss—”

  “What?” I shake my head. “Of course, Mom. That’s not it.”

  “Then what?”

  “I told you, it’s nothing.”

  We eat in silence for a while, but I can feel them staring. Finally, my dad clears his throat. “We kept up with the scores online. You put up some nice stats. And a nice win.”

  “I did. We did.”

  “Did you meet with any scouts?” Mom asks.

  Speaking of things I don’t want to talk about. I shake my head and stab my fork into a mini carrot.

  “I see.” Mom purses her lips. “Perhaps they didn’t want to be too pushy. I mean, most of them have already contacted—”

  “Saw an interesting article the other day.” I mash the carrot into my rice. “Apparently more and more high school grads are opting out of college, or they’re taking just a few courses—the ones they actually need to get the jobs they want. Some super entrepreneurial types are starting their own businesses straight out of high school.”

  “Interesting.” Dad walks over to the stove for another helping. “Can’t say I blame them.”