The Boyfriend Whisperer

by Linda Budzinski

  Chris shifts in his seat but says nothing.

  I take a deep breath. “Anyway, I’m glad she did ask me to come out tonight. Riding home with Mark and Bev would’ve been a nightmare. Thanks for letting me tag along.”

  “First off, you’re not tagging along. You’re hanging out with us. Or we’re hanging out with you. I mean … we’re all hanging out together. And second, sorry about your parents. You know it’s only because they have an unhealthy obsession with the sport, right?”

  I laugh. If anyone else dissed my parents, I’d be pissed. Well, embarrassed and pissed. But Chris is allowed. He loves them, and they love him, almost like the son they never had.

  The rest of the evening isn’t horrible. Lindsay dominates the conversation with a rambling story about her stepsister who auditioned last season for a spot on “The Bachelor,” but it’s actually pretty funny. Who knew crowds of guys pooled in the parking lot in the hopes of hooking up with the contestant wannabes?

  Somehow, Lindsay manages to pick apart her crab legs neatly and daintily and without a single casualty to her nails. Impressive. We’re about to ask for the check when a line of wait staff files out of the kitchen. They march past the dance floor and down the aisle, straight to our booth.

  “We understand someone has a birthday today,” a tall guy shouts out to the entire restaurant. He’s staring at Chris.

  Lindsay kicks me under the table and winks, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

  No. She. Didn’t.

  One of the waitresses holds out a huge multi-colored afro wig. Chris’s face matches the streak of pink running down the center of it. Oh, dear Lord. This should be interesting. On Chris’s eleventh birthday he about died of embarrassment because his mom made him wear one of those little birthday-hat cones while we sang to him. And that was in the privacy of his own kitchen.

  Chris turns to Lindsay as he tugs the ’fro onto his head. “I’m going to kill you.”

  The tall guy pulls up a chair from a nearby table. “And now, we need you to hop up here so we can sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you.”

  “Tell you what,” Chris says. “I think I’m tall enough.” He gets to his feet, dwarfing everyone.

  Tall Guy’s eyes widen, and he pushes the chair back. “Alright-y, then.” He looks around at the rest of the servers. “Ready?”

  “Actually, I have a better idea.” One of the waitresses steps forward and holds up a microphone. “How about if Chris sings ‘Happy Birthday’ to himself?”

  Oh, my. If there is one thing Chris is even less likely to do in public than dance, it’s sing. No way will he go for this. Lindsay’s joke was cute, but it’s over. Chris is going to pull out his license and prove to everyone that today is not, in fact, his birthday.

  Only he doesn’t. He takes the mic, strolls down the aisle to the dance area and strikes a rock star pose. He mock head-bangs to the point that tufts of the wig start to fall off and belts out the most overly dramatic version of the birthday song ever performed. The crowd, as they say, goes wild, while I sit in stunned silence. Because first of all, the boy’s got pipes. He can sing. And second of all, what the what?

  As the applause subsides, Chris hands the mic back to the waitress and returns to our booth.

  “What was that?” I point to the dance floor. “Since when do you know how to sing?”

  He shrugs. “I sing in the shower.”

  “Okay, but …” I force myself past the visual. “Why have I never heard you before? Like, not even in the car. You’re good.”

  “Oh, come on. It was ‘Happy Birthday.’”

  “It was awesome.”

  “Yes, it was.” Lindsay wraps one hand around his neck and pulls him toward her. “Time for your birthday kiss.”

  Ugh. The kiss lasts approximately four hours, or maybe four seconds, I can’t be sure. I try to look away, but I can’t. My stomach twists, sending pangs of regret coursing through me—regret for having eaten that second crab cake, regret for coming here tonight, and most of all, regret for setting the two of them up in the first place. Why did I do that again?

  Chris finally pulls away from Lindsay. His face is bright red, but he’s wearing a goofy grin, and I remind myself: That’s why. Chris is happy. And he deserves to be happy. And as his best friend, I am happy to see him happy.

  He stands and grabs his coat off the hook beside our booth. “Let’s split before they decide to do the Macarena and make me join in. I was here one time when they picked on the birthday girl the entire night.”

  Fine with me. Lindsay and I grab our coats and follow him out to the car. I barely notice Lindsay’s fidgeting on the way home. I’m too busy reminding myself of how happy I am.

  My parents are not happy. They’re waiting for me in the den when I get home. My dad has kicked back in his recliner, his display case looming behind him. The wall-length monument to his brief career is crammed with photos, news clippings, trophies, game balls, and jerseys.

  Chris and I used to stand for what seemed like hours admiring everything in the case. My favorite piece has always been the Washington Post photo of Dad shooting a championship game buzzer beater in his Wheaton High uniform. He looks so young. Chris’s favorite is the basketball signed by Michael Jordan, one of the greatest players in the history of the Bulls.

  Once when we were about nine, I dared him to take the Jordan ball out. I knew where my dad kept the keys to the case, though I’d never worked up the nerve to open it.

  Chris took the dare. His eyes shone as he held the ball, his finger tracing the huge loop of the “J” in his idol’s last name.

  But then my mom caught him. “Christian Broder!” She stood in the doorway of the den, eyes ablaze.

  Chris froze. “I … I’m …”

  I stepped forward. “It’s my fault, Mom. I dared him.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry, young lady. You’re in trouble, too.” Mom turned back to Chris.

  “No, Mrs. Malloy.” He found his voice. “Lexi tried to stop me. She shouldn’t get in trouble.”

  I still did, of course—no TV for a week—but Chris had it worse. His parents grounded him from TV, the computer, and video games for two weeks. I thought he’d be mad, but when I saw him in school the next day, he thanked me. “It’s M.J., Lexi. M.J.”

  Chris wanted to grow up to be just like Michael Jordan. Even now, at seventeen, though he has a more realistic view of his chances, he still wants to take his basketball career as far as he can. He loves the game, and he’d play forever if he could.

  Me, on the other hand? Not so much. And somehow I need to break the news to my parents. Maybe tonight’s the night, with my junior-year season behind me and my entire senior year ahead. It’s not that I don’t want to play next year. I do. But if I make it clear that basketball is not my entire future, my meal ticket, maybe next year doesn’t have to be so intense.

  I take a deep breath and sit down on the couch next to my mom.

  “How was Joe’s?” she asks.

  Small talk—a good sign that they’re not totally pissed at me. “It was fine. I got the crab cakes.”

  Mom glances at my father. “We think we know what this is about. Your … distraction.”

  Aaaand … thus ends the small talk. My jaw tenses. I have no idea what their theory is, but it’s wrong. Or partially right at best. Because when I said I was distracted by life, I meant it. There’s no one simple explanation.

  “This is about a boy, isn’t it?” The corners of Mom’s lips curl up in a half smile.

  Oh, jeez. Okay, part right.

  “Sweetheart.” Dad places his elbows on the arms of his chair and brings his massive hands together, his fingers forming a church and a steeple, like the game he used to play with me when I was little. “We know you’re growing up. Sometimes faster than we’d like.” His eyebrow twitches, and my mom fidgets next to me.

  Oh, no. I flash back to the sixth grade. Please tell me we are not
having the growing up and liking boys and protecting my virtue talk.

  Dad continues. “But there will be plenty of time for boys after college.”

  I blink. College? They expect me to place my love life on hold for another five years?

  “That’s right.” Mom chimes in. “Right now, boys are exactly what you said—a distraction. One you can ill afford. Do you know, I was reviewing your stats sheets this evening, and while the number of three-pointers you made this year went up from last year, the percentage actually went down?”

  She reveals this in the same pained tone I imagine her using when she breaks it to her boss that their company’s profit margins have dropped. I remember her explaining to my dad once that for every one percent decrease in annual profits, the company had to cut twelve staff.

  But come on. My three-point shots are hardly a life-and-death matter. And why should the fact that I sat out a game for six minutes—well, five minutes and fifty-six seconds, not that I was counting—trigger a freaking all-out red alert? It’s a game, people.

  I clasp my hands together and stare down at them. How many times over the years have I wanted to shout that very sentence to my parents? Every time Dad’s bellow echoed across the court when the ref made a bad call, every time Mom nagged me about updating my stats sheet, every time we drove home from a loss in deafening silence.

  I look up at my dad. “First of all, I’m not waiting to date until after college. That’s preposterous. Second of all …”

  Dad grimaces and rubs his bad knee. I force myself not to roll my eyes. I get it, Dad. You blew out your knee and your career, and now you want me to pick up where you left off. Can you spell ‘cliché’?

  “Second of all, this isn’t about a boy. At least, not entirely. I happen to have a lot going on right now. Basketball is just one part of my life, you know.”

  “Darling, of course we know that.” Mom pats my leg. “You have your schoolwork, and that’s important. And you want to hang out with your friends. Perfectly normal. But—”

  “But what? You two have drilled it into my head since I was six years old that I should be a well-rounded player—someone who could pass, dribble, catch, shoot, block. Maybe I want to be a well-rounded human being, too. Basketball is only one piece of my life. And it may not even be the most important piece.”

  “What?” My mother’s mouth twists. “Where is this coming from, Alexis? You’ve worked too hard to get where you are to treat basketball like a … a hobby.”

  “That’s the problem. It’s become work. As in, not a game. Not fun. I can’t tell you how psyched I am that this season is over.”

  “So what are you trying to say?” Dad’s still rubbing his knee. “You don’t want to do camp this year? Is that it? Because we can take a summer off from camp and concentrate on your physical training if you want.”

  “Physical training. Because that’s a blast.” I shake my head. Time to spit this out. Pull off one more Band-Aid. “What I’m trying to say is …”

  But I can’t do it, because something in my dad’s eyes is begging me not to break his heart. I can see in his expression all the hours he’s logged doing passing and shooting drills with me, all the miles he’s driven for my practices, tournaments, and camps, and all the scraped knees and elbows he’s helped make all better.

  I sigh. “I need a break; that’s all. I’m burnt out. Just give me some time.”

  Who knows? Maybe a little time is all I need.

  A noise startles me, and I turn to see the garage door closing. Oh, no. For a moment I consider dashing over, dropping, and rolling beneath it in a dramatic escape, but after all, I’m a basketball player, not a gymnast. With my luck, one of my limbs would get stuck and have to be amputated.

  I’m researching Nick Garland for a client, and now I’m stuck in his garage. Lovely. What if he walks in and finds me? What possible excuse could I give for sneaking in here? This is the end. I’m totally going to be outed. Everyone will find out I’m the Boyfriend—

  Oh, gosh. What if his mom or dad finds me? Forget being outed. I could go to jail for trespassing. That’s what it would be, right? I mean, it wouldn’t be breaking and entering because technically I didn’t break anything to get in. The garage door was wide open when I snuck into his yard. Maybe if my parents get me a good lawyer I could plead my way to community service or—

  I shake my head and blink hard. Chill, Lexi. Think. There has to be a way out of this. I tiptoe to the inside door and slowly, gently turn the knob. It gives. Good. So it’s not locked. Of course, I can’t exactly saunter into the Garlands’ mudroom or kitchen or wherever the heck this door leads, but at least I’m not completely trapped. I take out my phone and dial Abi. Pick up. Please, please, please pick up.

  “Hello?”

  “Abi! I need a favor.”

  “Lexi? I can barely hear you.”

  “I’m whispering.”

  “What?”

  “I’m— Never mind. I need a favor.”

  There’s a pause, and I can feel Abi rolling her eyes. I always need a favor.

  “You always need a favor.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry, but this time, it’s serious. And … immediate.”

  Another pause. “What is it?”

  “I’m in Nick Garland’s garage, and I need you to help me get out.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “No, I mean, why are you in his garage?”

  “I wanted to gather some intel, though frankly it’s been a total waste of my time. He has some motor cross stuff, a bunch of hunting paraphernalia—exactly what you’d expect for a guy who wears flannel every day to school. Anyway, apparently somebody somewhere hit a button and … well, I’m trapped. I need your help.”

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Finally, Abi replies. “What exactly am I supposed to do?”

  I smile. Abi always comes through. “It’s no big deal. I just need you to come over here and create a distraction—something that will get everyone out of the house.”

  “A distraction? How am I—”

  “You’ve got this, Abi. You can do it.” I hang up and press my ear against the door. Somewhere inside a television is on. I can hear singing. It sounds like some sort of cartoon. I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate. It sounds so familiar but … oh, my. No way. Is that My Little Pony? Could Nick be a Brony? Mr. Mountain Boots and Two-Inch Beard? Or maybe he has a kid sister.

  I crack the door open the teeniest bit. He’s rustling around in the next room, which must be the kitchen because I can hear cabinet doors opening and closing and the sound of silverware clanging. The smell of peanut butter makes my mouth water. And that’s when he starts humming. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. He is a Brony. Nick Garland. Of all the things I love about being the Boyfriend Whisperer, this is definitely at the top of the list. I learn something new every day about my classmates. People are rarely exactly as they seem.

  Soon after Nick finishes making his snack and goes back into the TV room, the doorbell rings. Show time. I hear footsteps and the front door opening. I crack the door wider to listen.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi. It’s Nick, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Abi. We go to school together.”

  “I know.” Nick sounds confused. And wary.

  “Can you help me? I think there’s a snake in my car.”

  I clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. A snake? In her car? I love Abi.

  “There I was, driving innocently down the road, when all of a sudden I saw this little head peek out from under the passenger seat.” Abi sounds appropriately hysterical. “Of course, I pulled over immediately and, well, thank goodness you’re someone I know. This would be so embarrassing if … by the way, is anyone else home?”

  “My mom’s upstairs.”

  “Could she help too?” />
  “What?”

  “It would be great if she could help. There’s safety in numbers, you know.”

  “She’s taking a nap.” It’s apparent from Nick’s tone that he thinks Abi is insane.

  “I see. Well, I guess that’s okay.”

  “It’s okay if my mom takes a nap?”

  “I guess. I mean, of course it is. What about your sister?”

  “What?”

  “Your—”

  “Oh, that.” The television goes mute. “Right. Yeah, that’s … it’s not what … I mean, she just left.”

  “Ah. Okay. Anyway, that’s my car over there. The red one across the street. Let’s go get that snake.” She practically shouts the last sentence, no doubt for my benefit, though I’m hoping it wasn’t also loud enough to wake Mrs. Garland.

  I take a deep breath and step into what turns out to be a laundry room when I hear the front door open again and Nick’s voice. “I have some nets in the garage. Let me grab one.”

  “No, no. I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Abi sounds panicked. “How about if we just open all the doors and I’ll hit my car alarm and—”

  “Give me one minute.”

  Oh, no. I slip back into the garage and crouch down behind a huge pile of fishing gear. Which, I realize too late, includes several nets. I curl into as tight a ball as possible and tuck in my chin. I am so busted.

  Sure enough, Nick walks straight over to the fishing nets. I hold my breath.

  It takes him a solid three minutes to untangle the net he wants. The entire time he’s muttering, wondering how someone manages to wind up with a snake in her car. At last, he frees the net with one final pull, which sends one of the rods crashing into my forehead. It stings like crazy, but I manage to hold in my yelp.

  Finally, he turns and leaves, and I hear the front door open and close. I waste no time slipping through the laundry room and into the kitchen toward the back door. I make it halfway to the door when I hear footsteps on the staircase.

  “Nick?” It’s his mom. “Did I hear a doorbell?”