How (Not) to Find a Boyfriend

by Allyson Valentine

  It’s an effort to unclench my teeth. “Need I remind you that Phil never went to a single dance? He didn’t play any sports. He was a social pariah.”

  Mom folds her arms over her chest. “Oh, for god’s sake, Nora.”

  “What? I want more out of high school than just good grades. I want people to know my name. I want people who matter to invite me to join them at their lunch table.”

  Mom blinks. “‘People who matter’? And you don’t think you’ll get invited to have lunch with them if you’re taking AP classes? If that’s the case, are they really the kind of people you want to spend time with?”

  God! She sounds just like a mother. “Look. You’re not in high school,” I tell her. “You don’t see what I see. There are just certain things you need to do if you want to be—”

  I stop, knowing full well how the P word will go over with Mom.

  “If you want to be what?”

  I dodge. “Last year I figured out how to at least not be in social exile like I was in middle school. This year, I want more. I want to be—” Oh, to hell with it. “I want to be popular.”

  Mom drops her head into her hands. It’s like I’ve just told her I aspire to being a porn star. “Oh, for crying out loud. Is that really what this cheerleading thing is all about? About being one of the ‘popular girls’?”

  What can I say to repair the damage I’ve done to her feminist sensibility? “What about making choices, Mother? Choosing for oneself? Isn’t that sort of the feminist ideal? I chose not to take AP classes. And I’m not a cheerleader simply because there were no other options open to me. I chose it. It’s fun. It’s athletic.”

  I can’t keep the corner of my mouth from lifting into a glimmer of a smile at the memory of how it felt to be out there today in front of the guys. “I kind of like being right out there in front of a crowd.”

  On the stove the artichokes hit full tilt, and steam spews out the sides of the pot. Mom races over to turn down the heat. She comes back and touches the revised schedule like it might be contaminated. “I really don’t get it. What does bimbo-izing your schedule have to do with being a cheerleader or with popularity? You do realize you’re perpetuating the ‘dumb cheerleader’ stereotype, don’t you? Right or wrong, cheerleaders have a reputation for being a little dim.”

  I pause. As much as I hate being known as a mega-brain, I don’t really want to be thought of as dim, either. Still, am I not basing my actions on observation? And isn’t that what a successful scientist would do? Chelsey has a popularity quotient that’s off the charts. So does Jake. Neither of them would be in an AP biology class unless we were dissecting them. If dumbing down my schedule will make me more likely to fit in with people like Chelsey and Jake, then that’s what I want to do. But that line of logic will fall flat here at Mensa headquarters, and I know it.

  I give Mom the same argument I gave Ms. Ostweiler, reminding her that this is my first year doing cheer—the year I figure it all out. I can take more rigorous courses next year.

  The timer goes off. Mom opens the oven door, and a cloud of heat fogs her glasses. She turns and points in my general direction. “We are not done with this conversation, young lady. Go call your brother in for dinner.”

  Dinner may be mere minutes away, but I’m starving. I grab an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table and am almost to the front door when she calls out after me. “I hate to see any woman waste her potential.”

  She doesn’t get it. I am brimming with potential. If I play things right, I might even be captain of the cheer squad when I’m a senior. By then I’ll have established my popularity. I can probably take any courses I like. As, Ps—whatever. Chelsey, who’s a senior, will have graduated—well, hopefully—and I will be Nora Fulbright, newly crowned queen of the Monarch butterflies.

  I peek out the long, thin window beside the front door before opening it, just to make sure I’m not about to get clocked in the head by a soccer ball. There’s Joshie, chasing the ball. Copernicus is literally running circles around him. Joshie catches up with the ball and kicks it hard in the direction he just came from—which would be right where my car is parked, only from where I’m standing I’m spared the sight of the ball smacking into my driver’s side door. I charge outside to give Joshie crap, and as I do, the ball comes flying back, nailing me just above my ear.

  “Ouch!” My hand flies to my head. I spin toward whoever it is that just beaned me, expecting to see one of Joshie’s little booger-eating friends standing there with a lead foot and a guilty face. But that is not who I see. Not at all.

  “Oh jeez! Sorry! I’m so sorry!”

  My heart drop-kicks itself against my ribs. My hand falls from my head to my chest. I blink, considering that I may actually have been knocked out and am seeing things, because the creature coming toward me is not one of the local pack of snotivores. Not even close. This creature, this guy, this six-foot-something guy in khaki shorts and a Molly Moon’s T-shirt, of all things, is stunning. A Molly Moon’s T-shirt! Kismet! His hair, coffee-bean brown, looks like it was curly once, but has loosened into a maelstrom of waves. And his end-of-summer skin is the color of a marshmallow toasted to perfection. He is hot. About sixteen million units on the Scoville heat scale hot. And on the ice cream scale? He’s not merely Theo’s Coconut Kiss like Jake—he’s Theo’s Coconut Kiss with hot fudge, whipped cream and fresh strawberries.

  I wobble. He hurries over. “Here. Let me help you.” He puts his arm around my shoulder, eases me onto the grass and crouches beside me.

  My hero.

  “I’m so sorry. You kind of appeared out of nowhere,” he says.

  “A vision,” I offer. He laughs.

  “Did you kill her?” Joshie runs over for a closer look.

  Hero Guy’s eyes crinkle and his lips break into a grin. A lone dimple blossoms on his left cheek. It is a dimple that one should require a license to operate. “I think she’s going to make it,” he says. Then, with sublime tenderness he touches the spot where the ball connected with my head. I stare dumbly back at him, and not because I’ve just been clocked in the head. No. I stare at him because he is undeniably stare worthy.

  He cradles the back of my head with his hand and, with the other hand, pulls a key chain with a small flashlight from his pocket and shines it in my right eye, then my left. I don’t feel a thing except for the tingling pressure of his hand on my head. I could be paralyzed for all I know.

  “I don’t think it’s a concussion,” he says. “I think you’re going to be fine, but you should take it easy for a while.” He helps me sit up taller. My ponytail has gone all cockeyed from the soccer hit, so I reach back, pull off the hair band and run my fingers through my hair. I am so glad that Krista and I had the foresight to give ourselves makeovers at Nordstrom.

  He is still looking at my eyes. And I am looking at his. His eyes! They’re that intense greenie-brown kind that seem to change color depending on what the owner of the eyeballs is wearing. Or maybe depending on his mood. Yes! Mood eyes. And the current mood indication is decidedly happy.

  I start to get up when he offers his hand and gently pulls me back to standing. His fingers are long and lean. Piano-playing fingers? Cheek-stroking fingers? Hand-holding fingers? He grabs what’s left of my apple off the lawn, wipes it on his shorts and holds it out to me.

  “I’m Adam,” he says. “Adam Hood.”

  His skin is smooth, with a hint of pink at the tip of his nose from the sun. Adam—the original man. I picture him in nothing but a fig leaf, and my voice wavers. “Nora Fulbright.” I take the apple. “It’s nice to meet you, Adam. I’d tempt you with a bite of my apple, but I’d hate to get you into any trouble.”

  He laughs. Oh! That dimple! “That’s good! I haven’t heard that one before.”

  Me neither. Sometimes I surprise myself.

  Again, he looks into my eyes and I look right back into his, and it’s like an invisible beam is pulling us toward each other. Closer. Closer.


  “I’m Joshua Joseph Templeton.” Joshie suddenly inserts himself between us, latches on to Adam’s hand and shakes it hard. “I’m six and seven-eighths years old. Would you like to see my insects?” I catch my breath as Joshie rolls down his sock, flicking away a couple of caterpillars that couldn’t handle the soccer. “They’re from the family Nymphalidae.”

  “Caterpillars,” I translate.

  “They’re very nice.” Adam gets down on one knee and listens, rapt, to Joshie’s more-than-you’d-ever-care-to-know description of his squiggly sock friends. As Adam listens, he nods and asks questions. From time to time he glances up at me and smiles. I smile back. His left front tooth overlaps the right one ever so slightly. God, I want to touch his hair. I hope he lives near here and isn’t just someone’s cousin or something. Does he have a girlfriend?

  A question zaps my brain—what about Jake Londgren?

  A response zaps back. Jake who?

  The bug lecture ends and Joshie rolls Adam the soccer ball. “Kick it as hard as you can,” Joshie demands. Copernicus hovers nearby, huffing ninety breaths a second.

  Adam looks at me as if to ask permission. I hesitate. Back in the kitchen Mom has got to be wondering where we are—

  “Sure. Go for it.”

  Adam obliges, and the ball veers off his foot at a crazy angle, bouncing over the waist-high fence that runs around the edge of our lawn into the neighbor’s yard. Joshie whoops and takes off after it.

  Adam winces. “Soccer isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

  “Don’t worry,” I confide. “It’s not Joshie’s either.”

  “Whew.” Adam wipes imaginary sweat off his brow. “So you’re . . .” He pauses. “The babysitter?”

  I laugh. “No. Josh is my little brother. Well, half brother. I was just coming out to call him in for dinner.”

  “Ah.” Adam slips his hands into his front pockets and rocks from his toes to his heels in a pair of well-worn sports sandals. “So, we’re practically neighbors. I live over that way, on Dogwood.”

  Ah! Not a visiting cousin. He turns and points toward town. He’s as cute from the back as he is from the front. He has great calves. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed someone’s calves before. “We moved in last week and I was just going for a walk to try and figure out where I am,” he says.

  “It can be very confusing,” I say. “But I can help.” I mark an X in the grass with my toe. “You are here.”

  His eyes light up. “Cool! I go out for a walk and I find treasure.”

  Am I the treasure? The bliss of the moment is shattered by Mom’s banshee wail. “Nora! Joshie! Dinner is on the table!”

  I wince. “Sorry. Apparently dinner is going to leap off the table and run away if we don’t get right in there. Joshie? Come on. It’s time for dinner.”

  “Coming.” Joshie tosses the ball over the fence and then scrambles after it.

  “Um. Before you go. Do you go to Riverbend?” Adam asks.

  “Yeah. I’m a sophomore.”

  “Sweet. Me, too. Maybe we’ll have some classes together.”

  “That would be nice.” Oh please oh please oh please. Joshie grabs my hand. “Say thank you to Adam for playing with you,” I remind him.

  “Thanks! Here’s a present.” Joshie reaches into his sock and offers Adam a bug.

  Adam cradles the caterpillar in his hand. “Is it going to turn into a butterfly? I love butterflies.”

  Joshie considers. “Someday.”

  I turn to Adam. “It was really nice to meet you. See you around?”

  “If I’m lucky.” That smile! It’s Ebola infectious.

  Joshie and I walk hand in hand to the front stoop. I turn and stare after Adam.

  “You like him,” Joshie says, startling me.

  “What? I don’t even know him.” My attempt at incredulity fails.

  Joshie squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry, Nora. He likes you back.” The dog yips twice. “Copernicus thinks so, too.”

  They run to the kitchen and I follow slowly behind, hoping that Copernicus is as smart as he seems.

  We’ve just started eating when Bill comes home, a whistle and a stopwatch hanging from a bright orange cord around his neck. He kisses Joshie’s cheek, squeezes Mom’s shoulders and asks me how practice went today.

  “Fine.” I dart a glance in Mom’s direction. Thankfully, she has declared a temporary truce. She passes me my artichoke, and because it is August 26, she reads a quick passage from Henrik Ibsen’s play A Doll’s House. I know why she chose it. The main character, who I happen to be named after, finally figures out that life is about more than perpetrating the common mythology that women are meant to serve men.

  Mom clears her throat to indicate that her point has been made. I rub my forehead so she won’t catch my eye roll. Dinner proceeds as usual.

  Fade in. Dinner at the Fulbright household.

  JOSHIE. Can I have the salt?

  MOM. May I please have the salt.

  JOSHIE. Okay, okay. May I please have the salt?

  BILL. That depends. What’s the cubed root of sixty-four?

  Fade out.

  I absently dip artichoke leaves in melted butter and set them on my plate uneaten.

  Adam. He just moved here, so he probably doesn’t have a girlfriend.

  Adam. Does he play any sports?

  Adam. Is he into cheerleaders? I prick my finger on an artichoke leaf, but smile. Isn’t every guy into cheerleaders?

  Later, in my room, I pull yet another shirt from my closet, try it on, then toss it into the growing pile on my bed as I try to get just the right outfit together for tomorrow. It will, after all, be the first day of my sophomore year. The first day that I show up at school with a sport bag full of cheer gear slung over my shoulder. My first day with wings. I’m working on a complex series of angled mirrors to look at myself from behind when a freshly bathed Joshie lopes into my room wearing shortie pajamas and carrying a box wrapped in brown paper. Copernicus rushes in behind him.

  “I forgot to tell you. The UPS man brought this for you today.” Joshie sets the box on my bed and runs his finger along the return address. “Massachusetts Institute of Technology. It’s from your dad.”

  Dad. Professor of statistics and logic. Smartest guy on the planet. Marital defector who left us for a dream job teaching at MIT. It was Mom’s choice not to follow him—but it was his choice to go anyway.

  “Aren’t you gonna open it?” Joshie pulls at the wrapping.

  “Hey! Wait for me.” We tear the thing open. As rocky as my relationship is with Dad, a gift is a gift. Inside the cardboard box is another box, wrapped in the business section of the Boston Globe. A card is taped to the top. I start to untape the newspaper.

  “Always read the card first,” Joshie reprimands me with a finger shake.

  I oblige him and read the card aloud:

  Dear Nora,

  I’m sorry to be a little bit late with your gift this year. Sixteen years old. Quite an accomplishment. I had lunch on campus last week with your brother and his girlfriend. It’s so nice to have him in the same town. Maybe you’ll think about studying here on the East Coast, too? Phil tells me that you are driving his old Honda. Beats walking to school in that dismal Seattle weather, I suppose.

  I was going through boxes that have remained unpacked since I came out here—can you believe it has been eight years? And I came upon this—do you remember it, my little Judit Polgár? Perhaps one day you’ll go back to it?

  Love, Dad

  And at the end is a quote:

  The game of Chess is not merely an idle amusement. Several very valuable qualities of the mind, useful in the course of human life, are to be acquired or strengthened by it, so as to become habits, ready on all occasions. For life is a kind of chess, in which we have often points to gain, and competitors or adversaries to contend with.

  —Benjamin Franklin

  “It’s time for you to go to sleep,” I snap at Joshie, and I flop onto m
y bed.

  “But you didn’t open your present.”

  “I don’t want to open my present.”

  “Are you mad because Phil got a girlfriend before you got a boyfriend?”

  “No.” Well, maybe a little bit.

  “Who’s Judit Polgár?” Joshie asks.

  “She’s just a girl who’s really good at playing chess.”

  While other fathers tucked their little girls in at night with once-upon-a-time stories about princesses and mermaids, Dad sat at the edge of my bed and told the story of the little Hungarian girl who took the title of international grandmaster at the age of fifteen. “You could be just like her,” he would assure me. It’s funny to think that, once upon a time, I’d hoped he was right.

  Joshie picks up the gift and shakes it. “You should open it.”

  “I don’t need to. I know what it is.” I flop over onto my stomach and drop my chin onto my folded arms.

  “Then can I open it?”

  Crap. There will be no rest until Joshie sees what’s in the box. “Oh, all right. Go ahead.”

  Joshie shreds the packaging. He gasps.

  I close my eyes tight and picture the pieces that I played with so many times. They’re probably still covered with my sticky little-kid fingerprints. “It’s an American Revolutionary War chess set, right?”

  Joshie reads aloud the description on the side of the box, confirming my guess.

  I open my eyes and stare out the window. At eight o’clock the sun has dropped behind the trees. “My dad got that set from his parents when he graduated from high school. It’s the one he used when he taught me to play back when I was even younger than you are. Then, we played with it all the time.”

  All the time.

  All the time.

  Joshie sprawls onto the bed beside me. “Let’s play now.”

  “No.”

  He maneuvers around so that his cheek is pushed up against mine. “Are you sure?”