How (Not) to Find a Boyfriend

by Allyson Valentine

  On the upside, I am a regular at the Monarch lunch table.

  Yaaaaaaaaay (straddle jump)

  Nora! (wide V stance)

  But as Gillian messes with my hair, and Chelsey poses for pictures with passersby, and Jake regales me with stories about past moments of football glory, I can’t help watching the action over at the loser table, which has become anything but. Concentric rings of people orbit the table, some of them sitting, some standing. Tallulah, eating food cut into very small pieces, is always within flirting distance of Adam. The Teapot occasionally belts out a country-western tune, or an aria. Only once all week, yesterday, did I manage to actually have a moment alone with Adam.

  Fade in. Thursday, in the pizza line.

  NORA, nodding toward the packed lunch table where the Teapot, with Little Nate on her lap, is pretending to be a ventriloquist. Hey! So you, uh, seem to have made lots of friends.

  ADAM, winces. It’s a little embarrassing. I’m not big on crowds.

  NORA. You toughed out the crowd and came to the first football game. It was really nice to see you there.

  ADAM, eyes brightening. You were amazing, by the way. God! Where did you learn to do those cool flips and things?

  NORA, insert coy laughter. I started gymnastics lessons when I was practically prenatal.

  ADAM, visibly concerned. I worried about you when you fell. It’s crazy to make people, I mean, you know, cheerleaders, stand on those pedestals. Someone could really get hurt.

  NORA. I hoped no one had noticed. But it’s nice to know there was a medic in the crowd in case I needed one.

  (Uncomfortable pause. The guy doling out slices announces that they’ve run out of Hawaiian.)

  NORA. So, Joshie said you stopped by last Friday. I’m sorry I missed you.

  ADAM, looking at his feet. I wasn’t sure when you’d get back from practice.

  (Adam looks up. His gaze settles on Nora’s eyes. His breath smells like mint tea. Someone bumps him from behind, causing his hand to brush her arm. Is it her imagination, or does he allow it to linger?)

  ADAM. I’m sorry we don’t have any classes together.

  NORA, gulping for air, stepping closer, gazing up at him like he is wearing a halo of light, or holding a scepter of fire, or some other godlike cinematic device. I know what you mean.

  ADAM, searching her face. Maybe—

  JAKE, playfully punching the recently healed bruise on Nora’s upper arm. Nora! Grab me a slice of pepperoni, would you? Actually, make it two. (turns to Adam) Dude! Nice job saving the chick with the hair. Where the hell did you learn how to do an emergency appendectomy?

  ADAM, stiffening. I, uh, I think I’ll get a burger instead.

  Fade out.

  So that was yesterday, and today, Friday, after an entire lunch period of covertly watching Tallulah fawn over Adam, I finally crack. Maybe they’re a thing, maybe they’re not. But I don’t stand a chance with Adam unless I have more Adam time in my life. More time to demonstrate my penchant for intelligent conversation and witty reprisals. And I think I know how to do it. If my plan works, he will observe firsthand that cheerleaders, this cheerleader in particular, are not the dimwits he thinks they are.

  The bell rings. People scatter for their classes. The halls are eerily quiet, which makes the echo of my sneakers pounding on the gray polished-concrete floors seem even louder. I arrive at the attendance office out of breath and take a moment to steady myself before going in. The guy sitting behind the desk straightens in his chair and snaps shut the book he’s reading.

  “Hey, how’s it going, Nora?”

  I nod. “Hi, Mitchell. How’s yearbook committee going?”

  “Pretty awesome,” he says. Then, Mitchell looks at his hand as he polishes the nail of his ring finger with his thumb. “And it’s Mitch, not Mitchell.”

  “Sorry.” I was certain that last year in English class he went by Mitchell.

  “Hey, that’s okay. You’d have no way of knowing that I changed it over the summer when I was working as a lifeguard over at the Waverly Beach Park.”

  The way he punctuates his delivery of the word lifeguard makes it clear that this information is meant to impress me, but I am not here to be impressed by Mitchell, cum Mitch. “I can see why you changed it,” I say. “I imagine that the extra syllable could have been a real impediment in life-and-death situations.”

  I don’t give him time to mull this over. “I need to speak with Ms. Turner. Is she here?”

  Mitch pushes his lank red hair behind his ears. “She goes home early on Fridays. She leaves it to me to keep this whole operation running smoothly.” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “So, uh, congratulations on making cheer. I’ll be doing the cheerleader shots for the yearbook. You know how it is. People love pix of the cheer squad.” By “people” I am quite certain he is referring to people named Mitch.

  “Great. That’s just great. So, anyhow, if Ms. Turner isn’t around, maybe you could help me. I need to find out someone’s schedule.”

  Mitch leans forward. His chair squeaks. “We don’t just hand out student schedules.”

  I lower myself into the chair in front of his desk. I smile and try to look at him as though I am really seeing him for the first time. “Wow. You got a terrific tan sitting in that lifeguard chair.” The truth, of course, is that he is a sun-spanked shade of pink. Skin like that does not tan. Ever. “Did you have to save many lives?”

  While there were not, in fact, any human crises to contend with, Mitch recounts in painful detail a rescue involving a duck and a chunk of Laffy Taffy.

  “And now you work here,” I say. “You must really like jobs where you get to help people. Well, and animals.”

  Mitch, who is wearing far too tight a T-shirt for a guy with his meager build, puffs his chest. “Yeah, I guess I kind of do.”

  I produce an audible sigh of relief. “I’m so glad, because I know you can help me out.”

  Mitch shifts uncomfortably in his seat. I give him my best cheer smile. “There’s a new student in school. His name is Adam Hood. And I need to know his schedule. I don’t need a printout or anything. Just a quick peek will be fine.”

  “Why do you need it?”

  I laugh, and flip my ponytail the way I’ve seen Chelsey flip hers when she’s talking to the football guys. “Well, you know that we cheerleaders are sort of goodwill ambassadors here at Riverbend. Apparently this Adam guy just moved here, and I’m supposed to show up at his classroom door and do a little welcome cheer.” I wrinkle my nose as I have seen Chelsey do when she is pretending not to like something, but actually, she loves it.

  Mitch narrows his eyes. “I’ve never seen anyone do a welcome cheer.”

  “It’s a new policy.”

  Mitch shakes his head. “It’s totally against the rules to give out a schedule. And isn’t Adam Hood the guy who sewed that girl’s finger back on with nothing but a sharpened paper clip and a piece of dental floss? I don’t think he needs any special help making friends.”

  I lean forward, and may my mother and all the dead suffragettes forgive me, I press my upper arms against the sides of my post-pupal boobs to create the illusion of cleavage. “Are you sure?”

  Mitch’s eyes drift south. “No—Wait! I mean yes. I’m sure.”

  Crap. There’s got to be a way to get him to fork over Adam’s schedule. What have I got that he might want? I glance over at the book he was reading—Isabel Allende’s House of the Spirits—mandatory reading in tenth-grade English here at Riverbend. Bingo! I tap the book. “How about a little swap?”

  Mitch furrows the place where eyebrows would be. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I know you struggled a little in English class last year. If you show me Adam’s schedule, I would be happy to, oh, I don’t know, maybe give you tips on some of your English homework?”

  Mitchell shakes his head. “I can’t be bought. I have a responsibility here.”

  I’m losing pati
ence. “Come on. There must be something you’d swap his schedule for.”

  Mitchell unfolds his arms. He turns to see whether anyone is within earshot, then leans across the desk. “You could go out with me.”

  I make a sound like a duck choking on Laffy Taffy.

  “Just one date,” says Mitchell. “I pick the time and place. And who knows—you may find after one date with me that this Adam Hood guy isn’t really your type.” He licks his bottom lip. “I have a way with the ladies.”

  Blech. I lean back in the chair and look at the ceiling. I cannot believe that I am even considering his offer. Really? Do I want that badly to become an Adam Hood stalker? I would counter with the suggestion of an early morning latte in the commons, but then Mitch and I would be seen together in public, a popularity quotient demolisher if ever there was one. And worse? What if Adam saw us together and thought I was already dating someone?

  “How about lunch over Christmas break?” I offer.

  Mitch stands firm. “A place and time of my choosing.”

  Perhaps someday, when Adam and I are walking hand in hand along a beach, the fresh flower that he just picked for me tucked behind my ear, I’ll admit to the lengths I went to for him, and he’ll love me even more for it. “Okay. It’s a date.”

  Mitchell’s face lights up. He pulls out a cell phone. “Phone number?”

  “E-mail address,” I counter.

  He shoots out a hand and we shake. I recite my e-mail address and he adds me to his contact list. He hums the tune “We’re in the Money” as he taps on the computer keys to bring up Adam’s schedule, which I jot down in my planner.

  “Well, good-bye.” I stand to leave.

  “Not good-bye,” says Mitchell with a sly smile. “See you later. And remember, I pick the time. I pick the place.” He points at me with his thumb and forefinger cocked like a pistol.

  Oh, Adam. I hope you come to appreciate this.

  As I hurry toward the guidance counselor’s office, I run through the facts to consider possible flaws in my game plan.

  Fact: I dumbed down my schedule in the first place because I didn’t want Chelsey or any of the other Monarchs to think I was some cheerleading poseur—a smarty-pants who actually belonged at the loser table.

  Fact: Switching into Adam’s classes completely messes with that original plan.

  Think, Nora. Think! I close my eyes, grind my mental gears and thunk! I’ve got it. I’ll blame Mom. I’ll tell people she’s forcing me to switch to higher-level classes. People will pity me, but in a good way.

  I arrive to find Ms. Ostweiler busy with another student, so I take a seat outside her office on a square leather ottoman. I fish around in my book bag and am surprised to come up with the book Dad sent for my birthday. Joshie shoved it in there with a Post-it note on the cover:

  Read this and you will get smart at chess.

  The little turd.

  With a few minutes to kill, I flip through the book and come to a page where Dad has shoved an MIT bookmark. Now I see why he sent this particular book. It’s not just instructions about how to play chess. It’s filled with chess anecdotes and history. And here, on page 178, is a reprint of Benjamin Franklin’s essay “On the Morals of Chess.” Of course—the perfect accompaniment to the Revolutionary War chess set that Dad and I played on a million times. No, a zillion. Highlighted is the quote that Dad copied into my birthday card, the one in which Ben Franklin basically says that there are all kinds of parallels between chess and life. I skim down a couple of paragraphs:

  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.

  He goes on to talk about three qualities of the mind. First, there’s foresight—basically looking into the future and paying attention to the consequences of a planned move.

  Franklin’s second quality is circumspection—taking care to look at all circumstances and their possible outcomes.

  And finally, caution—not making moves too hastily.

  I consider the move I am about to make, switching into Adam’s classes. Foresight? Circumspection? Caution?

  I snap closed the book. All I’m doing is switching into the classes I should have been in in the first place. What could go wrong?

  Finally it’s my turn to see Ms. Ostweiler. She’s at her desk sipping coffee from a mug that pictures a shaggy dog and the phrase “Does the name PAVLOV ring a bell?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” she asks.

  “Well, yes, but my classes are what I’m here to talk about.”

  Once again I choose the nothing-but-business chair. “I’m sort of thinking about tweaking my schedule. Maybe I should switch back into precalculus and the AP classes I was originally supposed to take. And add AP US history.”

  She blows steam off her coffee and takes a sip. “Why the sudden change?”

  “You were right. The classes I switched into are way too easy. And I should be working up to my potential, right?”

  She holds her chin and taps her upper lip. “You seemed pretty certain that you wanted to take it a little bit easier this year. And now in addition to the classes you would have been taking, you want to add AP US history? That’s a pretty heavy load.”

  I pick up a pair of magnets sitting on her desk and pull them apart. Snap them together. Pull them apart. Snap them together. She’s right. AP US history will be awful. I am total crap at memorizing dates and names. But the only way I stand a chance with Adam is by being in his classes.

  “I think I can handle it. These are the sections I want to get into.” I reach into my book bag and open my planner to the notes I made in the attendance office.

  Ms. Ostweiler taps on her computer keys and talks to me with her eyes focused on the screen. “The AP classes move at quite a clip and you’ve missed a full week. It’ll take some work to catch up.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  After a few clicks of her mouse, Ms. Ostweiler shows me what the new schedule would look like. While I can’t have everything I want at the time I want it, Adam and I will have two classes together, AP biology and AP US history. In AP bio he’ll be amazed by my scientific dexterity as I dazzle him with dissections. In AP US history—well, that will take a little bit more work. But I can do it!

  GO! (clap, clap) NORA!

  FIGHT! (clap, clap) NORA!

  WIN! (clap, clap) NORA!

  GO, FIGHT, WIN! (touchdown stance)

  Eight

  MOM IS DELIRIOUS ABOUT THE schedule changes and tapes the printout from Ms. Ostweiler on the fridge.

  Period 1—AP Biology

  Period 2—Precalculus

  Period 3—Honors English

  Period 4—AP US History

  Period 5—PE

  Period 6—AP French

  She runs her finger down the list of classes. “AP US history,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s a little surprising. You’ve never liked history much.”

  Never liked? More like hated. Whatever. “I’ll be fine. I downloaded a syllabus and picked up the books. I figure I can use the weekend to catch up on what I’ve missed.”

  Mom pours us each a glass of lemonade and we clink glasses. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. “Janis Joplin, who was such an independent, free-spirited woman, said, ‘Don’t compromise yourself. You’re all you’ve got.’ And with this schedule change, you are absolutely living up to your capabilities. Maybe cheerleading wasn’t such a bad idea after all.”

  I smile, then guzzle some lemonade. I have Janis Joplin’s album Pearl on my iPod. I know she also said, “You’ve got to get it while you can.” And the way to get Adam is to rock some AP classes before his very eyes.

  Nora!

  Rocks those classes!

  Kicks AP tests

  In their asses!

  (fast patter of hands on thighs)

  Goooooo, NORA
! (T stance)

  The weekend flies by with barely a moment to crack open a book. There’s the game Saturday against the Lions (VICTORY!), where the Teapot, Tallulah and a bunch of other drama people are dressed like gay Las Vegas lion tamers. Adam is not there, and I enjoy a full two hours of not obsessively overanalyzing, wondering whether he is, at this very minute, being fondled by Tallulah. There’s a party at Gillian’s house Saturday night where Jake insists I be his partner in a game of Twister against Krista and Dex.

  No no, Jake. Left foot blue.

  Then, on Sunday, it’s six hours at the grocery store parking lot washing cars to raise money for the cheer competition next spring.

  Come Monday morning I am completely unprepared for my classes. I am also unprepared for the looming conversation with Krista. I had at least a thousand opportunities this weekend to tell her about my schedule changes, but kept chickening out. First, she would find my reasoning insane. While she has come around a little bit on Adam’s position on the hottie scale, she’s still convinced that I should be hooking up with Jake. Second, it means that we will no longer be in the same French class—the only class Krista and I had together. And finally, there is the fact that I have never come clean with Krista about my former life as a larva, and I fear that any discussion about AP classes might lead us there.

  Krista dumps a Splenda into her latte and stirs. “I didn’t read my chapters for French,” she says. “Fill me in, in case Monsieur Tervuren calls on me.”

  Here we go. “Wow, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.” I smack my forehead with the palm of my hand. “I switched to a different French class.”

  “What?” Krista’s eyes go wide. “It was the only class we had together, you traitor. Why’d you switch?”