Me You Us (18 page)

As soon as I left for school in the morning, I knew I wasn't actually gonna go. I need a break. I deserve it. And I'm prepared for my upcoming AP exams. I left the house at the proper time so that my parents wouldn't suspect anything, but as soon as I was a block away, I changed direction and started driving to the mall. Not exactly
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
, but it's a start.

My phone pings. It's Jak. The texts begin around this
time every morning and continue until she falls asleep. They are usually entertaining, but today they start to eat away at that nice feeling of relief, so I just shut my phone off.

There's only one thing at the mall open this early, a diner that's accessible from the street. It's a real greasy spoon, and the waitresses are dressed liked it's the fifties. I order black coffee with my breakfast. I never drink black coffee. But it seems like what a normal, soon-to-be-collegiate guy would do. It's bitter as hell. I have two cups and get a third to go.

When the rest of the mall finally opens, I wander about aimlessly, past stores I've browsed with Reed or Tristen or Jak. This time I have the place pretty much to myself. I pass a trendy women's boutique. There's one girl shopping in the store, and she looks cute. She's about fifteen feet away from me, and I can only see her from behind. I pause to look at her.

I start to take another step but can't keep my eyes off her. Her hair is long and jet black. She fiddles with it while she browses a rack of shirts.

I'm struck with a sudden sense of déjà vu, but my brain can't yet articulate what's happening.

Time slows to a crawl.

The girl takes a hair tie off her wrist and puts her hair in a bun.

She has a bar code tattoo on the back of her neck.

I drop my cup.

Voldemort.

The coffee splatters all over the floor and my sneakers, and echoes in the concourse loud enough for her to hear.

She turns and spots me, and her face lights up.

“Shane!” she says, and immediately stops what she was doing and walks in my direction. My stomach drops.

When we dated, she was a sixteen-year-old high school junior, and that's how I remember her. Now she's a nineteen-year-old college sophomore, and the years have been very kind to her. Her hair is dyed black, but she's still rocking that red lipstick and nail polish. Any trace of a baby face is gone. Those two perfect dimples are now accenting a pair of taut cheekbones. She wears a white off-the-shoulder T-shirt and black jeans, and she looks damn good.

Luckily, the coffee was half empty. I quickly wipe off my sneakers with a napkin and throw the spilled cup in a nearby garbage can just as Voldemort reaches me.

“This is so crazy!” she says. She gives me a big hug. I hug her back. She smells the same. Our entire relationship flashes before my eyes. It doesn't take very long.

“Faith,” I stammer. “What are you doing here?”

“I have reading days, so I decided to visit my folks.”

“Reading days?”

“We get a couple of days off before finals start. I should be studying, but I decided to come home. The mall in Valley Hills sucks, though.”

“Got it,” I manage.

My synapses are overrun. I hate her. I'm happy to see her. I'm shocked. I'm curious. I'm upset. I'm weak.

“So,” she says, “it's been forever. How have you been? What have you been up to?”

Oh, just obsessing over our breakup until it metastasized into the creation of a new identity for myself. You know, silly high school stuff.

“Not much,” I say. “Looking forward to graduation and whatever.”

“Right on,” she says. “Well you look great. Something is different about you.”

She's gonna mention my jeans. . . .

“New jeans?”

“Yeah.” I try to play it off. “I think so.”

“They look good. Hey . . . shouldn't you be at school?”

“Nah. I decided to cut a few periods.”

“Senioritis. Nice. I remember it well.”

We've exhausted our supply of pleasantries. She bites her lower lip. Still gets me after all these years.

“Well, it was great to see you, Shane. Such a happy coincidence.”

“You too.”

“I'm gonna take off. I should probably actually do a little studying.”

She hugs me again. My hand grazes her bare shoulder.
It's weird; I never thought our skin would ever touch again.

“Take care,” she says.

She's about to turn and leave.

“Faith, wait.”

She stops and looks at me expectantly.

I'm five inches taller than her, but I feel so small.

“Um,” I manage. “I have to ask . . .”

If I don't, I will regret it for the rest of my life. But I can't get the goddamn words out. I'm so flustered.

“Us . . . ,” I say.

She nods her head. She understands. Of course she does.

“What happened between us, you mean.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I feel like . . . you never told me why.”

“Why we broke up? A lot of reasons,” she says. “And also no reason.”

Dating Faith was certainly a whirlwind. She took a shine to me, and I just got swept up in it. Back then I had no clue. I was ill-equipped to handle a girlfriend, let alone an older one. But the abruptness with which Faith ended things still vexes me.

“I mean,” she continues, “you were young. A little immature. We both were. I guess . . . it was clear it was much more serious for you than it was for me. I just wanted to have fun, you know?”

“So it wasn't like I did anything or said anything or something like that?”

“No, not at all,” she says. “I mean, not that I can remember. It was like forever ago already.”

Yeah, forever ago.

“You aren't still upset about it, are you?” she asks.

“No,” I lie. “It's just . . . you know. It sucked.”

“I know,” she says. “I feel bad. But some things just aren't meant to be. And you can't force it. Trust me, you're gonna have a lot of relationships. And not every one is gonna be perfect. You just have to go with it sometimes.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Life is easier said than done, Shane.”

“That's true” is all I mutter.

“What about now?” she asks. “Any girls in your life?”

A loaded question if there ever was one.

“Yeah.” I waver. “I don't know.”

“Hmm,” she says. “Funny, I totally would have guessed you would've gotten together with Jak by now.”

I blink.

“What did you say?”

“Jak. I met her a few times when we were hanging out.”

“I know, but why would you think we would have gotten together?”

“Um, because you're, like, so obviously in love with her.”

I go slack-jawed.

“Jak?”

“Yes, Jak.” She laughs. “You talked about her all the time.
Like, in front of me. Like, rudely in front of me. I've never seen two people more clearly in love.”

I'm dazed. I feel like there are cartoon birds flying around my head.

“You're totally perfect for each other,” she continues. “Literally everyone in the world knows that except for you.”

“But she's my best friend.”

“Duh. You think people want to date their worst enemy?”

I feel a little woozy.

Of course.

How could I have been such an idiot?

This is what I've been feeling the whole time!

Jak knows me better than anyone and she
still
sticks around.

I feel lost when she's not by my side.

I'm her soul mate.

And she's mine.

I'm in love with Jak.

I'm in love with Jak!

“Shane? Hello?” Faith asks. “Are you okay?”

“You're right,” I say finally. “I . . . just . . . can't believe how stupid I am. Of course I'm in love with Jak!”

There. I said it.

Faith sighs and grins. “Boys. You are so dumb.”

“I'm in love with Jak,” I say again, still processing.

“That's a good start,” Faith says. “But the question is, does
Jak know?”

I shake my head no.

“Well, luckily, you know where to find her.”

“Where?” I ask eagerly.

“School, probably.”

“Oh, right.”

I've not only lost track of time, but also the space-time continuum.

“You should go,” she says.

“Okay. I'm going.”

“Good luck, Shane. It was nice to see you.”

“Thanks, Vo—”

She looks at me quizzically.

I correct myself. “Faith.”

And then I turn and run.

MY HEART IS POUNDING,
and it's not the two and half cups of black coffee.

I peel into my parking spot at school. I park over the lines in two places, but I don't care. All I can think about is getting inside to talk to Jak.

I ran from Faith to my car in the parking lot at the mall, and now I'm running from my car toward school and toward Jak. I smile to myself, thinking about how many Fitbit steps I've already racked up today on the way to this grand gesture.

I knew I felt something deep in my gut when I spent half the night in Jak's bathtub nursing her back to sobriety. But maybe my subconscious was protecting me from realizing the truth. There were so many obstacles that would have prevented us from getting together: our friendship, Adam,
Tristen, the pledge Jak swore to remain platonic after Faith left me heartbroken.

Tristen certainly remains an issue, but my feelings for her are complicated. I do care about her. Just . . . not in the way I care about Jak. I'm not in love with Tristen. I'm in love with Jak.
I'm in love with Jak!
I have to end things with Tristen. I don't know how she'll take it, but I can't even think about that right now. No, all that's important right now is proclaiming my true love to Jak and convincing her that it will not only preserve our friendship, but also strengthen it.

I enter school through a side door that is just off the senior hallway, the quicker to get to Jak's locker. As soon as I take a step inside, though, I can tell something is wrong. There's a buzz in the hallway. Lots of whispering and giggling. At first I think it's just the Kingsview rumor mill being kicked into overdrive by some silly hookup gossip. But as I get closer to Jak's locker, I start to realize that things are very, very wrong. My classmates are staring. Those whispers, those giggles, they're directed
at me
.

My heart beats even faster. I rack my brain for any possible reason why I am suddenly the center of attention. I remember I turned off my phone hours ago, so I pull it out of my pocket and turn it back on. I get to Jak's locker, but she's not there, which is odd. I know her schedule down to the second. I look at my phone: dozens of texts and e-mails and missed calls from my clients, but nothing recent from
Jak. That's weird.

Everyone around me is snickering.
What the hell is going on?

I notice that several onlookers are holding today's edition of the
Kingsview Chronicle
, which is also kinda odd because the paper is usually cafeteria or bathroom reading, not water-cooler fodder. I find a copy on the floor a few steps from Jak's locker. Kids are Snapchatting pictures of me and laughing as I pick it up. WTF?

I open the paper and feel like I am having an out-of-body experience. I cannot believe my eyes. The banner headline reads:

GALGORITHM: A DATING GURU AND HIS SECRET FORMULA

This cannot be happening. This. Cannot. Be happening.

I read the first couple of lines:

In a shocking
Chronicle
exclusive, senior Shane Chambliss has been exposed as the resident dating doctor at Kingsview High School, boasting a roster of unlucky-in-love classmates and a powerful algorithm he claims will attract female students. The scheme was first discovered when it was referenced on math teacher Robert Kimbrough's personal blog . . .

Noooooooooo!

I'm having trouble breathing. What? How? Mr. K., what the hell did you do?

I look at the byline of the article. It was written by . . . Brooke Nast? You've got to be kidding me.
Balloon?

I pull out my phone again and launch the browser.
No service.
Goddamn it!

With all eyes on me, and still holding the paper, I sprint toward the computer lab down the hall. I've never run so much in one day in my life. I make a hard left and burst into the lab. Thankfully, the room is empty.

There are five rows of computers, all relatively new iMac desktops. I sit at the terminal closest to the door and log in with my Kingsview High ID. I google Mr. Kimbrough's Humble Pi blog. I curse the stupid caricature of him when it loads. Most of the entries are just random ruminations and
xkcd-
esque cartoons. Then I get about ten posts down, and my jaw drops.

If I'm reading this correctly . . .

It can't be.

It is.

Mr. Kimbrough has created an
actual
Galgorithm.

Under the misleadingly academic and, I'm assuming, tongue-in-cheek heading “A Mathematical Look at ­Conversing with Women,” he's taken all the texting tips I've given him, formatted them into an Excel spreadsheet,
and created a
real algorithm
that analyzes text messages from girls.

It's actually pretty sophisticated, and I'm starting to go numb trying to decipher it, but I eventually figure out that there are five variables in the formula:
pace
(how quickly she responds and how frequently),
cadence
(if she sends multiple texts in a row and who sent the last text), ­
punctuation
(use of commas, exclamation points, and question marks),
shorthand
(use of acronyms, emojis, and emoticons), and
format
(repeating of vowels, repeating of consonants, and capitalization). Each variable is calculated separately using its own individual formula, and then all the factors are weighted by statistical significance and added together, revealing in one final number—concludes the post—exactly how interested in you a woman is based on her texts.