Me You Us (2 page)

She came into the world as Jennifer Annabelle Kalkland, but everyone calls her by her initials:
JAK
.

Having been raised in the orbit of car-crazy Los Angeles, we stopped walking and started driving everywhere as soon as we were old enough to get our licenses. That all changed over winter break, though, when Jak got us both Fitbit fitness trackers as Christmas gifts. Currently she's
making us walk home from school in an effort to maximize our total steps for the day. I welcome the competition, but only because it gives us more time to dish on the latest gossip in Kingsview.

“Remember that party I was telling you about, with all the baseball players?” Jak asks.

“Yup,” I say.

“I heard that Harrison and Rebecca Larabie hooked up. It's real DL.”

Harrison is the aforementioned jock who bloodied Reed's nose. Rebecca is also a senior and your classic overachiever: AP everything, school president. The girl has her own business cards.

“No way,” I say.

“Yes way,” Jak replies.

“I don't believe they hooked up.”

“Shane, why would I make something like that up?”

“Because you have a vivid imagination and a lot of time on your hands.”

Jak takes umbrage at this. “I do not have a lot of time on my hands!” She wags her finger aggressively in my face. “That's totally bogus!” She continues pointing at me, almost touching my nose.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “I know what you're doing!” I grab her arm and attempt to halt the finger wagging. “You're trying to run up your Fitbit score!” We both glance at the lime-green electronic bracelet on her wrist. She wriggles out of my grasp.

“No I'm not!”

“Jak, it doesn't work like that. It won't count as a step if you just wave your wrist around. Otherwise I'd—”

“Otherwise you'd what? Rack up two miles every night around eleven thirty?”

We both grin. Touché.

“Anyway,” I say, returning to the point, “Harrison and Rebecca? Seems like a weird combo.”

I would never expect a straight shooter like Rebecca to go for a loose cannon like Harrison. Which just goes to show: Even if you've spent years studying them, the inner workings of girls' hearts are still mysterious.

“Agreed,” Jak says. “I don't see it.”

Jak knows I help a few clueless guys at school talk to girls and score dates, but she has no idea about the extent of my endeavors. I've never told her anything about the Galgorithm. I guess there was just never the right time or place to clue her in . . . and I'm also a little scared she'd judge me for it. Jak does not pull punches.

“How do you think they got together?” I ask, referring to Harrison and Rebecca.

“Alcohol, most likely,” Jak says.

“Ah. Alcohol. I should have thought of that.”

“Oh yeah,” Jak continues, “it's the ultimate social lubricant.”

“Gross.”

Jak ignores me and instead begins to shuffle her feet,
taking one step back for every two steps forward and slowing our pace down to a crawl. I shake my head.

“Jak, you can't fool the Fitbit. You're never gonna beat me.”

“That's what they told Beyoncé and the Wright Brothers.”

Jak cracks me up. She soon abandons the shuffle and resumes walking normally, which means she now covers more ground than me. It's those long legs of hers, which are poured into her usual skintight jeans and filthy white low-top Chucks.

“Are you looking at my legs?”

I snap out of it. “What? No.”

Jak grins. “I need to tweet: ‘Just caught Shane Chambliss looking at my legs. #busted.'”

“I was not looking at your legs!”

Jak laughs. She loves to push my buttons.

“Go easy, Chambliss. I'm just messin' with you.”

“I know, I know,” I say with a smile.

Jak pulls her hair in front of her face in order to inspect it. She prides herself on not having cut her mess of black hair in years. It's gone from full-on Afro to dreadlocks to a style that could now only be described as curly chaos.

“Who's gonna walk you home in the fall when we're away at school?” she asks suddenly.

Bit of an odd question. Jak usually doesn't like to talk about Life After High School. We both got into college Early Decision last month, otherwise joyous accomplishments
marred by the fact that we'll be a thousand miles away from each other. We've tried to avoid the topic ever since.

“First of all, don't you mean who is gonna walk
you
home from school?”

“Let's be clear,” Jak says. “I'm walking
you
, not the other way around. America.”

I laugh. “Huh?”

“You know.” Jak smirks. “We're progressive.”

“Whatever you say.”

I try to tell myself it's not that big a deal to be apart for the first time from the best friend I've had since our days in Jak's bathtub. Between the half dozen video-messaging apps we have on our phones already, I'll probably see her more often than I do now. I've almost got myself convinced.

We reach the corner where we go our separate ways to get home. Our neighborhood is full of quiet streets and sidewalks like this one, lined with hulking trees. Jak faces me to offer her customary high five. Her pupils and irises are nearly the same color, giving her eyes a freaky, piercing quality. I high-five her in return. Her dark skin contrasts sharply with my perpetually pale complexion.

“How about this,” I say. “When we're away at college, you can call me every day on your walk home and we'll chat just like we're doing now.”

“But it won't be the same,” Jak says.

“It'll be pretty close.”

Jak is about my height, but we once compared belly buttons and hers is two inches higher—those long legs again. Still, I probably outweigh her by about fifty pounds.

“I won't be able to do
this
,” she says, as she manages to playfully nudge me off the sidewalk, onto the grass, and almost into the conspicuous tree on the corner.

I recover. “Honestly,” I say, “that's what I'm looking forward to the
most
: you not being able to do that.”

“You love it,” she says.

I probably won't miss
all
her antics when we go away to school, but I'll definitely miss her
Jak
ness—her quick draw with a joke, her oddly endearing anxieties, her energy. At least I'll always have access to her steady stream of nonsensical yet encouraging tweets: “Shane is the Mane!”

Before we part ways for home, Jak asks, “Do you think we should try to be more social before we graduate? You know, maybe go to one of these parties, drink a lot, and make poor decisions? Instead of being antisocial and hanging out by ourselves, I mean.”

I consider this. “Meh,” I answer.

“Yeah. That's exactly what I was thinking,” Jak says. “Meh.”

“HEDGEHOG, YOU'RE BEING CUTE.”

“I'm only being cute because you want me to be cute, Balloon.”

“So you admit it? You're being cute.”

“You got me, Balloon.”

“Aw, Hedgehog.”

I can't take much more of this. “Seriously, guys?”

Hedgehog and Balloon continue making googly eyes at each other. Their real names are Anthony McGuinness and Brooke Nast, and they're both sophomores. Anthony is a former client of mine. I think it's safe to say that he's a satisfied customer, considering he and Brooke have been dating for six months and have these nauseating pet names for each other. Brooke goes by Balloon. I don't know
how they came up with that. Anthony goes by Hedgehog. I'm assuming this is because he's the most hirsute guy I've ever met, and the hair on his head has been corralled into little gelled spikes.

“Is this too much for you?” Anthony asks, grinning.

“No, no, please, don't mind me,” I insist.

We're sitting in a little lounge area at the front of the administration hallway in school. It's just a few basic chairs and a coffee table tucked into an alcove. Less like
The O.C.
and more like Ikea. Behind us is a long stucco hallway with the principal's and vice principal's offices, guidance, and the nurse, as well as the headquarters of some after-school ­activities such as Model UN and Student Council.

“Shane, did you check out our new Instagram?” Brooke asks. “Hedgehogandballoon, all one word.”

“We figured since we're always in each other's pictures, we might as well just share an account,” Anthony adds.

“That's great, guys,” I say. “I'll definitely check it out.” I'm never gonna check it out.

Brooke gives Hedgehog—er, Anthony—a kiss on the lips. I'm happy for them. Every once in a while I like to check up on my former clients to see how they're doing. Sometimes guys need relationship advice or a refresher course on the Galgorithm. My work is never done. Sure, that entails the stress of being on call 24/7, but to me it's worth it when I see a couple like these two.

“So there's something I wanted to ask you,” Brooke says to me.

“We both want to ask you. It's coming from both of us,” Anthony says.

“Yeah,” I say, “I assumed that.”

I remember what dire straits Anthony was in when he first came to me for advice. Totally lovesick. He had been crushing on Brooke since fifth grade but never had the courage to ask her out. Brooke is a sprite, a tiny little pixie with cherubic cheeks who flits about smiling and giggling. Anthony once told me that Brooke lights up a room, and I immediately imagined capturing her in an upside-down mason jar like a firefly.

Anthony, on the other hand, looks like the iStockphoto image for “shy guy.” Average build, forgettable face, slightly slumped posture as if he doesn't want anyone to notice him, plus about two pounds of excess hair. He was a project. Now look at him—sharing an Instagram handle with an absolute sweetheart. There's no doubt about it: Hedgehog and Balloon are, in the parlance of my female peers, “totes adorbs.”

“So what's up?” I say.

“What would you think if we set you up on a double date?” Brooke asks.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Anthony says. “It would be fun.”

“I don't know . . .”

“We haven't even told you who we have in mind,” Brooke pleads.

For a moment I see red. It's not because I'm angry. I mean I
literally
see red. In my head I have a brief flashback to the girl I dated freshman year. We met at a Kingsview football game against our bitter rival, Valley Hills. She was two years older than me and I was smitten. But it wouldn't be long before she broke my heart in half. Jak and I call her Voldemort. Not because she's evil, but because after our breakup speaking her name was too painful for me. Voldemort was a natural redhead who accented her fiery locks by wearing red nail polish and red lipstick. I can picture those lips now, grinning at me. And then telling me it was over.

I try to push that pain aside and hear what Hedgehog and Balloon have to say.

“Okay, who do you want to set me up with?”

“Tristen Kellog.”

I pause. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Brooke says. “I work on the paper with her, and I think you guys would be great together.”

The
Kingsview Chronicle
is not exactly the
New York Times
, but it's the official paper of record/college-­application ­padder at our school. There are recaps of varsity sporting events and editorials about the lack of two-ply toilet paper in the bathrooms, but that's about it. Brooke fancies herself an investigative reporter. I think the last story she broke was
about lunch ladies skimming off the top of the fruit salad, a scandal that became known as Watermelongate.

“You guys want to set up a double date with me and ­Tristen Kellog?”

“Yeah,” Anthony says, “what do you think?”

Tristen is the
It
girl of the junior class. Popular. Hot. If she doesn't win Most Attractive in the yearbook awards when she graduates next year, I'll come back from college to demand a recount myself. If I were a superficial guy, Tristen would be my number one. But the thing is, I don't consider myself a superficial guy. I like to think I have a little substance. A touch of class. I care about more than just popularity and appearances. Tristen and I have spoken maybe ten words to each other in all of high school. And let's just say she won't be in the running for Most Likely to Succeed. Or, for that matter, Most Likely to Spell Succeed.

“Guys,” I venture diplomatically, “I really appreciate it, but I'm good.”

“Are you sure?” Brooke asks.

“Just think about it,” Anthony adds.

I mean, I would be crazy not to at least
think
about it. I like to date. Creating and maintaining the Galgorithm would not be possible without a lot of firsthand experience. But I prefer to initiate contact myself, to be in control—just in case. You never know if the next girl is gonna be another
Voldemort.

While I contemplate this, Anthony and Brooke return to their favorite interest: each other.

“Hedgehog, there's Pinkberry in the cafeteria today. Wanna get some?”

“Awesome idea, Balloon!”

They stand up.

“Do you want anything?” Brooke asks me.

“No, thanks.”

“K. Let us know if you change your mind about the Tristen thing.”

“Will do.”

Brooke turns to leave. Anthony lingers for a moment as he shakes my hand goodbye. He gives me the look of an eternally grateful man.

“Talk later?” he says.

“Yup.”

Brooke has no idea that I played any role in them getting together. There was actually a moment in the newlywed, six-weeks-in,
let's share everything about ourselves
phase of their relationship when Anthony confided that he was considering telling Brooke about me. I scolded him. Brooke does not need to know that I stood over him and told him what to text her every day for two months like a modern-day Cyrano.