Me You Us (3 page)

I have a few minutes to kill before my next class. It's definitely flattering that Hedgehog and Balloon want to set me up with Tristen. Sure, I wish I had even a lick of stubble on my
face, and I never bother combing my mop of brown hair, but I think I'm doing all right for myself in the looks department.

The bell rings, breaking my train of thought, and soon there are swarms of students filling the halls. In the three-plus years I've spent at Kingsview High, I've managed to stay out of the silos and cliques. That's why it's not weird to see me sitting with Reed in the cafeteria one day and chatting up Hedgehog and Balloon the next. In just a few months, though, graduation will be here and everything will change.

Before I get too existential, I spot Mr. Kimbrough, my old math teacher, walking toward me with a determined look in his eyes. He seems pained. And something tells me I'm
about to find out why.

I HAD MR. KIMBROUGH TWO YEARS
ago in tenth grade. Nice guy. Nerdy enough to hold court as a math teacher but stocky enough to pass for a gym teacher. Early thirties and you can tell that he was going bald but then made a ­preemptive strike and just shaved his head. It suits him, unlike the sweater vests he always wears.

Since I was in his class, we've exchanged the occasional friendly nod in the halls, but that's about it. This time, though, he comes right over to me.

“Mr. Chambliss, how are you?”

“Hey, Mr. Kimbrough. I'm good.”

“Do you have a moment?”

“Uh, I have to get to class.”

“It'll be quick. Take a walk with me.”

We head through a side door and out to a large courtyard at the front of the school. It's the first thing you see when you drive onto campus, and it looks like a brochure: small fountain, rows of well-manicured flower beds, a few palm trees, and about a dozen circular cement tables surrounded by benches. Kids are hanging out, listening to music, and eating lunch. Thankfully, no one seems to notice or care that I'm strolling around with a teacher whose class I'm not even in. A teacher who, I might add, is obsessed with math. He used to draw math-related cartoons on the backs of our ­quizzes and rattle off cringeworthy math jokes all the time in class. But, hey, if you know what you like, go with it.

“So how's calc, Shane?” Mr. Kimbrough asks.

I guess that's what passes for small talk in this situation.

“It's going fine. You know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

An awkward pause. I wish he would just cut to the chase.

“So, I know this is a little unusual, Shane, but there's something I wanted to ask you.”

“Okay . . .”

“I've heard some people say that you're a bit of a Svengali when it comes to romance.”

“A what?”

“Like a dating . . . mastermind of some sort.”

Uh oh. Every once in a while a whisper about my exploits surfaces from Kingsview's primordial gossip ooze. I take
precautions to remain discreet, but it's a daunting task against the power of a high school rumor mill. When kids start to talk, I usually tamp it down with the help of my clients, who are taught to “deny till you die.” But this is the first time I've ever had an
adult
say anything about it to me.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I respond swiftly.

“Are you sure? You're not in trouble or anything. I'm just . . . curious if you're some kind of expert or something.”

“I wish, Mr. Kimbrough. But I'm definitely not.”

I hope that will satisfy his curiosity, end this line of ­questioning, and allow me to go about my day and my life.

It does not.

“You know Adam Foster, right?” he asks.

I try not to react. Adam is a fellow senior and one of my former clients. A real doofus but a good guy. This might be a stab in the dark by Mr. Kimbrough, or maybe he knows more than he's letting on. I decide to tread lightly and see what happens. “Yeah. I know him.”

“He was in my class last year,” Mr. Kimbrough says. “And between me and you, he's a bit . . .” He leans in to whisper in my ear.
“Off.”

I'm not sure Mr. Kimbrough is one to talk, but nonetheless I say, “I guess that's true.”

“I started to notice you guys chatting in the halls,” he says. “It almost seemed like you were . . .
advising
him. And now,
I don't know if you know this, but I heard he's dating Olivia Reyes.”

Of course I know that. Olivia is a head turner. Getting her and Adam together was some of my finest work.

“And no offense to Adam,” Mr. Kimbrough continues, “but Olivia is kind of, you know . . . out of his league.”

One of my pet peeves is the phrase “out of your league.” That's an excuse. That's what chumps say. I've had many a client fret that the girl he's after is “out of his league.” I tell him never to speak those words again. If you say it, then you believe it, and then she
is
out of your league. If only Mr. ­Kimbrough had been born fifteen years later, I could have taught him a thing or two.

“Did you have anything to do with that?” he asks me flat-out.

“No. I had nothing to do with Adam Foster dating Olivia Reyes,” I lie, just as flat-out.

Mr. Kimbrough looks deflated. I actually feel bad.

“I could have sworn,” he murmurs, “that I heard someone talking about an
algorithm
.”

I stop in my tracks. Mr. Kimbrough's snooping has gone deeper than I thought. I need to try more evasive maneuvers.

“Well you are a math teacher, Mr. Kimbrough,” I offer. “I'm sure people talk about algorithms around you all the time.”

“Yeah, but this was different.”

We've reached an uncomfortable impasse in the conversation. We've also reached the stairs that lead from the courtyard to the parking lot. From here you can see the entire front of the school—all white walls with Spanish-style red clay shingles on the roof. I glance at Mr. Kimbrough. I can sense the wheels turning in his head. It's apparent that he's not gonna let this go easily. I can continue to feign ignorance and hope he doesn't ask more questions, or I can take control of the situation by trying one more thing: indulging him.

“Mr. Kimbrough, I'm no expert. And I don't know what algorithm you're talking about. But . . . maybe I can try to help anyway?”

He considers this. “I appreciate it, Shane, but this is inappropriate. I shouldn't have wasted your time.”

“It's not inappropriate. We're just two guys chatting. It's okay.” That said, we both look around to make sure no one is staring at us. Next period's bell has already rung and everyone is scrambling inside. I'm gonna be late. Whatever. Mr. Kimbrough has gotten my attention.

He leans in once more and speaks softy: “Do you know Ms. Solomon?”

“Sure,” I say. “She teaches history.” I've never been in her class, but I've seen Ms. Solomon around the halls. She's younger than Mr. Kimbrough, maybe late twenties, and kind of a fox. If she is what this is all about, then I have newfound respect for the man.

“Well . . . the thing is . . . ,” he stammers.

“You're crushing on her,” I say.

Mr. Kimbrough nods his head as if he's admitting this to himself for the first time. “I guess you could say that.”

“Have you asked her out?” I say.

“Oh God, no!”

“Why not?”

“She's the most beautiful woman in the world,” he says. “My love for her is . . . divided by zero.”

“Divided by zero?”

“Undefined, Shane. Have you forgotten your algebra?”

Ah, math joke. Mr. Kimbrough, you're killing me.

“Shane, the thing is . . . Deb—er, Ms. Solomon—is such an incredible person. I wouldn't want to sully that by asking her out, like a peasant. And, oh man, what if she turned me down? I'd have to get a new job. Refinance my mortgage . . .”

“Mr. Kimbrough, slow your roll. Relax.”

A classic pitfall of nerds of all ages: talking yourself into rejection before you've even done anything. I call it pre-­rejection. Or just
prejection
. But at least Mr. Kimbrough has passion. I can work with passion.

“Do you know what Ms. Solomon likes?” I ask.

“Likes? Hmmm. Well, she's mentioned she enjoys teaching about the Civil War.” Mr. Kimbrough ponders this further. “You know what? There's actually a Civil War exhibit at Memorial Museum this month.”

“Perfect.”

“I can't just
ask
her, though. What if she says no? I could never look her in the eye again.”

Something makes me think that Mr. Kimbrough isn't making much eye contact with her to begin with.

“Well,” I say, “is there a list of all the teachers' e-mail addresses?”

“Yeah, there is. Could I just ask her out over e-mail?”

“No, no, no. Not exactly. But here's something you
can
try. Write an e-mail to all the teachers and say that you have tickets to the Civil War exhibit. Ask if anyone wants to go. But here's the key:
Only send the e-mail to her, and put her address in the BCC
. That way it seems like you're sending a mass e-mail to everyone, but you're really only sending it to her. She'll respond because it seems like a casual group thing and not like you're asking her out. Then you're in.”

The ol' BCC switcheroo. A Galgorithm classic.

Mr. Kimbrough thinks through my advice for a moment.

“Shane, that's brilliant.”

“Nah. Just something I tried once. Maybe it will work for you.” I attempt to play it off so that he doesn't get even more suspicious about me.

“But isn't it a little dishonest?”

What a heart of gold. I'm starting to like this guy more and more.

“Mr. Kimbrough,” I say, “all you're trying to do is get in the
same room with Ms. Solomon. After that, it's up to you. There's nothing dishonest about it.”

Mr. Kimbrough considers this.

“Besides,” I add, “all's fair in love and Civil War.”

He smiles. “You're right. I'll give it a try. And . . . if you could maybe not mention this to anyone . . .”

“As long as you do the same,” I say.

“Deal.”

“Good luck, Mr. Kimbrough.”

“Thanks, Shane.”

Crisis averted. For now.

I WAS A MESS AFTER
Voldemort ended things. In hindsight, I had no idea what I was doing when I was with her. I didn't know how to talk. I didn't know how to act. I didn't know all the subtleties that girls expect from the guys they choose to be with.

When you date someone two years older, you have to learn a lot of lessons the hard way. For instance, everyone always says that it's what's inside that counts. And that's true. But no girl is ever going to appreciate your insides if she can't stand your outsides. No one ever told me otherwise, until it was too late.

I contemplate this cruel truth as I walk through the mall with Reed on a Saturday afternoon. Today's mission is a joint makeover/pep talk. I need to motivate him to make a move on
Marisol and I also need him to look the part when he does. The mall is great for both objectives, because not only are there plenty of clothing stores catering to the gaunt teenager, but there are also tons of girls around.

Much like our high school, Kingsview Mall is open-air. The main concourses are completely uncovered, and the shops, which do have ceilings, line either side. Reed and I are in a jeans store, and I'm trying to find a pair suitable to his suddenly selective tastes.

“What about these?” I ask.

“Eh . . . too blue.”

“Okay. How about these?”

“Too stiff.”

“Too stiff? That's not a thing. What about these?”

“The zipper is weird.”

“Reed, why do I get the feeling you're not gonna like anything I pick out?”

“Why do I need new jeans anyway? What's wrong with these?”

“Where did you get them?”

“I don't know; my mom got them for me.”

“That's what's wrong with them.”

“Ugh. All right. I guess I'll try some on.”

“I mean, you're not even wearing a belt right now.”

“I don't need a belt with these. They fit fine.”

“You
always
need a belt. It ties everything together. Unless
you think Marisol likes slobs. Because that's what girls think about guys who don't wear belts.”

“Hmm. Marisol does not seem like the slob-liking type.”

“Exactly. The thing you gotta realize, Reed, is that you're not just buying a bunch of denim stitched together. You're buying an image. Girls pay attention to the jeans you're wearing. Jeans speak to girls.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Let's say you're wearing dumpy jeans. Like, just for example, the jeans you're wearing now.”

“Dude!”

“I'm sorry, I'm sure your mom is a lovely woman, but she bought you dumpy jeans. And when a girl sees that, she thinks one thing: He doesn't care. And if he doesn't care about his jeans, then he doesn't care about himself. Girls want a guy who makes an effort. Who's at least mature enough to put himself together. Because if he doesn't care about himself, then how's he gonna treat me?”

Reed is standing there with his mouth agape. “All that from a pair of jeans?”

“Yes! Why do you think I always wear such clean, slim-fit, button-fly jeans?”

“Uh. I don't know. I've never looked at your crotch before.”

“Well you should start.”

Reed looks puzzled.

“Next up,” I add, “shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Oh yeah. I want you looking your best when you ask Marisol out.”

“And when is that gonna be, exactly?”