Me You Us (5 page)

Reed starts paging through his little notebook. “Wedge, wedge, where is that . . .”

I put my hand out to stop him. “Reed. I'm just gonna go talk to Rebecca and wedge her out of the way. Not everything is rocket science.”

“Right. Noted.”

“Are you ready?”

He nods, still grasping the notebook.

“Good. Now put that thing away and follow me fifteen seconds behind. Too soon and it will be obvious. Too late and Marisol will drift away.”

“Got it.”

Satisfied that Reed is up to the challenge, I pat him on the shoulder and then leave to approach Rebecca. But when I'm about twenty feet away, I realize that I'm not the only one seeking her attention. Harrison has arrived in the auditorium and made it over to her first.

Harrison looks like a 1950s football star with his square jaw and blond crew cut. He's about six feet tall with zero body fat and knuckles that apparently need constant cracking—when they're not dragging on the floor, that is. He and I have a checkered history. At a mutual friend's bar mitzvah back in the day, we almost came to blows when he thought I was eyeing a girl he was interested in. Never mind that I never even looked at the girl in question and was merely eyeing the bathroom after an unusually long haftarah. The rabbi intervened, but I'm pretty sure Harrison has kept me on an enemies list taped next to his bed ever since.

Harrison and Rebecca hooking up is not public knowledge and has been denied by both parties, but their eye contact tells me it's on like Donkey Kong. Besides, there's no reason why Harrison would show his face at a college fair other than to see Rebecca. He already has a baseball scholarship and will be sparking bench-clearing brawls in D-1 come next
season.

Knowing Reed is following my lead, I continue forward anyway.

“Hey, Rebecca!” I say as I reach her.

She smiles pleasantly. “Hi, Shane.”

I acknowledge Harrison with a nod but pretend I don't even see Marisol and focus all my attention on Rebecca. She has curly brown hair that frames her oval face and is prepped out in J.Crew everything. She and I have been reasonably friendly since middle school.

“What's going on with the senior parking lot permits?” I ask. This was one of Rebecca's major campaign issues, and I know she is champing at the bit to discuss the mind-numbing minutiae of the problem with anyone who will listen.

Indeed, she lights ups. “You know what? I
just
had a meeting with the administration about that yesterday. The issue is . . .”

I can sense Harrison growing impatient, but I do my best to avoid looking at him. As Rebecca continues talking, I slyly position myself between her and Marisol, with my back to Marisol, effectively cutting her off from both Rebecca and Harrison.

Classic wedge. Separation achieved.

“Another part of the problem,” Rebecca says to me, “is a lack of data and analytics about traffic flow in the parking lot. What we need . . .”

Now I'm counting in my head:
. . . ten Mississippi, eleven Mississippi, twelve Mississippi.
When I hit fifteen, I hear Reed
sidle up to Marisol behind me like clockwork. I continue talking to Rebecca, but am much more interested in overhearing Reed.

“Hey, Marisol.”

“Oh, hey, Reed.”

She remembers his name. Small victories.

“I can't believe there's
another
college fair. School is ending so fast!” Reed says.

(Common interests.)

“I know, right? Crazy,” she says.

“What do you think about staying in-state versus going away?” Reed asks.

(Open-ended question.)

“Oh, I'm trying to get the heck out of here. What about you?” Marisol replies.

(Agree with whatever the hell she says.)

“Totally. Me too. I want to get as far away from Kingsview as possible.”

“Nice,” she says.

Nice!
I think. You got this, Reed!

“So, any big plans for the weekend?” he asks.

“Uh, not really sure. Probably just hanging out.”

There's a brief pause where I think Reed has panicked and lost his nerve. Meanwhile, Rebecca is droning on about parking regulations in my other ear and Harrison is glaring
at me.

“There's that new pizza place on Hickory,” Reed says finally. “You wanna maybe check it out on Friday night?”

Marisol is caught off guard. She loves pizza. Her Facebook profile is littered with photos and memes about it, including a post about the new joint in town. Reed has been under strict orders
not
to like or comment on any of them. You must be a ninja and observe silently.

“You mean . . . like a date?” she asks.

I tell all my clients: If you are ever in the very enviable position where a girl is asking you to clarify whether it's a date or not, always say,
Yes, it's a date
. Most guys take this opportunity to hedge rejection, to play it cool, to keep things open. Wrong.

Come on, Reed. Remember your training. Close the deal.

“Yeah, like a date,” he says.

How many times has Marisol ever been asked out so directly? She's probably flattered.

“Sure,” she says. “That'd be fun.”

I pump my fist. Rebecca looks at me like I have three heads. I do not care. Harrison fumes. Just a few seconds longer . . .

“Awesome,” Reed says. “I'll message you.”

Most guys ask for her number here. Nonsense. If you're already friends on Facebook or some other social media, you can always reach out later to get her digits. Quit while you're ahead and exit before she changes her mind.

“Sounds good,” Marisol says.

Get out of there, Reed!

“Cool. Well I really need to pee. I'll talk to you later.”

Okay, so he didn't quite stick the landing. But I'll take it.

“Oh. All right,” Marisol says.

I feel Reed breeze past me and out of the conversation.

We did it.

He
did it.

MY DAD LIKES TO USE
the phrase “We all put our pants on one leg at a time.” I've begun to dole out this advice to my clients as well, in order to remind them that the seemingly ungettable girl they are pining after is really no different from them. I'm currently trying to take my own advice. I know that Tristen Kellog, the very attractive girl seated across from me, puts her pants on one leg at a time. The only problem is, they are really tight pants, and I'm having trouble paying attention.

The double date with Anthony, Brooke, and Tristen has been going pretty well so far. We're at Perkin's Beanery, a trendy, hipsterish coffee shop with artisanal ice cubes and 20 percent higher prices than Starbucks.

Tristen's aforementioned pants are painted on, and she's wearing a casual gray V-neck that offers the superficial man
just a peek at her incredible cleavage. Her face is perfectly symmetrical save for two little moles on her left check. Her hair is straw-colored and her eyes are cartoonishly blue. I don't think Anthony has ever been within spitting distance of a girl as gorgeous as Tristen, and despite his unconditional love for Brooke, he has clammed up in the corner of our table.

“Hedgehog, are you feeling okay? You're so quiet,” Brooke asks.

Anthony glances at Tristen, looks at me knowingly, and then rests his head on Brooke's shoulder.

“Don't worry, Balloon will take care of you,” Brooke says, as she strokes his face.

“Aren't they cute?” Tristen asks me.

“I have to admit, they are pretty cute,” I say. “How's your coffee?”

“Pretty good. Thanks again for treating. They didn't have any almond milk or soy milk, so I just got nonfat.”

“What
is
almond milk anyway?”

“It's milk from ground-up almonds. It's healthier because there's no dairy.”

“That feels like one of those made-up facts.”

“No, it's true!” she says. “I heard it somewhere. Either Oprah or Twitter. I can't remember.”

“Right. Well, cheers.”

Tristen and I clink our coffee cups together. She takes a sip and smiles. She has a great smile. Very disarming. Tristen
is a pretty face, no doubt. But I'm hard-pressed to figure out if there's anything beneath the surface. I know I'm being picky, but ever since Voldemort I've treaded carefully, terrified that I might go too far down the path with the wrong girl and have things end badly. All I'm asking for is a dose of personality from Tristen, who must be as bored as I am, because she's tapping her nails on the table. Her nail polish is pink, and each ring finger also sports a yellow smiley face. I hate the fact that I know this is called an “accent nail.”

Suddenly, Brooke perks up. She has been cooing with Anthony but apparently realizes she may have to better involve herself. “Hey, Tristen, tell Shane what you're doing this summer.”

I'm imagining a sleepaway camp dedicated to spray tanning.

“I'm leading a Habitat for Humanity trip to the Midwest,” Tristen says. “We're gonna build homes for families that lost them in all those tornadoes.”

“What?” I stammer, and almost spit up some nine-dollar iced coffee.

“Unfortunately,” she continues, “there are more than five million households in America that are in desperate need of new housing.”

“I didn't know that,” I say, attempting to recover. “Is that from Oprah or Twitter?”

“The US Department of Housing and Urban Development.”

“Oh.”

“It's just something I feel strongly about,” Tristen says. “We've, like, got it so good in Kingsview. I just think we should help other people out. Plus it's an opportunity to really get my hands dirty.”

I'm stunned. I try to imagine Tristen's accent nails digging into dirt and making habitats for humanity. Apparently there
is
another side to her.

“That's really cool,” I say, trying to keep the conversation going. “So, Brooke, you guys met at the
Chronicle
, right?”

“Yup,” Brooke says.

“I really liked that fruit salad exposé, by the way,” I add.

“Aw, thanks.”

Now I'm just buttering up everybody.

“Do you do investigative journalism, too?” I ask Tristen.

“No, I have a fashion column. Have you read it?”

“Uh, no, I don't think so.”

“My latest piece is called ‘Jeggings: Miracle or Disaster?'”

“Okay . . .”

“I'm also doing an article on the most blinged-out celebrity iPhone cases.”

Tristen is apparently a Renaissance woman—part humanitarian, part fashionista. It's not what I expected at all, and it's intriguing. I glance over at Anthony and Brooke, who are now rubbing their noses together and whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears. They are truly the perfect couple. And I helped make it happen. Yet Tristen still has me thrown.

The last thing I need is a repeat of Voldemort and the events of freshman year. But Tristen seems worth the risk. I decide I want to go on another date with her, this time sans Hedgehog and Balloon. The only thing left to figure out is how to make it happen. Double-date-to-solo-date conversion is not an easy maneuver. We've been at Perkin's for a while now, and I can sense the end of the date looming. I imagine what one of my clients would do if he were in a similar situation. Then I realize that most of my clients are slack-jawed mathletes who have trouble stringing together two sentences in front of a girl. Don't get me wrong, I've dedicated my life to helping the poor schmoes, but they would be nowhere without me as a fail-safe.

It's getting late: Groupthink kicks in, and we all get up from the table at the same time. And then it hits me:
fail-safe
.

I know exactly what to do.

“Hey,” I say to Tristen, before she can make for the exit. “Your eyelashes are really pretty. And long, too.”

Tristen pauses and instinctively bats her eyes. “OMG.
Thank you.
No one has ever said that to me before. You're so sweet.”

She smiles. A
big
smile. I'll wait for Hedgehog and ­Balloon to walk ahead of us before I ask Tristen for another date, but I already know: I'm golden.

I JUST FINISHED MY FINAL
period—Spanish—and I'm walking through school to meet Jak out in the courtyard when I hear a familiar voice calling
mi nombre
.

“Mr. Chambliss!”

It's Mr. Kimbrough, hustling down the hall to get my attention. He's barely exerted himself, yet he's already perspiring through his sweater vest. I give him a break, pause, and let him catch up.

“Shane, I need to talk to you.”

“What's going on, Mr. K.?” I'm attempting some measure of nonchalance here in this hallway full of my peers.

“I have to talk to you about . . .
Deb
,” he whispers.

“Who?”

“You know . . .”

“Oh,” I say. “Ms. Solomon.” I almost forgot.

Mr. Kimbrough puts his finger on his lips. “
Shhhh!
Can we talk in a classroom?”

“Mr. Kimbrough, I don't know what you want from me.”

“Look, Shane, what you suggested worked! I e-mailed Deb and we went to the museum together. It was amazing! But I don't know what to do next. And I know this is weird, but I have a feeling that somehow you just
get it
. I could really use some more help.”

Something begins to tickle my nostrils and then the top of my esophagus. I try to clear my throat. Then I start to cough.

“Shane, are you okay?”

“Is that your . . . cologne?”

“Oh, yeah. I just got it at the mall. The woman behind the counter said it's their most popular one.”

“No, Mr. K., that's the
last
one you should get. You want to be different, not the same. How much did you put on?” I cough again.