Me You Us (6 page)

“I don't know. A few spritzes. On each wrist. And my neck.”

I rub my eyes.

“No? No good?” Mr. Kimbrough says. “Is there a brand you like better?”

“I should probably go,” I say.

But Mr. Kimbrough is having none of it. “Shane, I can't stop thinking about her. She's so smart. And talented. And
funny
. But she's a ten. And I'm a four. If I could just even out that fraction a little bit, we could be one.”

I stare at Mr. Kimbrough. “What? Do you have these lines preplanned?”

“Five minutes is all I ask, Shane.”

I look at Mr. Kimbrough and see lots of potential but very little confidence. An ideal client for the Galgorithm—other than, you know, the fact that he's a grown man. I pity him, but I also envy him. He's in love. Straight-up, head-over-heels, bad-fraction-pun love. I recall fondly the days before I was scarred and wounded by Voldemort. Mr. K. still has hope, and it's a beautiful thing.

“Fine,” I say. “Five minutes.”

Mr. Kimbrough breathes a sigh of gratitude.

Meanwhile, Jak is already in the courtyard stream-of-consciousness texting me, as she does every day from morning to night. I figure she'll give me five minutes before she gets tired of waiting and her texts devolve into emojis of devils and pieces of poop.

Mr. K. and I duck into an empty classroom. Paper cutouts of every U.S. president's head line the walls, remnants of a class project. These are some ugly-looking dudes. I imagine an ancestor of mine coaching these guys on how to flirt via telegram.

Mr. K. closes the door and leans against the teacher's desk. Ironic, since he's fast becoming my student.

“So,” I say, “how was the Civil War exhibit? Romantic?”

“It was incredible. She loved it. I mean, it was a little awkward at first, because she assumed other people were coming. But once we got that out of the way, we spent like two hours together just walking around and talking. Did you know that nearly a dozen Union army dogs died at Gettysburg?”

“No kidding. So it
was
romantic.”

“I know. And that's not even the best part. After we finished walking around, she said she was hungry, so we got a bite to eat in the cafeteria.”

“Mr. K., that's great! You're killin' it. You don't need me.”

“Yeah, but here's the thing. After we paid, I went—”

“Wait, what do you mean, after
we
paid?”

“I offered to pay, but she insisted on splitting it.”

I slap my forehead.

“Shane, I'm not an idiot. I offered to pay. She
insisted
.”

“I don't care if she tried to arm-wrestle you. Never,
ever
let the girl pay. No matter what, you always pay on the first date.”

“Okay, I screwed up.”

“You should also pay on the second date and the third date, at the very least.”

“Why?”

“Because it's the right thing to do. Because it's chivalrous. Because the girl is worth it.”

Mr. Kimbrough absorbs this. I can't help but regret that no one told
me
to always pay for Voldemort.

“But even if I do pay,” Mr. Kimbrough says, “how do I
get
that second date?”

“You mean you didn't ask her out again at the end of the first date? That's the optimal window right there.”

“It just kind of . . . ended. I don't even think she thought it was a date.”

I shake my head. “I need some time to think about it.”

“Thank you, Shane.”

“But there's something you can try in the meantime. If you want.”

“For Deb, I'll try anything,” he says.

“Good. Let me ask you this—is there a time of day or time of week when Deb is always in a good mood?”

Mr. Kimbrough contemplates this. “Well, off the top of my head, I'd say every other Thursday. That's when we get our paychecks. She doesn't get direct deposit. She just loves payday.”

“Perfect. Then here's your job: Wherever she is every other Thursday when she gets that check, you should be near her. Teachers' lounge, front office, wherever.”

“Okay. I can do that. Why?”

“I know you don't teach biology, but remember Pavlov? Whenever Deb gets good news, I want you to be close by. Eventually, she'll associate you with good news.”

“Shane, that can't possibly work.”

“Fine, you don't want my help? I tried.”

“No, no, no, no, no. I'll do it. I swear. I promise. I'm sorry.”

I almost give him the “stop apologizing” speech but decide against it. I'm in a bit of an odd situation, because I've convinced Mr. K. that I'm
not
an expert, yet I'm still doling out advice. Hopefully, he won't get suspicious again. As it is I'm on shaky ground: Although I've made it my mission to help high school guys find love, I've never helped a high school
teacher
before. Who knows if my methods will even work on adults?

My worry, however, is interrupted by the constant vibrating of my phone. I'm now officially late, which means I'm on the receiving end of a barrage of emoji poop courtesy of Jak.

JAK IS PISSED AT ME.
I can tell because she's running as fast as possible to get away from me. Unfortunately for her, we're both on treadmills and she can't get far.

The plan was to meet up after school and then go to the gym. She only waited a few minutes before deciding that I had abandoned her, and headed on without me. The odd thing is that in all our years of friendship, we've never once worked out together. The only time I've ever lifted a weight was when it was mandatory in phys ed; Jak has the rapid-fire metabolism of an adolescent cheetah and finds the idea of voluntary exercise offensive. But then she got us Fitbits and signed us up for free passes at this gym. She's either bored or having a midlife crisis at seventeen.

Sweat Republic, however, is more than just a gym, an
assumption I gather from the banners covering half the wall space, which read
MORE THAN JUST A GYM
. It's a New Agey Equinox meets yoga studio meets smoothie bar. Everything is painted neon and the dumbbells are arranged by “mood” instead of weight. The dozen or so other gym goers seem to be moms and dads with too much time and money on their hands. When I walked in, I found Jak still in street clothes on one of only two treadmills, which have been unceremoniously stuffed in the corner like artifacts in a museum of Dark Age fitness.

I'm now jogging alongside Jak as she gives me the silent treatment.

“Jak, I was a little late. Gimme a break.”

She turns up the speed on her treadmill. So do I.

“What, did you wait like three minutes?” I ask. “At least give me a grace period.”

She turns down the speed on her treadmill. So do I.

I'm annoyed, apologetic, and also a little amused.

“Where were you?” she asks finally.

“I got held up in Spanish.” I don't want to bother getting into the whole Mr. Kimbrough saga.

Jak slows her treadmill down even more, to walking speed. I do the same.

“Held up in Spanish?” Jak says.
“¿Lo siento?”

“Are you saying you're sorry?
Because I'm saying
I'm
sorry.”

“¿La biblioteca es en el diablo?”

“The library is in the devil?”

Jak takes French but knows about twenty words in ­Spanish that she sometimes spouts to me at random.

“You seem to be
muy
busy lately.”

That time she actually used one right.

“It's my bad,” I say. “I didn't mean to leave you hanging.”

She checks her Fitbit. “Boom! Ten thousand steps! I win, sucka.”

And with that, it's as if our little tiff never even happened.

We continue walking side by side. It feels kind of like our walks home from school together, except we're indoors and EDM is blasting in the background. The treadmills also face a mirrored wall, so I'm staring at my reflection. At five foot nine I can approach most girls even when they're in heels. My eyes are hazel; my nose is straight and thin.

Jak catches me looking at myself. “Like what you see?”

“I mean, the treadmills are going
into
the mirror,” I say. “Where do you want me to look?”

Jak shrugs. She's wearing a beat-up Aerosmith T-shirt. I'm wearing an Abercrombie button-down. We're probably gonna get kicked out of here for our lack of appropriate workout attire.

“So how was your day?” I ask.

“Fine. Another day, another dollar. We had a pop quiz in history, which was
awesome
.”

“That sucks. Wait, you have Ms. Solomon, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

I didn't even think about this until now, but Jak is in Deb's class. “No reason.”

“She's really cute,” Jak says. “But kind of a pain. I totally wanna be just like her when I grow up.”

“Jak, you're
already
like that.”

Jak smiles. “Aw, shucks, Chambliss. Aren't you the sweetest?” Then she reaches across the treadmills and punches me really hard in the arm.

“Ah! Goddamn it. That hurt! Why are you so bony?”

“It's a gift.”

“Some gift.” I rub my shoulder.

“Are you two enjoying your sweat?”

Our banter is interrupted by an overcaffeinated Sweat Republic employee. “My name is Sarah with an
h
, and I just wanted to see how your complimentary visit was going. Sweat-tastic, I hope!”

“Sure,” Jak says, amused. “I'd say reasonably to quite sweat-tastic.”

“Awesome!” says Sarah with an
h
. And then she starts her sales pitch: “As you may know, we have a variety of plans to fit your specific needs. Do you think you two would be interested in . . . a couple's plan? A family plan?” She kind of trails off at the end.

Jak and I glance at each other and smile. This is not the
first time someone has mistaken us for a couple, or even black and white siblings.

Sarah with an
h
realizes she may have misspoken. “None of the above?” she offers.

“We need to think about it,” I say.

“Okay, great! Take all the time you need. I'm Sarah with—”

“An
h
. Yeah we got it,” Jak says. I stifle a laugh.

“Right. I'll be by the front desk if you need me. Have a sweat-tastic day!”

And with that she scrams.

I turn to Jak. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“That that was the single greatest moment of my entire life?”

“Exactly.”

We high-five.

My iPhone pings and I take it out of my jeans pocket. Text message.

“Give me three tries to guess who it is,” Jak says.

“Deal.”

“The pope.”

“I would never give him my number.”

“JD Salinger.”

“He's dead.”

“Tristen.”

“Bingo. Pretty good.”

Tristen and I haven't gone out again yet since our double date, but we've struck up quite the torrid text affair. I try my
best to be witty and make her LOL. She sends me pleas for donations to global crises, along with occasional pictures of her nail polish. It's entertaining.

“So you and Tristen, huh?” Jak says. “Your relationship has gotten quite . . . textual.”

“Oh, it's very textual.”

“Are there lots of
p
's and
v
's?”

“Oh yeah. The
p
's are going into the
v
's.”

“Nice,” Jak says. “I want to know what her boobs are like when you touch them.”

“When? You mean if.”

“I mean when.”

“You know I don't kiss and tell,” I say.

“Who said anything about kissing? I'm talking about boob touching. Is ‘don't boob-touch and tell' a thing?”

Jak is such a character. And a trouper. When Voldemort ripped out my heart like the bad guy in
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
(yes, I need two movie references to explain how awful it was), Jak listened to me wail about it forever. In fact, I was in such bad shape Jak swore to me that she and I would never date. If we ever broke up, it would be devastating: Not only would I be a mess, but it would be her fault
and
she wouldn't be there to help me through it.

“When are you guys going out again?” Jak asks.

I look at my phone. “That's what I'm texting her to find out.”

“What's she saying?”

“She wants to know if I'm aware of the situation in the Congo.”

“What's the situation in the Congo?”

“I don't know. The next text is a dolphin emoji.”

“Oh no!” Jak says. “Are dolphins being slaughtered in the Congo?”

“I don't think there
are
any dolphins in the Congo.”

“Well, duh. They've all been slaughtered. That's why we need to send money.”

I shake my head. “I'll get right on that.”

“I wish I was in a textual relationship,” Jak says.

“Is that not what we're in?” I show her my phone. “I have a hundred and twenty-three unread texts from you just from today.”

“Exactly. Unread. I have needs, Shane.”

“You know I have terrible service in school. But anyway, we'll work on finding you a textual partner and we'll google dolphins in the Congo. As if I didn't have enough homework from Spanish.”

Jak looks at me mock-longingly and spouts three more random Spanish words:
“Amor y cacahuetes.”

“Love and peanuts?” I ask.

Jak nods. “Love and peanuts.”

SOMETIMES DUTY CALLS
at ten p.m. on a Wednesday night.