The Oracle of Dating (2 page)

By extreme measures I mean going to Alaska. I see
nothing wrong with that. People move for their careers—why not to find a man? In some parts of Alaska, single men outnumber women ten to one. Tracey would have absolutely no trouble finding a guy there. And I think an Alaskan man—big, strong, not afraid of bugs or heavy lifting—would complement Tracey’s personality. The only problem is that she’d be so far away! I guess she’d have to convince her Alaskan man to move to, say, rural Vermont. Because Alaska is just the wrong time zone.

True, there’s still a great woman-to-man ratio in the Silicon Valley in California, but I’d prefer she didn’t marry a high-tech guy. Dad is in tech, and I don’t want Tracey to end up with a guy like him. He and Mom divorced ten years ago, and since then, he’s reverted back to the lifestyle he was meant for: the lifestyle of a bachelor. He’s traveled the world with his company, living in Singapore, Johannesburg, Berlin and now in Ottawa, Canada. We only see him a couple of times a year, Christmas and summer vacation. And that’s fine with me.

I remember the day he left. Mom and Dad sat down with Tracey and me, explaining that he was going to move out. Tracey didn’t argue. I think she was sick to death of the fighting. But not me. I thought they should make it work. I used any rationale available to my six-year-old brain to stop them from breaking up. And when none of my arguments worked, I started to cry.

The truth is, Mom and Dad were a disaster from the
start. I’m surprised Mom didn’t see through his hollow charm right away, but I guess she was young and innocent, and trusted love. Too bad no one had the guts to stand up at the
speak now or forever hold your peace
part of their wedding, since the only things they had in common—good looks and ridiculous eighties hair—were not enough for a happily ever after.

I
T’S A WINDY
S
UNDAY
and I get off the 6 train at Seventy-seventh Street and Lexington to meet Tracey at Starbucks. I see all of the Sunday couples walking around holding hands. Sunday couples are young couples who stay over Saturday night (if you know what I mean) and have carefully assembled designer sweats, sneakers and baseball caps to wear on Sundays. They always look freshly showered and slightly hungover and you find them ordering greasy breakfasts at Second Avenue diners before spending their afternoons browsing shops, buying artwork for their tiny apartments and crowding neighborhood cafés so that I can hardly ever get a seat.

Tracey is looking beautiful today, though she has puffiness under her eyes, indicating that she either slept too little or too much. She has rich dark hair the color of a flourless chocolate cake and shining brown eyes to match. Her cheeks are slightly pink from the windy day, and her complexion is flawless. At five-nine, she’s four inches taller than me, giving a sleek elegance to her figure that many girls would kill for.

As for me, I’ve inherited my dad’s Shredded Wheat–colored hair and my mom’s hazel eyes, which are mistaken for green or brown depending on the day, light conditions and my mood.

Today Tracey is wearing fresh unscuffed New Balance sneakers. Sunday is the only day of the week you won’t find her in heels of at least two inches—an error in judgment, IMO, since it tends to narrow her pool of possible guys to those five-eleven and above. But I guess that’s her choice, her preference being men over six feet—not always easy to find unless you’re in Denmark or Norway.

She gives me a big hug and two European cheek kisses, and I know I’ll have to take my compact out to see what lipstick smudges she left.

At the counter, we’re served by a skinny guy we privately nicknamed Pip. He’s there every weekend and talks like Mickey Mouse.

“Tall soy iced Tazo chai latte,” he says to the huge guy behind the espresso machine.

“Tall soy iced Tazo chai latte,” the huge guy repeats in a booming voice.

“Uh, no foam, please,” Tracey adds.

Pip turns to me. “Miss?”

“I’ll have a tall soy latte.” (Lactose intolerance runs in the family, if you haven’t guessed.)

We find a little table on the upper level in the midst of several twentysomethings on laptops. An old man is dozing
in one of the comfy chairs, his mouth hanging open. I angle my seat so I don’t have to see if a fly swoops in there.

“Did you go out last night?” I ask.

Her lips spread in a smile. “It was awesome.”

“Tell me, tell me!”

She giggles. “His name’s Miguel.”

“Your salsa instructor?”

“Yes. We had drinks at Bar Nine. He was telling me that he does an hour and a half of yoga a day—talk about self-discipline! Anyway, after drinks we went to a salsa bar. I was stepping all over his feet, and I actually got super-dizzy when he spun me around, but I didn’t want to tell him that.” She leans closer to me and lowers her voice. “It was so hot.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I know what you’re thinking, Kayla. You’re thinking that a salsa instructor is obviously sleeping with half his students. But he’s not like that at all. In fact, he won’t even give bachata lessons—it’s too personal.”

“I think he sounds fab.”

She blinks. “You do?”

“Sure, I do.” I sip my latte. “I only have one piece of advice.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Don’t sleep with him for at least a month.”

“I
knew
you were going to say that.”

Tracey and I are pretty open about her sex life. (Well,
the fact that she
has
one.) She promised to tell me everything I want to know if I agreed to stay a virgin until I was at least eighteen. I told her we had a deal. I didn’t plan on having another boyfriend before then, anyway.

“How’s business?” she asks.

“It’s good. Look what I’ve got.” I open my knapsack and pull out a bunch of business cards.

She examines one. “This is fantastic! How’d you do this?”

“I just did it on Word. It’s easy. I got the card stock from Staples.”

“Can I have a few? Maybe I can get you some business. A lot of my colleagues need a service like this.”

I give her a stack. “I have hundreds.”

She puts them in her purse. “Maybe I’ll ask for a commission. Say, ten percent?” She winks.

“How’s work going, anyway?”

“Ugh, it’s a gong show! We’re supposed to deliver this software to clients at the end of the month and we’re running into all these obstacles we didn’t expect.”

That’s another thing about my sister. She speaks an alien language known only to Gen Y guys in square-rimmed glasses: the language of computers. She’s a software developer for a company called Hexagon. Unfortunately, I don’t share her smarts in technical stuff. But I can blog easily, and only need her help for the Web site design.

“You won’t guess who’s back working in the office,” she says.

Uh-oh. Don’t say it.
“Scott.”

“Yep. And he had the nerve to ask if I wanted to go out for drinks with him and Matt and Chris on Friday. I told him,
‘Sorry, I have plans.’
Can you believe that guy?”

I can. It’s Scott’s style. He was her boyfriend for seven months only to end it with “I’m not sure if I’m ready for a full-blown relationship.” As if it were a disease.

Yes, they were once one of those Upper East Side Sunday couples.

But Scott hadn’t stopped with dumping her. That would be too quick and easy. Over the next few months he kept calling, pretending he was confused, tortured. And in spite of my warning to ignore his calls, she always answered them, hoping that he’d want something real.

His calls faded, eventually.

But now he’s back.

Intelligent woman that she is, I should be sure that she won’t give that loser the time of day, right?

Wrong. Tracey doesn’t always have the best judgment when it comes to dating, which is why it’s so important that I weigh in. I always wondered if Tracey was messed up by my parents’ marriage (not by their divorce—
that
was the healthy part). She was sixteen when it happened, and it sent her skidding off in the wrong direction—grades sliding, bad boyfriends, borderline eating disorder. Thank God Mom managed to get her back on track, but I
wonder if the scars remain. Is she destined to be attracted to unreliable types like our dad?

“Don’t you dare, Tracey.”

“I won’t. What, you think I’m stupid?”

That’s the thing about being the Oracle. Sometimes you know things you don’t want to know.

I
USED TO THINK
S
UNDAY
nights sucked because the excitement of the weekend is over and a whole week of waking up early stretches ahead of me. Plus, ever since Mom gave me the choice of whether or not to go to church, I usually sleep until noon, so I can never get to sleep at a good time.

When I realized that my friends were going through the same Sunday-night blues, I decided to take action and organize a weekly get-together. And now, Sunday night embodies everything we love (to hate): the rich bitches, the beautiful people, the trash-talkers, the sex-crazed and the backstabbers. In other words,
Glamour Girl.
Or, as Mom calls it, potato chips for your brain—they taste good but have no nutritional value.

We’re in Viv’s basement on beanbag chairs in front of the flat-screen TV, except for Amy, who is stretched out luxuriantly on the sofa in her
Don’t Feed the Models
tee.

On the coffee table is an assortment of traditional East Indian faves: samosas, pakoras, badgies. It’s one of the things I look forward to about our Sunday nights here.

“Your mom is such a great cook!”

Viv gives me a funny look. “These are from Costco.”

“Oh.” I suppose it makes sense. Her mom is a doctor at New York Presbyterian and hardly has time to make us food.

Viv’s parents are strict and traditional and from the same part of India as Gandhi. Her parents are too innocent themselves to know what this
Glamour Girl
business is all about. That, plus Viv’s quick reflexes with the PVR, makes it possible for us to watch the show here in the first place.

Poor Viv will never even admit to being attracted to a guy who isn’t Indian, and there are only about five Indian guys at our entire school. I suppose that gives her an excuse for not having a boyfriend—an excuse the rest of us don’t have.

Well, maybe I shouldn’t include Amy in the not-having-a-boyfriend category. Amy is a blue-eyed blonde, very good-looking, and knows it. She calls Chad her boyfriend, but we all know that he’s a MOB (make-out buddy). I’m not knocking it. Although the Oracle would say such relationships aren’t emotionally healthy, there’s a certain practicality in them. I mean, she’s horny as hell, and so is he. And while he’s a little simple, he has cute dimples and a soccer bod.

I’m munching on a samosa when Viv pauses the show. Amy curses. “But it was just getting hot!”

Sharese smacks her knee. “They’re finally gonna do it!”

Ryan grunts his agreement, hairpins in his mouth. He is braiding Sharese’s hair. She always complained that no
white person could do a good job with it, but Ryan has proved her wrong.

Viv says, “I was just thinking—what would the Oracle of Dating say about this? I mean, isn’t Harrison obviously just using her?”

Everybody groans.

Amy rolls her eyes. “The Oracle is full of it! It’s just somebody making a quick buck. Don’t buy into it.”

“The Oracle didn’t make any money off
me,
” Viv insists. “I just read her blog.”

I stuff another samosa into my mouth.

“I bet the Oracle is some fifty-year-old businessman trying to exploit us,” Sharese says.

Viv shakes her head. “I think you’re wrong. She’s definitely female, and she knows what she’s talking about.”

Way to go, Viv! She is my sole defender in a sea of haters.

You really can’t blame me for keeping my true identity from my friends. I love them, but I know that being the Oracle of Dating would make me the object of constant teasing. I need one thing that’s safe, and just mine.

“M
ICHAELA
,
WHAT DO YOU THINK
?”

I snap to attention. Practice kicks in. Instead of saying, “Huh?” I say, “Sorry, I’m not sure I understand the question.”

Ms. Goff starts to reword it, but stops when she hears a choked laugh from the seat across from me. “Something funny, Jared?”

“Nope.” He squelches a smile.

Ms. Goff goes back to her question, and I manage to answer it, taking the heat off. But as soon as she turns back to the board, I shoot the guy an
I don’t appreciate you laughing at me
glare.

He turns his head and looks directly at me, blue eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.

Oh, I get it. He’s onto my little strategy.

Jared Stewart is a snob if I ever saw one. He doesn’t socialize with many people, and it’s not in a shy, sweet kind
of way, but in a
why bother
way—I can tell the difference. Worse, he’s totally good-looking in an
I don’t care
sort of way; I’m talking messy almost-black hair, careless clothes and torn-up shoes, obviously vintage. He’s lean, but muscular lean, not coked-up rock-star lean, and he’s got big hands, and feet that have to be at least a size thirteen…and why am I thinking about this?

The bell rings. Well, it’s not actually a bell, it’s a ding-dong over the P.A. system. Speaking of Ding Dongs, thank God it’s lunchtime. By this time every day I’m so hungry I’m ready to play
Survivor
and chew the bark off a desk leg. Not that the lunch menu in the caf is much better.

I pick up my books and walk out, sensing Jared behind me. In the hall, he touches my arm, says something. I notice he’s got a red spot on his chin like he shaved over a zit this morning. I can’t help but think that shaving is sexy—that it separates the men from the boys.

I realize I’m not listening to him. “What?”

“I said don’t take it personally, all right?”

“Uh, okay.”

And he walks off.

I make my way to the caf, where Sharese and Viv are in line getting food and Ryan is already at our end of the table, playing solitaire.

Amy has a different lunch period. Sadly, the office doesn’t accommodate cliques. Not that we’re much of one. Anyone can hang around with us if they want. But
if you’re totally into chess or computers, you probably won’t. And if you’re really popular, you won’t, either. But anyone is welcome.

After getting my lunch, I join my friends at the table. “Who’s winning?” I ask Ryan, whose head is bent over the cards.

He snorts. “You working tonight?”

“Five to nine. You?”

“Four to eight.”

Just the thought of Eddie’s Grocery (aka the Hellhole) fills me with dread. If only being the Oracle of Dating paid more, it could be my only job. I scan the cafeteria. So many potential clients! I could make a fortune on the Chess Club alone.

I take a few bites of the caf’s low-fat pizza. It tastes like cardboard. “So, what’s the status of Operation Dairy Freez?”

“Shh.” Sharese looks around conspiratorially. “Honestly, I don’t know what to do about it.”

“We’ll kidnap him,” Ryan says. “You can have your way with him in the back of my parents’ SUV.”

We giggle.

“Has anyone found out his last name?” Viv asks.

We shake our heads. We know him only as Mike P., or the future father of Sharese’s children.

All we really know about him is that he works at the Dairy Freez ice-cream shop on DeKalb Avenue, and that he’s tall and gangly, with big, kind eyes. Also, he has good
customer-service skills. Like when that fat guy’s third scoop fell off his cone, Mike P. not only replaced the scoop, but apologized for not pressing it down hard enough the first time.

We’ve already given Sharese and Mike P. our blessing. The problem is, they still haven’t gotten past the “Hi, can I take your order?” stage.

“Stop putting pressure on me, guys. You’re making me nervous.” So far, Sharese has been too shy to do anything about Mike P. But we’re all hoping that will change.

Of course, like with anything, she can’t be sure he’s interested. Sharese is hot, in a voluptuous, full-figured way, and we’ve spotted Mike P. glancing at her chest—always a good sign. Plus, he gets extra shy when she comes up—another good sign. But as for a guy’s tastes, you never really know.

“It’s about time you took a risk,” I tell her.

“What about you, Kayla?” Sharese fires back. “Since when do you take risks?”

“I don’t have a crush on anyone.” Which is true. Which isn’t to say I’m not
attracted
to anyone. I’m not immune to Jared, for instance. And who can blame me, since it’s universally known that dark, mysterious guys are attractive, especially when they have big hands that I’m sure could crush a Coke can with a single squeeze.

Okay, it’s obvious that, like my friends, I have my fair share of hormonal urges. I just have the presence of mind not to take them seriously.

Ryan touches my hair. “You could get any guy you want if you did something with your hair. This wash-and-go thing isn’t working for you.”

I tug on a lock self-consciously. He’s right, of course. My hair is neither straight nor curly, but has a drunken wave. I can’t tame it with a blow-dryer, so my only other option is a professional-strength straightening iron, but the idea of putting something so hot near my head worries me.

“You should get highlights, too,” Ryan says. “Café au lait is a good color for you. And you should wear a skirt for a change and show off your legs.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Last year I made the mistake of letting Ryan take me shopping with my birthday money. I came home with an outfit that made me look like a high-class escort, complete with a sheer blouse, short skirt and tall leather boots. All promptly returned the next day when my mom had a conniption.

“You’re such a fake,” Sharese says. “You’re really not interested in
anyone
? Not even Declan McCall?”

Why is Declan McCall, football MVP and ex-boyfriend of ice queen Brooke Crossley, our school’s default crush? “Declan doesn’t turn me on. Whenever I’ve talked to him, all he does is stare at my chest. And I don’t even have a chest.”

My friends can’t argue with that.

“Well, Brooke got what she deserved when he dumped her on her pretty ass,” Ryan says.

Yes, though I’ve never seen it, I bet Brooke Crossley has
a pretty ass. She has a pretty everything else and everyone loves to hate her for it. But I doubt she’s as terrible as they say. Sure, she’s snobby, but a lot of people are. And she isn’t an airhead, either. Not that she’s as good a student as I am—but she can’t have everything, can she?

As I munch on tasteless pizza, I wonder if Brooke is a possible client. Maybe she needs to talk to someone about her recent breakup. I’ll have to drop a business card in her locker.

W
HEN
I
GET HOME
from work that night, I turn my attention to the topic of breakups. Why would someone like Declan McCall break up with Brooke Crossley when she’s clearly the best match for him at school? They could’ve been voted Prom King and Queen next year if they’d stayed together. I wonder if he got bored with her, or if there were other factors involved.

Seems to me that my female clients are more forgiving of their boyfriends’ flaws than the other way around. But there are some good reasons to cut a guy loose…

Top Ten Reasons You Should Cut Him Loose

• 10.
  When you’re kissing him, you’re fantasizing about someone else (like his best friend)!
  
• 9.
  You’re only with him because you want to have a boyfriend.
  
• 8.
  He tells you he doesn’t want a relationship. Believe him—he doesn’t!
  
• 7.
  He makes hurtful comments like, “Easy on the fries, honey.”
  
• 6.
  He doesn’t show affection in public. It doesn’t need to be a lot, but if he won’t even hold your hand, he wants people to think he’s single!
  
• 5.
  He gives you a promise ring in the first two months. Puh-lease!
  
• 4.
  He gives you a cell phone or a pager so that he can keep track of you.
  
• 3.
  He ogles other girls in front of you. Think of what he’s doing behind your back!
  
• 2.
  Finishing a level of his favorite video game is more important than answering your phone call.
  
• 1.
  He says, “Baby, if you loved me, you’d…” Anything starting with that is a manipulation! Don’t fall for it!
  

T
HE NEXT BIZARRO REALITY
TV show should be all about
my
life. All I need to round out the cast is a washed-up child star and a slutty
Survivor
castoff.

My mom is a minister, for God’s sake. She’s got the threads (the robe and the stole), the cross around her neck and the travel-size Communion set.

Mom works at a church in Park Slope where she, among other things, performs gay commitment ceremonies and doesn’t make couples who are living together feel guilty. She also preaches about the gift of divorce as the congregation nods in agreement. She says her divorce is the best thing that ever happened to her, next to having her children, of course. If she hadn’t gotten a divorce, she wouldn’t be so happy in her career and she wouldn’t have met her new husband, Erland.

Now, Mom and I have different views on the merits of the Swede. She would say that he is a brilliant theology professor and that they have a meeting of minds. I would say that he is way too stuffy and has no idea how to deal with young people. The guy has a thick accent, not unlike the Swedish chef, and is nine years older than she is—definitely a second-round draft pick. But that’s what happens when you make the wrong choice the first time around.

Mom met the Swede two years ago at a theological conference in Atlanta where he delivered a paper called, “The Existential and Metaphysical Legacy of Martin Luther.” Doesn’t that just scream romance?

Mom came back from the conference all giddy, which was cool because she had been single, way single, for a long time. So they embarked on a long-distance relationship with frequent trips overseas and endless hours on the phone. Which is, incidentally, when I success
fully petitioned for my own phone line, which I now use for the Oracle.

It was all going great for a while. Mom was happy. I was happy that Mom was happy. And the Swede wasn’t much of a bother, since he’d stop in when he was in town but never spend the night at our place. But then, last year, the Swede announced that he got a job at Union Theological Seminary in Manhattan, and within a couple of months they were married and he’d set up shop in her bedroom.

The Swede does not look like a Swede should (like a Ken doll). He is about five-nine, stocky, and has red hair that has been taken over by gray. For which I would suggest Just for Men, but I doubt it carries his particular copper-red color, and even if it did, I doubt he would use it, considering the way he lets his eyebrows go.

Today at breakfast, when Mom comes in, the Swede says, “Good morning, Bunny.”

Bunny?
I hope he means it like Honey Bunny instead of Playboy Bunny.

The Swede + Mom + Sex = SO WRONG.

I’ve never actually heard them having sex, thank God, but I’m pretty sure that’s why Mom asks me about my social plans—so she and the Swede can cozy it up in their king-size love boat, drunk on endless cups of Earl Grey.

“Morning, honey.” Mom kisses him on the lips. Then she comes over to me and kisses the top of my head. “Morning, sweetie.”

Breakfast is a mostly silent thing. And that’s fine, because Mom and I are not morning people, and the Swede is not one for light conversation. So as we eat, we read. Mom is reading the
Methodist Church Observer,
the Swede is reading
Theology Today,
and I am reading
Teen People
.

I’m seeing all these articles with gorgeous, airbrushed girls, and I say to Mom, “I’m an eight out of ten, right? Looks-wise?”

“You’re the same as I was at your age.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a good thing.”

“Uh…” Can’t she just be like other moms and tell me what I want to hear?

“You really shouldn’t spend your time thinking about these things. Don’t try to conform to a media-created rating scale.”

See what I mean? A simple question becomes a sermon. I’m not saying she doesn’t have a point, but can’t she humor me?

Maybe I’m wrong about living in a reality show. Maybe I’m living in a sitcom. The audience is laughing, but I’m not getting paid.

N
OW
, I
DON’T WANT
to give the impression that the Oracle of Dating is getting hundreds of phone calls, instant messages and e-mails a week. My average is two contacts per night.

The Web site color scheme is pink and blue, symbolizing guys and girls. Instead of headings at the top, Tracey created bubbles, which include: About the Oracle; Contact the Oracle; Blog; Links. In the center of the homepage is a large box for a blog that I can update myself. I also post a Q and A of the week, and allow readers to comment.