The Oracle of Dating (4 page)

Yep, Lucy is a breath of fresh air in the hellish inferno of my workplace.

Half the customers here are escaped convicts or certified weirdos. Like the crazy cat lady who only buys three things: soda crackers, milk and cat food. And when I say cat food, I mean, like, seventy cans. She does this every week. I wonder how many cats (or cat ladies) it takes to eat all that.

And Mom wonders why I complain about this job.

Yeah, working at the Hellhole shows me how important it is to get an education. If I don’t, I might have to
work at a place like this my whole life. That’s the best work-ethic lesson Mom could hope for.

“I
T’S GOT SOME POTENTIAL
,” Jared says of my latest sketch. He’s been trying to help me lately, or so it seems. I think he finds my attempts at drawing entertaining. Like right now, he’s biting his lip to keep from laughing. “The head’s too big for the body, though.”

I shouldn’t be putting up with him, but I’m keeping him around in the event he can actually help me. Also, he smells good.

“Why couldn’t I just use that photo of the Afghan girl? This one is so…blah.”

“I thought you wanted to start off playing ‘Chopsticks’ instead of Mozart.”

“Okay, fine. How do I get the head the right size?”

“Why don’t you just measure it?”

I do, and within a few minutes I produce a fairly accurate head. Now I have to sketch the tall supermodel body. Jared’s right that the picture is simple, though I have an aversion to drawing unnaturally skinny women.

“So, how’d you end up at this school?” I ask. He’s one of the few new kids this year.

His eyes narrow a fraction. At least I think they do. His face doesn’t give much away. “This school had a space.”

“Where were you before?”

“Sunset Park.”

“I hear Sunset Park can be pretty rough.”

“It’s different.”

I decide to pursue a different line of questioning. “You’re a senior, right? I saw you were in grade twelve English.”

“Are you stalking me, Kayla?”

I feel myself blush. “I’m just observant.”

“Yeah, I’m a senior.”

Well, that explains why he’s old enough to shave. Suddenly I wonder if he has hair on his chest, or if he’s like Case Study No. 2 who had, like, three hairs.

Realizing that I’m staring at his chest, I look up.

“Are you a fan?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“You’re funny, you know that? I’m asking if you like them.”

Oh, he means the band Three Days Grace. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with the band’s name and the words
Animal I Have Become.

“I’m not a fan. Not really.”

“What do you listen to? Miley Cyrus?”

Coming from him, I know that’s an insult. “Yeah, definitely,” I say with a straight face. “But the Jonas Brothers are even better.”

Jared makes a gagging noise, and I laugh.

“Truth is, I mostly listen to Top 40 stuff, but not them. What about you?”

“Anything with a good tune and lyrics that mean something. You know, bands that actually write and play their own music. Not groups that recycle the same tunes over and over.”

“Do you play anything?”

“Guitar. I’m in a band called The Invisible. A couple of guys at this school are in it, too—Tom Leeson and Said Abdullah.”

“Tom sang at the coffeehouse last year. He was good.”

“What about you, you play anything?”

“I played violin in junior high, but I guess that doesn’t count. I’m not very musical.”

“Maybe you haven’t discovered it yet.”

“Sure.”

I can’t help thinking—he’s in a band. Bands mean popularity, groupies. So why don’t I see him surrounded by people in the hallways and having lunch with the A-list crowd?

I’m starting to think that Jared isn’t so much a snob as a loner, someone who stays deliberately outside the mainstream.

Maybe he can use the help of the Oracle…

A
FTER THE SEVENTH-PERIOD
bell, I make my move. When I’m sure the hallway is clear, I slip a business card into Jared’s locker.

Need Dating Advice?

Contact the Oracle of Dating at 555-DATE.

Or visit the Oracle online at oracleofdating.com.

When my next class ends, I hurry to my locker in time to see Jared open his. The card flutters to the ground. He picks it up, makes a face and shows it to Andrew Becker.

Oh, no! He’s asking Andrew if he got one, too!

Andrew shakes his head.

Jared tosses the business card on the floor.

Damn it!

So much for that idea. How am I supposed to help Jared now?

I grab my history book and close my locker.

It’s a lesson everyone in the caring professions has to learn at some point. You can’t force people to accept your help. They have to want it.

T
HE THIRD WEEK OF
S
EPTEMBER
is when classes choose their Student Council reps. Believe it or not, I’m class rep for 11B.

How did I manage that? Amy nominated me and I didn’t say no. And then one of the popular girls—Brooke Crossley’s number one follower, Kirsten Cook—gets nominated. After that, no one else wants to run. So we leave the classroom while everybody votes. No secret ballot, just a show of hands in front of the teacher. Kirsten doesn’t talk to me in the hallway but uses her cell phone to book a bikini wax. I wonder who she’s dating and what she’s doing to need a bikini wax.

We go back in. Mr. Findley says that I won. I say, “Really?”

And then Kirsten puts a hand on her hip and goes, “Are you sure?”

And I say, “Yeah, are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

After class, Amy explains what happened. It was unbelievable! Sean Fortier said to Alfred Weams that the nerd crew better vote for Kirsten. And Alfred was like,
“Are you kidding me? Kirsten doesn’t even say hi to us. Kayla is way cool.”
Apparently it came down to the nerds versus the popular crowd, a power struggle as old as time. And the nerds’ will prevailed because they outnumbered the popular crowd.

Which leads me to today’s meeting. I’m sitting beside Ellen Huang, who has a romance novel perched behind her lunch bag so Prez Kevin Markinson doesn’t see.

I’m not listening, either. I’m trying to read the book over her shoulder. It must be good, because Ellen hasn’t looked up in the past ten minutes.

“Tears welled up in her blue eyes. She could have wept with the need to touch his face, to smooth the angry scowl from his brow. Oh, to feel his lips against hers one more time. But it was impossible…”

“That’s some book,” I whisper.

Ellen grins. “I’ve got the whole series at home if you want to borrow it.”

“Series? Are they all four hundred pages?”

“Yeah, but you won’t want them to end, trust me.”

“Is there a lot of sex in them?”

“Hell, yeah. How do you think the author fills up four hundred pages? I’ll bring you the first book tomorrow. You’re going to get hooked.”

It’s about time I see what all the fuss is about. I’ve never
read any romance novels, especially not this sexy historical stuff. There has to be something to them if they’re so popular.

“Girls.” Ms. Verdel, staff adviser to the Student Council, is giving us a look that says,
shut up.
I don’t understand why someone who hates young people is a teacher, much less Student Council adviser.

I tune in to Kevin Markinson. “…hoping a few of you will volunteer to fundraise for the Cancer Society. Last year we had bake sales at lunch and at parent-teacher conferences. We also had a penny harvest and the class that raised the most money won a pizza party. We need volunteers to organize these things.”

The room falls silent. No hands go up.

“C’mon, guys. This is for cancer research!” Kevin looks over at Brooke. “Please.”

“I don’t have time. I’m cheerleading, like, every day.”

“Chris?”

“I did it last year. Why don’t you ask Joe?”

“Sorry,” Joe says before Kevin can even ask him. “I’m on the football team.”

“What about
her?
” someone says. “She’s new. She hasn’t done anything yet.”

I know without looking up that
her
is me.

There is no way I can wiggle my way out of this one. I can’t exactly tell them the real reason I don’t have any spare time.

“I’ll organize something,” I say.

“Great.” Kevin looks relieved. “Maybe the bake sale?”

“I’ve got another idea.”

“Like what?”

“Speed dating.”

Everyone turns to look in my direction. I feel my face heat, as it always does when people stare at me. “It’s…it’s really popular these days. I’m sure we can get lots of people to pay ten bucks to be in it.”

Ms. Verdel is frowning. “Let’s see what the parents think of this.”

Kevin shrugs. “I’m sure they’ll sign permission forms. I think it’s a great idea.” He looks around. “Don’t you think?”

People are nodding.

“You’d better put this before the principal,” Ms. Verdel says.

“I will, no prob,” Kevin replies. “Cool, we’ve got speed dating, then. This girl here—what’s your name again? Kayla? Okay, Kayla’s going to organize it. Now, we need someone to do the bake sale…”

I phase out.

So my speed dating night is going to be bigger than I originally thought. Why not? My powers of organization will be put to the test.

“G
UYS
, I’
M GOING TO NEED
your help,” I tell my friends the next day in the caf. “It’s for the Cancer Society.”

“I baked cookies last year,” Sharese says. “I don’t mind doing it again.”

“I’m not talking about the bake sale, but I’ll still take you up on your offer to bake cookies. I’m going to organize a speed dating night.”

“I thought you were doing that for your sociology assignment,” Viv says.

“I am. This way it’ll be for charity, too. I figure we’ll try to have two games with ten guys and ten girls in each. We could charge ten bucks a person. If we fill all the spots we can rake in four hundred bucks.”

“Where are you going to have it?” Ryan asks.

“I was thinking we’d do it here at school, maybe in the library. We’d need to have a teacher there to chaperone—shouldn’t be hard to find one. We could have a session from seven to eight, and one from eight to nine.”

“If we do it in the library, they’d better let us decorate,” Ryan says. “That place doesn’t exactly say romance.”

“Does that mean you’re volunteering to do it?”

“Of course I am.”

“Yay! And we’ll need lots of refreshments. I was thinking we could sell drinks and snacks. Sharese?”

“I’ll make my s’more cookies. They’re gooey and delish. And I’ll make cupcakes and Oreo Rice Krispie squares, too.” Sharese is definitely the domestic one among us. Ryan runs a close second, but his line is fashion and decor.

“I’ll bring some Indian food,” Viv adds.

“Perfect.” I write all of this down. “The biggest job of all is recruiting. We need twenty guys and twenty girls to fill up the two games. We have to get their money in advance in case people back out at the last minute. Are you guys gonna play?”

Sharese and Viv nod.

Ryan shrugs. “Maybe I’ll sell the snacks and drinks.”

“Great, I could use your help. As for advertising, we can make posters and put them around the school. And I’ll write something for the morning announcements.”

“When are we doing this?” Sharese asks.

“I was thinking we could do it two weeks from Friday. Another thing—everyone will need to have a permission form signed by a parent.”

They groan.

“I know, I know. We just need to cover our asses in case somebody gets upset and tries to sue the school.”

“It’s so stupid,” Sharese says. “I’m old enough to drive but not to sit across from a guy for five minutes without mommy’s permission!”

“Pretty much. Actually, Ms. Verdel warned us not to recruit anyone younger than sixteen.”

“So we leave out half the school?” Ryan asks. “That’s B.S.”

“We just have to live with it. Amy’s agreed to help out, too. She says she’ll get Chad to bring some jocks on board. The girls will love that. We might even have to organize
a few more games. Plus, I’m going to get Brooke and her friends there.”

“You think Brooke will go for something this cheesy?” Sharese asks.

Ryan gives an exaggerated nod. “She totally will. That girl loves to be loved. There’s nothing better for her ego than this.”

“She
is
on the rebound from Declan,” Viv points out. “This could be the perfect way for her to get out there again. Why don’t you go ask her, Kayla? You won’t find a better chance than this.”

“Good point.” I walk up to the table of cheerleaders and jocks, carefully measuring my steps so I don’t go splat on the soda-slick floor in front of them. I tap Brooke on the shoulder. She turns around with a smile. See? She’s really not as bitchy as everyone says.

“Can I talk to you for a second? Student Council stuff.”

“Okay.” She gets up, dusts the sandwich crumbs off her hands and steps back from the table.

“I know you’re super busy with cheerleading, but I need your help in getting the speed dating off the ground. All you need to do is say you’ll come and bring a few of your friends.”

She crinkles her nose. “Why does it matter if we show up?”

Like she doesn’t know. Time for a little ego-stroking—it
is
for a good cause.

“Guys are always drooling over you, Brooke. If they know you’re going to be there, they’ll be lining up for a ticket.”

She smiles. “What kind of guys are going to be there?”

“Let’s put it this way—Chad Douglas is recruiting from the soccer team. And, personally, I think a soccer bod is better than a football bod.”

Her eyes glaze over as she thinks of the possibilities. “I’m in. I’ll bring five girls with me. Maybe more.”

“Perfect.”

A
ROUND EIGHT O’CLOCK
that night, an instant message pops up on my screen.

Loveless23: Oracle?

Oracle: Yes. I’m here.

Loveless23: I read your blog on flirting and I don’t think I’m any good at it.

Oracle: Like anything else, you can improve with practice.

Loveless23: I don’t even think I want to learn how to flirt. I just want the person I like to know that I like her. But I don’t know how to do it.

Oracle: Are you too shy to be direct and ask her out?

Loveless23: Yeah. I can’t see doing that.

Oracle: You could do it in a more subtle way. You could say you have two movie passes and your friend cancelled on you. And then see if she offers to join you.

Loveless23: That’s not a bad idea. I doubt she’ll want to go with me, though.

Oracle: Why do you say that? Are you picking up signals that she isn’t interested?

Loveless23: I’m getting mixed signals. If she’s interested, she doesn’t know it yet. I don’t think she sees me as a possible boyfriend.

Oracle: Why not? You must have some reason for saying that.

Loveless23: Well, she’s really good-looking, for a start. She probably only goes out with GQ types. And she’s a few years older than me.

Oracle: How much older?

Loveless23: My mom’s age. No, I’m kidding. She’s a couple years older than me, I think. And she has more seniority at work. I just don’t think she really sees me. But I can’t be too straight with her about how I feel—I know it would be a mistake.

Oracle: Why don’t you just Be?

Loveless23: What does that mean?

Oracle: Show this girl who you are. Show her that you’re funny and smart and compassionate (if you are those things). Then watch for signs that she’s noticing you. If you don’t get any, then it isn’t meant to be. If you do, then find the courage to ask her to go for a drink after work.

Loveless23: What sort of signals am I looking for?

Oracle: She’ll be looking at you more than she has to. And when you catch her, she’ll either smile deeply into your eyes, or look away.

Loveless23: And if she doesn’t look my way at all?

Oracle: Then somebody else will. Someone who will be appreciative of all you have to offer.

Loveless23: I got you, Oracle. Thanks.

Oracle: Good luck, Loveless23.

Nice. Another five bucks in the Oracle’s shallow pocket.

It’s refreshing to get a question from a guy for a change, especially one who’s wondering if a girl is interested in him. Usually it’s the other way around. Of the eight contacts I’ve had this week, half of them have been from girls wanting confirmation that a guy likes them. Those questions are always tricky, especially since my clients want one answer and one answer only. I ask them questions in order to assess the evidence: Does he go out of his way to talk to you? Do you chat with him online, and if so, who starts the conversation? Does he find ways to touch you when it’s not necessary? The problem is, the girls themselves aren’t a reliable source of information. They want the guy to like them, and so they present “evidence” to get me to confirm it, when really they’re reading too much into what the guy has done.

All of this leaves me in a tight spot. If I tell these girls what they want to hear, they may be happy temporarily, but they might blame me if the guy turns out not to be interested. If I tell them that, based on the evidence, the
odds are slim that the guy’s into them, they’ll probably never call me again. Most of the time, I have enough evidence to say the odds are fifty/fifty, and then I give them further strategies to discover the answer themselves.

I move from the computer to my bed, careful to keep my music low in case there’s a
bling
signaling an instant message, or a
ping
signaling an e-mail.

I’m aware that your bedroom says a lot about you. Mine says a lot of different things. There are no major color schemes. The walls are white. I have some pictures up of me and my friends, and postcards from my sister’s travels. The top of my dresser is devoted to jewelry and makeup, most of it lying out in the open instead of neatly arranged in the organizer I got last Christmas.