Galgorithm (10 page)

22

IT TOOK A LOT OF
pleading and a little subterfuge, but I managed to convince my parents to move this week's Taco Tuesday from our house to Laredo Grill. They're under the impression that I merely wanted to change things up a bit and check out a new restaurant, but of course I have ulterior motives. Mr. Kimbrough and Ms. Solomon are having a date here tonight, and I promised Mr. K. that I would be on hand should he need me. I told him that I would help him with Deb, but I have not copped to my other consulting duties and clients, nor have I mentioned the Galgorithm. He just thinks I'm good at giving friendly advice, and I plan on keeping it that way.

There's no shortage of Mexican food in Kingsview, and it seems Laredo Grill has chosen to differentiate itself by offering unnecessarily trendy spins on typical dishes and charging
an arm and leg for them. I guess there's demand out there for thirty-dollar grilled sea bass tacos, because the place is packed. While my parents are out of earshot, I talk to the hostess and request a specific table I see available. I want to be close enough to observe Bob and Deb, who are already seated, but far enough away that I won't be made.

I rejoin my parents in the waiting area, but soon get a nice surprise: Hedgehog and Balloon have just finished dinner and are walking our way.

“Shane! Hey!” Anthony says.

The three of us exchange hugs and greetings. Anthony's ­little spikes have been gelled flat—the executive Hedgehog look.

“I want you to meet my parents. Mom, Dad, this is Anthony and Brooke, my friends from school.”

They all shake hands. “It's lovely to meet you,” Mom says.

“Have you eaten here before?” Brooke asks.

“First time,” Dad says.

“You're gonna love it,” Anthony says.

“Is it a special occasion?” Mom asks.

Hedgehog and Balloon gaze at each other lovingly.

“It's our eight-and-a-half-month anniversary,” they say simultaneously.

“Aw, jinx,” Brooke says, and kisses Anthony on the nose.

Mom thinks this is utterly adorable. My dad is too hungry to care.

“I'm so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Chambliss,” Anthony says, “but my dad is waiting to pick us up outside.”

“No problem. It was great meeting you. Have a good night,” Mom says.

“You too,” Brooke says.

I take a moment to recognize that I'm standing with two of the most amazing couples I know. For all the hoops I jump through—and instruct my clients to jump through—that's all anyone's really looking for: a partner who gets you, who loves you unconditionally, and who's always there to listen.

“Aren't they cute?” Mom says to my dad.

“Blue-cheese enchiladas,” he replies. He's now reading the menu and not paying attention.

Hedgehog and Balloon exit and the hostess arrives to take us to our seats—but not the seats I requested. Our table is much farther from Bob and Deb than I would have liked, but before we sit down, I notice Deb get up and walk away. She's wearing a flowery dress and heels; she came to play.

“I'm gonna use the bathroom,” I say to my parents. “I'll be right back.”

“Have you thought about what you want to order?” Mom asks.

“Mom, it's Taco Tuesday. I want tacos.” I turn to my dad. “Wait, you're not gonna take your shirt off, are you?”

Dad shrugs, as if you never know.

I leave our table, take the long way around the restaurant,
and get to Bob. He's wearing a button-down shirt and navy blazer, and is pulling it off nicely. I'm grateful I won't have to take him to the mall for an episode of
Extreme Makeover: Slovenly Man Edition
. I double-check that my parents can't see me from here.

“Shane, you made it!” Mr. K. says.

“I told you I would. How's it going?”

“So far, so good.” He dabs beads of sweat from his forehead with a cloth napkin. “Deb went to the restroom.”

“Listen,” I say, “I can't really see you well from where I'm sitting, so you're pretty much on your own unless there's an emergency. Do you have it under control?”

“Yes. I think so. I mean, I could use all the help I can get.”

What works on a high school girl might not work on a more sophisticated woman like Ms. Solomon, so I've been doing some research.

“When Deb gets back,” I say, “look her in the eyes and ask her if she uses Latisse.”

“Latisse? I don't know what that is.”

“But women do. It's prescription eyelash lengthener. By asking her if she uses it, you're indirectly complimenting her on having nice long eyelashes.”

“Shane, you're a genius.”

“Nah, just a kid trying to help you out.”

I manage to jet from Bob's table just before Deb gets back from the bathroom and blows my cover. I take the
long way around the other way and end up back at my parents' table.

“Did I miss anything?” I say.

“Your father just ordered a very expensive cocktail,” Mom says.

“Kathryn, enough. We're having a nice dinner. When in Rome.”

“I don't think they had eighteen-dollar mojitos in Rome.”

Dad considers this. “Then why don't you split it with me?”

“Sure. But it better be the best nine bucks I ever drink.”

It's always unsettling when my parents squabble in front of me, even if it's good-natured.

My mom turns to me. “You really couldn't comb your hair? You look like you're in an out-of-work boy band.”

“Mom . . .”

“Well, coming here was your idea,” she continues. “So are we celebrating something? How was your day? How was your week? Your mother needs some news about her favorite and, coincidentally, only son.”

Crap. I've drawn too much attention to myself by insisting we take Taco Tuesday out on the road. I'm about to get grilled like the sea bass. I definitely don't want to talk about Tristen.

“Uh, actually, I was wondering if you guys could tell me the story of how you met.”

My parents look at each other.

“We met at a cocktail party,” Dad says. “You know that.”

“Come on,” I say. “You were at the same college at the same time and you're saying you didn't meet until after you graduated?”

My parents look at each other again. They have their own brand of telepathy, and my mom silently gives my dad permission to tell the real story.

“Okay, fine,” Dad says. “Freshman year of college your mom was in an a cappella group. She had—and still has—a very beautiful voice. I was in the AV club. A real nerd, unlike the super-cool guy you see before you today. They were recording a CD, and I was the sound engineer. Me and your mom just hit it off.”

“What's a CD?” I deadpan.

“Ha ha,” Mom says. “Just you wait. One day you'll be old too.”

“So you met recording an album? That's the whole story?”

“Well that's how we
met
,” Dad continues. “After that we were just friends. Then we became best friends. And it wasn't until five years later, after college, that we finally got together as a couple.”

“At the cocktail party in New York,” I say.

“Well,” Mom admits, “actually it was a rave.”

I knew it!

“But we were already best friends,” she says. “That's just when we first . . . as you would say, hooked up.”

“Gross, Mom.”

“It's what happened.”

“I don't understand. Why not tell people you met in college?”

“Every married couple has a real backstory, which is usually pretty boring, and then the embellished version, which they tell everyone,” Mom says. “Back then we thought it was more romantic, you know, that we saw each other across the room at a party and fell in love. At least more romantic than meeting in a dingy sound booth in the basement of our dorm and then only getting together five years later. It was pretty anticlimactic in real life.”

“And once you tell so many people the embellished version, you start to forget what really happened,” Dad adds. “But the fact is, I married my best friend.”

He puts his arm around Mom and kisses her. After all these years, my parents are still looking at each other as affectionately as Hedgehog and Balloon do now.

“Even though it all worked out for us, there's a very valuable lesson I want you to take away from this story, Shane,” Mom says.

“What's that?” I ask.

I think I already know the answer. It's a tale about friendship, love, patience, and fate.

“Don't go to raves,” Mom says. “They're very dangerous, and who knows what they put in those drinks.”

Or that.

23

IT'S A COOL, STARLESS FRIDAY
night. A little chilly for March, but pleasant nonetheless. One of the seniors on the baseball team is throwing a bash in his backyard. His yard is about half as big as mine, and is hemmed in by a wooden fence, so it seems pretty packed and loud for a gathering of fifty people. There are two kegs, a few tiki torches, a Jambox playing Top 40, and plenty of red Solo cups and ice. Meaning that in the scheme of parties I've been to, this is a real classy affair.

I found out about the party through Tristen, who's typically in the know about everything. She has a birthday party to attend first and is meeting me here in a bit. I dragged Jak here after she agreed to go and then tried backing out. She insisted on having two rum and Cokes at her house first to
“calm her nerves,” and then we walked over together. Jak told Adam about the party, and he came separately. This is probably his first jock party but, hey, act like you belong somewhere and they'll let you in. Rebecca is also here, shaking hands and kissing proverbial babies even as her presidential term begins to wind down. I'm sure Harrison invited her, though their status remains unclear. Harrison himself is lurking about somewhere, but I decided that if Jak can overcome her fears to show her face here, so can I.

Currently Jak is holed up in the corner by one of the kegs, drinking another beer and making me keep her company. I pour myself one, too.

“Guess what,” she says.

“What?”

“Today Ms. Solomon said we're not gonna have any more pop quizzes for the rest of the year.”

“Really? Nice.”

“She was in a weird mood.” Jak leans in close to my ear. “I think she got laid. . . .”

I silently pray that Jak is right and Mr. Kimbrough is responsible.

Jak nods her head, as if confirming her own hunch. “Her hair looked different. I can tell.”

Her breath reeks of booze.

“Maybe you should slow down on the drinking a bit, champ,” I suggest.

“Maybe you should slow down your face.”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

Jak's social anxiety has always straddled the line between clinical and her just being a weirdo. She does not like people, present company proudly excluded. Still, one on one, two on one, or even three on one she can manage, make conversation, and generally observe basic societal customs. But in any group larger than that, she can't deal. She copes with it through denial, only hanging out with me, and, tonight, ­Malibu and Diet. Over the years I've gone to a few parties without Jak, but usually I bend over backward to keep our plans just the two of us. Tonight will be an interesting test.

Jak gives me the stink-eye for commenting on her drinking. Then she spots Adam approaching and starts fixing her hair, an impossible task that I rarely ever see her attempt.

“Hey, guys!” Adam says as he reaches us.

“Yo,” I say, and we shake hands.

“Hi, Adam,” Jak says, in a voice one octave higher than usual.

“Hey, Jak.” He gives her a kiss on the cheek. “You smell nice.”

“Thanks.”

I know for a fact that she smells like cheap rum and Coke.

“Are you guys having a good time?” Adam asks.

Ten times out of ten, Jak will answer that question with, “Meh.”

“Yeah,” Jak says, “it's a great party.”

For some reason this response bothers me. I mean,
whatever. It's an okay party. And we're stuck in the corner. Adam smiles at Jak. She manages a smile in return and then downs the rest of her beer.

The three of us are soon joined by Rebecca. She has a sweater tied around her neck, which isn't a thing I thought people actually did. We exchange pleasantries. Jak ekes out a hello.

“So what's going on over here in the corner?” Rebecca asks.

“Whole lotta nothing,” Adam replies. He and Rebecca clink their keg cups. They run in the same overachiever circles.

“Shane,” Rebecca says, “I meant to tell you—we finally sorted out that senior parking permit issue.”

This was the conversation I had with her at the college fair, in order to wedge her away from Marisol, and then totally forgot about.

“Oh,” I say. “Great.”

“Let me ask you guys something,” Rebecca continues. “What would you think about a
second
extracurricular period after school? That way students who are in multiple clubs can juggle two meetings in one day.”

Jak deadpans: “There's a
first
extracurricular period?”

Even in her hour of weakness, Jak still knows how to land a joke.

Adam, however, lights up at Rebecca's suggestion. “That
would be amazing. I've been requesting that for years. Right, Jak? Wasn't I just telling you how busy I am?”

Jak is pouring another beer from the keg. “Sure. Okay.”

Adam turns to Rebecca. “What can we do to make this happen, and quickly? I would love to help.” The hardest-­working nerd in Kingsview apparently wants to squeeze even more in before graduation.

“That's great,” Rebecca says with a winning smile. “I'll message you next week to discuss. Here's my card just in case.”

“Excellent,” Adam says, taking the card, admiring it, and smiling back.

Jak shifts on her feet. We are at her maximum occupancy for civil behavior, and seeing Rebecca chat up her crush isn't helping. I feel uncomfortable altogether, so I try to lighten the mood by innocently putting my hand on Rebecca's shoulder. “Who would have thought we'd be making school policy at a keg party, huh?” I joke.

Of course, as soon as I do this, Harrison enters our little corner, carrying one black garbage bag and one green garbage bag. “Listen up—”

He stops midsentence when he notices that I have my hand on Rebecca's shoulder. That's the only tell I need to know they are still hooking up. I immediately remove my hand.

“What I was about to say was,” he continues, “trash goes in the black bags. Cans and plastic cups go in the green bags.”

Adam, who I sense may be emboldened by half a beer, chimes in: “I never pegged you for an environmentalist, Harrison.”

Harrison zeroes in on Adam. “I'm sorry.
Who
are you?”

Adam blanches. “Uh, Adam Foster. We've known each other since elementary school.”

“I'm kidding, dummy. I know who you are.”

This draws an uneasy laugh from the rest of us.

Harrison starts to crack his knuckles.

Jak looks worried, but also a little glassy-eyed.

“Is there something wrong with caring for the environment?” Harrison asks Adam.

“Harrison,” Rebecca says, trying to calm him.

Adam wisely says nothing.

“My moms are activists,” Harrison says. “Do you have a problem with my moms being activists?”

Adam vehemently shakes his head no.

“I didn't think so.”

Everyone in our circle is silent. But then the standoff is interrupted by Jak, of all people. She finishes her beer and throws her plastic cup in the green bag that Harrison is holding.

“Thank you,” Harrison says, quite graciously.

“You're welcome,” Jak says. And then she lets out a small belch. She already has a fresh cup at the ready.

The tension seems to be defused. Adam breathes a sigh of relief. Harrison grows bored with us and turns to leave,
almost running smack-dab into Tristen, who has just entered the party, nearly spilling her beer.

“Excuse me,” Harrison says.

“Sorry!” Tristen says.

Then Harrison does a double take: He looks at her body and then back at her face. I've seen that reaction around ­Tristen a thousand times. Her cleavage is total kryptonite.

“Oh, hey, Tristen,” he says.

“Hi, Harrison.”

I don't even want to know how they know each other.

Harrison exits. A moment later Rebecca pretends to see a friend and shadily sneaks away, though I know she's headed after him.

Tristen and I kiss hello—on the lips. That cherry ­ChapStick gets me every time.

“I'm glad you made it,” I say.

“Me too,” she says. Then: “Hi, Jak!” She hugs Jak, who is clearly not expecting it. Then she turns to Adam: “Have we met? I'm Tristen.” Before Adam can even reply, she turns back to me: “Did I miss anything?”

“Not really,” I say.

I realize it's just me and Tristen and Jak and Adam left in the corner. You would be hard-pressed to find two more unlikely pairs.

Tristen holds my hand. Jak notices this. She holds Adam's hand. Adam is clearly surprised by—and amenable to—this
development. We stand in silence for a minute, drinking our beers with our free hands.

Tristen suddenly remembers something, gives me her beer to hold, digs into her purse, and pulls out a small bottle of vodka. “I almost forgot—I brought this as a gift.”

“That was nice,” I say.

“My mom taught me never to go anywhere empty-handed,” Tristen says.

“Now I feel bad that I didn't bring anything.”

“We can say it's from both of us. My mom also taught me to share.”

“Your mom is very generous.”

“Yeah. Total Sagittarius.”

I don't know what that means. “Um, okay.”

Tristen looks at the bottle of vodka in her hand. “The question is,” she says, “who do we give it to?”

“
Whom
,” me and Jak say simultaneously.

“Huh?” Tristen says.

“It's whom.
Whom
do we give it to,” I say. “Not who.”

Jak smiles.

Tristen looks at me blankly, and then at Jak with just a hint of derision.

“You guys are being weird,” she says.

Tension has returned to our little circle. Jak lets go of Adam's hand. She's sweating a bit. After a few moments, she excuses herself. “I gotta get some air.”

“Should I come with you?” Adam asks. “Also, we're already outside.”

“No. Thanks.” Jak leaves and disappears into the party.

“Now,
that
was weird,” Adam says.

“Nah. That was just Jak,” I say.

“You really do talk about Jak a lot,” Tristen says.

“I don't know. She's my friend.” I look at Adam. I feel bad for him. I feel bad for Tristen. I'm acting weird. I'm having crazy thoughts. I'm a little tipsy.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say.

I leave Tristen and Adam standing there and bolt.

I navigate my way through the party and into the house through a back door—no easy task, as the backyard has swelled with even more people. The house itself is pretty big and a lot ritzier than mine. It takes me a few minutes of searching before I find the guest bathroom upstairs. I just want to throw some cold water on my face. But I try the door and it's locked. I lean against the wall in the hallway, trying to wrap my head around everything that's happening.

I hear an argument coming from the guest bedroom next to the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar. My curiosity gets the best of me, so I peer inside. It's Harrison and Rebecca. They're sitting on the bed, fighting.

“I don't understand why we still have to be a secret,” Rebecca says. “Are you embarrassed by me?”

“Of course not,” Harrison says. “You're amazing. It's just . . . my parents.”

“Why do you care so much about what they think?”

“You know why.”

“I'm sick of sneaking around!”

“Rebecca, please—”

Uh oh. Harrison spots me spying on them through the crack in the door. I've been made. “What the . . . ,” he says.

Harrison stands up and starts making his way toward me while Rebecca shouts at him. I close the door. In a panic, I try the guest bathroom again. This time it's open.

I lunge into the bathroom, slam the door behind me, and lock it, temporarily at least barring Harrison from killing me.

Then I hear groaning.

I'm not alone in the bathroom.

Jak is on her knees in front of the toilet, vomiting.

“Shane is the Mane,” she manages, pumping her fist meekly.