Galgorithm (14 page)

31

I'VE ALWAYS SAID THAT ONE
day Reed Wanamaker could be president of the United States. He could own a yacht. He could host a beauty pageant. He could do all those things if he only saw the potential in himself that I see in him.

Now the rest of the world finally sees that potential.

It didn't surprise me much when Reed dropped off the face of the earth. After he made out with Marisol in the courtyard of the school in broad daylight, there was nothing more I could do for him. He was my masterpiece, and he had leveled up.

But Reed was always a good friend, and devoted to the cause, so when I made the momentous decision that I made today, I knew I had to seek him out.

I find him in the gym during his phys ed period. Both basketball courts are full of students running drills. The air is
filled with the sound of dribbling balls and sneaker squeaks and the smell of Spalding rubber.

Reed, however, is not participating and is instead standing on the sidelines in street clothes, intently playing with his iPhone. Those street clothes, it's worth noting, are pretty stylish and a complete departure from the outfits he wore when we first met, though he hasn't added a pound to his skeletal frame.

“There's the man,” I say as I approach him.

“Shane!” He pockets the phone and hugs me.

“Wait,” I say. “Why aren't you playing? Are you sick?”

“Nope.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Just didn't feel like it.”

The new and improved Reed has swagger!

We sit in a couple of stray folding chairs that are next to the court.

“It's been a little while,” I say. “I feel like I never got the nitty-gritty.”

“I know. Things have just gotten so busy with school and SATs . . . and Marisol.”

He motions to the basketball court, where Marisol is chatting with a bunch of her friends. She blows Reed a kiss. This is of course the class where they first met. And to think she'll never even know I was behind it. There's something poetic about that.

“Well, you did text me that you were officially a couple,” I say.

Reed smiles.

“I'm happy for you, man,” I add.

“I can't thank you enough, Shane. You changed my life. All the pointers. All the advice.”

“Hey, it was in you the whole time. You really went for it that day in the courtyard.”

“I don't know what came over me,” he says. “Maybe it was just sixteen years of frustration. But Marisol was laughing at my jokes and it was a beautiful day outside and suddenly I didn't care anymore. I just kissed her. And she kissed me back! Everything clicked. We've been together ever since. I guess when it's right it's right.”

I pat Reed on the back. I almost want to cry I'm so proud.

“Thanks for letting me make fun of you in front of ­Tristen,” he adds. “I felt bad about that.”

“Yeah, she didn't care.” I can't seem to do any wrong in Tristen's eyes.

“Phew. Good,” he says. “So did you just come here to say hey or what?”

“No,” I say. “Actually, there's something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. It's just . . . well, I'm really glad you were one of my final clients, Reed.”

“The pleasure was all mine. Wait—what do you mean,
final
clients?”

“I thought you should be the first to know.”

“First to know what?”

“I'm retiring from the dating business.”

“You mean like when you graduate?”

“No, I mean right now. I'm done. No more coaching. No more advising. No more telling guys what to say. No more hearing their sob stories. I'm finished.”

“You're joking.”

“Dead serious. I'm gonna start reaching out to my clients to let them know I'm through. I've taken them as far as I can anyway.”

“I don't understand,” Reed says.

The fact is, my mental state is beginning to fray. The trials and tribulations of one budding relationship are plenty to keep anyone occupied around the clock. But facilitating multiple relationships at once? It's enough to drive a guy insane. And how can I be a dating expert when I can't even get my own house in order? I used to be passionate about helping guys find true love. Now it just reminds me what I lack in my own life.

“It's better this way,” is all I say. “It's time.”

“I just . . . I can't believe it,” Reed says. “I always thought you would do this forever.”

“I used to think so too. But it wears on you. I'm ready to move on. I think I've contributed enough. And I hoped you of all people would understand that.”

“Of course. I absolutely do. It's just . . .”

“It's just what?”

“It's just . . . what about the Galgorithm?”

“What about it?”

“What's gonna happen to it? Are you ever gonna share it?”

“I think maybe it's better if it stays a secret forever.”

“Come on, Shane! You have to tell me.”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes!”

“And you promise not to tell anyone else?”

“Yes!”

I take a deep breath. Here goes.

“Well, Reed, the truth is . . . the Galgorithm doesn't exist.”

“What do you mean, it doesn't exist?”

“I mean, there's no such thing as the Galgorithm. I made it up.”

He's silent. Words replaced by background sounds of basketball and gossip.

“But—”

I cut him off. “No. No code. No formula. No Galgorithm. It's not real.”

“But I've asked you before what it was,” he says.

“And every time I told you that you weren't ready to hear the truth yet. The thing is, you'll never be ready, because there's no secret to reveal.”

“Then why did you tell me there was one!”

“To gain your trust.”

“I don't get it.”

“I've spent years trying to observe and learn everything I could about girls and couples and relationships. All the moves and the techniques I shared with you, those were all real. But for guys like you to truly get on board, I needed you to think everything was part of a master plan. So I started calling my wisdom the Galgorithm.”

Reed is speechless.

“Look, every girl is different. There's no singular formula. Guys are just much more willing to go along with the program if they believe there is one. The Galgorithm was just me telling you what to do next.”

“But it really did seem like there
was
a code,” Reed says. “Like it
worked
.”

“That's because it did work. By distracting you.”

“What do you mean?”

“At the end of the day, all that matters is confidence. That's the one common denominator I found in every guy who is successful with women. It doesn't matter if you're tall or a jock or good-looking or rich. But the problem is, confidence is not a thing. You can't see it. You can't measure it. You can't buy it. You can't just tell a guy, ‘Be more confident.' But what you can do, I discovered, is create the
illusion
of confidence.”

The wheels are turning in Reed's head.

“By pumping you up with all these rules and tricks, and by
making you think you were following a formula, I distracted you from fixating on how ungettable the girl standing in front of you seemed. I made you less nervous. And that made you more confident.”

I think about Mr. Kimbrough, reluctant to try to text Deb again—that is, until I told him we were using “the Galgorithm.”

“I didn't even know any of this was happening,” Reed says.

“Exactly. Because you were thinking about your haircut and the jeans and how long to wait to text her back and how much cologne to put on and
what is the Galgorithm?
It's a decoy. Figuring out that Marisol likes pizza from her ­Facebook profile wasn't rocket science. But convincing you that the intel was invaluable—now,
that
was what made your conversation with her less daunting. When you think you have the ­Galgorithm behind you, guiding you, you're much more confident, and it shows.”

I think about Adam putting a pen behind his ear and then asking Olivia—and Jak—for another one. Simply a ruse to distract him from the fact that he was approaching a girl he considered out of his league. Otherwise he would have overthought it and psyched himself out.

“My brain is throbbing right now,” Reed says. “So there's no spreadsheet? No hieroglyphics carved into a rock somewhere?”

“Let me ask you this, Reed: Did you ever
really
believe that I had unlocked the mystery of girls?”

“Well, I was vulnerable. I would have believed anything at that point. And then it worked, so . . . I would have to say, yes. I did believe you. Or at least I chose not to
not
believe you.”

“Yeah, that's pretty much how it works.”

“So all those tips and hints . . .”

“In here,” I say, pointing to my head. “I
am
the Galgorithm.”

“But you're done.”

“That's right. So I guess, in a way, I'm destroying it by retiring. The Galgorithm is gone.”

“It seems like such a waste.”

“Yeah, well, you have Marisol and I have . . .” I trail off. What do I have?

The bell rings for the end of class.

“Hey, Reed,” I say. “Let's just keep this between me and you for now.”

“Of course,” he says. “I'm still trying to digest it all.”

We stand up. Reed digs his phone out of his pocket. “Thanks for telling me,” he says. “I really appreciate it.” We hug.

“I'll see you around, Reed. Good luck.”

“You too, Shane.”

I'm proud of what we accomplished together. I'm proud of the man he's become.

Reed turns and leaves, but as soon as he does, I notice he
is immediately engrossed by his phone again, in a not-even-normal-for-a-high-school-kid kind of way.

“Hey,” I call out. “What are you doing over there?”

He scurries back to me sheepishly so that no one else can hear us and shows me an app on his phone.

“I'm playing Dungeons and Dragons. Don't tell Marisol.”

I shake my head with pride.

Some nerds never change.

32

I'M ENJOYING MY FIRST DAY
of freedom in a long time.

I'm surprised by how good it feels to have this weight off my shoulders. I woke up this morning with no clients to check up on and no advice to dole out. There are a handful of guys that I do still need to inform about my retirement, but that's a task for another day.

As soon as I left for school in the morning, I knew I wasn't actually gonna go. I need a break. I deserve it. And I'm prepared for my upcoming AP exams. I left the house at the proper time so that my parents wouldn't suspect anything, but as soon as I was a block away, I changed direction and started driving to the mall. Not exactly
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
, but it's a start.

My phone pings. It's Jak. The texts begin around this
time every morning and continue until she falls asleep. They are usually entertaining, but today they start to eat away at that nice feeling of relief, so I just shut my phone off.

There's only one thing at the mall open this early, a diner that's accessible from the street. It's a real greasy spoon, and the waitresses are dressed liked it's the fifties. I order black coffee with my breakfast. I never drink black coffee. But it seems like what a normal, soon-to-be-collegiate guy would do. It's bitter as hell. I have two cups and get a third to go.

When the rest of the mall finally opens, I wander about aimlessly, past stores I've browsed with Reed or Tristen or Jak. This time I have the place pretty much to myself. I pass a trendy women's boutique. There's one girl shopping in the store, and she looks cute. She's about fifteen feet away from me, and I can only see her from behind. I pause to look at her.

I start to take another step but can't keep my eyes off her. Her hair is long and jet black. She fiddles with it while she browses a rack of shirts.

I'm struck with a sudden sense of déjà vu, but my brain can't yet articulate what's happening.

Time slows to a crawl.

The girl takes a hair tie off her wrist and puts her hair in a bun.

She has a bar code tattoo on the back of her neck.

I drop my cup.

Voldemort.

The coffee splatters all over the floor and my sneakers, and echoes in the concourse loud enough for her to hear.

She turns and spots me, and her face lights up.

“Shane!” she says, and immediately stops what she was doing and walks in my direction. My stomach drops.

When we dated, she was a sixteen-year-old high school junior, and that's how I remember her. Now she's a nineteen-year-old college sophomore, and the years have been very kind to her. Her hair is dyed black, but she's still rocking that red lipstick and nail polish. Any trace of a baby face is gone. Those two perfect dimples are now accenting a pair of taut cheekbones. She wears a white off-the-shoulder T-shirt and black jeans, and she looks damn good.

Luckily, the coffee was half empty. I quickly wipe off my sneakers with a napkin and throw the spilled cup in a nearby garbage can just as Voldemort reaches me.

“This is so crazy!” she says. She gives me a big hug. I hug her back. She smells the same. Our entire relationship flashes before my eyes. It doesn't take very long.

“Faith,” I stammer. “What are you doing here?”

“I have reading days, so I decided to visit my folks.”

“Reading days?”

“We get a couple of days off before finals start. I should be studying, but I decided to come home. The mall in Valley Hills sucks, though.”

“Got it,” I manage.

My synapses are overrun. I hate her. I'm happy to see her. I'm shocked. I'm curious. I'm upset. I'm weak.

“So,” she says, “it's been forever. How have you been? What have you been up to?”

Oh, just obsessing over our breakup until it metastasized into the creation of a new identity for myself. You know, silly high school stuff.

“Not much,” I say. “Looking forward to graduation and whatever.”

“Right on,” she says. “Well you look great. Something is different about you.”

She's gonna mention my jeans. . . .

“New jeans?”

“Yeah.” I try to play it off. “I think so.”

“They look good. Hey . . . shouldn't you be at school?”

“Nah. I decided to cut a few periods.”

“Senioritis. Nice. I remember it well.”

We've exhausted our supply of pleasantries. She bites her lower lip. Still gets me after all these years.

“Well, it was great to see you, Shane. Such a happy coincidence.”

“You too.”

“I'm gonna take off. I should probably actually do a little studying.”

She hugs me again. My hand grazes her bare shoulder.
It's weird; I never thought our skin would ever touch again.

“Take care,” she says.

She's about to turn and leave.

“Faith, wait.”

She stops and looks at me expectantly.

I'm five inches taller than her, but I feel so small.

“Um,” I manage. “I have to ask . . .”

If I don't, I will regret it for the rest of my life. But I can't get the goddamn words out. I'm so flustered.

“Us . . . ,” I say.

She nods her head. She understands. Of course she does.

“What happened between us, you mean.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I feel like . . . you never told me why.”

“Why we broke up? A lot of reasons,” she says. “And also no reason.”

Dating Faith was certainly a whirlwind. She took a shine to me, and I just got swept up in it. Back then I had no clue. I was ill-equipped to handle a girlfriend, let alone an older one. But the abruptness with which Faith ended things still vexes me.

“I mean,” she continues, “you were young. A little immature. We both were. I guess . . . it was clear it was much more serious for you than it was for me. I just wanted to have fun, you know?”

“So it wasn't like I did anything or said anything or something like that?”

“No, not at all,” she says. “I mean, not that I can remember. It was like forever ago already.”

Yeah, forever ago.

“You aren't still upset about it, are you?” she asks.

“No,” I lie. “It's just . . . you know. It sucked.”

“I know,” she says. “I feel bad. But some things just aren't meant to be. And you can't force it. Trust me, you're gonna have a lot of relationships. And not every one is gonna be perfect. You just have to go with it sometimes.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Life is easier said than done, Shane.”

“That's true” is all I mutter.

“What about now?” she asks. “Any girls in your life?”

A loaded question if there ever was one.

“Yeah.” I waver. “I don't know.”

“Hmm,” she says. “Funny, I totally would have guessed you would've gotten together with Jak by now.”

I blink.

“What did you say?”

“Jak. I met her a few times when we were hanging out.”

“I know, but why would you think we would have gotten together?”

“Um, because you're, like, so obviously in love with her.”

I go slack-jawed.

“Jak?”

“Yes, Jak.” She laughs. “You talked about her all the time.
Like, in front of me. Like, rudely in front of me. I've never seen two people more clearly in love.”

I'm dazed. I feel like there are cartoon birds flying around my head.

“You're totally perfect for each other,” she continues. “Literally everyone in the world knows that except for you.”

“But she's my best friend.”

“Duh. You think people want to date their worst enemy?”

I feel a little woozy.

Of course.

How could I have been such an idiot?

This is what I've been feeling the whole time!

Jak knows me better than anyone and she
still
sticks around.

I feel lost when she's not by my side.

I'm her soul mate.

And she's mine.

I'm in love with Jak.

I'm in love with Jak!

“Shane? Hello?” Faith asks. “Are you okay?”

“You're right,” I say finally. “I . . . just . . . can't believe how stupid I am. Of course I'm in love with Jak!”

There. I said it.

Faith sighs and grins. “Boys. You are so dumb.”

“I'm in love with Jak,” I say again, still processing.

“That's a good start,” Faith says. “But the question is, does Jak know?”

I shake my head no.

“Well, luckily, you know where to find her.”

“Where?” I ask eagerly.

“School, probably.”

“Oh, right.”

I've not only lost track of time, but also the space-time continuum.

“You should go,” she says.

“Okay. I'm going.”

“Good luck, Shane. It was nice to see you.”

“Thanks, Vo—”

She looks at me quizzically.

I correct myself. “Faith.”

And then I turn and run.