Galgorithm (2 page)

4

“HEDGEHOG, YOU'RE BEING CUTE.”

“I'm only being cute because you want me to be cute, Balloon.”

“So you admit it? You're being cute.”

“You got me, Balloon.”

“Aw, Hedgehog.”

I can't take much more of this. “Seriously, guys?”

Hedgehog and Balloon continue making googly eyes at each other. Their real names are Anthony McGuinness and Brooke Nast, and they're both sophomores. Anthony is a former client of mine. I think it's safe to say that he's a satisfied customer, considering he and Brooke have been dating for six months and have these nauseating pet names for each other. Brooke goes by Balloon. I don't know how
they came up with that. Anthony goes by Hedgehog. I'm assuming this is because he's the most hirsute guy I've ever met, and the hair on his head has been corralled into little gelled spikes.

“Is this too much for you?” Anthony asks, grinning.

“No, no, please, don't mind me,” I insist.

We're sitting in a little lounge area at the front of the administration hallway in school. It's just a few basic chairs and a coffee table tucked into an alcove. Less like
The O.C.
and more like Ikea. Behind us is a long stucco hallway with the principal's and vice principal's offices, guidance, and the nurse, as well as the headquarters of some after-school ­activities such as Model UN and Student Council.

“Shane, did you check out our new Instagram?” Brooke asks. “Hedgehogandballoon, all one word.”

“We figured since we're always in each other's pictures, we might as well just share an account,” Anthony adds.

“That's great, guys,” I say. “I'll definitely check it out.” I'm never gonna check it out.

Brooke gives Hedgehog—er, Anthony—a kiss on the lips. I'm happy for them. Every once in a while I like to check up on my former clients to see how they're doing. Sometimes guys need relationship advice or a refresher course on the Galgorithm. My work is never done. Sure, that entails the stress of being on call 24/7, but to me it's worth it when I see a couple like these two.

“So there's something I wanted to ask you,” Brooke says to me.

“We both want to ask you. It's coming from both of us,” Anthony says.

“Yeah,” I say, “I assumed that.”

I remember what dire straits Anthony was in when he first came to me for advice. Totally lovesick. He had been crushing on Brooke since fifth grade but never had the courage to ask her out. Brooke is a sprite, a tiny little pixie with cherubic cheeks who flits about smiling and giggling. Anthony once told me that Brooke lights up a room, and I immediately imagined capturing her in an upside-down mason jar like a firefly.

Anthony, on the other hand, looks like the iStockphoto image for “shy guy.” Average build, forgettable face, slightly slumped posture as if he doesn't want anyone to notice him, plus about two pounds of excess hair. He was a project. Now look at him—sharing an Instagram handle with an absolute sweetheart. There's no doubt about it: Hedgehog and Balloon are, in the parlance of my female peers, “totes adorbs.”

“So what's up?” I say.

“What would you think if we set you up on a double date?” Brooke asks.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Anthony says. “It would be fun.”

“I don't know . . .”

“We haven't even told you who we have in mind,” Brooke pleads.

For a moment I see red. It's not because I'm angry. I mean I
literally
see red. In my head I have a brief flashback to the girl I dated freshman year. We met at a Kingsview football game against our bitter rival, Valley Hills. She was two years older than me and I was smitten. But it wouldn't be long before she broke my heart in half. Jak and I call her Voldemort. Not because she's evil, but because after our breakup speaking her name was too painful for me. Voldemort was a natural redhead who accented her fiery locks by wearing red nail polish and red lipstick. I can picture those lips now, grinning at me. And then telling me it was over.

I try to push that pain aside and hear what Hedgehog and Balloon have to say.

“Okay, who do you want to set me up with?”

“Tristen Kellog.”

I pause. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Brooke says. “I work on the paper with her, and I think you guys would be great together.”

The
Kingsview Chronicle
is not exactly the
New York Times
, but it's the official paper of record/college-­application ­padder at our school. There are recaps of varsity sporting events and editorials about the lack of two-ply toilet paper in the bathrooms, but that's about it. Brooke fancies herself an investigative reporter. I think the last story she broke was
about lunch ladies skimming off the top of the fruit salad, a scandal that became known as Watermelongate.

“You guys want to set up a double date with me and ­Tristen Kellog?”

“Yeah,” Anthony says, “what do you think?”

Tristen is the
It
girl of the junior class. Popular. Hot. If she doesn't win Most Attractive in the yearbook awards when she graduates next year, I'll come back from college to demand a recount myself. If I were a superficial guy, Tristen would be my number one. But the thing is, I don't consider myself a superficial guy. I like to think I have a little substance. A touch of class. I care about more than just popularity and appearances. Tristen and I have spoken maybe ten words to each other in all of high school. And let's just say she won't be in the running for Most Likely to Succeed. Or, for that matter, Most Likely to Spell Succeed.

“Guys,” I venture diplomatically, “I really appreciate it, but I'm good.”

“Are you sure?” Brooke asks.

“Just think about it,” Anthony adds.

I mean, I would be crazy not to at least
think
about it. I like to date. Creating and maintaining the Galgorithm would not be possible without a lot of firsthand experience. But I prefer to initiate contact myself, to be in control—just in case. You never know if the next girl is gonna be another Voldemort.

While I contemplate this, Anthony and Brooke return to their favorite interest: each other.

“Hedgehog, there's Pinkberry in the cafeteria today. Wanna get some?”

“Awesome idea, Balloon!”

They stand up.

“Do you want anything?” Brooke asks me.

“No, thanks.”

“K. Let us know if you change your mind about the Tristen thing.”

“Will do.”

Brooke turns to leave. Anthony lingers for a moment as he shakes my hand goodbye. He gives me the look of an eternally grateful man.

“Talk later?” he says.

“Yup.”

Brooke has no idea that I played any role in them getting together. There was actually a moment in the newlywed, six-weeks-in,
let's share everything about ourselves
phase of their relationship when Anthony confided that he was considering telling Brooke about me. I scolded him. Brooke does not need to know that I stood over him and told him what to text her every day for two months like a modern-day Cyrano.

I have a few minutes to kill before my next class. It's definitely flattering that Hedgehog and Balloon want to set me up with Tristen. Sure, I wish I had even a lick of stubble on my
face, and I never bother combing my mop of brown hair, but I think I'm doing all right for myself in the looks department.

The bell rings, breaking my train of thought, and soon there are swarms of students filling the halls. In the three-plus years I've spent at Kingsview High, I've managed to stay out of the silos and cliques. That's why it's not weird to see me sitting with Reed in the cafeteria one day and chatting up Hedgehog and Balloon the next. In just a few months, though, graduation will be here and everything will change.

Before I get too existential, I spot Mr. Kimbrough, my old math teacher, walking toward me with a determined look in his eyes. He seems pained. And something tells me I'm about to find out why.

5

I HAD MR. KIMBROUGH TWO
years ago in tenth grade. Nice guy. Nerdy enough to hold court as a math teacher but stocky enough to pass for a gym teacher. Early thirties and you can tell that he was going bald but then made a ­preemptive strike and just shaved his head. It suits him, unlike the sweater vests he always wears.

Since I was in his class, we've exchanged the occasional friendly nod in the halls, but that's about it. This time, though, he comes right over to me.

“Mr. Chambliss, how are you?”

“Hey, Mr. Kimbrough. I'm good.”

“Do you have a moment?”

“Uh, I have to get to class.”

“It'll be quick. Take a walk with me.”

We head through a side door and out to a large courtyard at the front of the school. It's the first thing you see when you drive onto campus, and it looks like a brochure: small fountain, rows of well-manicured flower beds, a few palm trees, and about a dozen circular cement tables surrounded by benches. Kids are hanging out, listening to music, and eating lunch. Thankfully, no one seems to notice or care that I'm strolling around with a teacher whose class I'm not even in. A teacher who, I might add, is obsessed with math. He used to draw math-related cartoons on the backs of our ­quizzes and rattle off cringeworthy math jokes all the time in class. But, hey, if you know what you like, go with it.

“So how's calc, Shane?” Mr. Kimbrough asks.

I guess that's what passes for small talk in this situation.

“It's going fine. You know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

An awkward pause. I wish he would just cut to the chase.

“So, I know this is a little unusual, Shane, but there's something I wanted to ask you.”

“Okay . . .”

“I've heard some people say that you're a bit of a Svengali when it comes to romance.”

“A what?”

“Like a dating . . . mastermind of some sort.”

Uh oh. Every once in a while a whisper about my exploits surfaces from Kingsview's primordial gossip ooze. I take
precautions to remain discreet, but it's a daunting task against the power of a high school rumor mill. When kids start to talk, I usually tamp it down with the help of my clients, who are taught to “deny till you die.” But this is the first time I've ever had an
adult
say anything about it to me.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” I respond swiftly.

“Are you sure? You're not in trouble or anything. I'm just . . . curious if you're some kind of expert or something.”

“I wish, Mr. Kimbrough. But I'm definitely not.”

I hope that will satisfy his curiosity, end this line of ­questioning, and allow me to go about my day and my life.

It does not.

“You know Adam Foster, right?” he asks.

I try not to react. Adam is a fellow senior and one of my former clients. A real doofus but a good guy. This might be a stab in the dark by Mr. Kimbrough, or maybe he knows more than he's letting on. I decide to tread lightly and see what happens. “Yeah. I know him.”

“He was in my class last year,” Mr. Kimbrough says. “And between me and you, he's a bit . . .” He leans in to whisper in my ear.
“Off.”

I'm not sure Mr. Kimbrough is one to talk, but nonetheless I say, “I guess that's true.”

“I started to notice you guys chatting in the halls,” he says. “It almost seemed like you were . . .
advising
him. And now,
I don't know if you know this, but I heard he's dating Olivia Reyes.”

Of course I know that. Olivia is a head turner. Getting her and Adam together was some of my finest work.

“And no offense to Adam,” Mr. Kimbrough continues, “but Olivia is kind of, you know . . . out of his league.”

One of my pet peeves is the phrase “out of your league.” That's an excuse. That's what chumps say. I've had many a client fret that the girl he's after is “out of his league.” I tell him never to speak those words again. If you say it, then you believe it, and then she
is
out of your league. If only Mr. Kimbrough had been born fifteen years earlier, I could have taught him a thing or two.

“Did you have anything to do with that?” he asks me flat-out.

“No. I had nothing to do with Adam Foster dating Olivia Reyes,” I lie, just as flat-out.

Mr. Kimbrough looks deflated. I actually feel bad.

“I could have sworn,” he murmurs, “that I heard someone talking about an
algorithm
.”

I stop in my tracks. Mr. Kimbrough's snooping has gone deeper than I thought. I need to try more evasive maneuvers.

“Well you are a math teacher, Mr. Kimbrough,” I offer. “I'm sure people talk about algorithms around you all the time.”

“Yeah, but this was different.”

We've reached an uncomfortable impasse in the conversation. We've also reached the stairs that lead from the courtyard to the parking lot. From here you can see the entire front of the school—all white walls with Spanish-style red clay shingles on the roof. I glance at Mr. Kimbrough. I can sense the wheels turning in his head. It's apparent that he's not gonna let this go easily. I can continue to feign ignorance and hope he doesn't ask more questions, or I can take control of the situation by trying one more thing: indulging him.

“Mr. Kimbrough, I'm no expert. And I don't know what algorithm you're talking about. But . . . maybe I can try to help anyway?”

He considers this. “I appreciate it, Shane, but this is inappropriate. I shouldn't have wasted your time.”

“It's not inappropriate. We're just two guys chatting. It's okay.” That said, we both look around to make sure no one is staring at us. Next period's bell has already rung and everyone is scrambling inside. I'm gonna be late. Whatever. Mr. Kimbrough has gotten my attention.

He leans in once more and speaks softy: “Do you know Ms. Solomon?”

“Sure,” I say. “She teaches history.” I've never been in her class, but I've seen Ms. Solomon around the halls. She's younger than Mr. Kimbrough, maybe late twenties, and kind of a fox. If she is what this is all about, then I have newfound respect for the man.

“Well . . . the thing is . . . ,” he stammers.

“You're crushing on her,” I say.

Mr. Kimbrough nods his head as if he's admitting this to himself for the first time. “I guess you could say that.”

“Have you asked her out?” I say.

“Oh God, no!”

“Why not?”

“She's the most beautiful woman in the world,” he says. “My love for her is . . . divided by zero.”

“Divided by zero?”

“Undefined, Shane. Have you forgotten your algebra?”

Ah, math joke. Mr. Kimbrough, you're killing me.

“Shane, the thing is . . . Deb—er, Ms. Solomon—is such an incredible person. I wouldn't want to sully that by asking her out, like a peasant. And, oh man, what if she turned me down? I'd have to get a new job. Refinance my mortgage . . .”

“Mr. Kimbrough, slow your roll. Relax.”

A classic pitfall of nerds of all ages: talking yourself into rejection before you've even done anything. I call it pre-­rejection. Or just
prejection
. But at least Mr. Kimbrough has passion. I can work with passion.

“Do you know what Ms. Solomon likes?” I ask.

“Likes? Hmmm. Well, she's mentioned she enjoys teaching about the Civil War.” Mr. Kimbrough ponders this further. “You know what? There's actually a Civil War exhibit at Memorial Museum this month.”

“Perfect.”

“I can't just
ask
her, though. What if she says no? I could never look her in the eye again.”

Something makes me think that Mr. Kimbrough isn't making much eye contact with her to begin with.

“Well,” I say, “is there a list of all the teachers' e-mail addresses?”

“Yeah, there is. Could I just ask her out over e-mail?”

“No no no. Not exactly. But here's something you
can
try. Write an e-mail to all the teachers and say that you have tickets to the Civil War exhibit. Ask if anyone wants to go. But here's the key:
Only send the e-mail to her, and put her address in the BCC
. That way it seems like you're sending a mass e-mail to everyone, but you're really only sending it to her. She'll respond because it seems like a casual group thing and not like you're asking her out. Then you're in.”

The ol' BCC switcheroo. A Galgorithm classic.

Mr. Kimbrough thinks through my advice for a moment.

“Shane, that's brilliant.”

“Nah. Just something I tried once. Maybe it will work for you.” I attempt to play it off so that he doesn't get even more suspicious about me.

“But isn't it a little dishonest?”

What a heart of gold. I'm starting to like this guy more and more.

“Mr. Kimbrough,” I say, “all you're trying to do is get in
the same room with Ms. Solomon. After that, it's up to you. There's nothing dishonest about it.”

Mr. Kimbrough considers this.

“Besides,” I add, “all's fair in love and Civil War.”

He smiles. “You're right. I'll give it a try. And . . . if you could maybe not mention this to anyone . . .”

“As long as you do the same,” I say.

“Deal.”

“Good luck, Mr. Kimbrough.”

“Thanks, Shane.”

Crisis averted. For now.