Galgorithm (3 page)

6

I WAS A MESS AFTER
Voldemort ended things. In hindsight, I had no idea what I was doing when I was with her. I didn't know how to talk. I didn't know how to act. I didn't know all the subtleties that girls expect from the guys they choose to be with.

When you date someone two years older, you have to learn a lot of lessons the hard way. For instance, everyone always says that it's what's inside that counts. And that's true. But no girl is ever going to appreciate your insides if she can't stand your outsides. No one ever told me otherwise, until it was too late.

I contemplate this cruel truth as I walk through the mall with Reed on a Saturday afternoon. Today's mission is a joint makeover/pep talk. I need to motivate him to make a move
on Marisol and I also need him to look the part when he does. The mall is great for both objectives, because not only are there plenty of clothing stores catering to the gaunt teenager, but there are also tons of girls around.

Much like our high school, Kingsview Mall is open-air. The main concourses are completely uncovered, and the shops, which do have ceilings, line either side. Reed and I are in a jeans store, and I'm trying to find a pair suitable to his suddenly selective tastes.

“What about these?” I ask.

“Eh . . . too blue.”

“Okay. How about these?”

“Too stiff.”

“Too stiff? That's not a thing. What about these?”

“The zipper is weird.”

“Reed, why do I get the feeling you're not gonna like anything I pick out?”

“Why do I need new jeans anyway? What's wrong with these?”

“Where did you get them?”

“I don't know; my mom got them for me.”

“That's what's wrong with them.”

“Ugh. All right. I guess I'll try some on.”

“I mean, you're not even wearing a belt right now.”

“I don't need a belt with these. They fit fine.”

“You
always
need a belt. It ties everything together. Unless
you think Marisol likes slobs. Because that's what girls think about guys who don't wear belts.”

“Hmm. Marisol does not seem like the slob-liking type.”

“Exactly. The thing you gotta realize, Reed, is that you're not just buying a bunch of denim stitched together. You're buying an image. Girls pay attention to the jeans you're wearing. Jeans speak to girls.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Let's say you're wearing dumpy jeans. Like, just for example, the jeans you're wearing now.”

“Dude!”

“I'm sorry, I'm sure your mom is a lovely woman, but she bought you dumpy jeans. And when a girl sees that, she thinks one thing: He doesn't care. And if he doesn't care about his jeans, then he doesn't care about himself. Girls want a guy who makes an effort. Who's at least mature enough to put himself together. Because if he doesn't care about himself, then how's he gonna treat me?”

Reed is standing there with his mouth agape. “All that from a pair of jeans?”

“Yes! Why do you think I always wear such clean, slim-fit, button-fly jeans?”

“Uh. I don't know. I've never looked at your crotch before.”

“Well you should start.”

Reed looks puzzled.

“Next up,” I add, “shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Oh yeah. I want you looking your best when you ask Marisol out.”

“And when is that gonna be, exactly?”

“Next week.”

Reed gulps. “That's soon.”

“It is. But, you know, that's what the Galgorithm says.”

“I mean, I respect that and all, but how do you know that the Galgorithm is even right?”

I continue looking through the rack of jeans. This question inevitably springs up with every client.

“First of all,” I say, “it's not always right. But sticking to the formula can definitely improve your chances.”

“Okay, but what
is
the formula?”

“I don't think you're ready to know that yet. You just have to trust me.”

“Is there a code? Is it in a spreadsheet?”

“Reed, what's your favorite sport?”

“Favorite sport . . . Does Dungeons and Dragons count as a sport?”

Really? “Right, I forgot who I'm dealing with. So, you know how in Dungeons and Dragons you move your piece to a certain square and then you follow the directions accordingly?”

“That's not exactly how it works—”

“Reed, it's an analogy!”

“Sorry. I mean,
not
sorry!”

“My point is, the Galgorithm tells you where to go at each point in the game. But you don't need to know the formula itself. Because you have me to guide you.”

This seems to reassure him.

“All right. Man, I wish I knew girls like you do.”

“Believe me, it's no easy task,” I say. “Girls aren't like us. Their blood flows to their heart. Our blood flows to our groin.”

I hear snickering from behind me. I turn to see two cute girls standing there. They must have overheard what I just said.

“My bad,” I say to the girls. “You weren't supposed to hear that last part.”

“No worries,” the brunette says with a smirk. She looks at her friend and rolls her eyes.

The other girl, who has a nose ring, is holding a guys' belt with a price tag on it.

“Hey, if you don't mind me asking,” I say, “where did you find that belt? My buddy Reed over here is looking for one.”

Reed is frozen in place.

Nose Ring points. “Over there. On the other side of the display.”

“Is it for your boyfriend?” I ask.

“No,” she says, suddenly bashful. “It's for me. I just like guys' belts. Is that weird?”

“I don't know. Reed, what do you think? Is it weird?”

Reed is a deer caught in headlights. He goes mute.

“Is your friend okay?” the brunette asks.

“Yes,” Reed interjects at last. “It's weird.”

Nose Ring is taken aback. “Really?”

“Well,” Reed says haltingly, “only because the buckle doesn't go with your nose ring. One's gold; the other is silver.”

Nose Ring starts to nod her head. “Weird. But you're right. Good call.”

Reed manages a shrug.

“Let's go put this back,” Nose Ring says to the brunette. “Thanks,” she says to Reed.

“Okay,” the brunette says. Then, to Reed and me: “Nice to meet you guys.”

The two girls blush, smile, and walk away.

When they're out of earshot, Reed exhales and says to me, “Dude, what just happened?”

“What just happened was your first field test. We flirted with them and you did great!”

“I think I blacked out. I don't even know what I did.”

“We just followed the rules,” I say. “
Be
different:
I accidentally got their attention with that off-color remark. Then, instead of going the easy route and saying the belt was fine, you
noticed
it didn't match her nose ring. And, finally, you
told
her to her face in a polite manner. Be different. Notice her. Tell her. Just like I always say.”

Reed contemplates this for a moment and then pulls out his notebook and starts scribbling furiously. “Noted!” He has
a huge grin on his face. “Shane, I want you to pick out anything in this whole mall and I will buy it! I am on board. I will do anything you say. Your wish is my command. Let's get some jeans!”

Finally he's starting to get it.

7

“YOUR PARENTS GO OUT OF
town for the night and this is what we do?” Jak says.

I'm lying next to Jak in a hammock in my backyard. The yard is disproportionately large compared to my parents' modest split-level house, but the hammock is the only thing out here. There's no patio, no pool. The hammock isn't even tied to two trees; it's just held up by a freestanding base smack-dab in the middle of the lawn.

“What should we have done instead?” I ask. “Have a party?”

“Yes. In fact, that's a great idea. Why don't we have a party?”

“Jak, is there really anyone you would rather hang out with than me?”

“I can think of
tons
of people.”

“Okay. Name one.”

The night is quiet and beautiful.

“I'm still waiting,” I say.

“I'm still thinking!”

I cross my arms.

“Fine,” she says. “You're right. I hate everyone else.”

“See. I knew that. That's why I didn't invite anyone over. I'm a great best friend.”

“Yeah,” Jak admits, “you're pretty good.”

On a weekend night like tonight I'm usually running around town with a client, coaching him or helping him scout a crush. On slower nights, which have been fewer and farther between lately, I hang out with Jak. We go through the motions of picking a destination—movies, bowling alley, mall—before inevitably ending up in this hammock, staring up at the stars, and BSing for hours. That way Jak doesn't have to deal with the social anxiety she so clearly suffers from.

Tall cedars on three sides separate my yard from the neighbors, so it's actually pretty private back here. The late January air is cool, but I wouldn't change a thing. It's really peaceful. Usually I'm fidgety and can't sit still for more than a few minutes. But I couldn't be more content than to hang right here with Jak all night. Soon, though, she breaks the silence:

“Do you think your parents have had sex in this hammock?”

“Oh, goddamn it, Jak! That's gross!”

This is one of Jak's things: She prides herself on ruining perfect moments with an inappropriate comment. She says perfect moments make her feel uncomfortable. After all these years I still never see it coming.

“What?” she asks coyly. “I just want to know if your mom and dad, who gave birth to you and raised you, have had sexual intercourse in the very spot where we're currently lying. What's the big deal?”

I stick my fingers in my ears. “La-la-la-la-la I can't hear you!”

Jak tickles me. I have to pull my fingers out of my ears to defend myself.

“Get off!” I gasp.

We laugh our faces blue and almost fall out of the hammock.

“Sorry about that,” Jak says. “The moment was just too good. Had to ruin it.”

“It's fine,” I say.

“Hey, guess who I saw this week making out in the middle of the hallway,” Jak says. “Anthony McGuinness and Brooke Nast.”

“You know, for someone who claims to hate everyone, you sure are pretty nosy.”

“Whatever.”

“What do you care about Hedgehog and Balloon?” I ask.

“Whohog and what now?”

“Hedgehog and Balloon. That's what Anthony and Brooke call each other.”

“Hedgehog and Balloon sounds like a Japanese power-pop band.”

“Jak, that is the weirdest observation ever. Also: I totally agree.”

“See? I'm good.”

“You know, I actually meant to tell you—Anthony and Brooke want to set me up on a double date.”

“Intriguing,” Jak says. “With
whom
?”

“Whom” is Jak's favorite word. She stresses it every chance she gets. Another one of her bizarre idiosyncrasies.

“Tristen Kellog.”

“Wow. She's pretty.”

I trust Jak's opinion on girls more than anyone's, but I was wary about bringing up Tristen. I've been warming to the idea of us going out, but I thought Jak might disapprove.

“So . . . you're into the idea?” I ask.

“Yeah. She seems nice, I guess. I wish I had her boobs.”

“I don't know,” I say. “She's kinda boring.”

“Um, you're not gonna have sex with her
demeanor
.”

I laugh. Jak has a way with words.

“Maybe,” she continues, “you could hook up with her right here on this hammock, where your parents conceived you.”

“Jak!”

“Just sayin'.”

“So you don't think it's a bad idea if I go on a double date with her?”

“Not at all.”

It's settled then. With Jak's seal of approval I'm gonna do it.

“Tristen Kellog?” she continues. “Bravo, Chambliss. You've come a long way from oversize baggy jeans and a pocket protector.”

“I never had a pocket protector! It was a piece of cardboard that came with the shirt.”

“But you didn't take it out of the pocket.”

I sigh happily. There's no way to stop Jak when she starts in on me. I just have to roll with it. (But I swear it was a piece of cardboard.)

“You're lucky they want to set you up,” Jak adds. “No one is trying to set
me
up.”

Jak is single, and perpetually so, possibly because of her uncanny ability to discover every guy's flaws.

“I can try to set you up, if you want.”

“You're only saying that because you know I hate everyone and will never take you up on it.”

“Yeah, you're right,” I admit. “But seriously, guys talk. If you ever wanted a date at school, believe me, you wouldn't have a problem.”

“Really? What do guys say about me? Is it locker room talk? Are your penises out?”

“I never should have mentioned it.”

She smiles. “It's nice to hear, Shane. Thanks.”

Jak is there for me and I'm there for her. She was my shoulder to cry on when things went sideways with ­Voldemort. But even with her help, it took me a long time to recover. Nothing was ever the same after that experience. Voldemort really did a number on me. So I decided never to let that pain of heartbreak happen again—not to me, not to anyone—as much as I could help it. Maybe it was a naive mission, to become an expert on girls, but I needed something to focus my energy on.

Truth is, even though I haven't spoken to Voldemort in years and she has long since gone away to college, I'm still tender. I never got a real explanation for why we broke up. I've dated other girls, but my heart isn't in it because I'm too afraid to have it shattered again. Jak has been encouraging me to get back out there in a real way, but I've busied myself with my clients' love lives instead.

Maybe it's about time I stopped making excuses and started walking the walk.