The Oracle of Dating (3 page)

I like my Web site to be as interactive as possible, so I put up a new poll once a week. This week’s is,
If you were stranded on a desert island with one celebrity hottie, who would it be?
Next week’s will be,
What’s your all-time favorite romantic movie?
Other times I create a quiz to test my readers’ knowledge of relationships. Widgets of all kinds can be found for free, so polls and quizzes are easy to do. The key is to have a site that people will keep coming back to. Static content won’t do. The average reader visits the site several times before asking me a question, so I need to keep them returning.

If I’m online, the Oracle icon will be lit up. Customers wanting to instant message me can click on the icon and five dollars will be deducted from their PayPal account for the first twenty minutes. At first I’d thought using PayPal would be too complicated, but Tracey said it’s just a matter of putting the payment button on my page and allowing PayPal to take a small percentage off each transaction. I figured it was worth it, not only because it’s easy, but because several customers had stiffed me through the mail.

The worst is when these random guys call to ask “sexual questions.” Usually that’s just a cover for something else. So one night I ask, “Why don’t you call one of those 1-900 sex lines?” And the guy replies, “’Cause they’re a helluva lot more expensive. Anyway, you sound young. I like that.”

I slam down the phone and write down his number for the list of psycho-perverts whose calls I have to block.

When the phone rings again, it’s just after nine p.m.

I answer, “The Oracle.”

“Okay, so I have this question.”

“First, is there a name I can call you? It doesn’t have to be your real name. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” I check my PayPal account and see that the payment’s been received.

“Call me Melanie.”

“All right, Melanie. Go ahead with your question.”

“There’s this boy I like. His family is friends with my family. We even live on the same street. We used to hang out together all the time. But he hasn’t paid me any attention in the past few months. He really hurt me.”

“How old are you, Melanie?”

“Fourteen.”

I get this type of call a lot. Girls often find their guy friends drifting away when they enter their teenage years. There’s really no way to prevent it.

“The truth is, at your age, guys usually like to spend most of their time with other guys.”

“But what about me?”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t like you anymore. He might be going through puberty as we speak, and he could be uncomfortable around girls.”

“He talks to girls, just not me. He’s starting to hang around with the popular crowd now—all the kids he used to hate.”

“It sounds like he’s trying to adjust socially. I know this is sad for you, but he needs to find himself.”

“How do I get him back?”

“Are you willing to do whatever it takes?”

“Yeah, anything.”

I play a few notes on the xylophone. “The Oracle believes that you’ll have to wait, Melanie. Give him time with these other friends. Don’t guilt-trip him. Hopefully he’ll realize what a great friend you are and come back to you.”

“How long will it take?”

“It could be months, or years. But once he’s more comfortable with his place in the world, he’ll probably wonder what happened to your friendship. And Melanie, I think this is for the best. So give him time…and the Oracle has a good instinct that he will come around.”

“Okay, I’ll try to be patient. But it’s hard.”

“The Oracle never said life was easy.”

“I understand. Thanks, Oracle.”

“You’re welcome, Melanie.”

A
RT CLASS
. Have this cool young teacher, Ms. Gerstad, who wears a skirt over her jeans—totally cool but I’d
never have the nerve to go
that
hippy. Gerstad lives the artsy life and isn’t shy to tell us about it. She spends every Wednesday night watching or performing in the Poetry Slam at the Nuyorican Café in the East Village. The rest of her time is divided between vegan cafés and anarchist bookstores.

Today she tells us that our First Marking Period project is to draw people. Great. I’d prefer to splash paint all over the page like a kindergartener and call it abstract art. I only took this class because I need an art credit and both drama and dance conflicted with my schedule.

She gives us some magazines to inspire us, though tracing, unfortunately, is forbidden. Then she reminds us that we’ll be able to see examples of portraiture a week from Friday on our field trip to the Museum of Modern Art. She seems to think viewing the works of the greats will inspire us. I wonder how she’ll react if I pull a Picasso and draw people’s arms sticking out of their heads.

“Who did you choose?” It’s Lauren, my art-class friend, looking over my shoulder. “I’m doing Jessica Biel.”

I bet lots of people are doing Jessica Biel. Her face and figure are total perfection and her teeth would make a cosmetic dentist proud.

But perfection is no fun. Not for me, anyway.

“Got any other magazines at your table?” I ask her. “I just have
Cosmo
and
Elle.
”

“Sure, come see.”

I go to her table, which today she’s sharing with Jared Stewart. He doesn’t look up, he’s working too hard. His sleeves are rolled up and I notice veins bulging in his forearms as he sketches. I look a little closer. His sketch is amazing. He’s drawing an old man sitting on a stoop in Latin America. The picture is from the
National Geographic
open in front of him.

“Uh, sorry, can I see that magazine?” I ask.

He looks up. “Yeah.” He rips out the picture he’s working on and hands me the magazine.

I flip through it with Lauren. In the corner of my vision, I see that his hand is now poised above the sketch like he doesn’t know what to do next. His brows are frowning, his mouth tight, and his hand’s gripping the pencil as if he’s about to strike the page.
A tortured artist,
I can’t help but think.
A hot, deliciously tortured artist
. Then I give my head a shake, berate myself silently and focus back on the task at hand.

“What about that one?” Lauren points to a picture of a toddler on a beach. It’s cute but I know it’s not the one. There’s nothing in this magazine. As I close it, I see
the
picture on the cover.

“I’m doing this!”

I’ve seen this photograph before. It’s of an Afghan girl with piercing green eyes.

Jared glances at the picture and mutters, “Good luck with that.”

Could he be any more sarcastic? Lauren and I look at each other and shrug. I take the magazine back to my desk and get to work.

I start a sketch. Halfway through, I realize it looks like a
Simpsons
character, so I crumple it up and start again. I’m going to start with her face, then do the burka after.

I’ll never get an A on this. Maybe a D or a C if I’m lucky. My average will plummet, I’ll never get into college, and I’ll end up working at the Hellhole for the rest of my life. Maybe one day I’ll be manager, marry Jay the stoner, Afrim the meat man or Juan the stock boy, and my kids will grow up running the aisles. My breath escapes in a sigh. Jared must’ve heard it, because he comes up beside me. “How’s it going?”

Instinctively, my hands cover my drawing.

His mouth crooks. “Not so good, then?”

I reveal the sketch, daring a glance at him. “I’m not an artist.”

He frowns. “I see what you mean.”

My mouth drops open. He so didn’t say that!

“Well, you’ve got a few weeks to do something better,” he says.

“Are you going to help me?”

He leans against my desk, crossing his arms. “Are you going to pay me?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Fine. I’ll help you, anyway, if you don’t piss me off in the meantime.”

From any other person, I’d think it was a joke, but I’m not sure about Jared Stewart. He’s a cynic if there ever was one.

I meet his eyes. “More likely
you
would piss
me
off.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. I can tell he likes my answer.

S
OME OF MY CLIENTS
complain that they don’t know how to flirt, or they can’t recognize when someone is flirting with them. I can relate. Like today, I’m pretty sure Jared Stewart flirted with me, if only for a split-second. Or was I the one flirting with him? All I know is, I’m wasting far too much time thinking about it.

Time for a little flirting 101.

How to Flirt

The art of flirting is only perfected through practice. Your key tools are your smile and your eyes. First, walk into the room projecting openness and confidence, your lips turned up a little as if you’re pleased to be there. People notice others who are cheerful and gravitate toward them.

Scan the area for hotties. Don’t immediately focus on just one unless, unfortunately, there is just one in the whole room. (If so, you should find another party!) Try to catch his eye. When you do, look for two full seconds, smile and look away. There, you’ve been officially noticed. Talk to your friends, laugh and have a good time, and occasionally scan the vicinity to see if he’s looking your way. If so, make eye contact again.

Find a way to get closer to him. If he’s on the dance floor, it’s pretty easy. Just dance in his direction, keep up the eye contact and you’ll be dancing together in no time. If the object of your attraction isn’t on the dance floor, find a way to move to his end of the room without being too obvious. If he is standing near the bar/refreshment table, go up to get a drink—don’t bring a friend because that will make it difficult for him to talk to you. Look around and be approachable. Give him a smile and say hi.

When you start talking, it doesn’t matter what you say as much as how you say it. It’s okay if the conversation is a little mundane at first (“Crowded in here, huh?”) as long as you’re interacting. Go with the flow of the conversation—hopefully it will lead to something interesting after the initial awkwardness. Use body language to show your interest—nod at appropriate times, react to what he’s saying, touch his forearm if you can fit it in naturally…

You can take it from there. Good luck!

The Oracle

“E
EK
!” I
YANK
my foot out of the whirling footbath.

The Chinese lady giving me the pedicure smiles. “Yo’ feet sensitive.”

Viv giggles. “Aren’t you used to it by now, Kayla?”

I twitch as the lady scrubs my foot. “I’ll never be.”

Oh, the price of vanity. Well, despite my ticklishness problem, this fifteen-dollar mani and pedi can’t be beat.

I look over at Viv. She has shoulder-length black hair with the healthy bounce of a Nutrisse model. Her best feature is her wide-set liquid-black eyes and thick dark lashes that don’t even need mascara. She’s so pretty, and she hasn’t even kissed a guy. What a travesty!

It’s all her parents’ fault. They forbid her to even think about going out with a guy who isn’t Indian. Problem is, the only Indian guy Viv was ever interested in moved away last year, leaving her prospects martini dry. (I love that ex
pression. Tracey’s friend Corinne uses it all the time to refer to her hair or her bank account.)

Enter Max McIver, a cute guy with spiky brown hair who’s in her A.P. History class. It’s obvious to everyone that they’re into each other and that they’d make the perfect couple. He seems mature for his age, so I think he’s a good bet for Viv’s first relationship. Funny and easygoing, Max is just the right candidate to show our beloved Viv a good time.

“I saw you and Max flirting in the hall today. He’s cute, don’t you think?”

She glares at me. Whoa, venom! It’s total proof that she’s hiding her affection for him.

“He’s just a friend. I’m not interested.”

“Come on, Viv. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know. But I don’t want him, Kayla. You know I only like brown boys.”

I wonder if she’s saying that to remind me or to convince herself. Either way, I’m not going to argue.

She turns to me. “Do you think Ryan is gay?”

“Where’d that come from?”

“Everybody’s saying he is.”

“He says he isn’t.”

“But, Kayla, he wants to be a fashion designer! My brother says that’s totally gay.”

The Chinese woman doing my feet sputters on laughter and starts talking a mile a minute with the woman doing Viv’s feet. Are they laughing at our conversation? I’ll never know.

“Ryan says he isn’t gay, Viv. I didn’t ask him—one day he just said it. So I believe him.”

“All right. I believe him, too.”

“And does it matter if he is? I mean, who cares? My mom will do his wedding either way.”

When the pedicures are finished, we waddle over to the other end of the salon in our flip-flops and sit down for manicures. Viv decides to make her nails a shade lighter than her pedicure. My color-of-the-season is guava and I remain faithful.

“Hopefully our nails will last until your birthday,” she says.

My birthday is on September 27th, two weeks and two days away, not that I’m counting. “I doubt the mani will last, but I can always come back for a touch-up.”

“You may have to. Ryan is planning your birthday and he says we all have to look our best. He says it’s a requirement.”

“That’s hilarious. I can’t wait.”

“Any gift requests?”

“Oh, come on. You know I don’t want anything.”

“You come on. As if we won’t get you anything.”

It’s a good point. We’re pretty good gift givers in our group. Our gifts aren’t expensive, but they’re always creative.

“I can’t believe we’re getting all these assignments already,” she says.

“You’ll do great. You always do.”

“Probably, but I hate working so hard.”

Her parents are hard-core. They go to parent-teacher conferences demanding the dates of all the tests so they know when to keep Viv at home studying.

“At least
you
have some easy classes like art,” she says.

I laugh because it’s so ironic. “Easy, maybe, if I had some talent. It’ll probably be my worst mark. Have you thought about your sociology paper yet? It’s a quarter of our final mark.”

“I’m almost done.”

“You’re unbelievable! What’s it on?”

“How patients relate to their doctors.”

“Good idea. I’m actually thinking of doing a dating experiment. Have you heard of speed dating?”

She nods.

“I want to organize a speed-dating night at my place. Thought it might be fun to observe it and write a paper on it.”

“That’s an amazing idea!”

“I was hoping you’d volunteer to be one of the speed daters. I need ten girls and ten guys. Will you do it?”

“Will there be any Indian guys?”

“I promise to try to get some.”

“Okay, then. Count me in!”

T
HAT EVENING
T
RACEY
calls to tell me about her date with the salsa instructor.

She has a fantastic dinner with Miguel at a Cuban
restaurant in the Village. She leaves the restaurant on his arm, drunk on wine and their fiery attraction. He takes her to his favorite club, Calienté. Music pumps hot and fierce. He brings her onto the dance floor and leads her in a passionate set.

“You’re on fire,” he says. “You make love to me with your moves.”

Tracey feels vibrant and alive. She pictures herself dancing the merengue in her wedding dress as her friends and family look on in awe. Maybe one day she and Miguel will open up their own dance school. Maybe they’ll spend their summers teaching underprivileged children salsa in the streets of Guadalajara.

After a while she pleads exhaustion and takes a breather. At the bar, she orders a mojito, extra sugar. She’ll need the energy for the night of dancing ahead.

Miguel is now dancing with another woman. This is typical at salsa clubs—everybody dances with everybody. She doesn’t mind. The girl he’s chosen is a tentative dancer and heavy-set. He is apparently giving her instruction, and she is trying very hard not to step on his toes.

Tracey gulps down her drink, eager to get back. But when the next song comes on, he’s already found another partner. Tracey’s jaw drops when she sees that he’s dancing with a gorgeous Latina in a skin-tight white minidress.

The beat of the music is distinctive. It’s the bachata!
Doesn’t he only dance that with special people? Isn’t it too personal?

Tracey watches as they tear up the dance floor. It’s the most extraordinary dance she’s ever seen—and if this guy weren’t
her
date, she’d be enthralled.

A woman sitting beside her mutters in a smoker’s voice, “Those two should get a room.”

At that moment Tracey becomes aware of several things:

She will never be able to rival a full-blooded Latina on the dance floor.

She will never be able to stand the jealousy of knowing that Miguel makes love to countless women in the form of Latin dancing.

Miguel is a gift to women everywhere. A Casanova. A bird not meant to be caged.

Tracey slaps down a ten for her drink. “Who was I kidding?” And leaves.

T
HIS IS RIDICULOUS
. I have an awesome Web site that only a couple of hundred people know about. I need thousands, not hundreds, to make a splash.

I have to advertise.

I spend my entire Saturday making up a colorful, catchy flyer, then I go to Kinko’s to make copies. I put up about thirty in malls and subway stations. Too bad I can’t ask my friends to help with my advertising blitz, but it isn’t worth giving up my anonymity.

That night I sit in front of my computer. So far I’ve gotten fifteen hits. That’s not bad. I’m hoping someone will IM me. Instead, the Oracle’s phone line rings.

“The Oracle of Dating.”

“Hi. I saw your Web site. I have, ah, an issue that I’m dealing with.”

“You can count on me for unbiased advice.” My words are smooth, but excitement bubbles inside me. The woman on the phone sounds twenty-five or thirty—that means my advertisements are finally helping me reach a different age group!

“You sound really young,” she says.

Uh-oh, what do I say to that?
Think, Oracle, think.

“Would you prefer a fresh voice, or a jaded one?”

She laughs. “Good answer. Here goes. I went onto a dating site and started chatting with a few guys. I ended up making dates with two in the same week. And the thing is, I liked both of them. I figured I’d go on a few dates with each of them and eventually one or both would fade out. But it didn’t happen that way. It’s been a month and I’m still dating them.”

“Do you prefer one to the other?”

“No, I’m crazy about both of them! They’re just so different. One is reserved and straitlaced—but still waters run deep, you know. And the other is exciting and passionate and even wants to meet my parents.”

“Are you being intimate with either of them?”

“I, ah, fooled around with both of them. I feel guilty about it, but I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s like the guilt is an aphrodisiac. Does that make sense?”

“It does, yes. Tell me, do these guys know you’re dating other people?”

“I don’t think so. At the beginning, I told them I wasn’t looking to be exclusive right away, but they both think that I’ve changed my mind. One of them is even calling me his girlfriend.”

“Do you want an exclusive relationship?”

“Yes, I just don’t know who I want it with! What if I choose one of them and it doesn’t work out? Then I’ve let go of the other guy for nothing.”

“I have one last question for you before I give my advice. How would you feel if you were in the position of these men?”

“I’d feel like I was being played. And that’s not how I want them to feel. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Thank you for your honesty. Now, here is my advice…” I hit a few notes on the xylophone.

“What was
that?
”

“A xylophone.”

“That’s weird! Okay, Oracle of Dating, so what’s your advice?”

“My advice is that you spend the next two weeks dating these guys as if you’re interviewing them for a job—the job is being your boyfriend. Take everything into
account—reliability, fun factor, physical attraction. Make a list if you have to. At the end of two weeks, make your decision. Be as nice as possible to the other guy—explain to him that this isn’t a good time for you to embark on a relationship, but you want to remain friends. If it’s a relatively good breakup, he might consider letting you back into his life in the future.”

“You’re so right, Oracle. Thank you. I’m going to take your advice.” She pauses. “One last question—how old are you, anyway?”

“The Oracle is timeless.”

“You’re funny. I like that. Have a good night.”

“You, too. And good luck.”

“P
RICE CHECK
,
CASH TWO
!”

There are four cash registers in the whole store and mine is the only one that’s open. Ryan left a while ago, and the other cashier, Jay, is probably smoking a spliff in the back room.

“Price check!” I repeat, feeling the customer glaring at me.

The stock boys loading up the shelves in aisle one pretend they don’t understand English.

“Juan!” He finally looks up. “Check this, okay?” I hold up the bag of chips. “Find out if they’re on sale.”

“Sì.”
He runs toward the chip aisle.

He’s back a couple of minutes later with another bag. “This. Not that.”

The customer chose Baked Lays instead of regular Lays. A common mistake.

“Do you still want them?” I ask.

She makes a face. “For three forty-nine? Are you crazy?”

“Sometimes I think I’m heading there,” I mumble.

“Did you talk back to me?”

“Huh? Me? No.”

“Good!”

I scan the rest of her groceries, pack them and total it up. After I count back her change, she counts it again carefully, like she’s sure I shortchanged her. Then she picks up her bags and leaves.

Little does she know that I arranged for her canned goods to squash her bread. Ha! It’s a hollow revenge, really. But it’s all I’ve got.

Work is high up on my list of the worst places in the world to be, next to a holiday in Iraq or a hiking trip in the mountains of Afghanistan. Since my Web site is getting more hits these days, I hope my days of working here are numbered.

Mom thinks this job is teaching me a work ethic. It definitely is, but not the one she had in mind.

Everybody at Eddie’s Grocery is corrupt, from the price-gouging store manager to the cashiers and stock boys who give themselves five-finger discounts. My coworkers actually think I’m weird because I don’t steal. I
tell them it’s nothing against them, I just have an unfortunate Christian morality complex.

Every single person at this store hates their job except Petie, a twenty-year-old with Down syndrome who helps out in the bakery. I think the manager actually gets money from some Community Living program to let Petie work here. It’s unbelievable, really. We should be paying Petie for being the only person to walk in with a smile on his face.

One time I dropped a comment in the Customers’ Views box. Instead of playing horrid elevator music, I suggested that we play motivational CDs, or lectures by Deepak Chopra or the Dalai Lama. My suggestion was not only ignored, but the music was switched to elevator versions of Clay Aiken’s songs the next week. Coincidence?

The only people I pity more than the staff are the customers. It’s impossible to find anything here, and if you can find it, you can’t reach it. The stock boys are mostly too short to reach up and help. In fact, the only tall person in the store is Afrim, a six-foot-four beanpole from Kosovo who works in the deli. He’s very protective of his meats (especially the Eastern European varieties), so unless you’re the manager, you’ll never get Afrim out from behind the counter.

Eddie’s is the worst for old people. Lots of them are frail and use their shopping carts as walkers. I consider myself the self-appointed helper of the aged. I make a point of
knowing where the All-Bran is, the Ovaltine, the prunes and the denture cream.

One customer in particular got me onto the helping-old-people bandwagon. Her name is Lucy Ball—yes, it’s true. She turned eighty-nine in August. She’s less than five feet tall and doesn’t mind that I call her Short Stuff. She’s got a husband at home who had a stroke last year, so poor Lucy’s in charge of keeping the house running. It isn’t easy when you’re hunched over like she is. I always help her by double-bagging everything, triple-bagging the meats, waiting patiently while she counts her pennies and just generally being nice to her. She told me I’m her favorite cashier, which doesn’t say a lot considering the other cashiers here (well, except for Ryan), but it still makes me feel good. I know she means it because she’ll go in my lineup even if it’s the longest.