The Oracle Of Dating

Allison van Diepen

www.miraink.co.uk

To all of the guys I’ve ever dated.

(Yes, you. And even you.)

one

New Year’s resolutions:

* Find Tracey a great boyfriend

* Make a choice about my hair: straight or curly, because wavy just isn’t working

* Cure cereal addiction (possibly through hypnotherapy—see Yellow Pages)

* Write more blogs for the Oracle of Dating Web site, give lots of dating advice, make stacks of $$$ and quit job at Hellhole

* Take the Oracle of Dating to the next level!!!

YOU MIGHT THINK that September is a weird time to be making New Year’s resolutions. Well, Mom never accused me of doing anything on time, especially tidying my room, loading the dishwasher or Swiffering the kitchen.

“I don’t see how you ended up with an eighty average last year, Kayla,” Mom says. “You’re always chatting online or on the phone.”

Which implies that I am not being productive.

The truth is, she has no idea what I’m really up to.

Brrrrinnnggg!

I clear my throat and answer, “The Oracle of Dating.”

“It’s client number zero-two-four.”

“Sabrina?”

“You remember me!”

“I do. What can the Oracle do for you?” I scoot over to my computer and open up my PayPal account to see that her five-dollar payment has been received.

“It’s about this guy, Shawn, I’m dating. I hate going out in public with him.”

A case of total butt ugly, perhaps?

“Why’s that, Sabrina?”

“He always embarrasses me somehow. Like when we went to the school dance Friday night, he was dancing like a maniac. Everybody was staring at him.”

“He’s a really bad dancer?”

“The worst. It’s not just that. Wherever we go, he says or does something dumb. But when we’re alone, he’s really sweet!”

“Mmm-hmm.” Listening noises are very important.

“What do you think I should do?”

“Have you talked to him about this?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t get it.”

“I have another question for you, Sabrina. Do you love him?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. We’ve only been dating for a couple of months.”

“Why not find a guy who wouldn’t embarrass you in public?”

“It’s not so easy getting a boyfriend. He’s only the second one I’ve ever had.”

As I well know. Sabrina’s been calling me to discuss every crush and flirtation in the past six months.

“Ask yourself this. Are you with him because you really like him, or because you like having a boyfriend?”

“Er, maybe the second thing.”

“How would you feel if he answered the question the same way?”

“I wouldn’t like it.” She sighs. “I guess I have to break up with him?”

I lift the phone away from my ear and pound a tune into my little xylophone.

“The Oracle has spoken.”

“Thank you, Oracle. I know it’s the right thing to do.”

“Good night, Sabrina.”

I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE thinking. What makes me such an expert on dating? Have I had lots of boyfriends?

Um, no.

There have only been two, and both were disasters. But I’ve learned from each one, and now I think of them, with total detachment, as Case Study No. 1 and Case Study No. 2. I even made retrospective notes.

Case Study No. 1: 9th Grade, November.

Lead-up to relationship: weeks of note-writing and flirting, a subtle ass-grab at a school dance and a kiss behind the portables.

Relationship length: one month.

Activities: playing video games, kissing in his basement, playing more video games.

Conflict: He often wouldn’t answer the phone because he didn’t want to interrupt his video game. His gaming addiction resulted in a thumb injury for which medical care was required, and he was unable to hold my hand due to a thumb splint.

Outcome: He didn’t see me as a girlfriend, he saw me as a gaming partner, make-out buddy and occasional history tutor. So I gave him an ultimatum: “What do you care about more, me or your video games?” He answered: “They’re my thing. I’m a gamer, babe.” Babe?

Case Study No. 2: 10th Grade, March.

Lead-up to relationship: I met him at a party. He remembered my name and added me on Facebook. We chatted online for a couple of weeks before he finally asked me out.

Conflict: None. He was totally sweet. Or so I thought.

Outcome: After three weeks of going out and making out, he changed his Facebook picture to one of him kissing another girl. ALL of our friends saw this. I called him immediately: “Are you trying to tell me something?” He answered: “Sorry, I didn’t know how else to say it.”

My two boyfriend disasters only confirmed what I already knew: teenage guys are less mature than teenage girls. Therefore, if I want to date my equal, I should date a guy who is at least twenty, which I would never do, because what sort of twenty-year-old would want to date someone still in high school?

It would’ve helped a lot to have someone to talk to during those relationships; someone nonjudgmental and anonymous like the Oracle of Dating would have been perfect. I never laugh at a client’s concerns or get too preachy. I wish I could’ve given myself better advice at the time, but it’s hard to see clearly when you’re emotionally involved.

I decided there was only one solution—to put off dating until college, when the scales of maturity will start to balance. I simply don’t have the emotional resilience to deal with immature high school guys. Which isn’t to say I wouldn’t change my mind if my ideal guy came along, but statistically, it’s highly unlikely.

For those teenage girls who are brave enough to deal with teenage guys, and for anyone else who needs me, the Oracle of Dating is there. I do a lot of research so that I can give sensible advice. When I’m not sure of the answers, I tell my clients the Oracle will have to get back to them so that she can “meditate” on their dilemma. My advice is serious, though I’ve put “for entertainment purposes only” on my Web site so I don’t get sued if something I suggest backfires. With all of this responsibility, I don’t have time for a love life, anyway.

Besides, I’m not the one who needs a man, my sister does. Tracey is ten years older than I am, and has been coming to me for advice since I was twelve, often trusting my guy radar more than her own. She’s even been afraid to introduce certain guys to me because she knows I’ll see what she prefers not to see.

Tracey lives on the Upper East Side—it’s about forty minutes from Brooklyn by subway. I usually meet her in Manhattan on weekends for lattes, which she insists on paying for. (She says it’s fair, considering I don’t charge her for advice.) I’ve also given lots of free advice to her friends. It was actually her best friend, Corinne, who called me the Oracle in the first place. After that, the name stuck.

Nothing would make me happier than to find a great match for Tracey. She’s an amazing sister, and never makes me feel like a pain when I call her. She’s kind, hardworking and selfless—sometimes to a fault—and I won’t let her settle for anything less than she deserves. In any other city, she’d have been snatched up by some wonderful guy already, but New York is tricky, since there are far more single women than men, and the dating culture is downright strange. Since she’s twenty-six now, I figure she has another few years of trying to find a good man before I’ll suggest more extreme measures.

By extreme measures I mean going to Alaska. I see nothing wrong with that. People move for their careers—why not to find a man? In some parts of Alaska, single men outnumber women ten to one. Tracey would have absolutely no trouble finding a guy there. And I think an Alaskan man—big, strong, not afraid of bugs or heavy lifting—would complement Tracey’s personality. The only problem is that she’d be so far away! I guess she’d have to convince her Alaskan man to move to, say, rural Vermont. Because Alaska is just the wrong time zone.

True, there’s still a great woman-to-man ratio in the Silicon Valley in California, but I’d prefer she didn’t marry a high-tech guy. Dad is in tech, and I don’t want Tracey to end up with a guy like him. He and Mom divorced ten years ago, and since then, he’s reverted back to the lifestyle he was meant for: the lifestyle of a bachelor. He’s traveled the world with his company, living in Singapore, Johannesburg, Berlin and now in Ottawa, Canada. We only see him a couple of times a year, Christmas and summer vacation. And that’s fine with me.

I remember the day he left. Mom and Dad sat down with Tracey and me, explaining that he was going to move out. Tracey didn’t argue. I think she was sick to death of the fighting. But not me. I thought they should make it work. I used any rationale available to my six-year-old brain to stop them from breaking up. And when none of my arguments worked, I started to cry.

The truth is, Mom and Dad were a disaster from the start. I’m surprised Mom didn’t see through his hollow charm right away, but I guess she was young and innocent, and trusted love. Too bad no one had the guts to stand up at the speak now or forever hold your peace part of their wedding, since the only things they had in common—good looks and ridiculous eighties hair—were not enough for a happily ever after.

IT’S A WINDY SUNDAY and I get off the 6 train at Seventy-seventh Street and Lexington to meet Tracey at Starbucks. I see all of the Sunday couples walking around holding hands. Sunday couples are young couples who stay over Saturday night (if you know what I mean) and have carefully assembled designer sweats, sneakers and baseball caps to wear on Sundays. They always look freshly showered and slightly hungover and you find them ordering greasy breakfasts at Second Avenue diners before spending their afternoons browsing shops, buying artwork for their tiny apartments and crowding neighborhood cafés so that I can hardly ever get a seat.

Tracey is looking beautiful today, though she has puffiness under her eyes, indicating that she either slept too little or too much. She has rich dark hair the color of a flourless chocolate cake and shining brown eyes to match. Her cheeks are slightly pink from the windy day, and her complexion is flawless. At five-nine, she’s four inches taller than me, giving a sleek elegance to her figure that many girls would kill for.

As for me, I’ve inherited my dad’s Shredded Wheat–colored hair and my mom’s hazel eyes, which are mistaken for green or brown depending on the day, light conditions and my mood.

Today Tracey is wearing fresh unscuffed New Balance sneakers. Sunday is the only day of the week you won’t find her in heels of at least two inches—an error in judgment, IMO, since it tends to narrow her pool of possible guys to those five-eleven and above. But I guess that’s her choice, her preference being men over six feet—not always easy to find unless you’re in Denmark or Norway.

She gives me a big hug and two European cheek kisses, and I know I’ll have to take my compact out to see what lipstick smudges she left.

At the counter, we’re served by a skinny guy we privately nicknamed Pip. He’s there every weekend and talks like Mickey Mouse.

“Tall soy iced Tazo chai latte,” he says to the huge guy behind the espresso machine.

“Tall soy iced Tazo chai latte,” the huge guy repeats in a booming voice.

“Uh, no foam, please,” Tracey adds.

Pip turns to me. “Miss?”

“I’ll have a tall soy latte.” (Lactose intolerance runs in the family, if you haven’t guessed.)

We find a little table on the upper level in the midst of several twentysomethings on laptops. An old man is dozing in one of the comfy chairs, his mouth hanging open. I angle my seat so I don’t have to see if a fly swoops in there.

“Did you go out last night?” I ask.

Her lips spread in a smile. “It was awesome.”

“Tell me, tell me!”

She giggles. “His name’s Miguel.”

“Your salsa instructor?”

“Yes. We had drinks at Bar Nine. He was telling me that he does an hour and a half of yoga a day—talk about self-discipline! Anyway, after drinks we went to a salsa bar. I was stepping all over his feet, and I actually got super-dizzy when he spun me around, but I didn’t want to tell him that.” She leans closer to me and lowers her voice. “It was so hot.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I know what you’re thinking, Kayla. You’re thinking that a salsa instructor is obviously sleeping with half his students. But he’s not like that at all. In fact, he won’t even give bachata lessons—it’s too personal.”

“I think he sounds fab.”

She blinks. “You do?”

“Sure, I do.” I sip my latte. “I only have one piece of advice.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Don’t sleep with him for at least a month.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

Tracey and I are pretty open about her sex life. (Well, the fact that she has one.) She promised to tell me everything I want to know if I agreed to stay a virgin until I was at least eighteen. I told her we had a deal. I didn’t plan on having another boyfriend before then, anyway.

“How’s business?” she asks.

“It’s good. Look what I’ve got.” I open my knapsack and pull out a bunch of business cards.

She examines one. “This is fantastic! How’d you do this?”

“I just did it on Word. It’s easy. I got the card stock from Staples.”

“Can I have a few? Maybe I can get you some business. A lot of my colleagues need a service like this.”

I give her a stack. “I have hundreds.”

She puts them in her purse. “Maybe I’ll ask for a commission. Say, ten percent?” She winks.

“How’s work going, anyway?”

“Ugh, it’s a gong show! We’re supposed to deliver this software to clients at the end of the month and we’re running into all these obstacles we didn’t expect.”

That’s another thing about my sister. She speaks an alien language known only to Gen Y guys in square-rimmed glasses: the language of computers. She’s a software developer for a company called Hexagon. Unfortunately, I don’t share her smarts in technical stuff. But I can blog easily, and only need her help for the Web site design.

“You won’t guess who’s back working in the office,” she says.

Uh-oh. Don’t say it. “Scott.”

“Yep. And he had the nerve to ask if I wanted to go out for drinks with him and Matt and Chris on Friday. I told him, ‘Sorry, I have plans.’ Can you believe that guy?”

I can. It’s Scott’s style. He was her boyfriend for seven months only to end it with “I’m not sure if I’m ready for a full-blown relationship.” As if it were a disease.

Yes, they were once one of those Upper East Side Sunday couples.

But Scott hadn’t stopped with dumping her. That would be too quick and easy. Over the next few months he kept calling, pretending he was confused, tortured. And in spite of my warning to ignore his calls, she always answered them, hoping that he’d want something real.

His calls faded, eventually.

But now he’s back.

Intelligent woman that she is, I should be sure that she won’t give that loser the time of day, right?

Wrong. Tracey doesn’t always have the best judgment when it comes to dating, which is why it’s so important that I weigh in. I always wondered if Tracey was messed up by my parents’ marriage (not by their divorce—that was the healthy part). She was sixteen when it happened, and it sent her skidding off in the wrong direction—grades sliding, bad boyfriends, borderline eating disorder. Thank God Mom managed to get her back on track, but I wonder if the scars remain. Is she destined to be attracted to unreliable types like our dad?

“Don’t you dare, Tracey.”

“I won’t. What, you think I’m stupid?”

That’s the thing about being the Oracle. Sometimes you know things you don’t want to know.

I USED TO THINK SUNDAY nights sucked because the excitement of the weekend is over and a whole week of waking up early stretches ahead of me. Plus, ever since Mom gave me the choice of whether or not to go to church, I usually sleep until noon, so I can never get to sleep at a good time.

When I realized that my friends were going through the same Sunday-night blues, I decided to take action and organize a weekly get-together. And now, Sunday night embodies everything we love (to hate): the rich bitches, the beautiful people, the trash-talkers, the sex-crazed and the backstabbers. In other words, Glamour Girl. Or, as Mom calls it, potato chips for your brain—they taste good but have no nutritional value.

We’re in Viv’s basement on beanbag chairs in front of the flat-screen TV, except for Amy, who is stretched out luxuriantly on the sofa in her Don’t Feed the Models tee.

On the coffee table is an assortment of traditional East Indian faves: samosas, pakoras, badgies. It’s one of the things I look forward to about our Sunday nights here.

“Your mom is such a great cook!”

Viv gives me a funny look. “These are from Costco.”

“Oh.” I suppose it makes sense. Her mom is a doctor at New York Presbyterian and hardly has time to make us food.

Viv’s parents are strict and traditional and from the same part of India as Gandhi. Her parents are too innocent themselves to know what this Glamour Girl business is all about. That, plus Viv’s quick reflexes with the PVR, makes it possible for us to watch the show here in the first place.

Poor Viv will never even admit to being attracted to a guy who isn’t Indian, and there are only about five Indian guys at our entire school. I suppose that gives her an excuse for not having a boyfriend—an excuse the rest of us don’t have.

Well, maybe I shouldn’t include Amy in the not-having-a-boyfriend category. Amy is a blue-eyed blonde, very good-looking, and knows it. She calls Chad her boyfriend, but we all know that he’s a MOB (make-out buddy). I’m not knocking it. Although the Oracle would say such relationships aren’t emotionally healthy, there’s a certain practicality in them. I mean, she’s horny as hell, and so is he. And while he’s a little simple, he has cute dimples and a soccer bod.

I’m munching on a samosa when Viv pauses the show. Amy curses. “But it was just getting hot!”

Sharese smacks her knee. “They’re finally gonna do it!”

Ryan grunts his agreement, hairpins in his mouth. He is braiding Sharese’s hair. She always complained that no white person could do a good job with it, but Ryan has proved her wrong.

Viv says, “I was just thinking—what would the Oracle of Dating say about this? I mean, isn’t Harrison obviously just using her?”

Everybody groans.

Amy rolls her eyes. “The Oracle is full of it! It’s just somebody making a quick buck. Don’t buy into it.”

“The Oracle didn’t make any money off me,” Viv insists. “I just read her blog.”

I stuff another samosa into my mouth.

“I bet the Oracle is some fifty-year-old businessman trying to exploit us,” Sharese says.

Viv shakes her head. “I think you’re wrong. She’s definitely female, and she knows what she’s talking about.”

Way to go, Viv! She is my sole defender in a sea of haters.

You really can’t blame me for keeping my true identity from my friends. I love them, but I know that being the Oracle of Dating would make me the object of constant teasing. I need one thing that’s safe, and just mine.

two

“MICHAELA, WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

I snap to attention. Practice kicks in. Instead of saying, “Huh?” I say, “Sorry, I’m not sure I understand the question.”

Ms. Goff starts to reword it, but stops when she hears a choked laugh from the seat across from me. “Something funny, Jared?”

“Nope.” He squelches a smile.

Ms. Goff goes back to her question, and I manage to answer it, taking the heat off. But as soon as she turns back to the board, I shoot the guy an I don’t appreciate you laughing at me glare.

He turns his head and looks directly at me, blue eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.

Oh, I get it. He’s onto my little strategy.

Jared Stewart is a snob if I ever saw one. He doesn’t socialize with many people, and it’s not in a shy, sweet kind of way, but in a why bother way—I can tell the difference. Worse, he’s totally good-looking in an I don’t care sort of way; I’m talking messy almost-black hair, careless clothes and torn-up shoes, obviously vintage. He’s lean, but muscular lean, not coked-up rock-star lean, and he’s got big hands, and feet that have to be at least a size thirteen … and why am I thinking about this?

The bell rings. Well, it’s not actually a bell, it’s a dingdong over the P.A. system. Speaking of Ding Dongs, thank God it’s lunchtime. By this time every day I’m so hungry I’m ready to play Survivor and chew the bark off a desk leg. Not that the lunch menu in the caf is much better.

I pick up my books and walk out, sensing Jared behind me. In the hall, he touches my arm, says something. I notice he’s got a red spot on his chin like he shaved over a zit this morning. I can’t help but think that shaving is sexy—that it separates the men from the boys.

I realize I’m not listening to him. “What?”

“I said don’t take it personally, all right?”

“Uh, okay.”

And he walks off.

I make my way to the caf, where Sharese and Viv are in line getting food and Ryan is already at our end of the table, playing solitaire.

Amy has a different lunch period. Sadly, the office doesn’t accommodate cliques. Not that we’re much of one. Anyone can hang around with us if they want. But if you’re totally into chess or computers, you probably won’t. And if you’re really popular, you won’t, either. But anyone is welcome.

After getting my lunch, I join my friends at the table. “Who’s winning?” I ask Ryan, whose head is bent over the cards.

He snorts. “You working tonight?”

“Five to nine. You?”

“Four to eight.”

Just the thought of Eddie’s Grocery (aka the Hellhole) fills me with dread. If only being the Oracle of Dating paid more, it could be my only job. I scan the cafeteria. So many potential clients! I could make a fortune on the Chess Club alone.

I take a few bites of the caf’s low-fat pizza. It tastes like cardboard. “So, what’s the status of Operation Dairy Freez?”

“Shh.” Sharese looks around conspiratorially. “Honestly, I don’t know what to do about it.”

“We’ll kidnap him,” Ryan says. “You can have your way with him in the back of my parents’ SUV.”

We giggle.

“Has anyone found out his last name?” Viv asks.

We shake our heads. We know him only as Mike P., or the future father of Sharese’s children.

All we really know about him is that he works at the Dairy Freez ice-cream shop on DeKalb Avenue, and that he’s tall and gangly, with big, kind eyes. Also, he has good customer-service skills. Like when that fat guy’s third scoop fell off his cone, Mike P. not only replaced the scoop, but apologized for not pressing it down hard enough the first time.

We’ve already given Sharese and Mike P. our blessing. The problem is, they still haven’t gotten past the “Hi, can I take your order?” stage.

“Stop putting pressure on me, guys. You’re making me nervous.” So far, Sharese has been too shy to do anything about Mike P. But we’re all hoping that will change.

Of course, like with anything, she can’t be sure he’s interested. Sharese is hot, in a voluptuous, full-figured way, and we’ve spotted Mike P. glancing at her chest—always a good sign. Plus, he gets extra shy when she comes up—another good sign. But as for a guy’s tastes, you never really know.

“It’s about time you took a risk,” I tell her.

“What about you, Kayla?” Sharese fires back. “Since when do you take risks?”

“I don’t have a crush on anyone.” Which is true. Which isn’t to say I’m not attracted to anyone. I’m not immune to Jared, for instance. And who can blame me, since it’s universally known that dark, mysterious guys are attractive, especially when they have big hands that I’m sure could crush a Coke can with a single squeeze.

Okay, it’s obvious that, like my friends, I have my fair share of hormonal urges. I just have the presence of mind not to take them seriously.

Ryan touches my hair. “You could get any guy you want if you did something with your hair. This wash-and-go thing isn’t working for you.”

I tug on a lock self-consciously. He’s right, of course. My hair is neither straight nor curly, but has a drunken wave. I can’t tame it with a blow-dryer, so my only other option is a professional-strength straightening iron, but the idea of putting something so hot near my head worries me.

“You should get highlights, too,” Ryan says. “Café au lait is a good color for you. And you should wear a skirt for a change and show off your legs.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Last year I made the mistake of letting Ryan take me shopping with my birthday money. I came home with an outfit that made me look like a high-class escort, complete with a sheer blouse, short skirt and tall leather boots. All promptly returned the next day when my mom had a conniption.

“You’re such a fake,” Sharese says. “You’re really not interested in anyone? Not even Declan McCall?”

Why is Declan McCall, football MVP and ex-boyfriend of ice queen Brooke Crossley, our school’s default crush? “Declan doesn’t turn me on. Whenever I’ve talked to him, all he does is stare at my chest. And I don’t even have a chest.”

My friends can’t argue with that.

“Well, Brooke got what she deserved when he dumped her on her pretty ass,” Ryan says.

Yes, though I’ve never seen it, I bet Brooke Crossley has a pretty ass. She has a pretty everything else and everyone loves to hate her for it. But I doubt she’s as terrible as they say. Sure, she’s snobby, but a lot of people are. And she isn’t an airhead, either. Not that she’s as good a student as I am—but she can’t have everything, can she?

As I munch on tasteless pizza, I wonder if Brooke is a possible client. Maybe she needs to talk to someone about her recent breakup. I’ll have to drop a business card in her locker.

WHEN I GET HOME from work that night, I turn my attention to the topic of breakups. Why would someone like Declan McCall break up with Brooke Crossley when she’s clearly the best match for him at school? They could’ve been voted Prom King and Queen next year if they’d stayed together. I wonder if he got bored with her, or if there were other factors involved.

Seems to me that my female clients are more forgiving of their boyfriends’ flaws than the other way around. But there are some good reasons to cut a guy loose.

Top Ten Reasons You Should Cut Him Loose

10. When you’re kissing him, you’re fantasizing about someone else (like his best friend)!

9. You’re only with him because you want to have a boyfriend.

8. He tells you he doesn’t want a relationship. Believe him–he doesn’t!

7. He makes hurtful comments like, “Easy on the fries, honey.”

6. He doesn’t show affection in public. It doesn’t need to be a lot, but if he won’t even hold your hand, he wants people to think he’s single!

5. He gives you a promise ring in the first two months. Puh-lease!

4. He gives you a cell phone or a pager so that he can keep track of you.

3. He ogles other girls in front of you. Think of what he’s doing behind your back!

2. Finishing a level of his favorite video game is more important than answering your phone call.

1. He says, “Baby, if you loved me, you’d …” Anything starting with that is a manipulation! Don’t fall for it!

THE NEXT BIZARRO REALITY TV show should be all about my life. All I need to round out the cast is a washed-up child star and a slutty Survivor castoff.

My mom is a minister, for God’s sake. She’s got the threads (the robe and the stole), the cross around her neck and the travel-size Communion set.

Mom works at a church in Park Slope where she, among other things, performs gay commitment ceremonies and doesn’t make couples who are living together feel guilty. She also preaches about the gift of divorce as the congregation nods in agreement. She says her divorce is the best thing that ever happened to her, next to having her children, of course. If she hadn’t gotten a divorce, she wouldn’t be so happy in her career and she wouldn’t have met her new husband, Erland.

Now, Mom and I have different views on the merits of the Swede. She would say that he is a brilliant theology professor and that they have a meeting of minds. I would say that he is way too stuffy and has no idea how to deal with young people. The guy has a thick accent, not unlike the Swedish chef, and is nine years older than she is—definitely a second-round draft pick. But that’s what happens when you make the wrong choice the first time around.

Mom met the Swede two years ago at a theological conference in Atlanta where he delivered a paper called, “The Existential and Metaphysical Legacy of Martin Luther.” Doesn’t that just scream romance?

Mom came back from the conference all giddy, which was cool because she had been single, way single, for a long time. So they embarked on a long-distance relationship with frequent trips overseas and endless hours on the phone. Which is, incidentally, when I successfully petitioned for my own phone line, which I now use for the Oracle.

It was all going great for a while. Mom was happy. I was happy that Mom was happy. And the Swede wasn’t much of a bother, since he’d stop in when he was in town but never spend the night at our place. But then, last year, the Swede announced that he got a job at Union Theological Seminary in Manhattan, and within a couple of months they were married and he’d set up shop in her bedroom.

The Swede does not look like a Swede should (like a Ken doll). He is about five-nine, stocky, and has red hair that has been taken over by gray. For which I would suggest Just for Men, but I doubt it carries his particular copper-red color, and even if it did, I doubt he would use it, considering the way he lets his eyebrows go.

Today at breakfast, when Mom comes in, the Swede says, “Good morning, Bunny.”

Bunny? I hope he means it like Honey Bunny instead of Playboy Bunny.

The Swede + Mom + Sex = SO WRONG.

I’ve never actually heard them having sex, thank God, but I’m pretty sure that’s why Mom asks me about my social plans—so she and the Swede can cozy it up in their king-size love boat, drunk on endless cups of Earl Grey.

“Morning, honey.” Mom kisses him on the lips. Then she comes over to me and kisses the top of my head. “Morning, sweetie.”

Breakfast is a mostly silent thing. And that’s fine, because Mom and I are not morning people, and the Swede is not one for light conversation. So as we eat, we read. Mom is reading the Methodist Church Observer, the Swede is reading Theology Today, and I am reading Teen People.

I’m seeing all these articles with gorgeous, airbrushed girls, and I say to Mom, “I’m an eight out of ten, right? Looks-wise?”

“You’re the same as I was at your age.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a good thing.”

“Uh …” Can’t she just be like other moms and tell me what I want to hear?

“You really shouldn’t spend your time thinking about these things. Don’t try to conform to a media-created rating scale.”

See what I mean? A simple question becomes a sermon. I’m not saying she doesn’t have a point, but can’t she humor me?

Maybe I’m wrong about living in a reality show. Maybe I’m living in a sitcom. The audience is laughing, but I’m not getting paid.

NOW, I DON’t want to give the impression that the Oracle of Dating is getting hundreds of phone calls, instant messages and e-mails a week. My average is two contacts per night.

The Web site color scheme is pink and blue, symbolizing guys and girls. Instead of headings at the top, Tracey created bubbles, which include: About the Oracle; Contact the Oracle; Blog; Links. In the center of the homepage is a large box for a blog that I can update myself. I also post a Q and A of the week, and allow readers to comment.

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.”

ART 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.

SOME 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

three

“EEK!” 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 expression. 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!”

THAT EVENING TRACEY 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.

THIS 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.”

“PRICE 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.

Yep, Lucy is a breath of fresh air in the hellish inferno of my workplace.

Half the customers here are escaped convicts or certified weirdos. Like the crazy cat lady who only buys three things: soda crackers, milk and cat food. And when I say cat food, I mean, like, seventy cans. She does this every week. I wonder how many cats (or cat ladies) it takes to eat all that.

And Mom wonders why I complain about this job.

Yeah, working at the Hellhole shows me how important it is to get an education. If I don’t, I might have to work at a place like this my whole life. That’s the best work-ethic lesson Mom could hope for.

“IT’S GOT SOME POTENTIAL,” Jared says of my latest sketch. He’s been trying to help me lately, or so it seems. I think he finds my attempts at drawing entertaining. Like right now, he’s biting his lip to keep from laughing. “The head’s too big for the body, though.”

I shouldn’t be putting up with him, but I’m keeping him around in the event he can actually help me. Also, he smells good.

“Why couldn’t I just use that photo of the Afghan girl? This one is so … blah.”

“I thought you wanted to start off playing ‘Chopsticks’ instead of Mozart.”

“Okay, fine. How do I get the head the right size?”

“Why don’t you just measure it?”

I do, and within a few minutes I produce a fairly accurate head. Now I have to sketch the tall supermodel body. Jared’s right that the picture is simple, though I have an aversion to drawing unnaturally skinny women.

“So, how’d you end up at this school?” I ask. He’s one of the few new kids this year.

His eyes narrow a fraction. At least I think they do. His face doesn’t give much away. “This school had a space.”

“Where were you before?”

“Sunset Park.”

“I hear Sunset Park can be pretty rough.”

“It’s different.”

I decide to pursue a different line of questioning. “You’re a senior, right? I saw you were in grade twelve English.”

“Are you stalking me, Kayla?”

I feel myself blush. “I’m just observant.”

“Yeah, I’m a senior.”

Well, that explains why he’s old enough to shave. Suddenly I wonder if he has hair on his chest, or if he’s like Case Study No. 2 who had, like, three hairs.

Realizing that I’m staring at his chest, I look up.

“Are you a fan?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“You’re funny, you know that? I’m asking if you like them.”

Oh, he means the band Three Days Grace. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with the band’s name and the words Animal I Have Become.

“I’m not a fan. Not really.”

“What do you listen to? Miley Cyrus?”

Coming from him, I know that’s an insult. “Yeah, definitely,” I say with a straight face. “But the Jonas Brothers are even better.”

Jared makes a gagging noise, and I laugh.

“Truth is, I mostly listen to Top 40 stuff, but not them. What about you?”

“Anything with a good tune and lyrics that mean something. You know, bands that actually write and play their own music. Not groups that recycle the same tunes over and over.”

“Do you play anything?”

“Guitar. I’m in a band called The Invisible. A couple of guys at this school are in it, too—Tom Leeson and Said Abdullah.”

“Tom sang at the coffeehouse last year. He was good.”

“What about you, you play anything?”

“I played violin in junior high, but I guess that doesn’t count. I’m not very musical.”

“Maybe you haven’t discovered it yet.”

“Sure.”

I can’t help thinking—he’s in a band. Bands mean popularity, groupies. So why don’t I see him surrounded by people in the hallways and having lunch with the A-list crowd?

I’m starting to think that Jared isn’t so much a snob as a loner, someone who stays deliberately outside the mainstream.

Maybe he can use the help of the Oracle …

AFTER THE SEVENTH-PERIOD bell, I make my move. When I’m sure the hallway is clear, I slip a business card into Jared’s locker.

Need Dating Advice?

Contact the Oracle of Dating at 555-DATE.

Or visit the Oracle online at oracleofdating.com.

When my next class ends, I hurry to my locker in time to see Jared open his. The card flutters to the ground. He picks it up, makes a face and shows it to Andrew Becker.

Oh, no! He’s asking Andrew if he got one, too!

Andrew shakes his head.

Jared tosses the business card on the floor.

Damn it!

So much for that idea. How am I supposed to help Jared now?

I grab my history book and close my locker.

It’s a lesson everyone in the caring professions has to learn at some point. You can’t force people to accept your help. They have to want it.

four

THE THIRD WEEK OF SEPTEMBER is when classes choose their Student Council reps. Believe it or not, I’m class rep for 11B.

How did I manage that? Amy nominated me and I didn’t say no. And then one of the popular girls—Brooke Crossley’s number one follower, Kirsten Cook—gets nominated. After that, no one else wants to run. So we leave the classroom while everybody votes. No secret ballot, just a show of hands in front of the teacher. Kirsten doesn’t talk to me in the hallway but uses her cell phone to book a bikini wax. I wonder who she’s dating and what she’s doing to need a bikini wax.

We go back in. Mr. Findley says that I won. I say, “Really?”

And then Kirsten puts a hand on her hip and goes, “Are you sure?”

And I say, “Yeah, are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

After class, Amy explains what happened. It was unbelievable! Sean Fortier said to Alfred Weams that the nerd crew better vote for Kirsten. And Alfred was like, “Are you kidding me? Kirsten doesn’t even say hi to us. Kayla is way cool.” Apparently it came down to the nerds versus the popular crowd, a power struggle as old as time. And the nerds’ will prevailed because they outnumbered the popular crowd.

Which leads me to today’s meeting. I’m sitting beside Ellen Huang, who has a romance novel perched behind her lunch bag so Prez Kevin Markinson doesn’t see.

I’m not listening, either. I’m trying to read the book over her shoulder. It must be good, because Ellen hasn’t looked up in the past ten minutes.

“Tears welled up in her blue eyes. She could have wept with the need to touch his face, to smooth the angry scowl from his brow. Oh, to feel his lips against hers one more time. But it was impossible …”

“That’s some book,” I whisper.

Ellen grins. “I’ve got the whole series at home if you want to borrow it.”

“Series? Are they all four hundred pages?”

“Yeah, but you won’t want them to end, trust me.”

“Is there a lot of sex in them?”

“Hell, yeah. How do you think the author fills up four hundred pages? I’ll bring you the first book tomorrow. You’re going to get hooked.”

It’s about time I see what all the fuss is about. I’ve never read any romance novels, especially not this sexy historical stuff. There has to be something to them if they’re so popular.

“Girls.” Ms. Verdel, staff adviser to the Student Council, is giving us a look that says, shut up. I don’t understand why someone who hates young people is a teacher, much less Student Council adviser.

I tune in to Kevin Markinson. “… hoping a few of you will volunteer to fundraise for the Cancer Society. Last year we had bake sales at lunch and at parent-teacher conferences. We also had a penny harvest and the class that raised the most money won a pizza party. We need volunteers to organize these things.”

The room falls silent. No hands go up.

“C’mon, guys. This is for cancer research!” Kevin looks over at Brooke. “Please.”

“I don’t have time. I’m cheerleading, like, every day.”

“Chris?”

“I did it last year. Why don’t you ask Joe?”

“Sorry,” Joe says before Kevin can even ask him. “I’m on the football team.”

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