Galgorithm (12 page)

26

IF THE GALGORITHM HAS A
birthplace, it may very well be Crescent Park. It was here that Voldemort broke up with me, sending me into a tailspin.

The park is in the center of town, about ten minutes from my house. It's nothing special. Just a basketball court, a little playground, and a couple of benches. What I like about it—check that, what I
used
to like about it—is that since the park is nestled in a residential area, it never really gets completely dark. It's surrounded by nearby porch lights and streetlamps, so even at night you can still see about twenty feet in any direction. It's like permanent dusk.

Voldemort and I used to come here, sit on a blanket, talk, and make out. I was in awe of her. Older, wiser, a bit of a baby face but with perfect dimples, soft hands, and that red hair.
She used to wear these flannel shirts I could never unbutton. She would do it for me and then we would roll around on the blanket together. I wished we could roll around on that blanket forever. Until she told me that she wanted to see other people. And that those other people did not include me.

The light plays tricks on you in this park. Tonight I'm here sitting on a blanket with Tristen, but every once in a while a shadow will fall on her face and I have to remind myself she's not Voldemort.

Me and Tristen planned this outing well before the keg party. It was her idea to have a picnic, and she had never heard of Crescent Park, but I suggested it. I figured it had been more than three years since I'd been here. Those demons must have been exorcised by now, right?

“I know I've been a little cagey since the party,” I say.

“‘Cagey '? Is that the politically correct term for shady? Every time I bring it up, you change the subject,” Tristen says.

“I know.”

“You left with Jak, didn't you?”

“Yeah,” I say. “But it wasn't what you think. She was throwing up.”

“Oh no! Poor thing.”

“It happens.”

“So that's it?”

Well, that and the fact that I've been examining every moment
of the past seventeen and a half years of my life to try to figure out what my true feelings for Jak really are.

“Yeah, that's it.”

“I think it's sweet,” Tristen says.

“You do?”

“Yeah. You took care of your best friend. You're loyal. That's one of the things I like the most about you. Most guys are jerks.”

She kisses me on the lips and lingers there for maximum effect.

My brain is scrambled. Like lightning hit a satellite dish and ruined the reception in my head.

“So you're not mad?”

“No, I'm not mad,” she says. “I mean, I wish you would have just told me the truth. After you left, I talked to that kid Adam for a while. He's really weird. He said that the beer was too cold. How can beer be too cold?”

The strange thing is, the more Tristen reveals herself as patient and kind and just totally chill, the more conflicted about her I become. Not to sound like Adam here, but can a relationship be going
too well
? Tristen is amazing. And she's a knockout. Everything is great. But the thought that this is too good to be true keeps gnawing at me.

She runs her hands through my uncombed hair. “Where are you?” she asks.

“I just have a lot on my mind,” I reply.

Jak, namely.

Tristen starts to kiss my neck. I tense up and pull back ever so slightly.

She looks at me. “Are you upset that I didn't know how to use ‘whom'?”

“What?”

“‘Whom.' That little inside joke you and Jak have. I was curious, so I looked up the proper usage. Turns out ‘whom' is dying out, Shane. Some people don't even use it anymore. So you can't hold that against me.”

“You looked it up.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I'm working on a new piece for the
Chronicle
and I thought I might be able to use it.”

“I really appreciate the fact that you looked it up. But no, I'm not upset.”

She starts to kiss my cheek and then my ear.

The last time I was in this park, I had my heart broken. I've had my guard up ever since. But what if, in the course of protecting myself, in the course of finding other people
their
soul mates, I miss the real thing?

“Shane,” she whispers in my ear. “Relax. This is right.”

She grabs my face with both of her hands and kisses my lips again. Then her tongue is in my mouth, against my tongue. I half go with it, half remain tense.

“Tristen . . . ,” I manage.

She kisses my neck again and then goes back to my ear.
She nibbles on my earlobe. That gets me every time. I almost wish my attraction to Tristen were merely physical. But it's not. I genuinely like her.
Which is a good thing,
I tell myself.

If Voldemort hadn't broken up with me, I never would have created the Galgorithm, which means I never would have befriended Hedgehog, which means he never would have gone out with Balloon, which means they never would have set me up with Tristen, which means I never would have ended up back in this park tonight. So maybe this is fate. Or maybe I need to get out of my head and
just go with it
.

I put my hand on Tristen's cheek and kiss her. I press her onto the blanket. Only the blanket has gotten bunched up and we're just kissing on the ground. I don't care. She doesn't either.

The grass feels nice underneath our bodies, and Tristen feels right in my arms.

27

I CUT CHEMISTRY IN ORDER
to hang with Jak during her lunch period. The early April sun is high in the sky, and this is the first really hot day of the year. Instead of driving to lunch, we've opted to be lazy and lounge under the shade of the cafeteria awning. It seems like Jak has cobbled together a meal from things she found in the backseat of her car: carrots, Doritos, and a giant gobstopper.

We've texted a bunch since the party but haven't spent a lot of time together, nor have we discussed what exactly transpired.

“So,” Jak says, “I basically vommed on you. That happened.”

She's cutting right to the chase.

“You remember that?”

“I don't remember much, but I do remember that.”

“Although I would love to make fun of you for the rest of your life for puking in your own bathtub, it kind of makes me nauseous just thinking about it. And I'm not even eating. So why don't we agree to never speak about that part again.”

“Chambliss, you have yourself a deal.”

She starts to gnaw on the gobstopper. Personally, I would have gone with the carrots first.

“The thing is, before the, uh, reverse-peristalsis incident,” she says, “you touched my face.”

“Uh . . .”

“We were looking at each other in the tub and you kinda stroked my cheek like a creeper.”

“Boy, you say you don't remember much, but you seem to remember a lot,” I say.

“Solid deflection.”

Typical Jak, never letting me get away with anything.

“I wasn't ‘stroking' your cheek, I was just making sure you were okay,” I say.

“By stroking my cheek?”

“I wasn't—I was just—I was worried about you. I wanted to make sure you didn't pass out.”

“Hmm. Okay.” She relents, thankfully. “Well, either way, I guess I should say thank you.”

“For what?” I ask.

“You're gonna make me say it, aren't you?”

“Yup.”

“Fine. Shane Xavier Chambliss, thank you for rescuing me from that bathroom, for carrying me home, and for taking care of me. I don't know what I would do without you.”

“You're welcome. But you know my middle name is Aaron, not Xavier.”

“Yeah, I know, but your initials are
SAC
. And you can't be Sac if I'm Jak. That's too many
ack
s.”

“So my new middle name is Xavier?”

“Correct. I would
also
like to take a moment to thank God that you don't know how to take off a bra; otherwise I basically would have been naked in that tub.”

“Jak, you are really bad at getting blackout drunk. You remember everything.”

“It's a gift.”

“And I know how to take off a bra.”

“Do you, though?”

“You want me to take off your bra right now?”

“Go easy, Chambliss. I'm just giving you a hard time.”

“I know.”

“You're a good friend,” Jak says. “The best.”

And maybe that's all I'll ever be. And maybe I'm fine with that.

“Can I ask you something, Shane?”

“Sure.”

“Did I do anything else dumb at the party that I
don't
remember?”

“I think at one point you had your flip-flops on the wrong feet.”

“I do that all the time.” She picks up her feet from under the table. “They're on the wrong feet right now.”

They are indeed. What a nut.

“That's the only thing I can think of. Why?” I ask.

“Well, not to be a lame-o or anything, but Adam has been acting kinda weird.”

Uh oh.

“Like what?” I ask.

“I don't know. Not as responsive to my texts. Too busy to hang out.”

“He
is
a busy guy.”

“Yeah, but this is different.”

“And this has been going on since the party?”

“No, just the past few days.”

My heart sinks. That's when I talked to Adam about Jak. I was afraid of this. It seems like he's backing off. Even though I told him to forget everything I said.

“He's probably just being an idiot,” I say.

“Yeah. Whatever. I'm over it.”

Unloading on Adam was selfish of me. I didn't really want him to distance himself from Jak. I don't want to cause her any distress. But . . . there's also a tiny part of me that would be glad if there were one less obstacle in our path. And that makes me feel even
more
terrible.

But Jak is either not that bothered or putting on a brave face, because she just moves right along.

“How are things with Tristen?” she asks.

It's so hard to think about Tristen when I'm with Jak. Everything I felt for Tristen in the park starts to blur.

“Things are fine,” I say. “Still pretty casual.”

We are definitely not still pretty casual, but if there's a sliver of truth to it, it doesn't count as a lie. How is that for rationalization?

“Life is complicated,” I add.

“I heart you,” Jak says.

“Wait,” I say. I have to catch my breath for a moment. “Did you just say I hear you or I
heart
you?”

Jak pauses. “Uh. I think I
said
I heart you. But I meant to say I
hear
you.”

Freudian slip or just honest mistake?

“Life
is
complicated,” she adds.

I don't know what's happening, but here's my chance to test the romantic waters.

“Yeah,” I say. “But I'd like to try to spend more time hanging out together, just the two of us.”

“Totally, bro,” Jak says.

Well that's not an auspicious start.

“Maybe we could do dinner one night this week,” I venture.

“Okay,” she says.

“There's that pizza place on Hickory I've been wanting to try.”

“In.”

“Or, we could get kinda fancy and go to Laredo Grill.”

“That place you went to with you parents?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn't it kind of romantic?”

“I guess. But it'd be fun. Just me and you. My treat.”

Jak considers this.

Ask if it's a date! Ask if it's a date! Ask if it's a date!

“If it's all the same,” Jak says, “I think I'd rather just stay home and order takeout in my sweatpants.”

“Sure,” I say, deflated. “I guess we can do that.”

Jak tries to stick the entire gobstopper in her mouth.

“How do I wook?” she mumbles.

I stare at her.

She wooks like a girl I can't get out of my head.

28

TRUE TO HER CAMPAIGN PROMISE
and our conversations at both the college fair and the keg party, Rebecca fixed the administrative issue that had been causing problems in the senior parking lot. New permits were distributed, and our long national nightmare is over. I am currently headed to the lot to affix my new permit and move my car. Jak and Tristen are weighing heavily on my mind, so it feels good to be carrying out a stupid, mundane task that doesn't require considering the butterfly effect of consequences across dozens of people for generations to come.

When I cut through the faculty lot to get to my parking spot, I encounter one of the saddest things I've ever seen: Mr. Kimbrough, slumped in his reasonably priced, midsize sedan, staring into space. It looks like he's been there all day.

Mr. K. has been off the grid lately. Jak hypothesized at the keg party that Ms. Solomon had recently gotten lucky, and I chose to think positive and surmise that it was with him. Not having heard from him in a while seemed to confirm that assumption. But this sight definitely makes me think otherwise. Sigh. I feel like I joined an adopt-a-teacher program. I can't just abandon him now.

I walk up to the passenger side of his car and knock on the window. Mr. K. startles upright. He might have been sleeping, for all I know.

“Bob, are you okay?”

He rubs his bloodshot eyes and tries to play it off.

“Shane, how nice to see you. I was just working off the after-lunch snoozes.”

“It's ten a.m.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Hold on. I'm getting in.”

At this point I don't even care who sees me talking to Mr. Kimbrough. Or getting into his car, for that matter. If I can't get my own love life in order, it gives me some solace to at least help my fellow man in need.

I climb into the passenger seat. “Okay, Bob. Let me have it.”

He takes a deep breath. “I've been doing everything you told me to do. Every time Deb gets a paycheck and is all smiles, I'm there.”

“Great.”

“After I saw you at Laredo Grill, I asked her if she uses Latisse.”

“And?”

“She doesn't. But she was flattered and really impressed I even knew what it was.”

“Nice.”

“At the end of dinner, I insisted on paying. Like I had to get borderline aggressive.”

“Gotta do what it takes.”

“And then that night we kissed.”

“Amazing!”

“And then a few nights later we . . . you know . . .”

“Yes!” (Side note: Jak was right!)

“And then,” Mr. Kimbrough continues, “and then . . . nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“Radio silence. She avoids me at work. She doesn't pick up the phone. Nothing. I don't know what I did wrong.”

I pat Mr. K. on the shoulder. I feel for the guy, I really do. Perhaps the only thing worse than getting flat-out rejected by a girl is getting a peek at the promised land and then having her slam the window shut in your face.

Mr. Kimbrough looks so downright pathetic right now, so lost, so hopeless, that I just decide . . .
what the hell, it's time for the truth.

“Bob, I have to level with you.” I say. “When you thought
I was some sort of consultant, a dating guru, a Svengali, well, you were right.”

“Yeah, I mean, you've been so helpful.”

“No, you don't understand. You're not the only guy I've been advising. This is like . . . a real service that I offer.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. I help guys who are down on their luck win over the girls of their dreams. I try to at least even the playing field between the jocks and the have-nots. You know, I'm like . . . the Robin Hood of romance.”

“I knew it!”

“It started out as kind of a hobby, but now it's become this all-consuming thing. I
did
help Adam Foster date Olivia Reyes. You were right from the beginning. I wish I had been more honest with you.”

“Wow,” Mr. K. says. “But I understand. I get why you would want to keep something like that a secret. Especially at this school. You kids are cruel.”

“There's more,” I say. “All of the tips I've been giving you, they're part of a formula I call the Galgorithm—you know, like
gal
plus
algorithm
? That's probably what you heard whispers about.”

Mr. Kimbrough smirks. “Galgorithm. Huh. And people make fun of me for
my
math puns.”

“You got me there,” I say.

“So can I see the formula?” he asks.

“I don't think you're ready. Not yet. And besides, it's never really been used on a grown woman before. Just high school girls. But you seem like a good guy, and I wanted to help you.”

“I appreciate that, Shane. Everything you've done for me.” He exhales. “I guess you can file me under lost causes.”

“Well, not so fast. You never know. Is Deb teaching right now?”

Mr. Kimbrough checks the time on his phone. “No. She's off.”

“Okay, let's text her.”

“I'm telling you, she won't respond.”

“Let's try the Galgorithm.”

Mr. K. considers it, then relents and picks up his phone.

“Try writing: ‘Can you pick up the tickets at will call?'”

“Huh?” Mr. K. says. “What tickets?”

“Just try it.”

“Okay . . .” He sends her the text.

A moment later he gets a response.

“Holy cow, she wrote back!” he says.

“See?” I say. “There's hope. What did she write?”

“She wrote, ‘Did you mean to send this to me?'”

“Perfect,” I say. “We just needed a breezy nonsense text to get her to reply. Now let's engage her. Write: ‘Sorry. I sent that to the wrong person. How are you?'”

He sends the text. Now Mr. Kimbrough is sitting on the edge of the driver's seat.

She writes back immediately, and he shows me the text:
Good, u??

“Two question marks and a comma,” I say. “That's a great sign. Now write: ‘It's been a long week..' Make sure to put two dots at the end.”

“Why two dots?”

“It's more than a period but less than an ellipsis. It makes you seem intriguing.”

He types it.

“Shane, this is unbelievable. You need to be charging for this.”

“I do it for the love,” I say.

She writes back again, and Mr. Kimbrough reads it out loud: “‘Same here.'”

And then a second text in quick succession: “‘It's so hot today.' But instead of ‘hot' it's a little picture of a fire.”

“Good cadence on her replies,” I say. “Great pace. And she sent two texts in a row.
And
she used an emoji. All excellent signs.”

Mr. Kimbrough looks at me like I just discovered the atom.

“Let's take a shot downfield,” I say. “Write: ‘Beers?'”

Mr. Kimbrough types and sends as fast as he possibly can. And then . . . nothing.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Just give it a minute.”

A minute goes by. No response.

“I'll just write, ‘Maybe another time.'”

“No!” I say, and actually slap his hand. “Never write two texts in a row. Two texts in a row demonstrates weakness. We're not weak. We're strong.”

Mr. Kimbrough pulls his fingers off the keyboard.

“Wait a second,” I say.

Waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . and then a
ping
that she's responded! Me and Bob cheer in his car in the middle of the parking lot like we just won the Super Bowl.

Our glee is short-lived, though. “She wrote: ‘Don't think I'm up for beers.'”

Mr. Kimbrough is immediately discouraged. I'm not.

“Write back: ‘LOL. Didn't even write that. One of the kids grabbed my phone. #brats.'”

Mr. Kimbrough looks at me.

“You can use that as a believable mulligan like once a year.”

He shakes his head incredulously and sends the text.

She responds quickly and he shows me:
OMG. Totallyyy. These kids are a pain in my neck ;)

“Good,” I say. “Now shut your phone off.”

“What? Why?”

“You got an acronym, a triple consonant, and an old school emoticon. You hit the jackpot.”

“So shouldn't I write back?”

“Nope. Not now at least. You're in a good spot. Always let
her send the last text. It shows poise and keeps her on her toes.”

“Genius,” Mr. Kimbrough says, as he dutifully shuts his phone off.

“You're back in the mix with Deb,” I say. “I'm not sure what happened before, but things should start to flow now. I can also give you a few more pointers later. And there are some rules you need to follow if we're gonna be working together officially. But that's enough for today.”

Mr. Kimbrough sits back in his seat and looks up at the roof, relieved.

Cyrano has nothing on me.