Authors: Aaron Karo
33
MY HEART IS POUNDING, AND
it's not the two and half cups of black coffee.
I peel into my parking spot at school. I park over the lines in two places, but I don't care. All I can think about is getting inside to talk to Jak.
I ran from Faith to my car in the parking lot at the mall, and now I'm running from my car toward school and toward Jak. I smile to myself, thinking about how many Fitbit steps I've already racked up today on the way to this grand gesture.
I knew I felt something deep in my gut when I spent half the night in Jak's bathtub nursing her back to sobriety. But maybe my subconscious was protecting me from realizing the truth. There were so many obstacles that would have prevented us from getting together: our friendship, Adam,
Tristen, the pledge Jak swore to remain platonic after Faith left me heartbroken.
Tristen certainly remains an issue, but my feelings for her are complicated. I do care about her. Just . . . not in the way I care about Jak. I'm not in love with Tristen. I'm in love with Jak.
I'm in love with Jak!
I have to end things with Tristen. I don't know how she'll take it, but I can't even think about that right now. No, all that's important right now is proclaiming my true love to Jak and convincing her that it will not only preserve our friendship, but also strengthen it.
I enter school through a side door that is just off the senior hallway, the quicker to get to Jak's locker. As soon as I take a step inside, though, I can tell something is wrong. There's a buzz in the hallway. Lots of whispering and giggling. At first I think it's just the Kingsview rumor mill being kicked into overdrive by some silly hookup gossip. But as I get closer to Jak's locker, I start to realize that things are very, very wrong. My classmates are staring. Those whispers, those giggles, they're directed
at me
.
My heart beats even faster. I rack my brain for any possible reason why I am suddenly the center of attention. I remember I turned off my phone hours ago, so I pull it out of my pocket and turn it back on. I get to Jak's locker, but she's not there, which is odd. I know her schedule down to the second. I look at my phone: dozens of texts and e-mails and missed calls from my clients, but nothing recent from Jak. That's weird.
Everyone around me is snickering.
What the hell is going on?
I notice that several onlookers are holding today's edition of the
Kingsview Chronicle
, which is also kinda odd because the paper is usually cafeteria or bathroom reading, not water-cooler fodder. I find a copy on the floor a few steps from Jak's locker. Kids are Snapchatting pictures of me and laughing as I pick it up. WTF?
I open the paper and feel like I am having an out-of-body experience. I cannot believe my eyes. The banner headline reads:
GALGORITHM: A DATING GURU AND HIS SECRET FORMULA
This cannot be happening. This. Cannot. Be happening.
I read the first couple of lines:
In a shocking
Chronicle
exclusive, senior Shane Chambliss has been exposed as the resident dating doctor at Kingsview High School, boasting a roster of unlucky-in-love classmates and a powerful algorithm he claims will attract female students. The scheme was first discovered when it was referenced on math teacher Robert Kimbrough's personal blog . . .
Noooooooooo!
I'm having trouble breathing. What? How? Mr. K., what the hell did you do?
I look at the byline of the article. It was written by . . . Brooke Nast? You've got to be kidding me.
Balloon?
I pull out my phone again and launch the browser.
No service.
Goddamn it!
With all eyes on me, and still holding the paper, I sprint toward the computer lab down the hall. I've never run so much in one day in my life. I make a hard left and burst into the lab. Thankfully, the room is empty.
There are five rows of computers, all relatively new iMac desktops. I sit at the terminal closest to the door and log in with my Kingsview High ID. I google Mr. Kimbrough's Humble Pi blog. I curse the stupid caricature of him when it loads. Most of the entries are just random ruminations and
xkcd-
esque cartoons. Then I get about ten posts down, and my jaw drops.
If I'm reading this correctly . . .
It can't be.
It is.
Mr. Kimbrough has created an
actual
Galgorithm.
Under the misleadingly academic and, I'm assuming, tongue-in-cheek heading “A Mathematical Look at ÂConversing with Women,” he's taken all the texting tips I've given him, formatted them into an Excel spreadsheet,
and created a
real algorithm
that analyzes text messages from girls.
It's actually pretty sophisticated, and I'm starting to go numb trying to decipher it, but I eventually figure out that there are five variables in the formula:
pace
(how quickly she responds and how frequently),
cadence
(if she sends multiple texts in a row and who sent the last text), Â
punctuation
(use of commas, exclamation points, and question marks),
shorthand
(use of acronyms, emojis, and emoticons), and
format
(repeating of vowels, repeating of consonants, and capitalization). Each variable is calculated separately using its own individual formula, and then all the factors are weighted by statistical significance and added together, revealing in one final numberâconcludes the postâexactly how interested in you a woman is based on her texts.
It's mad. It's genius. It's scary. And the subtitle reads “Galgorithmâcourtesy of Anonymous.”
If Mr. Kimbrough didn't name names, then how the hell did it get linked to me?
To make matters much, much worse, beneath the spreadsheet are some of the tips and techniques I've been periodically doling out to Mr. Kimbrough over the past few months. Only he calls them “Corollaries to the Galgorithm,” has given some of them overly fancy technical names, and follows each one with a detailed explanation.
⢠Social media initiation window
⢠Blind carbon copy trapdoor method
⢠Female Pavlovian response mechanism
⢠Prejection avoidance and warning signs
⢠Nonsense text beachhead establishment
⢠Two-dot ellipsis/period hybrid character
⢠Laying groundwork for future physicality
⢠Eyelash fail-safe with Latisse modification
⢠Cloud-based fragrance application strategy
This doesn't sound like advice on talking to women; it sounds like instructions for installing new enterprise software or launching a counterterrorism offensive.
I think I'm gonna have a panic attack. At the very bottom of the post is a crude visitor counter. It reads 15,014.
I look at the school paper again. Brooke has taken all of this nonsense from the blog and attributed it to me in far-from-flattering fashion.
I've been outed.
Before I can even figure out what to do next, the door to the computer lab opens, and Mr. Kimbrough himself rushes in. He looks distressed. So I can only imagine what I look like.
I glare at him. He puts his hands up as if he comes in peace.
“Some students told me you were in here. Are you okay?”
“Bob, what the hell is this?
What did you do?
”
“I was just messing around, and I decided to take all the advice you gave me and . . . see if I could reverse-engineer the formula. It was just a goof.”
“A goof? A
goof
? Bob, this is insane!”
“I didn't mean for everyone to see it. It was just for a few of my nerdy math-teacher friends who read my blog. It's supposed to be a joke. I didn't even put your name on it.”
“Then why the hell is my name all over the front page of the paper!”
“I don't know! I swear!”
“This article makes me look like some kind of freak!”
“Now, Shane, just take it easy. We'll figure this out.”
I look back at the computer screen, as well as the newspaper. This feels like it isn't real, like it's some kind of nightmare.
“You have to delete this!” I say.
“It's too late. It's already been duplicated on the
Chronicle
website and God knows where else. If I delete it now, it will only make things worse.”
“Goddamn it, Bob. You
do
know this isn't right, right? You can't put girls into a formula. You can't predict what they're gonna do. They're
girls
. This is creepy!”
“But
you
have a formula, Shane.”
“
It's not real!
There's no such thing as the Galgorithm! It was just a ploy to bolster your confidence, to get you to believe in yourself and listen to my advice! Which, by the way, I'm not even giving out anymore. I'm done with the whole thing.
I gave it up. I'm being humiliated for something that doesn't even exist! People are gonna think I'm some kind of insane stalker!”
“I'm so sorry, Shane. I don't know what to say. I don't know how it got out. I posted this stuff weeks ago, and no one even said anything. It had twenty-six views the last time I checked.”
I rub my temples and run my hands through my hair.
“This can't be happening.”
“I'm sorry,” Bob repeats. “I didn't mean for any of this. The
Chronicle
picked it up and it just went viral. I only found out this mornâoh no. Deb! Deb is gonna see this!” Bob suddenly gets lost in his own thoughts.
But I don't have any time to deal with his problems. I have to get to Balloon!
I jump up from my seat, but then stop for a moment to shake my head.
“Bob, you were supposed to deny till you die!”
34
I BRAVE MORE HALLWAYS FULL
of leering classmates. Everyone loves a scandal, especially cruel and hormonal high school kids. The article in the
Chronicle
not only makes me look like a creep who has reduced girls to a formula and gives his pickup lines military-grade nicknames, but also a puppet master who is deviously pulling the strings behind the ÂKingsview dating scene. It's a total hatchet job.
There's detail and dirt in the article that didn't come from Humble Pi, though, including my identity, so Balloon better be able to shed some light on what the hell is going on, and fast.
I manage to make it to the newspaper office, which is in the administration hallway between Student Council and Model UN. Fake government, fake diplomacy, and now fake news.
I've never actually been inside the
Chronicle
's offices
before and for some reason half expect it to be filled with whirring, steampunk-style printing presses. Instead it's just a bunch of desks arranged in bullpens. Oh, and there's a giant map of the world tacked to a bulletin board, laughably implying that anyone here really cares about what happens outside the stucco towers of Kingsview.
When I walk in, everyone in the room stops what they're doing and stares at me. I ignore them and zero in on Brooke, who is standing in an alcove in the back, talking to another student. I figure she's been in the office all day, moderating the sure-to-be-entertaining comments section for the story on the newspaper's website. When Brooke sees me, she sends the other kid on his way. I approach her. Cute, bubbly, cherubic Balloon is actually the devil in disguise.
“What the hell, Brooke?”
I can tell she's been preparing for this confrontation.
“I could say the same thing to you, Shane.”
“You have to retract this story. Or delete it.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because it misrepresents me.”
“Is anything I wrote not true?”
“I mean . . . you don't understand,” I stammer. “First of all, how did you even find out about all this stuff?”
Brooke crosses her arms. “I'll never reveal my sources!”
“Brooke,” I growl.
“Fine. A few weeks ago, Tristen was working on a puff piece
about style trends among teachers. She googled Mr. Kimbrough to try to find some pictures of him and came across Humble Pi. She sent it to me and I started doing some digging.”
“Tristen?” This is not computing.
“I saw the Galgorithm post on the blog,” she continues, “and it immediately looked familiar. I recognized some of those tricks from when Anthony and I first started going out. I confronted him about it, and he caved pretty quickly.”
Goddamn it, Hedgehog.
“He told me all about your little scheme.”
“It's not a scheme!”
She ignores me.
“I looked through all of your Facebook friends and noticed that you had a few random older friends.”
Somehow I've always known that Mark Zuckerberg would screw me.
“I also noticed that some of those friends had one thing in common: They were dating girls way out of their league.”
No such thing!
I keep my mouth shut.
“I put two and two together,” she continues, “and reached out to them. A few of them were former clients who had already graduated. They agreed to talk to me if I kept them anonymous.”
So cold. Sold out by my own clients.
“And you didn't think to come to me to get my side before you printed anything?”
“I knew you would have just freaked out and denied everything and had Mr. Kimbrough take it down.”
“Damn right I would have freaked out!”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, so you have your little scoop and that's all that matters?” I say. “I thought we were friends. Well, congratulations, this is much bigger than Watermelongate.”
“If fruit salad is advertised on the menu, it should include watermelon! Our tax dollars pay for that food!”
I try to get back to the point.
“Brooke, you don't understand. There's no such thing as the Galgorithm. That thing on Mr. Kimbrough's blog, I've never seen it before in my life. He created it on his own. There was no Galgorithm until he made one!”
“So all those pickup lines and little tricks, those aren't yours?” She arches an eyebrow.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, they used to be. It's complicated.”
“Try me.”
“That thing on the blog, it makes it seem like there is some algorithm to get girls. There's not. You can't distill everything they do down to a number. That's not how it works. The whole thing needs a human touch. Someone to interpret everything.”
“So that's what you do? You're an interpreter for guys who you label nerds? Like some kind of dork whisperer?”
I don't even know where to begin. “Brooke, this isn't even me anymore. I'm retired. Out of the game.”
This does not satisfy her in the slightest.
“I just want to make sure I'm clear. So you never advised your clients to use the same technique as Pavlov's dogs?”
I sigh. “Yes and no.”
“Go on.”
“
Obviously
Pavlovian conditioning doesn't work on human girls.”
Just saying these words makes me feel like such a tool. Brooke rolls her eyes. I need to explain.
“I mean, the reason I adviseâ
advisedâ
my clients to be near the girl they like when the girl gets good news is
not
so that the girl will somehow eventually associate good news with the guy.”
“Then what's the reason?”
“It's to help the guy start to feel comfortable around the girl. It's to give him a specific time and place every day or every week when all he's thinking about is the girl. It's to give the guy a moment to look forward to when he knows the girl he is pining after will be all smiles and good vibrations. It's to give him hope.”
“Uh huh,” Brooke says, unconvinced. “Yeah, well, I didn't really appreciate finding out that Anthony was stalking me for months before we went out.”
“He wasn't stalking you! I was there. He was
learning
about you so that he could have a meaningful conversation with you once he got up the nerve to even talk to you. Anthony will tell you himself. Where is he?”
“I don't know. We broke up.”
No.
“What do you mean you broke up?”
“I mean, when I found out what he did, and I put all the pieces together, I ended it. Just before we went to press.”
“What he
did
? He adored you. He was devoted to you. Years before you even knew he existed.”
“I know. And that's weird.”
“But you can't break up. You're Hedgehog and Balloon. You're the perfect couple. You're
totes adorbs
.”
“We're not Hedgehog and Balloon anymore.”
“Okay, time-out: I understand why Anthony is Hedgehog, but why are you called Balloon?”
She loudly
CLAPS
her hands in front of my face, startling me.
“Because I
pop
when you least expect it.”
“Jesus Christ. Really?”
“No, it's because when I laugh it sounds really squeaky, like a balloon.”
“Oh.”
“You messed up, Shane. You lied to a lot of people. And a lot of people are hurt.”
My mind suddenly starts to wander. . . .
“Shane,” she continues, “are you listening to me? Shane?”
I need to find Jak.