Galgorithm (8 page)

17

BEHIND THE MYSTERIOUS DOOR THAT
leads to the teachers' lounge I always imagine the faculty in their underwear, drinking beer and smoking cigars. The reality is much more mundane. The room is about twice the size of a normal classroom and has a few couches, coffee tables, desks, and a semi-enclosed kitchenette area. Everyone is fully clothed, sober, and smoke-free.

I'm dropping off a thank-you note for one of my teachers who wrote me a college recommendation, but she's not here, so I put it in her mailbox. I'm about to leave when I hear a voice I was truly hoping not to hear.

“Shane!”

It's Mr. Kimbrough, who emerges from the kitchenette area with a cup of coffee and waves at me. Although I told him
during our last conversation that I would try to think of a way for him to secure a real date with Ms. Solomon, I've actually been trying to avoid him. Between my own love life and my actual clients' love lives, I've got a lot on my plate.

Mr. K. beckons me to join him at one of the desks in the lounge. I sigh and then head over to him. He greets me with what I find to be an overly enthusiastic handshake. “Good to see you, Shane!” Well, at least he doesn't hug me.

“What's going on, Mr. K.?” I ask. “Sorry I haven't been in touch.”

“I figured you were cooking up some really good advice for me.”

“Something like that.”

“Anyway, I'm glad you're here. I'm been trying to get my mind off . . .” He looks around warily at the handful of other teachers in the room. None are within earshot. “
Deb.
You know, so I don't obsess and what have you.”

This is him
not
obsessing?

“I started a blog,” he says. “I want you to check it out.”

Eleven words that no one ever wants to hear.

“A blog?” I say.

“Yeah.” He opens an old IBM laptop. “I'm gonna post interesting math stories. Maybe a few jokes and cartoons.” He launches the site and then steps back for me to see. “I call it Humble Pi.”

The blog features a caricature of Mr. Kimbrough, which,
given the generous hairline and stingy waistline, he probably drew himself. Under the title
BOB KIMBROUGH'S HUMBLE
is another drawing, this one of a literal pie—like the dessert—with a pi symbol bursting out of it.

“Humble Pi. Get it? ‘Pi' as in 3.14?”

“I get it,” I say.

“It was either that or Divide and Conquer.”

“Stick with Humble Pi.”

“Okay. Good idea.”

“You haven't posted anything yet,” I mention.

“I just started it. It's only for me and a few of my math-teacher friends. I doubt anyone else will even care.”

Now that's the understatement of the century.

Mr. K. is admiring this WordPress site like it's his firstborn. I'm not really sure what he wants from me right now.

“So . . . I'm gonna take off,” I say.

“Crap!” Mr. Kimbrough exclaims suddenly. He slams the laptop shut, almost clipping my fingers.

“What?” I say.

Mr. K. motions with his chin: Across the room, Ms. ­Solomon has entered the lounge and is walking toward us.

I continue to be impressed by Mr. K.'s taste. Ms. ­Solomon has stunning green eyes and long, Rapunzel-worthy dirty-blond hair. She's slender and wears a white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt—teacher-appropriate but sexy enough to inspire, I'm sure, a few naughty daydreams from
her male students. She smiles as she approaches us.

For some reason, Mr. Kimbrough panics and tries to hide his laptop under a stack of papers.

“Hey, Bob,” Ms. Solomon says as she reaches the desk. “I forgot my lesson plan.”

She plucks it right from the top of the stack on the laptop, without ever noticing or caring what's underneath.

“Hey, Deb,” Bob says.

Ms. Solomon smiles again and then turns to leave. Mr. K. speaks up.

“Deb, do you know Shane? He was one of my best students.”

She pauses and turns back. “No, I don't believe we've met.”

“Hi,” I say. Finally I am formally introduced to the mythical Deb! “My best friend is actually in your class. Jak.”

“Jack?”

“Jennifer Kalkland.”

“Oh, right, of course. She's wonderful. Very quiet.”

I chuckle at the thought of Jak ever being quiet. “That's only when there's a roomful of people,” I say. “Around me I can't get her to
stop
talking. And it's usually nonsense.”

“Lines on curves, huh?” Mr. K. interjects.

“Lines on curves?” I say.

“Tangents. Your friend goes off on tangents.”

I look at Mr. Kimbrough. Now is not the time for esoteric geometry humor.

“Tangents,” Deb says. “I get it. Very clever.”

She grins. Bob blushes, but seems to loosen up.

“Come on, Shane,
I
taught you geometry. And I just told Deb you were you one of my best students!”

“That's okay,” Deb says. “We can give Shane a free pass on that one.”

Alas, like Adam with Jak, Mr. Kimbrough doesn't seem to have a follow-up to keep the repartee going. Conversing with girls is not easy!

But I notice the way Deb looks at Bob. She didn't cringe at his terrible joke. In fact, she seemed to genuinely enjoy it. She clearly has to get back to class yet is still lingering. She just used the word “we.” Obviously she was joking, but subconscious actions explain a great deal.

Damn it, Shane,
I think. I'm such a sucker for a long-shot love story. And observing Mr. Kimbrough and Ms. Solomon right now . . . well, I think they've got a chance. Despite Mr. K. being a little needy and all my instincts telling me not to get involved, I know I have to help him. What kind of dating coach leaves a man behind? I gotta come up with a plan on the spot.

“Mr. Kimbrough,” I say, improvising, “I meant to thank you for that restaurant recommendation. My parents went to Laredo Grill and they loved it.”

Mr. Kimbrough looks at me quizzically. “What?”

“You know . . . ,” I say, trying to relay as much subtext as humanly possible. “Laredo Grill, that Mexican place you recommended I tell my parents about.
Remember?
”

This conversation never happened, of course. I saw ­Laredo Grill on a banner ad on Yelp the other day. But I think Mr. Kimbrough is starting to catch my drift.

“Oh. Right. Yeah . . .”

“Supposedly they have great margaritas,” I say. I glance at Ms. Solomon. She arches her eyebrows ever so slightly. I have no idea what that means.

“And also awesome fresh guacamole,” I add.

“I love fresh guacamole!” Ms. Solomon exclaims.

I don't know much about women in their twenties, but from what I've seen on TV they usually like margaritas and/or guacamole.

There's another lull in the conversation. I feel like I am boring holes in Mr. Kimbrough's head as I try to convey to him what to say next. Unfortunately, we don't have best friend telepathy like me and Jak.

Mr. K. gasps slightly—the lightbulb goes on; I think he's got it! He turns to Deb.

“If you like guacamole, maybe the two of
us
could go to ­Laredo Grill together and eat some. You know, at night. My treat.”

Ms. Solomon looks at me and then back at Mr. ­Kimbrough. “Like a date?”

Mr. Kimbrough glances at me. I try to imperceptibly but still perceptibly nod my head
yes
.

“Sure,” Mr. Kimbrough says, thankfully taking my cue. “Like a date.”

Ms. Solomon smiles. “That would be great. I'd love to.”

Booyah!

Now Mr. Kimbrough is just standing there with a permagrin on his face. Ms. Solomon checks her watch.

“Oh no!” she says. “I totally lost track of time. I'm late for class. I'll talk to you later, Bob.” She smiles at him. “Nice to meet you, Shane.”

“You too.”

She hurries off. When she closes the door of the teachers' lounge behind her, Mr. Kimbrough has still not stopped smiling.

“It's okay, Bob. She's gone. You did good.”

Mr. Kimbrough suddenly embraces me in a great big bear hug. I'm about an inch off the floor. I go stiff as a board. He finally puts me down. The other teachers are oblivious.

“Shane, thank you! You are the best wingman ever.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“Does this mean you'll keep helping me?”

I take a deep breath.

“Yeah, I'll help. As long as you—”

Before I can finish, he embraces me again.

This time I roll with it.

18

WHEN WE FIRST GOT TO
the theater, and the movie we wanted to see was sold out, I thought this date with ­Tristen was gonna be a bust. Then she suggested we go back to her house and watch TV, and I tried to play it cool but also couldn't drive fast enough. Her parents are out for the night, and her younger sister is at a friend's house. The only problem is, Tristen hasn't given me any indication as to when any of them will be home, so there's both excitement and terror in the air.

There are clothes and books and shoes and makeup scattered all over the floor in Tristen's bedroom. You can barely see any carpet. She has a MacBook in a pink case with a Greenpeace sticker on it. We sit on the edge of her bed both because it's in front of the TV and also because
there is literally no place else to sit. Tristen sits to my left and loads the On Demand menu to look for something for us to watch.

“What are you in the mood for?” I ask.

“Something funny,” she says. “Maybe something with Will Ferrell.
Or
, there's this documentary about fracking I've been dying to see.”

These are confusing times. Tristen and I have really hit it off. She's sweet and kooky and opinionated. It's been a while since I allowed myself to
like
like anyone. This could be the real deal. But even though Jak and I have never explicitly discussed it, it does still kind of bother me that Jak doesn't like Tristen. Again, that's not based on any empirical data, just more of a hunch. I know I shouldn't care, but she's my best friend and I can't help it.

Tristen scrolls through the movies on-screen. She's wearing ripped, super-faded jeans. Considering her usual wardrobe, the top she has on is fairly conservative, meaning it's sleeveless and pretty sheer.

If I were advising one of my clients in this situation, I would tell him to be patient. When a girl wants you to make a move, she'll give you the signal.

“So,” Tristen says, “when was the last time you were in a relationship?”

I'm caught off guard.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” she says. “Like when was the last time you had a girlfriend?”

Wow, Tristen does not mince words. I respect that.

“It's been a while,” I admit. “A few years.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I've ‘seen' girls here and there. But nothing serious.”

“Why not?”

Yeah, Shane, why not?

“I don't know,” I say. “I guess I haven't found the right person.”

“So you're picky?”

“I wouldn't say that. Maybe I just know what I like?”

I say it like a question because I have no idea if it's true or not.

“Have you ever had your heart broken?”

“Boy, I'm really getting interrogated tonight.”

“I'm sorry,” she says. “You don't have to answer that.”

I think she's definitely flirting with me and will eventually want me to make a move. Yet we've never even hooked up and it seems like she's already sizing up my boyfriend potential. I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth . . . but I also don't want to put the cart before the horse. Basically any proverbs with horses are trouble.

I decide to answer her honestly. “Yes. I have had my heart broken. Once. It was really bad.”

“What happened?”

“I don't really know . . .”

This is partially true. In some respects, I know exactly why Voldemort broke up with me. I lacked the maturity and confidence that girls expect, and I ran afoul of most of the flirting, grooming, and dating faux pas I now counsel my clients to avoid. But even though I'm aware of these things in my brain, in my heart I still want answers. One day Voldemort wanted me, and the next day she didn't. What changed?

“Are you okay?” Tristen asks.

“Huh?”

“You just trailed off and got really quiet.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“It's okay. But I gotta say—the girl who broke your heart, whoever she is, didn't deserve you.”

Tristen is not shy. And she's into me!

“Thanks,” I say. “I've been having a really good time hanging out with you.”

“Me too. I guess we have Anthony and Brooke to thank for that.”

“You mean Hedgehog and Balloon?”

She laughs. “Exactly.”

“By the way, why is Brooke's nickname Balloon? ­Hedgehog I get.”

“Actually, I have no idea,” she says. “Maybe it's better as a mystery.”

Yeah,
I say to myself,
unlike when your parents are coming home.

Tristen reaches the end of the list of On Demand movies.

“Well, that's all of them,” she says. “Nothing I really want to watch.”

“Me neither.”

She smiles and looks me in the eyes, then looks at my lips for a split second, then back to my eyes.
That's the signal!

I put my left hand on her back, between her shoulder blades. Testing the waters. She doesn't flinch. I can feel her bra clasp beneath her shirt.

I lean to my left and move my face toward hers.

She closes her eyes . . . and we kiss!

Her lips are soft and interlock naturally with mine. I reach over and caress her face—her skin is really smooth, and I can feel her two little moles. She darts her tongue tentatively into my mouth and I respond in kind. The sloppiness factor is low; we have good kissing chemistry right off the bat.

The world around us starts to get blurry. The specter of her family coming home, the books and clothing getting trampled beneath our feet, the stress and doubt I feel every day . . . gone.

I trace a line with my hand down her cheek and to her neck. She presses her tongue deeper into my mouth and tenderly bites my lower lip. This has already been the best date ever, and the night could end right now and I would be
thrilled, but I'm feeling bold, so I move my hand from her neck to her chest.

She moans softly and wraps her arms around me.

We continue kissing.

Cherry ChapStick never tasted so good.