Be More Chill (17 page)

Okay, so I have to look at girls?

N
O
,
YOU HAVE TO SEE WHICH GIRLS LOOK AT YOU
.

Ah. None of them do.

S
URE THEY DO
. Y
OU JUST DON
’
T NOTICE
. O
R IF YOU DO CATCH ONE LOOKING
,
YOU
LOOK DOWN AND DON
’
T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT AND YOUR FAILURE TO ACT PAINS YOU SO MUCH THAT YOU FORGET ABOUT IT IN FIVE MINUTES
.

That sounds right.

S
O FROM NOW ON
, I
WANT YOU TO CHECK TO SEE IF ANY GIRLS LOOK AT YOU
. A
ND IF ONE DOES
,
YOU HAVE TO SMILE
AT HER
.

That’s hard.

O
F COURSE IT
’
S HARD
! W
HAT
,
YOU THINK THIS STUFF IS EASY
? W
HEN YOU BECOME
SEXUALLY AROUSED
,
YOUR DICK GETS HARD TOO
,
DOESN
’
T IT
?

Theoretically.

N
OT THEORETICALLY
. I’
M THERE WHEN IT HAPPENS
. S
O THE POINT IS SOME THINGS ARE HARD IN THIS WORLD
, J
EREMY
. G
OOD THINGS
.

Right. So if—

Y
OU MUST LOOK AT ALL THE GIRLS WHO PASS YOUR WAY
. D
ON
’
T STARE AT THEM
,
JUST SCAN THEM VERY
CAREFULLY
,
SUBTLY
,
TO SEE IF THEY ARE EYEING YOU
. A
ND IF THEY ARE
,
SMILE AT THEM IMMEDIATELY
,
AS IF YOU CAN
’
T HELP IT
,
THEY
’
RE JUST SO CUTE
. T
HAT
’
S HOW YOU DISTINGUISH YOURSELF IN THIS WORLD
:
INSTEAD OF BEING THE GUY WHO LEERS AT THEM
,
YOU
’
LL BE THE GUY WHO SMILES AT THEM
. I
T
’
S GOING TO TAKE A LOT OF WORK BECAUSE SMILING USES
THIRTY
-
SEVEN MUSCLES
,
BUT
I’
LL BOOST THOSE MUSCLES FOR YOU
.

Okay.

I
F YOU DON
’
T
,
YOU
’
RE NEVER GOING TO GET LAID
. I
T
’
S THE FIRST STEP
.

And so I smile. At first I end up with these crooked, premature smiles that look like I have spinach stuck in my teeth and I’m trying to roll it out with my lips. But I get better with
practice, to the point where I can bend over at the water fountain, see which girls are looking at me (since I’m at their level) and smile with water sloshing off my teeth, like an Oral-B
ad.

Oh, yeah, I have an Oral-B electric toothbrush now, one of many consumer adjustments. I started buying Crest Whitening Strips too, which I wear in my teeth while I do push-ups in front of the
TV. They work wonders. I also got Tegrin antidandruff shampoo, the strongest you can buy without a prescription. It’s dark green and smells like tar, but even it doesn’t cure my
dandruff until the squip tells me to use my nails in the shower and gouge at my scalp to get the Tegrin to my guilty skin cells. I spend a lot more time in the bathroom now.

In this enviable state—cleaned up, decked out, well dressed, flake-free, and at once socially hyperconscious and totally at ease—I give Chloe $25 for my roll. It’s a
particularly fine day because at the start, in math, we solved the attendance problem.

“Caniglia,” Mr. Gretch said.

“Here.”

“Duvoknovich.”

“Here.”

“Goranski.”

“Here.”

“Heere?”

“Yo.”

It was so simple. Mr. Gretch didn’t mind and everyone in the class sort of shuffled around to look at me, saying “Yo” from the back. I smiled at them. I don’t know how I
didn’t think of it before. I
T
’
S NOT YOUR NATURE
, the squip said.

About two minutes after that, Jenna went into her thing about “Elizabeth let four guys do her on the bus” and I had the balls to say what I’ve always wanted to say, deadpan:
“Shut up, Jenna. We know ‘Elizabeth’ is like your Spider-Slut alterego or something.”

And Anne laughed and laughed and Mark Jackson laughed and Mr. Gretch didn’t hear and Jenna, at least for a few seconds, really did shut up.

“So, Michael, you want to go to a party on Saturday?” I ask him out of the blue. I don’t know how much “blue” can be established in ten days, but
it seems like a lot. Michael’s playing handball by himself against the mural outside school with his headphones on, not listening to anything.

“Hey, Jeremy,” he says.

W
HY ARE YOU STILL DEALING WITH THIS GUY
?

Hold on. “Yeah, so you want to go to this party?” I assume. I mean I just assume. He could answer.

“No.” He holds his ball, looks at me. “I got a question for you, man. You remember medieval Legos?”

“Sure.”

“Remember how we lost the original trees so we had to use palm trees outside the castles even though it was supposed to be a deciduous European forest?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember that
anachronism
?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Just checking. I thought you were maybe doing a revisionist thing with your nerd—”

“C’mon, man—”

“Now that you’re a swinger and all.”

W
E ARE SWINGERS
. H
E
’
S RIGHT
!

I smile. “It’s not like that. Really. I want you to come to this party.”

“F_c_  you, Jeremy. You still haven’t apologized for ditching me at the mall.”

“Yes I did!” I say. “And if I didn’t, I’m apologizing now. I apologize for not apologizing. This whole party is an apology.”

“You don’t want me at any party. You want me to
drive
you to that party.”

“No, man! I’m going myself.”

“How?”

“I’m gonna try some drivin’ skillz.” I imagine a
Z
.

“Jeremy…” Michael’s voice gets quiet. “If you’re gonna be stupid, I’ll take you in my car. Don’t get killed.”

I look at Michael’s ride, parked in the parking lot like a used condom. Not used properly. I don’t want anyone seeing me in that thing.

C
ORRECT
.

“C’mon man, I can drive. I want to drive myself.”

“No you can’t, Jeremy! You’ve never done it in your life!”

“So how hard can it be, man? C’mon, man.”

Michael holds the handball close to his chest. “If you’re going to do something that
stupid
,” he says, “then I’ll go with you, just to make sure you
don’t die or anything.”

D
ON
’
T BRING HIM
.

Nope, I’m bringing him. I want him along on this one. I’ve wanted him along the whole time, but now I finally have the clout to bring him.

S
TRONG PARAMETER MISMATCH
.

Well, it doesn’t matter. Didn’t you say I could include him in my new circle once I made it?

S
TRONG PARAMETER MISMATCH
.

Shutdown.

“Uh, I assume that’s a ‘yes’?” Michael says.

“Yeah, you’re coming.” I reach out to slap his hand; he responds the way we used to slap—flat-handed—so I show him the new way, the curvy way the squip showed
me.

T
HAT LOOKS GREAT
! the squip exclaims. T
OTALLY EFFECTIVE
!

I look in the mirror at my naked body. It’s more buff than I ever imagined, two weeks in, and totally hairless—the squip made me use candle wax to get out the five or so hairs that
it found near my pecs. Unfortunately I can’t focus on anything other than the two straight marks that line my thighs, below my abdomen. The squip convinced me to paint these, a
V
around my crotch, outlining those “sartorius” muscles that didn’t develop so well in my exercise program. I did them with a Sharpie; they’re smooth and uniform, as if I were
an action figure with bendable legs. It’s stupid.

N
O
,
IT
’
S NOT
. Y
OU RESEMBLE
A
SHTON
K
UTCHER
.
R
EMEMBER
, A
SHTON
K
UTCHER
BEST REPRESENTS THE SEXUALITY THAT ENTHRALLS PRESENT
-
DAY
FEMALES
.

Right. Boyish yet…what?

B
OYISH YET CASUALLY SUPERHUMAN
. Y
OU READY TO GO
?

I put my party clothes on and start down the stairs. It’s nine o’clock, Saturday night; Mom is off somewhere with her legal briefs and Dad is watching football in the kitchen.

“Okay, so I’m out,” I tell him as I pass his setup: my Dad, a chair, a beer, peanut butter, Oreo cookies, and the TV arranged for maximum comfort, like a science
experiment.

“Huh,” Dad says. “Well, have a good time and all.” He breaks his concentration to actually look at me while he dips an Oreo into the peanut butter. It’s a Peanut
Butter Oreo anyway. “Seriously, have a
great
time. I remember my first real party.”

“Heh, yeah,” I look down. P
ERFECT
. B
E INNOCENT
. “Michael’s going to be here any minute so I’m gonna go on the porch
and wait for him.”

“Huh.”

I stride out of my house and immediately crouch, ninja-style. G
REAT
. T
O THE DRIVEWAY
. I crab walk down the porch, clutching the side of the house,
careful not to trip over the coiled hose. I’m at the edge of the kitchen window; Mom’s car is in front of me, sleek and inviting, lit by the one fake gas porch light and the streetlamps
out beyond the lawn. I’m going to replace it with Michael’s car once he gets here so Dad’ll be less likely to notice a car missing if he decides to pee outside, which he does
sometimes after football.

C
ALL NOW
.

I pick up my cell phone, phone home. I can hear Dad moving from the kitchen to the living room, grumbling. Just before he would pick up—three and a half rings—I hit the beeper on the
keychain I took from his pants while he was having private time with Mom (he always leaves his pants in the hall).
Beep boop beep
, the car says.

H
ANG UP
.

I click the
End
button just as I hear Dad say “Hello?” He’s in the living room, annoyed, deciding whether or not to dial *69. Since I know he’s away from the
kitchen window, I scamper by to the car door, open it up and sit in the driver’s seat. Awesome.

A
WESOME
. N
OW THE EMERGENCY BRAKE
.

It smells like Mom in the car. I clutch the brake between the two front seats with my fist, press it in and set it on the floor. Mom’s car—my car, whatever—starts rolling down
the driveway; I freak and slam the brakes. The wheels make a little skidding noise.

J
EREMY
. D
ON
’
T LOSE IT NOW
. E
ASE BACK ONTO THE ROAD
. E
VERYTHING
’
S FINE
.

I lift my foot off the brake, letting the car ooze comfortably back down a dozen more feet. T
URN
,
TURN
. I do as I’m told.
Amazingly—just like in
Test Drive
—the car turns sweetly backward onto my street, Rampart Road, and I execute what looks like a pretty competent parking job next to Ms.
Daniels’s house. A
BORN DRIVER
. I
KNEW YOU COULD DO IT
.

I look at the driveway. I ran over some grass but, all in all, it was an excellent gambit. Now I just have to wait for Michael to show up. I turn on the radio, twisting the keys in the steering
column toward me, the “safe” way, the way I was taught to, so I don’t start the engine. I power down the driver’s side window and look out at airplanes in the sky. And
satellites. The squip tells me that most of the stars you see are actually satellites.