The Oracle of Dating (5 page)

I have one stuffed animal on display. He’s a brown scraggly mountain bear named Tanner. He’s dressed in khakis as if he’s an explorer on an expedition. He has a scowl on his face but a spark of humor in his eyes. Tanner is the only stuffed animal I haven’t tucked away in a corner of my closet. He was a gift that my late grandfather brought back from Jamaica when I was seven. Ever since, Tanner has watched over me, more of a quiet companion than a toy.

I suppose Tanner reflects my sentimental side.

I have a romantic poster on my wall. It’s black and white, showing a couple on a cobblestone street in Paris. The man is trying to sweep the woman off her feet, but he’s only caught one leg so far. I like it because she still
has one foot on the ground, like she’s trying not to get swept away. She’s giddy with romance, but one foot stays forever on the ground.

I bought my sister the same photo on a postcard, hoping she’d see it the same way and the message would stick.

My desk looks messy and disorganized, but I know where most things are. To the left of the monitor, I have a stack of books for when the Oracle needs some help. Callers like it when I quote a passage from, say, John Gray’s classic
Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.
I always say where the quotation is from, which impresses the callers even more, like they think I’m reciting it by memory instead of reading it. I have loads of pages bookmarked and passages highlighted.

In order to explain having all these books, I told Mom and the Swede that I want to be a relationship counselor one day, which is true.

A few of the books are borrowed from Mom’s office at the church. Part of being a minister is counseling families and couples. Some of the books in her office are for people who need help with their sex lives. When I asked her if she really loaned those books to couples, she said, “Oh, yes. Sexual problems are very common. Sometimes they’re so complicated I recommend that people see sex therapists.” Mom winked at me. “Erland and I don’t need that. We’re very compatible.”

I recoiled in horror. “Ugh, Mom! Too much information!”

I pick up the romance novel beside my bed. I’m halfway through it, though I only started it last night. From the moment the characters met, I couldn’t put it down, just like Ellen promised. Even though she told me the book was full of sex, it’s Chapter Fourteen, and they haven’t done the deed yet. I know what she meant, though. From the first page, the story dripped with sexual tension. It’s in the way the hero and heroine look at each other, the slightest touch, the innuendo in their words and the fiery passion of their kisses. It’s this sexual tension that keeps me turning the pages, not the sex itself, which doesn’t happen until page 286 (I flipped ahead, I admit it). It’s all about the romance, the lust, the raw anticipation.

In my mind’s eye I glimpse Jared Stewart poised over one of his sketches, his jaw tight, his eyes calculating as he decides what to draw next. Then he turns to me, his blue eyes darkening, his irises enlarging, his hard mouth turning up at the corner in a sexy smile. A feeling of heat comes over me, an inner melting, and I bite my lip.

Whatever! I mentally press Backspace, deleting the previous image. Okay, so I’m not immune to sexual tension. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m human.

Back to thinking like the Oracle. Tracey and her friends have always told me that the most exciting part of a relationship is the beginning—it’s the newness, the anticipa
tion, the early fireworks. It’s the burning desire, not necessarily the fulfillment of that desire. In fact, that’s one of the reasons Tracey agrees with me that she should wait a month before sleeping with a guy, no matter how crazy she is about him. It’s because the longer they wait to fulfill their desire, the more intense those first weeks of dating are. In the end, though, most of her relationships, and those of her friends, don’t last the first month.

All of this leads me to wonder: if women like sexual tension, often as part of a package called romance, what do guys want? And what do guys
my age
want? Most of them aren’t reading romance novels, that’s for sure.

Hmm… Maybe if I investigate what guys are reading, I’ll have a better idea of what they’re looking for in girls. This is something my female clients are always asking me. With a little P.I. work into the realm of
guy lit,
I hope I’ll be able to tell them.

I’
M NOTHING IF NOT DETERMINED
.

“Can I see that?” I indicate the graphic novel Jared is reading, since he already finished his art assignment for the day.

He passes it to me. The first pictures I see make my eyes bug out: men in skin-tight suits with ridiculously extreme muscles; women with huge breasts and hips, dressed in silver galaxy-wear.

“This is what you guys are reading?”

“I don’t know what you mean by
you guys,
but there are some good series out there.”

“Are your friends reading this, too?”

“Most guys I know don’t read anything but video game instructions.”

“Seriously? Do the women in video games look like
this?” I open the book to a picture of a half-naked woman holding a machine gun.

“It’s much worse in video games. Like in Grand Theft Auto, you can pick up a prostitute, then back over her with the car when you’re done.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding. Why are you asking me this? Are you doing a project on what guys are reading?”

“I’m curious, that’s all.”

“Don’t let the pictures fool you. Graphic novels usually have strong women in them. They just happen to be sexy, too.”

“Sexy? You find this sexy?”

“It’s fantasy, Kayla. Nothing to get all femme-Nazi about. This series actually has a good story line if you bother to read it.”

“Looks like a
very
interesting story.” I flip through the pages, seeing other sexual images.

“I don’t think it’s worse than those magazines you girls read. It’s all about being gorgeous for guys, right? Clothes you can’t afford and dumb dating advice like,
Ten Ways to Get a Guy.
”

How the hell did he manage to hit a nerve like that? “There’s nothing wrong with dating advice. It’s meant to help people.”

“C’mon, you know it’s all a gimmick.”

“Some of them, maybe. Not all of them.”

I try to hand him back the book, but he says, “Hang on to it. Read it when you have the chance.”

“Okay.” I tuck it into my book bag. “Did you hear about the speed dating night we’re organizing for the Cancer Society?”

“I heard the announcement.” He looks suspicious now. “You want to recruit me.”

“It’s only ten bucks and it’s for a good cause. You can bring as many friends as you want, just let me know ahead of time so we can reserve spots for them.”

“You don’t need to sell it. I’ll go as a favor to you.”

“Thanks. I’m sure it’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, right.”

“G
UYS HAVE NO RIGHT
to be this bizarre,” Corinne complains. “They’re all certifiably insane!”

Tracey and I nod in commiseration. It’s Friday night at a crowded, overpriced sushi restaurant, and we’re stuffed into a tiny corner table, which we waited an hour for. It’s all part of dining in Manhattan, though, and I feel privileged to be invited out with Tracey and her BFF.

Corinne is an unnatural blonde who’s been celebrating her twenty-fifth birthday for the past four years. She’s an accountant who is bored with her job most of the year and sleeps in her office during tax season. Right now Corinne is using chopsticks to shove pieces of cold, wet fish into her mouth.

“So I’m at this guy’s place and he cooks me this gorgeous shrimp paella—I didn’t even tell him I was on the South Beach Diet. And then—get this—after dinner, we’re sitting at the table lingering over our wine, and he starts flossing!”

Tracey and I look at each other in horror.

“It was on the kitchen counter behind him, as if that’s its usual place. He didn’t even have to leave the table to get it. He just—he just reached back!” Corinne is obviously still traumatized.

“Did you ask him to stop?” I ask.

“No. I should have. But the flossing didn’t last very long. He’s very efficient.”

“Maybe it’s a cultural thing,” I say. “Where did you say he was from?”

“Queens.”

“Oh.”

“I heard Jerry Seinfeld flosses obsessively,” Tracey says. “But he does have nice teeth.”

“So are you going to see him again?” I ask. “The flossing thing doesn’t have to be a deal-breaker.”

“I know. I’ll see him again—if he calls.”

If he calls.
That’s what it’s come to in Manhattan these days. Even after weeks of dating and nights of intimacy, the
if he calls
always hovers.

How many times has Tracey raved about a great date,
sometimes a great third or fourth date, only to never hear from the guy again?

No wonder most women in New York City suffer from dating paranoia.

“How’d it go with Scott yesterday?” Corinne asks Tracey.

“Scott?”
I almost choke.

Tracey turns pink. “It was nothing. We just went for coffee after work.”

I’m having trouble restraining all of the curses jumping onto my tongue.

“He says he misses our friendship.”

“Friendship?”
I pray for strength. Don’t get emotional, Oracle. Tracey doesn’t listen when you’re emotional. She’s a computer geek, she only listens to logic. “That’s a classic way of reeling you back in, Trace. You’re too smart to fall for it, right?”

“I sure am. He was pathetic, really. Starts telling me how lonely he’s been these past few months, and I’m thinking, who cares?”

Ah, but she does care. I know she does. I stab a California roll with a chopstick. “What happens next time he asks you?”

She shrugs one shoulder like it’s a no-brainer. “I say I’m busy.”

“That’s not enough, Trace. You say
no.
If you say you’re busy, he’ll just ask you another time. Trust me, say
no.
”

Corinne nods. “Even if he just wants to be friends, that guy was a jackass. He doesn’t deserve your friendship.”

“Cheers to that.” Corinne and I knock chopsticks.

“You’re right, you’re both totally right.” But I can see the wheels in Tracey’s head turning.

I don’t get it. Why are many people drawn to someone who’s hurt them? Maybe it’s an ego thing—being hurt sucks, and you think you can erase that hurt by going back to the person who caused it. Then it will be like it never happened in the first place. Only problem is that it
did
happen.

Corinne is looking at me. “Any cute guys on the horizon?”

“Not really.”

“But you’re the Oracle of Dating—the expert! And you’re so adorable! All the guys must be after you.”

Reminding myself that I have an image to protect, I say, “I’m too busy for a boyfriend, but a fling or two might be in order.”

“Now, that’s the spirit—play the field!” She turns to Tracey. “Your sister’s awesome. Why can’t
we
be that way—all about having fun? Maybe we should aim for flings instead of relationships. We always end up getting burned, anyway.”

“But in the long term, would you really be happy going from one man to another?” Tracey asks her. “There’s a reason we’re wired to want stable relationships. I think you should hold out for what you want.”

“Good point.” Corinne raises her glass. “Here’s to holding out for the happy ending we deserve!”

We clink glasses.

“And if he can’t be found in Manhattan, there’s always Alaska,” I add.

T
HE WEEK LEADING UP
to my birthday flies by, and this is one of those lucky years when my birthday falls on a Saturday. I know I’m home free by Friday, the day of the art field trip. It won’t be a glamorous ride into Manhattan, since Gerstad rented a yellow school bus, but it could be worse: I could be in class.

I dare a bathroom run before the bus door opens, and end up being the last person to board. I head to the back, the very back, and find that Lauren, the person I know best in this class, is sitting beside her friend Cara. So I make a split-second decision to sit beside Jared. I hope he doesn’t mind. I’m sure he loves being the cool loner at the back, but I had few options, and he was the best-smelling one.

The bus starts with a jerk and whips around a corner. I have to clutch the seat in front of me so that I don’t slide into Jared’s lap. He takes out one of his earbuds. “Better get comfortable. It’s gonna be forty-five minutes at least.”

“I’ll try, but if he makes a few more turns like that, it’ll be cozier than you bargained for.”

“Oh, yeah?” I catch a flash of heat in his eyes.

Oh. My. God. Without even meaning to, I just dove
into some heavy flirtation. And he sure as hell flirted back. There’s wickedness in his blue eyes, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s done
it
before. And if he has, if he’s good at it. And if he is, does he approach it the way he does his sketches, always looking for better techniques.

His eyes rake over me, and my mouth is bone-dry. “Don’t you have an MP3?” he asks.

“I usually don’t bring it to school.”

“Too much talking with friends. No time for music.”

“What are you listening to?”

“Vengeance Against the Establishment.”

I laugh. It comes out as a girlish giggle, unfortunately.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s a classic name. I bet a band with a name like that has mass appeal, even if their gimmick is that they don’t care about the music industry. I’m not saying their music isn’t good.”

“It is good. But I see what you mean. These guys are pretend anarchists. They say they don’t give a shit who they appeal to, and then they get all glammed up for
Rolling Stone
.”

“Yeah, they speak out against the commercialization of music, but they’re not exactly shying away from the spotlight.”

He stares at me for a few seconds. “I’m starting to think you’re as cynical as I am. That’s cool.”

“So which are you? A pretend anarchist or a real one?”

“I’m not an anything. I don’t buy into any belief system. These days my foster mom, Gina, is always begging me to go to mass with her. She just wants to confess her sins and get out of there. Tries to get me to confess, but I won’t.
She’s
the one who runs an illegal business, not me.”

“Are you serious? What does she do?”

“She sells lingerie and kinky stuff to transvestites. If you look at the back of the
New York Post,
she’s always advertising her products.”

“You’re kidding me. And she’s your
foster mom?
”

“Best one I ever had. Maybe taking me in is a way to atone for her sins, like the fact that she doesn’t have a business license and she’s not paying taxes. I think she’s lived a wild life. Gina’s, like, seventy-five—she won’t tell me exactly how old. But she’s not like the other foster parents I’ve had—she doesn’t do it for the money. She doesn’t treat me like a piece of furniture. She’s a good person. A businesswoman through and through. If you know a guy who needs sexy lingerie, I’ll put him in touch with her.” Jared doesn’t seem embarrassed about any of this. I bet he has a thousand crazy stories.

“You must have some weird people coming in and out of the house.”

“I rarely run into anyone. When I do, they look down like they’re embarrassed. These guys are shy and pretty normal-looking. They don’t want anyone to know.”

“So how long have you been at Gina’s?”

“About two years.”

“Where were you before that?”

“Got bounced from one home to another since I was ten. My mom’s messed up on drugs. Never knew my dad.” He shrugs. “I’ll be eighteen at the end of June. Free to go my own way for a change.”

I’m shocked that he’s being so open. I don’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“It must’ve been rough.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“The pity thing.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“There it is again. Relax, Kayla. We’ve all dealt with our own shit, haven’t we?”

True, but I doubt my parents’ divorce and the arrival of the Swede match what he’s been through.

“Rodrigo, my social worker, says we’re on this earth for a reason. And some of us are dealt a shittier hand than others, but if we can overcome it, we can do big things. I know it sounds cheesy. He explains it better than I do.” As if he’s suddenly embarrassed, he glances out the window. “When I was in juvie, I made a decision to turn around for myself, not for anyone else. I’m sick of being part of the system—the foster care system, the detention system. So I keep my head down and live my life. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah. Definitely.” Definitely not. He’s been in
juvie?
I probably shouldn’t ask why. It’s none of my business.

“I stole things.” He turns back to me, crooking his mouth. “What, you think I’d beat up an old lady or something?”

“You better not have. I like old people.”

He’s studying my face, as if he’s gauging how I’m responding to all this. He probably thinks I’m sheltered. I guess I am.

But it’s weird. I like that he’s looking at my face. That we’re close together in the cocoon of the bus seat. It’s like we’re in our own little world. And he’s so cute it makes my stomach queasy. Now that I know his background, there’s something even more raw, something
dangerous,
about him.

I shouldn’t be more attracted. But I am.

A sheltered girl being attracted to a dangerous guy. Talk about cliché. The Oracle side of me would have a field day.

There’s another presence here between us, a presence I didn’t entirely recognize until now. A presence that rears up when a guy and a girl get close, when there’s only two inches of bus seat between them, and their thighs are almost touching.

Sexual tension.

It’s just like in the romance novel I’m reading. My heart is fluttering and my bosom (meager as it is) is heaving.

I glance at him. His eyes twinkle, as if he’s amused. He must feel it, too.

Dear Crazed and Confused,

Don’t worry—your problem is not unique. In fact, many people are attracted to their classmates. The Oracle herself has experienced sexual tension
—

I delete my response. Okay, I’ll admit it. A certain school bus episode is preventing me from concentrating. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s not like we spent the afternoon strolling around the museum together. Jared went off by himself, and I hung out with Lauren and Cara. On the way back, he was the last one on the bus. I’d sort of tried to save a seat for him, but eventually someone asked to sit there, and I couldn’t say no. If he’d wanted to sit with me, wouldn’t he have made an effort to get on the bus sooner?