The Oracle of Dating (8 page)

LostGirl: All my relatives would agree with them. I don’t want to tell a teacher this stuff. I haven’t even told my friends.

Oracle: Do you really want to date this guy?

LostGirl: Yes, I really do.

Oracle: Then date him. Follow your heart. Life is too short not to be with the one you want. Your parents are from a
different generation and a different country. They will realize sooner or later that you’re going to forge your own path.

LostGirl: If I date him, should I tell them, or keep him a secret?

Oracle: That depends. If you think there’s a chance they could accept it, it may be worth taking the risk. But if you think they will definitely be against it, then you might have to date him without them knowing.

I hope I’m handling this right, but hey, they can’t rule her life forever.

LostGirl: You’re right, Oracle. It’s my life.

Oracle: Yes, it is. Keep in mind that you’re very young (I assume you’re in high school), so even if you date a guy who isn’t Indian, that doesn’t mean you’re going to marry one.

LostGirl: Actually, I don’t know if my parents agree with me dating at all. They didn’t date before they got married. They just met a few times. Relatives introduced them. But I’m going to follow my heart, like you said. Thank you, Oracle. You’re very wise.

Oracle: Socrates said the wisest people know that they are not wise at all. As the Oracle, I listen, and learn.
LostGirl: Well, I think you’re great. Thanks so much for your help.

Oracle: Good luck.

LostGirl: Bye, Oracle.

I can’t believe I took five bucks from one of my best friends to give her advice I should be giving her anyway! I’ll have to buy her a latte to make up for it.

Now I’m faced with a decision. Do I tell Viv the truth about who I am and reveal that I know her problem? Or should I say nothing?

Damn it, I have to tell her before this goes any further. I pick up the phone and speed-dial her number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Viv.”

“Hi. I’m on the other line with Max. Can I call you back?”

“Sure. Max, huh? That’s awesome.”

“We’re just friends.” But her giggle gives her away. “Talk to you later.”

“Bye, Viv.”

Wow. If I didn’t know the Oracle’s impact before, I totally know it now.

S
PEED DATING IS THE
only
topic of conversation in the halls on Monday. Everybody’s asking me if there is going to be another one. I answer, “Maybe next year.” A bunch of people come up to me asking for their results—I tell them nicely that I don’t have a photographic memory so they need to check their e-mail.

My heart beats in my throat as I walk into fourth-period earth science class. I’ve convinced myself that I’ll know within a second of meeting Jared’s eyes whether what he wrote on the speed dating card has anything to do with me.

“Hey.” He must not have heard me, because he doesn’t look up—he’s doodling as usual.

A few seconds later, he looks up and smiles at me. “Hi, Kayla.”

And that’s all of our interaction for the entire class. Not
that we could really talk if we wanted to, with Ms. Goff blabbering away, but he’s not even glancing in my direction.

Something inside me deflates.

I’m a total idiot. I’ve built a fantasy around being the mysterious Girl #13 on his dating card. What did I expect? That he’d confess his adoration when I came into class? That he would look at me with eyes full of longing?

I should be glad that he’s not interested. Then I won’t be tempted to break my rule, which is in place to save me from heartbreak and humiliation. It’s just an attraction, I remind myself. It’ll fade in time.

When the bell rings, Jared says over his shoulder, “See ya in art.” And I try not to acknowledge that my heart flutters with anticipation.

I head to the caf, buy my lunch and find my friends involved in a morbid discussion about death.

“Dying of hypothermia is supposed to be awesome,” Ryan is saying. “On TLC, there was this guy who died of hypothermia and they resuscitated him. He said it was like falling into a deep, cozy sleep.”

“I’d rather die in a cozy sleep than in a snowdrift,” I put in.

Viv says, “There’s this ad on the subway—I think it’s a beer ad—that says,
May you get shot by a jealous lover when you’re ninety-five.
I don’t think it’s funny.”

Ryan laughs. “You get the point, don’t you? They’re
saying if you’ve got a lover when you’re ninety-five, you’re doing great.”

“I know what they’re getting at, I just don’t like it. My grandmother is ninety-two. If anyone shot her, I’d kill them.”

I think I’d better change the subject. “Did you hear about that minister down south who was preaching about heaven and suddenly dropped dead? I asked my mom if she’d like to die that way and she said no, it would be too traumatic for the congregation. She’d like to die in church but not until after she retires. And she’d want to keel over in her pew during the benediction so it wouldn’t interrupt the service.”

“Enough about this death stuff,” Ryan says. “Let’s talk about what we all want to do
before
we die.”

“Lose my virginity to Mike P.!” Sharese declares.

“What’s this about losing your virginity?” We look up to see Max McIver with his lunch tray. “Can I join you guys?”

We nod. He circles to the other side of the table to slide in beside Viv. They exchange a glance and she drops her eyes, a blush rising under her skin. Max’s gaze lingers on her for several moments before he starts eating his lunch. Sharese and Ryan seem surprised.

I look away, smiling to myself.

“G
OOD SHOW
F
RIDAY
night,” Jared says.

“Thanks again for coming.”

“Wasn’t a bad time.”

“I noticed you didn’t, um, make any matches.”

“I went as a favor to you. I wasn’t looking for a match.” He picks up a pencil and starts doodling intricate little boxes. “Did you play one of the rounds?”

“No. I was focused on making sure everything went smoothly.” I dare a glance at him. What I see is friendly warmth, not burning heat. I wish I’d never admitted to myself that I’m attracted to him. It makes it oh so awkward to be near him.

Am I imagining it, or is he suddenly looking a little awkward himself? He clears his throat. “I’ve got something to ask you.” He reaches into his knapsack.

OMG, is he going to do it right here, right now? Tell me I’m Girl #13? I seriously might pass out.

He puts a crumpled blue flyer in front of me, smoothing it out. “My band is playing Friday night at the Vox. You should come.”

“Sure.” I say it too quickly. I should really be saying,
I’ll try.
But I know that I’ll more than try. After he did me a favor by going to speed dating, the least I can do is show up to support his band. But mostly, I’d love to see him play. It’s universally known that a guy playing a guitar is sexy, and Jared already has a head start in that area. After he plays, maybe we’ll hang out. Dance together. Who knows?

I can see my no-dating-until-college rule flashing in my brain like a neon sign.

“Could you bring your friends, too? As many friends
as possible? It’s our first time playing a gig at this place and we need to show them we can get a good crowd if we’re ever going to play there again.”

“Of course. I’ll bring people.” And now I’m not so sure if I’ve been personally invited, or just recruited to bring people. He smiles at me, quick and bright like a camera flash, but I’m not sure why anymore.

“Do I need ID?”

“They usually don’t card people. Do you have a fake?”

I think back to the laminated student card from my birthday. “Yeah, but it’s not very good.”

“Bring it just in case. You should be fine.” Another smile, and there it is again, that fluttering in my chest. I wonder if he’s feeling the same vibe I’m feeling. But thinking back to the speed dating results, I realize he probably isn’t. The proof is all those e-mails from people thinking someone had checked them off when they hadn’t.

Attraction, apparently, is often accompanied by delusion.

Either way, I’ll show up Friday night. After his band plays, he’ll either pay attention to me or he won’t, and that will tell me once and for all if I’m Girl #13.

And if it really is me, then maybe, just maybe, I’ll think about breaking my rule.

F
RIDAY CAN’T SEEM TO ARRIVE
fast enough, but there’s plenty of excitement in the meantime—namely, Viv and Max’s budding romance. Although they’re avoiding
all PDA, I could tell right away that they’d made the step from friendship to couplehood. Viv told us officially on Wednesday that she’s dating Max on the down-low, and that we’re all strictly forbidden to say anything to anyone about it.

Viv didn’t call me back Sunday night, so I never ended up telling her that I am the Oracle. And since she hasn’t contacted the Oracle again, I figure there’s no need to.

As I count the hours until Friday night, I write several new blogs for my Web site, including one that could be helpful to Evgeney.

How to Be a Romantic Hero

Guys, do you ever wonder why girls are overlooking you? What is it about you that puts you in the “friend” category, and not the “boyfriend” one?

What you need is to take a hint from what many girls are reading—yes, romance novels (of the teen or adult variety). To save you some time, I will describe some characteristics of the romantic hero girls are dreaming about.

He has an aura of strength and masculinity about him. Even if he’s not big and strong, he’s got something to replace it: he’s smart, an expert in his field. He’s powerful, a leader. He’s confident and doesn’t need rescuing.

He’s ambitious. Life is something he takes by the horns! He doesn’t wait for things to happen, he makes them happen.

He’s gorgeous. No, he’s odd-looking, even scarred. Here’s the great thing: it doesn’t matter. If you’re sexy and masculine, you don’t need to look like Harrison on Glamour Girl. (In fact, there is, lately, a distinct movement against pretty boys.)

He’s well-put-together. Or at least, he’s not a fashion disaster. Don’t let your mom or grandma dress you unless they’re in touch with current styles. If you’re clueless, check out some catalogs and copy the styles you see there. Or better yet, go into a store and have someone working there dress you.

How should you act? It’s all about confidence. Are you shy? Don’t act it. Instead, act reserved, quietly confident, like you’re fascinated by your own thoughts. And don’t come across as eager. Be calm, totally zen.

Good luck!

The O.

J
ASON IS ONE OF A CURIOUS
breed of Manhattan guys who can’t accept that he is living in the city and shouldn’t have a huge dog in his tiny apartment. In this case, the dog is a blubbering Great Dane.

Tracey met him at a friend’s dinner party and calls me
the next day, cautiously excited. “This guy’s amazing, Kayla! He’s an analyst for Goldman Sachs. Went to Brown. Says he’s a chocolate snob. I hope he calls.”

He does call, and they have a great first date at a Thai restaurant. Jason is a vegetarian who eats fish, and they split a double order of shrimp pad thai.

For their second date, Jason invites her over for a home-cooked meal. Tracey is impressed—he’s handsome, witty and a passionate chef! She always felt that she deserved a man who is talented in the kitchen as well as the bedroom.

She arrives a fashionable fifteen minutes late, having dropped fifty bucks for a bottle of red. She knows she looks great in a new white halter dress.

The moment she walks in the door, Jason shouts, “Down, Buddy, down!”

But the dog is already on top of her, jumping up and shoving her back with two forceful paws. Tracey stumbles back, handing off the wine bottle. The dog weighs more than she does.

Jason grabs the dog’s collar. “
Down, boy.
Sorry, he’s just being playful. He’s only a puppy.”

That
is a puppy? Tracey thinks. He’s going to get bigger?

Deciding to be a good sport, Tracey smoothes her dress and pets the dog. Buddy tries to jump up again, but Jason has a firm hold on him. “Would you let him smell you for a minute? Come a little closer. If he can smell you, he’ll calm down.”

Tracey takes a step closer. Hopefully Buddy will be soothed by Estée Lauder’s Pleasures.

Suddenly Buddy breaks away from Jason and sticks his nose right in Tracey’s crotch.

Tracey gives a horrified shriek.

“Easy, he’s just getting familiar with you.”

Tracey shudders, bearing it for a minute before Jason pulls the dog back. She feels violated. What right does this dog have to stick his face in between her legs?

“I’d better get to the kitchen before something burns. Have a seat. Let me open this wine.”

She sits on a bar stool. Out of the corner of her eye, she’s surveying Buddy’s movements. She notices a tear in one of her nylons from his initial attack.

Jason, of course, is focused on cooking. He opens the wine and pours them each a glass, and comments that it’s fantastic wine, and she says it’s Napa Valley.

The wine and the delicious aromas of the meal have a calming effect on Tracey. She glances over at Buddy, feeling sorry for the poor thing. It can’t be easy being such a big dog in a small one-bedroom. Perhaps she shouldn’t be angry that he tore her nylons. He surely didn’t mean to.

An explosive farting sound tears through the apartment. Jason laughs. “Holy shit! Buddy’s never done that in front of company before. Sorry!”

“It’s okay,” says Tracey, all compassion. Poor Buddy
suffers from gastrointestinal issues on top of everything else.

And then the smell hits her.

She waves a hand in front of her face. “Can I open a window?”

“Sure.”

A few minutes later, they sit down to a lovely, candlelit dinner. The only flaw? Buddy’s flatulence kicks into high gear.

Jason can’t stop laughing. “I took him for a walk earlier and caught him nibbling on some roadkill. Must’ve made him sick.”

“I see.” Tracey’s food suddenly becomes less appetizing. The evening is going downhill fast. She hopes dinner will be done quickly so they can get out of this place and away from this dog.

But the worst is yet to come.

As Jason is clearing the dinner plates, Buddy jumps up to get some scraps.

The next event occurs as if in slow motion.

With a huge paw, Buddy slaps a plate out of Jason’s hand. The plate does a backward flip and lands in Tracey’s lap.

Tracey lifts the plate and looks down in horror. Tomato sauce all over her white dress!

“Shit, sorry.” Jason comes at her with a napkin as
Buddy jumps around the room gleefully. “I’ll get some club soda.”

“It won’t work. I need to get this to a dry cleaner right away. There’s an all-night one near my place. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“All right.”

She hesitates before leaving. He’s not going to offer to pay?

She closes the door as Jason begins to play with his dog.

Tracey never goes back.

And Jason never calls.

“W
OW
, K
AYLA
.” Ryan’s eyes widen when he sees me in the subway station. “Somebody actually made an effort!”

“Yeah, so?”

“So I love it! You’re definitely picking up tonight.”

The truth? I hope he’s right. But I haven’t told him or any of the others about my crush on Jared. I just told them we should go to see this band and lots of people from school will be there. Hopefully, by the end of the night, they’ll see me getting cozy with the hot guitarist…

We meet up with Amy, Chad, Sharese, Viv and Max at the Astor Place station around nine-thirty. They all comment on how good I look, making me wonder how bad I look the rest of the time. But it’s true, I put a lot of effort in tonight, not the least of which is overcoming my fear of a red-hot flatiron in order to straighten my hair. I also put on
makeup, my cutest jeans and a silver top. I know the silver is a bit of a fashion risk, but I also know that it brings out the sparkle in my eyes. It’s all about confidence, anyway.

When we get to the Vox on Avenue B, there’s already a lineup. A bouncer is standing beside the door checking IDs.

“I thought you said they didn’t check here.” Sharese frowns. “They’re checking almost everyone.”