Читать книгу The Oracle Of Dating - Allison Diepen van - Страница 5

“MICHAELA, WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

I snap to attention. Practice kicks in. Instead of saying, “Huh?” I say, “Sorry, I’m not sure I understand the question.”

Ms. Goff starts to reword it, but stops when she hears a choked laugh from the seat across from me. “Something funny, Jared?”

“Nope.” He squelches a smile.

Ms. Goff goes back to her question, and I manage to answer it, taking the heat off. But as soon as she turns back to the board, I shoot the guy an I don’t appreciate you laughing at me glare.

He turns his head and looks directly at me, blue eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.

Oh, I get it. He’s onto my little strategy.

Jared Stewart is a snob if I ever saw one. He doesn’t socialize with many people, and it’s not in a shy, sweet kind of way, but in a why bother way—I can tell the difference. Worse, he’s totally good-looking in an I don’t care sort of way; I’m talking messy almost-black hair, careless clothes and torn-up shoes, obviously vintage. He’s lean, but muscular lean, not coked-up rock-star lean, and he’s got big hands, and feet that have to be at least a size thirteen … and why am I thinking about this?

The bell rings. Well, it’s not actually a bell, it’s a dingdong over the P.A. system. Speaking of Ding Dongs, thank God it’s lunchtime. By this time every day I’m so hungry I’m ready to play Survivor and chew the bark off a desk leg. Not that the lunch menu in the caf is much better.

I pick up my books and walk out, sensing Jared behind me. In the hall, he touches my arm, says something. I notice he’s got a red spot on his chin like he shaved over a zit this morning. I can’t help but think that shaving is sexy—that it separates the men from the boys.

I realize I’m not listening to him. “What?”

“I said don’t take it personally, all right?”

“Uh, okay.”

And he walks off.

I make my way to the caf, where Sharese and Viv are in line getting food and Ryan is already at our end of the table, playing solitaire.

Amy has a different lunch period. Sadly, the office doesn’t accommodate cliques. Not that we’re much of one. Anyone can hang around with us if they want. But if you’re totally into chess or computers, you probably won’t. And if you’re really popular, you won’t, either. But anyone is welcome.

After getting my lunch, I join my friends at the table. “Who’s winning?” I ask Ryan, whose head is bent over the cards.

He snorts. “You working tonight?”

“Five to nine. You?”

“Four to eight.”

Just the thought of Eddie’s Grocery (aka the Hellhole) fills me with dread. If only being the Oracle of Dating paid more, it could be my only job. I scan the cafeteria. So many potential clients! I could make a fortune on the Chess Club alone.

I take a few bites of the caf’s low-fat pizza. It tastes like cardboard. “So, what’s the status of Operation Dairy Freez?”

“Shh.” Sharese looks around conspiratorially. “Honestly, I don’t know what to do about it.”

“We’ll kidnap him,” Ryan says. “You can have your way with him in the back of my parents’ SUV.”

We giggle.

“Has anyone found out his last name?” Viv asks.

We shake our heads. We know him only as Mike P., or the future father of Sharese’s children.

All we really know about him is that he works at the Dairy Freez ice-cream shop on DeKalb Avenue, and that he’s tall and gangly, with big, kind eyes. Also, he has good customer-service skills. Like when that fat guy’s third scoop fell off his cone, Mike P. not only replaced the scoop, but apologized for not pressing it down hard enough the first time.

We’ve already given Sharese and Mike P. our blessing. The problem is, they still haven’t gotten past the “Hi, can I take your order?” stage.

“Stop putting pressure on me, guys. You’re making me nervous.” So far, Sharese has been too shy to do anything about Mike P. But we’re all hoping that will change.

Of course, like with anything, she can’t be sure he’s interested. Sharese is hot, in a voluptuous, full-figured way, and we’ve spotted Mike P. glancing at her chest—always a good sign. Plus, he gets extra shy when she comes up—another good sign. But as for a guy’s tastes, you never really know.

“It’s about time you took a risk,” I tell her.

“What about you, Kayla?” Sharese fires back. “Since when do you take risks?”

“I don’t have a crush on anyone.” Which is true. Which isn’t to say I’m not attracted to anyone. I’m not immune to Jared, for instance. And who can blame me, since it’s universally known that dark, mysterious guys are attractive, especially when they have big hands that I’m sure could crush a Coke can with a single squeeze.

Okay, it’s obvious that, like my friends, I have my fair share of hormonal urges. I just have the presence of mind not to take them seriously.

Ryan touches my hair. “You could get any guy you want if you did something with your hair. This wash-and-go thing isn’t working for you.”

I tug on a lock self-consciously. He’s right, of course. My hair is neither straight nor curly, but has a drunken wave. I can’t tame it with a blow-dryer, so my only other option is a professional-strength straightening iron, but the idea of putting something so hot near my head worries me.

“You should get highlights, too,” Ryan says. “Café au lait is a good color for you. And you should wear a skirt for a change and show off your legs.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Last year I made the mistake of letting Ryan take me shopping with my birthday money. I came home with an outfit that made me look like a high-class escort, complete with a sheer blouse, short skirt and tall leather boots. All promptly returned the next day when my mom had a conniption.

“You’re such a fake,” Sharese says. “You’re really not interested in anyone? Not even Declan McCall?”

Why is Declan McCall, football MVP and ex-boyfriend of ice queen Brooke Crossley, our school’s default crush? “Declan doesn’t turn me on. Whenever I’ve talked to him, all he does is stare at my chest. And I don’t even have a chest.”

My friends can’t argue with that.

“Well, Brooke got what she deserved when he dumped her on her pretty ass,” Ryan says.

Yes, though I’ve never seen it, I bet Brooke Crossley has a pretty ass. She has a pretty everything else and everyone loves to hate her for it. But I doubt she’s as terrible as they say. Sure, she’s snobby, but a lot of people are. And she isn’t an airhead, either. Not that she’s as good a student as I am—but she can’t have everything, can she?

As I munch on tasteless pizza, I wonder if Brooke is a possible client. Maybe she needs to talk to someone about her recent breakup. I’ll have to drop a business card in her locker.

WHEN I GET HOME from work that night, I turn my attention to the topic of breakups. Why would someone like Declan McCall break up with Brooke Crossley when she’s clearly the best match for him at school? They could’ve been voted Prom King and Queen next year if they’d stayed together. I wonder if he got bored with her, or if there were other factors involved.

Seems to me that my female clients are more forgiving of their boyfriends’ flaws than the other way around. But there are some good reasons to cut a guy loose.

Top Ten Reasons You Should Cut Him Loose

10. When you’re kissing him, you’re fantasizing about someone else (like his best friend)!

9. You’re only with him because you want to have a boyfriend.

8. He tells you he doesn’t want a relationship. Believe him–he doesn’t!

7. He makes hurtful comments like, “Easy on the fries, honey.”

6. He doesn’t show affection in public. It doesn’t need to be a lot, but if he won’t even hold your hand, he wants people to think he’s single!

5. He gives you a promise ring in the first two months. Puh-lease!

4. He gives you a cell phone or a pager so that he can keep track of you.

3. He ogles other girls in front of you. Think of what he’s doing behind your back!

2. Finishing a level of his favorite video game is more important than answering your phone call.

1. He says, “Baby, if you loved me, you’d …” Anything starting with that is a manipulation! Don’t fall for it!

THE NEXT BIZARRO REALITY TV show should be all about my life. All I need to round out the cast is a washed-up child star and a slutty Survivor castoff.

My mom is a minister, for God’s sake. She’s got the threads (the robe and the stole), the cross around her neck and the travel-size Communion set.

Mom works at a church in Park Slope where she, among other things, performs gay commitment ceremonies and doesn’t make couples who are living together feel guilty. She also preaches about the gift of divorce as the congregation nods in agreement. She says her divorce is the best thing that ever happened to her, next to having her children, of course. If she hadn’t gotten a divorce, she wouldn’t be so happy in her career and she wouldn’t have met her new husband, Erland.

Now, Mom and I have different views on the merits of the Swede. She would say that he is a brilliant theology professor and that they have a meeting of minds. I would say that he is way too stuffy and has no idea how to deal with young people. The guy has a thick accent, not unlike the Swedish chef, and is nine years older than she is—definitely a second-round draft pick. But that’s what happens when you make the wrong choice the first time around.

Mom met the Swede two years ago at a theological conference in Atlanta where he delivered a paper called, “The Existential and Metaphysical Legacy of Martin Luther.” Doesn’t that just scream romance?

Mom came back from the conference all giddy, which was cool because she had been single, way single, for a long time. So they embarked on a long-distance relationship with frequent trips overseas and endless hours on the phone. Which is, incidentally, when I successfully petitioned for my own phone line, which I now use for the Oracle.

It was all going great for a while. Mom was happy. I was happy that Mom was happy. And the Swede wasn’t much of a bother, since he’d stop in when he was in town but never spend the night at our place. But then, last year, the Swede announced that he got a job at Union Theological Seminary in Manhattan, and within a couple of months they were married and he’d set up shop in her bedroom.

The Swede does not look like a Swede should (like a Ken doll). He is about five-nine, stocky, and has red hair that has been taken over by gray. For which I would suggest Just for Men, but I doubt it carries his particular copper-red color, and even if it did, I doubt he would use it, considering the way he lets his eyebrows go.

Today at breakfast, when Mom comes in, the Swede says, “Good morning, Bunny.”

Bunny? I hope he means it like Honey Bunny instead of Playboy Bunny.

The Swede + Mom + Sex = SO WRONG.

I’ve never actually heard them having sex, thank God, but I’m pretty sure that’s why Mom asks me about my social plans—so she and the Swede can cozy it up in their king-size love boat, drunk on endless cups of Earl Grey.

“Morning, honey.” Mom kisses him on the lips. Then she comes over to me and kisses the top of my head. “Morning, sweetie.”

Breakfast is a mostly silent thing. And that’s fine, because Mom and I are not morning people, and the Swede is not one for light conversation. So as we eat, we read. Mom is reading the Methodist Church Observer, the Swede is reading Theology Today, and I am reading Teen People.

I’m seeing all these articles with gorgeous, airbrushed girls, and I say to Mom, “I’m an eight out of ten, right? Looks-wise?”

“You’re the same as I was at your age.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a good thing.”

“Uh …” Can’t she just be like other moms and tell me what I want to hear?

“You really shouldn’t spend your time thinking about these things. Don’t try to conform to a media-created rating scale.”

See what I mean? A simple question becomes a sermon. I’m not saying she doesn’t have a point, but can’t she humor me?

Maybe I’m wrong about living in a reality show. Maybe I’m living in a sitcom. The audience is laughing, but I’m not getting paid.

NOW, I DON’t want to give the impression that the Oracle of Dating is getting hundreds of phone calls, instant messages and e-mails a week. My average is two contacts per night.

The Web site color scheme is pink and blue, symbolizing guys and girls. Instead of headings at the top, Tracey created bubbles, which include: About the Oracle; Contact the Oracle; Blog; Links. In the center of the homepage is a large box for a blog that I can update myself. I also post a Q and A of the week, and allow readers to comment.

I like my Web site to be as interactive as possible, so I put up a new poll once a week. This week’s is, If you were stranded on a desert island with one celebrity hottie, who would it be? Next week’s will be, What’s your all-time favorite romantic movie? Other times I create a quiz to test my readers’ knowledge of relationships. Widgets of all kinds can be found for free, so polls and quizzes are easy to do. The key is to have a site that people will keep coming back to. Static content won’t do. The average reader visits the site several times before asking me a question, so I need to keep them returning.

If I’m online, the Oracle icon will be lit up. Customers wanting to instant message me can click on the icon and five dollars will be deducted from their PayPal account for the first twenty minutes. At first I’d thought using PayPal would be too complicated, but Tracey said it’s just a matter of putting the payment button on my page and allowing PayPal to take a small percentage off each transaction. I figured it was worth it, not only because it’s easy, but because several customers had stiffed me through the mail.

The worst is when these random guys call to ask “sexual questions.” Usually that’s just a cover for something else. So one night I ask, “Why don’t you call one of those 1-900 sex lines?” And the guy replies, “‘Cause they’re a helluva lot more expensive. Anyway, you sound young. I like that.”

I slam down the phone and write down his number for the list of psycho-perverts whose calls I have to block.

When the phone rings again, it’s just after nine p.m.

I answer, “The Oracle.”

“Okay, so I have this question.”

“First, is there a name I can call you? It doesn’t have to be your real name. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” I check my PayPal account and see that the payment’s been received.

“Call me Melanie.”

“All right, Melanie. Go ahead with your question.”

“There’s this boy I like. His family is friends with my family. We even live on the same street. We used to hang out together all the time. But he hasn’t paid me any attention in the past few months. He really hurt me.”

“How old are you, Melanie?”

“Fourteen.”

I get this type of call a lot. Girls often find their guy friends drifting away when they enter their teenage years. There’s really no way to prevent it.

“The truth is, at your age, guys usually like to spend most of their time with other guys.”

“But what about me?”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t like you anymore. He might be going through puberty as we speak, and he could be uncomfortable around girls.”

“He talks to girls, just not me. He’s starting to hang around with the popular crowd now—all the kids he used to hate.”

“It sounds like he’s trying to adjust socially. I know this is sad for you, but he needs to find himself.”

“How do I get him back?”

“Are you willing to do whatever it takes?”

“Yeah, anything.”

I play a few notes on the xylophone. “The Oracle believes that you’ll have to wait, Melanie. Give him time with these other friends. Don’t guilt-trip him. Hopefully he’ll realize what a great friend you are and come back to you.”

“How long will it take?”

“It could be months, or years. But once he’s more comfortable with his place in the world, he’ll probably wonder what happened to your friendship. And Melanie, I think this is for the best. So give him time … and the Oracle has a good instinct that he will come around.”

“Okay, I’ll try to be patient. But it’s hard.”

“The Oracle never said life was easy.”

“I understand. Thanks, Oracle.”

“You’re welcome, Melanie.”

ART CLASS. Have this cool young teacher, Ms. Gerstad, who wears a skirt over her jeans—totally cool but I’d never have the nerve to go that hippy. Gerstad lives the artsy life and isn’t shy to tell us about it. She spends every Wednesday night watching or performing in the Poetry Slam at the Nuyorican Café in the East Village. The rest of her time is divided between vegan cafés and anarchist bookstores.

Today she tells us that our First Marking Period project is to draw people. Great. I’d prefer to splash paint all over the page like a kindergartener and call it abstract art. I only took this class because I need an art credit and both drama and dance conflicted with my schedule.

She gives us some magazines to inspire us, though tracing, unfortunately, is forbidden. Then she reminds us that we’ll be able to see examples of portraiture a week from Friday on our field trip to the Museum of Modern Art. She seems to think viewing the works of the greats will inspire us. I wonder how she’ll react if I pull a Picasso and draw people’s arms sticking out of their heads.

“Who did you choose?” It’s Lauren, my art-class friend, looking over my shoulder. “I’m doing Jessica Biel.”

I bet lots of people are doing Jessica Biel. Her face and figure are total perfection and her teeth would make a cosmetic dentist proud.

But perfection is no fun. Not for me, anyway.

“Got any other magazines at your table?” I ask her. “I just have Cosmo and Elle.”

“Sure, come see.”

I go to her table, which today she’s sharing with Jared Stewart. He doesn’t look up, he’s working too hard. His sleeves are rolled up and I notice veins bulging in his forearms as he sketches. I look a little closer. His sketch is amazing. He’s drawing an old man sitting on a stoop in Latin America. The picture is from the National Geographic open in front of him.

“Uh, sorry, can I see that magazine?” I ask.

He looks up. “Yeah.” He rips out the picture he’s working on and hands me the magazine.

I flip through it with Lauren. In the corner of my vision, I see that his hand is now poised above the sketch like he doesn’t know what to do next. His brows are frowning, his mouth tight, and his hand’s gripping the pencil as if he’s about to strike the page. A tortured artist, I can’t help but think. A hot, deliciously tortured artist. Then I give my head a shake, berate myself silently and focus back on the task at hand.

“What about that one?” Lauren points to a picture of a toddler on a beach. It’s cute but I know it’s not the one. There’s nothing in this magazine. As I close it, I see the picture on the cover.

“I’m doing this!”

I’ve seen this photograph before. It’s of an Afghan girl with piercing green eyes.

Jared glances at the picture and mutters, “Good luck with that.”

Could he be any more sarcastic? Lauren and I look at each other and shrug. I take the magazine back to my desk and get to work.

I start a sketch. Halfway through, I realize it looks like a Simpsons character, so I crumple it up and start again. I’m going to start with her face, then do the burka after.

I’ll never get an A on this. Maybe a D or a C if I’m lucky. My average will plummet, I’ll never get into college, and I’ll end up working at the Hellhole for the rest of my life. Maybe one day I’ll be manager, marry Jay the stoner, Afrim the meat man or Juan the stock boy, and my kids will grow up running the aisles. My breath escapes in a sigh. Jared must’ve heard it, because he comes up beside me. “How’s it going?”

Instinctively, my hands cover my drawing.

His mouth crooks. “Not so good, then?”

I reveal the sketch, daring a glance at him. “I’m not an artist.”

He frowns. “I see what you mean.”

My mouth drops open. He so didn’t say that!

“Well, you’ve got a few weeks to do something better,” he says.

“Are you going to help me?”

He leans against my desk, crossing his arms. “Are you going to pay me?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Fine. I’ll help you, anyway, if you don’t piss me off in the meantime.”

From any other person, I’d think it was a joke, but I’m not sure about Jared Stewart. He’s a cynic if there ever was one.

I meet his eyes. “More likely you would piss me off.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. I can tell he likes my answer.

SOME OF MY CLIENTS complain that they don’t know how to flirt, or they can’t recognize when someone is flirting with them. I can relate. Like today, I’m pretty sure Jared Stewart flirted with me, if only for a split-second. Or was I the one flirting with him? All I know is, I’m wasting far too much time thinking about it.

Time for a little flirting 101.

How to Flirt

The art of flirting is only perfected through practice. Your key tools are your smile and your eyes. First, walk into the room projecting openness and confidence, your lips turned up a little as if you’re pleased to be there. People notice others who are cheerful and gravitate toward them.

Scan the area for hotties. Don’t immediately focus on just one unless, unfortunately, there is just one in the whole room. (If so, you should find another party!) Try to catch his eye. When you do, look for two full seconds, smile and look away. There, you’ve been officially noticed. Talk to your friends, laugh and have a good time, and occasionally scan the vicinity to see if he’s looking your way. If so, make eye contact again.

Find a way to get closer to him. If he’s on the dance floor, it’s pretty easy. Just dance in his direction, keep up the eye contact and you’ll be dancing together in no time. If the object of your attraction isn’t on the dance floor, find a way to move to his end of the room without being too obvious. If he is standing near the bar/refreshment table, go up to get a drink–don’t bring a friend because that will make it difficult for him to talk to you. Look around and be approachable. Give him a smile and say hi.

When you start talking, it doesn’t matter what you say as much as how you say it. It’s okay if the conversation is a little mundane at first (“Crowded in here, huh?”) as long as you’re interacting. Go with the flow of the conversation–hopefully it will lead to something interesting after the initial awkwardness. Use body language to show your interest–nod at appropriate times, react to what he’s saying, touch his forearm if you can fit it in naturally …

You can take it from there. Good luck!

The Oracle