The Oracle Of Dating

“That’s an amazing idea!”

“I was hoping you’d volunteer to be one of the speed daters. I need ten girls and ten guys. Will you do it?”

“Will there be any Indian guys?”

“I promise to try to get some.”

“Okay, then. Count me in!”

THAT EVENING TRACEY calls to tell me about her date with the salsa instructor.

She has a fantastic dinner with Miguel at a Cuban restaurant in the Village. She leaves the restaurant on his arm, drunk on wine and their fiery attraction. He takes her to his favorite club, Calienté. Music pumps hot and fierce. He brings her onto the dance floor and leads her in a passionate set.

“You’re on fire,” he says. “You make love to me with your moves.”

Tracey feels vibrant and alive. She pictures herself dancing the merengue in her wedding dress as her friends and family look on in awe. Maybe one day she and Miguel will open up their own dance school. Maybe they’ll spend their summers teaching underprivileged children salsa in the streets of Guadalajara.

After a while she pleads exhaustion and takes a breather. At the bar, she orders a mojito, extra sugar. She’ll need the energy for the night of dancing ahead.

Miguel is now dancing with another woman. This is typical at salsa clubs—everybody dances with everybody. She doesn’t mind. The girl he’s chosen is a tentative dancer and heavy-set. He is apparently giving her instruction, and she is trying very hard not to step on his toes.

Tracey gulps down her drink, eager to get back. But when the next song comes on, he’s already found another partner. Tracey’s jaw drops when she sees that he’s dancing with a gorgeous Latina in a skin-tight white minidress.

The beat of the music is distinctive. It’s the bachata! Doesn’t he only dance that with special people? Isn’t it too personal?

Tracey watches as they tear up the dance floor. It’s the most extraordinary dance she’s ever seen—and if this guy weren’t her date, she’d be enthralled.

A woman sitting beside her mutters in a smoker’s voice, “Those two should get a room.”

At that moment Tracey becomes aware of several things:

She will never be able to rival a full-blooded Latina on the dance floor.

She will never be able to stand the jealousy of knowing that Miguel makes love to countless women in the form of Latin dancing.

Miguel is a gift to women everywhere. A Casanova. A bird not meant to be caged.

Tracey slaps down a ten for her drink. “Who was I kidding?” And leaves.

THIS IS RIDICULOUS. I have an awesome Web site that only a couple of hundred people know about. I need thousands, not hundreds, to make a splash.

I have to advertise.

I spend my entire Saturday making up a colorful, catchy flyer, then I go to Kinko’s to make copies. I put up about thirty in malls and subway stations. Too bad I can’t ask my friends to help with my advertising blitz, but it isn’t worth giving up my anonymity.

That night I sit in front of my computer. So far I’ve gotten fifteen hits. That’s not bad. I’m hoping someone will IM me. Instead, the Oracle’s phone line rings.

“The Oracle of Dating.”

“Hi. I saw your Web site. I have, ah, an issue that I’m dealing with.”

“You can count on me for unbiased advice.” My words are smooth, but excitement bubbles inside me. The woman on the phone sounds twenty-five or thirty—that means my advertisements are finally helping me reach a different age group!

“You sound really young,” she says.

Uh-oh, what do I say to that? Think, Oracle, think.

“Would you prefer a fresh voice, or a jaded one?”

She laughs. “Good answer. Here goes. I went onto a dating site and started chatting with a few guys. I ended up making dates with two in the same week. And the thing is, I liked both of them. I figured I’d go on a few dates with each of them and eventually one or both would fade out. But it didn’t happen that way. It’s been a month and I’m still dating them.”

“Do you prefer one to the other?”

“No, I’m crazy about both of them! They’re just so different. One is reserved and straitlaced—but still waters run deep, you know. And the other is exciting and passionate and even wants to meet my parents.”

“Are you being intimate with either of them?”

“I, ah, fooled around with both of them. I feel guilty about it, but I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s like the guilt is an aphrodisiac. Does that make sense?”

“It does, yes. Tell me, do these guys know you’re dating other people?”

“I don’t think so. At the beginning, I told them I wasn’t looking to be exclusive right away, but they both think that I’ve changed my mind. One of them is even calling me his girlfriend.”

“Do you want an exclusive relationship?”

“Yes, I just don’t know who I want it with! What if I choose one of them and it doesn’t work out? Then I’ve let go of the other guy for nothing.”

“I have one last question for you before I give my advice. How would you feel if you were in the position of these men?”

“I’d feel like I was being played. And that’s not how I want them to feel. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Thank you for your honesty. Now, here is my advice …” I hit a few notes on the xylophone.

“What was that?”

“A xylophone.”

“That’s weird! Okay, Oracle of Dating, so what’s your advice?”

“My advice is that you spend the next two weeks dating these guys as if you’re interviewing them for a job—the job is being your boyfriend. Take everything into account—reliability, fun factor, physical attraction. Make a list if you have to. At the end of two weeks, make your decision. Be as nice as possible to the other guy—explain to him that this isn’t a good time for you to embark on a relationship, but you want to remain friends. If it’s a relatively good breakup, he might consider letting you back into his life in the future.”

“You’re so right, Oracle. Thank you. I’m going to take your advice.” She pauses. “One last question—how old are you, anyway?”

“The Oracle is timeless.”

“You’re funny. I like that. Have a good night.”

“You, too. And good luck.”

“PRICE CHECK, CASH TWO!”

There are four cash registers in the whole store and mine is the only one that’s open. Ryan left a while ago, and the other cashier, Jay, is probably smoking a spliff in the back room.

“Price check!” I repeat, feeling the customer glaring at me.

The stock boys loading up the shelves in aisle one pretend they don’t understand English.

“Juan!” He finally looks up. “Check this, okay?” I hold up the bag of chips. “Find out if they’re on sale.”

“Sì.” He runs toward the chip aisle.

He’s back a couple of minutes later with another bag. “This. Not that.”

The customer chose Baked Lays instead of regular Lays. A common mistake.

“Do you still want them?” I ask.

She makes a face. “For three forty-nine? Are you crazy?”

“Sometimes I think I’m heading there,” I mumble.

“Did you talk back to me?”

“Huh? Me? No.”

“Good!”

I scan the rest of her groceries, pack them and total it up. After I count back her change, she counts it again carefully, like she’s sure I shortchanged her. Then she picks up her bags and leaves.

Little does she know that I arranged for her canned goods to squash her bread. Ha! It’s a hollow revenge, really. But it’s all I’ve got.

Work is high up on my list of the worst places in the world to be, next to a holiday in Iraq or a hiking trip in the mountains of Afghanistan. Since my Web site is getting more hits these days, I hope my days of working here are numbered.

Mom thinks this job is teaching me a work ethic. It definitely is, but not the one she had in mind.

Everybody at Eddie’s Grocery is corrupt, from the price-gouging store manager to the cashiers and stock boys who give themselves five-finger discounts. My coworkers actually think I’m weird because I don’t steal. I tell them it’s nothing against them, I just have an unfortunate Christian morality complex.

Every single person at this store hates their job except Petie, a twenty-year-old with Down syndrome who helps out in the bakery. I think the manager actually gets money from some Community Living program to let Petie work here. It’s unbelievable, really. We should be paying Petie for being the only person to walk in with a smile on his face.

One time I dropped a comment in the Customers’ Views box. Instead of playing horrid elevator music, I suggested that we play motivational CDs, or lectures by Deepak Chopra or the Dalai Lama. My suggestion was not only ignored, but the music was switched to elevator versions of Clay Aiken’s songs the next week. Coincidence?

The only people I pity more than the staff are the customers. It’s impossible to find anything here, and if you can find it, you can’t reach it. The stock boys are mostly too short to reach up and help. In fact, the only tall person in the store is Afrim, a six-foot-four beanpole from Kosovo who works in the deli. He’s very protective of his meats (especially the Eastern European varieties), so unless you’re the manager, you’ll never get Afrim out from behind the counter.

Eddie’s is the worst for old people. Lots of them are frail and use their shopping carts as walkers. I consider myself the self-appointed helper of the aged. I make a point of knowing where the All-Bran is, the Ovaltine, the prunes and the denture cream.

One customer in particular got me onto the helping-old-people bandwagon. Her name is Lucy Ball—yes, it’s true. She turned eighty-nine in August. She’s less than five feet tall and doesn’t mind that I call her Short Stuff. She’s got a husband at home who had a stroke last year, so poor Lucy’s in charge of keeping the house running. It isn’t easy when you’re hunched over like she is. I always help her by double-bagging everything, triple-bagging the meats, waiting patiently while she counts her pennies and just generally being nice to her. She told me I’m her favorite cashier, which doesn’t say a lot considering the other cashiers here (well, except for Ryan), but it still makes me feel good. I know she means it because she’ll go in my lineup even if it’s the longest.

Yep, Lucy is a breath of fresh air in the hellish inferno of my workplace.

Half the customers here are escaped convicts or certified weirdos. Like the crazy cat lady who only buys three things: soda crackers, milk and cat food. And when I say cat food, I mean, like, seventy cans. She does this every week. I wonder how many cats (or cat ladies) it takes to eat all that.

And Mom wonders why I complain about this job.

Yeah, working at the Hellhole shows me how important it is to get an education. If I don’t, I might have to work at a place like this my whole life. That’s the best work-ethic lesson Mom could hope for.

“IT’S GOT SOME POTENTIAL,” Jared says of my latest sketch. He’s been trying to help me lately, or so it seems. I think he finds my attempts at drawing entertaining. Like right now, he’s biting his lip to keep from laughing. “The head’s too big for the body, though.”

I shouldn’t be putting up with him, but I’m keeping him around in the event he can actually help me. Also, he smells good.

“Why couldn’t I just use that photo of the Afghan girl? This one is so … blah.”

“I thought you wanted to start off playing ‘Chopsticks’ instead of Mozart.”

“Okay, fine. How do I get the head the right size?”

“Why don’t you just measure it?”

I do, and within a few minutes I produce a fairly accurate head. Now I have to sketch the tall supermodel body. Jared’s right that the picture is simple, though I have an aversion to drawing unnaturally skinny women.

“So, how’d you end up at this school?” I ask. He’s one of the few new kids this year.

His eyes narrow a fraction. At least I think they do. His face doesn’t give much away. “This school had a space.”

“Where were you before?”

“Sunset Park.”

“I hear Sunset Park can be pretty rough.”

“It’s different.”

I decide to pursue a different line of questioning. “You’re a senior, right? I saw you were in grade twelve English.”

“Are you stalking me, Kayla?”

I feel myself blush. “I’m just observant.”

“Yeah, I’m a senior.”

Well, that explains why he’s old enough to shave. Suddenly I wonder if he has hair on his chest, or if he’s like Case Study No. 2 who had, like, three hairs.

Realizing that I’m staring at his chest, I look up.

“Are you a fan?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“You’re funny, you know that? I’m asking if you like them.”

Oh, he means the band Three Days Grace. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with the band’s name and the words Animal I Have Become.

“I’m not a fan. Not really.”

“What do you listen to? Miley Cyrus?”

Coming from him, I know that’s an insult. “Yeah, definitely,” I say with a straight face. “But the Jonas Brothers are even better.”

Jared makes a gagging noise, and I laugh.

“Truth is, I mostly listen to Top 40 stuff, but not them. What about you?”

“Anything with a good tune and lyrics that mean something. You know, bands that actually write and play their own music. Not groups that recycle the same tunes over and over.”

“Do you play anything?”

“Guitar. I’m in a band called The Invisible. A couple of guys at this school are in it, too—Tom Leeson and Said Abdullah.”

“Tom sang at the coffeehouse last year. He was good.”

“What about you, you play anything?”

“I played violin in junior high, but I guess that doesn’t count. I’m not very musical.”

“Maybe you haven’t discovered it yet.”

“Sure.”

I can’t help thinking—he’s in a band. Bands mean popularity, groupies. So why don’t I see him surrounded by people in the hallways and having lunch with the A-list crowd?

I’m starting to think that Jared isn’t so much a snob as a loner, someone who stays deliberately outside the mainstream.

Maybe he can use the help of the Oracle …

AFTER THE SEVENTH-PERIOD bell, I make my move. When I’m sure the hallway is clear, I slip a business card into Jared’s locker.

Need Dating Advice?

Contact the Oracle of Dating at 555-DATE.

Or visit the Oracle online at oracleofdating.com.

When my next class ends, I hurry to my locker in time to see Jared open his. The card flutters to the ground. He picks it up, makes a face and shows it to Andrew Becker.

Oh, no! He’s asking Andrew if he got one, too!

Andrew shakes his head.

Jared tosses the business card on the floor.

Damn it!

So much for that idea. How am I supposed to help Jared now?

I grab my history book and close my locker.

It’s a lesson everyone in the caring professions has to learn at some point. You can’t force people to accept your help. They have to want it.

four

THE THIRD WEEK OF SEPTEMBER is when classes choose their Student Council reps. Believe it or not, I’m class rep for 11B.

How did I manage that? Amy nominated me and I didn’t say no. And then one of the popular girls—Brooke Crossley’s number one follower, Kirsten Cook—gets nominated. After that, no one else wants to run. So we leave the classroom while everybody votes. No secret ballot, just a show of hands in front of the teacher. Kirsten doesn’t talk to me in the hallway but uses her cell phone to book a bikini wax. I wonder who she’s dating and what she’s doing to need a bikini wax.

We go back in. Mr. Findley says that I won. I say, “Really?”

And then Kirsten puts a hand on her hip and goes, “Are you sure?”

And I say, “Yeah, are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

After class, Amy explains what happened. It was unbelievable! Sean Fortier said to Alfred Weams that the nerd crew better vote for Kirsten. And Alfred was like, “Are you kidding me? Kirsten doesn’t even say hi to us. Kayla is way cool.” Apparently it came down to the nerds versus the popular crowd, a power struggle as old as time. And the nerds’ will prevailed because they outnumbered the popular crowd.

Which leads me to today’s meeting. I’m sitting beside Ellen Huang, who has a romance novel perched behind her lunch bag so Prez Kevin Markinson doesn’t see.

I’m not listening, either. I’m trying to read the book over her shoulder. It must be good, because Ellen hasn’t looked up in the past ten minutes.

“Tears welled up in her blue eyes. She could have wept with the need to touch his face, to smooth the angry scowl from his brow. Oh, to feel his lips against hers one more time. But it was impossible …”

“That’s some book,” I whisper.

Ellen grins. “I’ve got the whole series at home if you want to borrow it.”

“Series? Are they all four hundred pages?”

“Yeah, but you won’t want them to end, trust me.”

“Is there a lot of sex in them?”

“Hell, yeah. How do you think the author fills up four hundred pages? I’ll bring you the first book tomorrow. You’re going to get hooked.”

It’s about time I see what all the fuss is about. I’ve never read any romance novels, especially not this sexy historical stuff. There has to be something to them if they’re so popular.

“Girls.” Ms. Verdel, staff adviser to the Student Council, is giving us a look that says, shut up. I don’t understand why someone who hates young people is a teacher, much less Student Council adviser.

I tune in to Kevin Markinson. “… hoping a few of you will volunteer to fundraise for the Cancer Society. Last year we had bake sales at lunch and at parent-teacher conferences. We also had a penny harvest and the class that raised the most money won a pizza party. We need volunteers to organize these things.”

The room falls silent. No hands go up.

“C’mon, guys. This is for cancer research!” Kevin looks over at Brooke. “Please.”

“I don’t have time. I’m cheerleading, like, every day.”

“Chris?”

“I did it last year. Why don’t you ask Joe?”

“Sorry,” Joe says before Kevin can even ask him. “I’m on the football team.”

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