The Meet-Cute Project

by Rhiannon Richardson

  “Oh, right.” Harold touches her arm lightly. “Sometimes you drift to the right a little. Not much, and usually you correct it. I think it’s probably an indication that your right side is stronger and that just shows more in your butterfly stroke.”

  “Noted,” I say, figuring during warm-ups I’d better test it and make sure I remember to straighten out.

  I take a moment to eat some of my food, watching as Gladys checks her phone and Harold jots something down before taking a sip of his cappuccino.

  “So, how is life, dear?” Gladys asks, catching me a little off guard.

  “It’s okay,” I say, though Ritchie’s face immediately comes to mind.

  “It doesn’t seem like it,” she says. “Harold has been going on about how excited you usually are on the mornings of these—these, gatherings—”

  “They’re called swim meets, dear,” Harold says.

  “Right, excuse me. Swim meets,” she corrects herself. “Anyways, you don’t seem excited. You don’t seem like yourself.”

  I sigh, looking down at the leaf pattern beginning to disintegrate in my latte. At this point what do I have to lose? Maybe Harold and Gladys can give me advice.

  “I need to find a date to my sister’s wedding,” I tell them. I explain how the best man dropped out and my job is to find a suitable groomsman replacement. I tell them about the meet-cute project and how so far it’s failing miserably. I add that if I don’t find someone, I’ll have to go with Jasper, Geoffrey’s annoying younger brother—which Gladys finds funny.

  “I wasn’t supposed to spend my fall semester dealing with this,” I say, and then pause to take a sip of my latte.

  “Hmm.” Gladys hums, thinking.

  “I think you have nothing to worry about,” Harold says decisively. “The fact that you doubt yourself over something as easy as this is preposterous.”

  Gladys and I stare at him, his mug held in midair. He waves it around like a prop before taking a sip. I want to ask if I heard him correctly and didn’t just coincidentally black out.

  “It’s not easy at all,” I say, feeling incredulous. “How can you say that?” I want to tell him that he doesn’t know what it’s like to be in my position, but I stop myself. He was in my position when he thought romance wasn’t his speed. He was also in my position however many ages ago when he was a boy in high school, probably just as uncoordinated in romance as he is in the water. He put himself out there with Gladys, and lucky for him, she likes who he is and what he has to offer. And more important, her affection for him is honest.

  “Because you can do anything,” Harold states. It’s not the answer I was expecting.

  “I can?”

  “Mia, you’re a good swimmer because you take the time to practice,” he explains. “You’re a good student because you study. You prepare. All I know is that Mia Hubbard accomplishes anything she dedicates herself to. You need a date to the wedding? Your plan hasn’t worked so far? Then prepare better. Plan better. Focus, and you’ll find a way.” Without missing a beat he says, “Now get your head in the game. I don’t want this nonsense taking away from your win.”

  I smile. Gladys smiles too, and she rests her hand on top of his.

  “Harold,” I say, curious. “What’s your favorite romantic comedy?”

  His smile gets even wider. Gladys sets her cup down and watches him, interested to know the answer.

  “Good question,” he says, chuckling a little. We wait while he thinks for a moment. Recognition flashes across his face, and he says, “Christmas in Connecticut.”

  “Never heard of it,” I admit.

  “That’s because it’s before your time,” Gladys tells me, beaming at Harold. “Mine is White Christmas.”

  “Oh really?” Harold’s eyes fix on Gladys, and even with me sitting right here, they share what feels like a private moment. “Well, isn’t that something. Now, if you’d please excuse me,” Harold says. “I’ve got to use the restroom.”

  When Harold disappears past the counter, Gladys leans in a little, forcing me to look up from the blueberry about to roll off my spoon.

  “In addition to Harry’s sound advice, I just wanted to add a little piece of my own,” she explains. “What Harry was saying is that because of who you are, you’ll find a way to meet someone. And what I’m saying is that by being yourself, it’ll happen naturally.”

  “I just—I’m not so sure it will.” I remember how natural things were between Ritchie and me, and look at how that turned out.

  “It will,” Gladys assures me. “What I’ve learned is that dating is like watching the kettle boil. If you watch it, it’ll never get there. But if you look away, it’ll boil a lot faster.”

  “So, you’re saying I should stop trying?” I feel my heart speed up as all of my excuses align themselves. I don’t have time to just let something happen. If, for my whole life, nothing has clicked into place on its own, what’s going to make it happen now?

  “No,” Gladys says, looking me in the eye. “Try as hard as you have to, but try while being yourself. Don’t force anything.”

  “If the shoe doesn’t fit?” I ask, holding back a laugh.

  “Bingo.” Gladys smiles. “Good luck today. Swim like a fish.”

  * * *

  I see Ritchie on my way to calculus. He doesn’t notice me at first. He’s wearing a blue button-down plaid shirt, a pair of khaki pants, and dark leather Sperrys. The laces are undone and they drag on the floor, which for some reason bugs me.

  He has a number two pencil tucked behind his ear and his hair is slick with gel, pushed back from his face. His lips don’t look as pink as they did Monday night. And under the harsh white fluorescent lights, he doesn’t look as nice. He looks like the guy in his Instagram pictures. A preppy boy who thinks he can have any girl he wants. Excuse me, any girls.

  I scream Cheater as loud as I can in my head. Suddenly he shifts his attention and sees me, standing too many steps away from Mr. Jaffrey’s classroom. I think about running the rest of the way, ducking into the classroom for safety, but I know that would be obvious. And I would look stupid as the only person running down the hallway.

  “Mia.” He crosses to my side of the hall, the sunlight coming in from the classroom behind him giving off an angelic glow that he seems to have at the worst moments.

  “Ritchie,” I say flatly.

  He tries to hold my gaze, and I purposefully focus on anything else. I watch as people open and close their lockers, exchange books, and drop papers and pens onto the floor.

  “Mia,” he says again, quietly. “Look, I’m really sorry about the other night—”

  “You should be apologizing to your girlfriend,” I hiss.

  “Mia, it’s not like that,” he says, leaning closer to me.

  I take a step back and look at him. I try to see the same vulnerable boy who was talking about how empty his house felt, but I can’t find him anywhere.

  “Absolutely not!” Sloane steps in front of me, her heel catching the toe of my shoe. She pushes her shoulders back and stares right into Ritchie’s eyes, only she’s not captivated by them at all. “Who do you think you are, talking to my girl like that after what you did?”

  Ritchie frowns and tries to look past Sloane at me, but she steps to the left and blocks his view with her shoulder.

  “Move,” she says, and by the way she tilts her head, I know she’s giving him her disapproving-mom glare. I wish I had a look like that, a look that could quiet people down and make them feel exactly how disappointed you are with them. But since I don’t have it, I guess that’s what friends like Sloane are for.

  “Move along,” she says, waving her hand as he finally steps off. Then she turns to me and smiles slyly. “I can’t believe Monday night was the best five seconds of your life.”

  I know she’s joking, and I can’t help but laugh. “Hey!”

  “Five seconds without supervision, and you nearly—”

  “Had my first kiss?” I a
sk, raising my eyebrows.

  “Yeah, that,” she says, the humor leaving her voice. I can tell she feels bad for me, and instead of waiting for her to come up with something endearing to say, I gesture to Mr. Jaffrey’s classroom.

  We take our seats at the table in the back of the class. As I follow along with the Taylor series he’s having us practice, I remember what Harold said about studying and practicing. I used to hate Taylor series. I actually got a C on the first Taylor series quiz that we had. But I just practiced more and more until I understood it like a system, a constant dependable system with a structured way of solving the problem. I could depend on the structure of the equation as the path to the answer.

  I know that love isn’t structured or predictable, but it’s practicable… somehow.

  Sloane slips a piece of paper in front of me during the lecture. I quickly grab it and unfold it under the table in my lap.

  I have a surprise for you tomorrow after school.

  I write underneath Does it involve food? and hand it back to her.

  She smiles and shakes her head.

  She writes, I promise it’s a good surprise, so be happy.

  I force myself to smile, and she draws a heart on the paper before crumpling it up.

  * * *

  By Friday I’m buzzing on the high of winning each of my races. I was able to dive into the water and leave Ritchie and the other night behind me. I swam faster than I have before in backstroke and breaststroke, impressing Coach and playing my part in leading the team to victory. Afterward, Coach told us our times for each race and our relays. I jotted them down in my phone so that I can share them with Harold over the weekend.

  By the time I’m closing my notebook at the end of last period, all I can think about is Sloane’s surprise. Sloane picks me up at my house after school in her mom’s Jeep. When I open the door, I’m blasted with loud barking.

  “Gibson, shut up,” Sloane coos. “Be a good boy and sit your behind down.” She grits her teeth when she says “down,” and Gibson listens.

  “You brought a small bear?” I ask when I buckle my seat belt. I turn around and pat Gibson on the head, noting the amount of drool staining the back seat.

  “Ha ha,” Sloane says sarcastically. “Don’t insult my golden retriever.”

  “A big fat golden retriever,” I correct her, watching as Gibson’s tail wags like a long furry flag. “I feel like your mom is going to kill you.”

  “She’s the one who agreed to dog sit,” Sloane tells me before turning off of my street.

  She quickly flips through her phone, and Charli XCX starts screaming from the speakers. Gibson stops wagging his tail and lays his head down on the seat. I lean over and turn the volume down low enough that I can ask, “Is Gibson my surprise?”

  “No,” she says.

  When she doesn’t offer anything else, I ask, “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere,” she says, watching traffic.

  “Right,” I say, settling into the seat. “I just have to be home—”

  “In time for the garden at four, I know,” she says, switching lanes and following the signs to downtown. “That gives us a solid hour, so just relax. You’ll get information as you need it.”

  Soon enough we’re on the highway, so I figure we might be visiting the Bean. But before we make it to the right exit, Sloane turns off early and takes us into Lincoln Park.

  “Are you excited for tomorrow?” Sloane asks, trying to change the topic.

  Tomorrow is Nandy’s infamous Halloween party. When we were all freshmen, she started hosting it Halloween weekend because her parents would let her stay at home by herself instead of forcing her to go away for a weekend Christian retreat with them. We were all excited to go, until Grace’s parents said they didn’t feel comfortable about her going to high school parties, like, at all. So we adapted and made up a tradition of wearing our costumes out to dinner and ending the night with a sleepover at Sloane’s house. This way Grace’s parents would have no reservations about letting her spend the night out, and we could all sneak off to the party together.

  “Absolutely,” I tell her. “My mom is going to take care of my Princess Leia space buns.” Sloane gives me a nod.

  But speaking of outfits, I look at Sloane and notice that she’s wearing jeans and sneakers, clothes perfect for—oh, I don’t know—walking a dog. I, on the other hand, am still wearing my outfit from school. A black A-line skirt, green sweater, and heeled boots. Not ideal for any long-distance walking—or walking in a park.

  “Am I dressed right for this surprise?” I ask when she starts slowing down.

  “You’re dressed perfectly,” she says without looking at me.

  “Even though I’m not wearing sneakers?”

  “Even though you’re not wearing sneakers.”

  “Even though I’m wearing a skirt?”

  “Even though you’re wearing a skirt.”

  I sigh, watching the redbrick townhouses passing by outside my window. Sloane parallel parks in front of a set of homes facing a small park area on the edge of Lake Michigan. When she turns off the car, I pull my gaze away from the skyline in the distance and refocus on the surprise.

  “Are we playing with Gibson in the park?” I ask, getting out. “Because I’m not dressed for mud.”

  “We aren’t doing anything,” she tells me from across the car as she opens the back door for Gibson.

  He immediately pees on the back tire of the car, and then Sloane hands me the leash.

  “I’ve never walked a dog,” I tell her, quickly catching the handle before Gibson can yank it out of my hand.

  “Just don’t let go,” she says, leading the way across the street.

  “Even though there aren’t, like, any dog parks around, a lot of people come here to let their dogs run in the open,” Sloane explains. She tells me that we have to keep walking farther into the park because no one wants their dog running right next to the street. I don’t mind, because farther into the park brings us closer to the lake, and water always calms me down. We reach a set of stairs and make our way down a small hill to where people are standing, almost forming a fence, watching their dogs play with each other.

  Sloane continues, “So, there’s this movie called Must Love Dogs.”

  “Okay?”

  “And it’s about this divorced woman who gets on a dating site to meet men.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  Sloane shoots me a glare before continuing. “Anyways, she arranges to meet one of the dudes at a dog park because she’s taking care of someone’s dog and figures it might be a fun place to hang out.”

  Gibson’s ears perk up, and he starts yanking me forward. I struggle to get my footing, but I figure it’s better to follow him instead of tripping and falling on my face. As he pulls with urgency toward his furry friends, we have no choice but to speed up.

  Sloane starts talking faster. “And the guy she meets up with doesn’t own a dog—even though he said he did—so he has to borrow one, and—well—they fall in love. The end.”

  “Okay?” I say, not sure what to do when Gibson starts crying and pulling with all his strength.

  “Okay, so, welcome to your meet-cute.”

  “You’re being serious?” I ask, managing to wrestle Gibson between my legs. I say “Down” a couple of times, and then I remember to grit my teeth and he finally listens.

  “Yes,” Sloane says, smiling at the cluster of dogs beginning to notice Gibson’s crying. “After I heard about Abby’s faux pas—choosing someone without completing a thorough background check, tisk, tisk—I wondered, What would be the best way to rectify her wrong and cheer you up and hopefully accomplish our goal all in one go?” She pauses, waiting for me to answer.

  “Me taking a random dog to a park?”

  “Has anyone told you you suck at this?” Sloane asks, laughing.

  “No one has to tell me what I already know.” I smile.

  “You’re getting
your wish,” Sloane says, stopping a little ways behind the invisible perimeter the rest of the owners are standing along. She hands me a small container of poop bags and reaches down for Gibson’s collar. Then she points off in the distance. I follow her finger and squint, seeing a brown lowrider pit bull trailing behind a boy on the other side of the park.

  “Wait,” I say, squinting harder. “Wait, Sloane—what?”

  Ben Vasquez in all of his fitted-jeans-and-charcoal-gray-bomber-jacket glory, haircut styled to stand perfectly atop his head, with his chiseled features that look good in fluorescent light, sunlight, firelight—probably; I don’t know for certain—is walking along the other side of the park.

  “No, no,” I say, shaking my head. There are so many butterflies in my stomach that I could throw up. Even though we just saw each other yesterday when I stopped by math club to hand in my practice problems before the swim meet, we haven’t actually held a conversation—just the two of us talking to each other, not both of us having a group discussion about derivatives of tangent or Maclaurin series—like… ever!

  “What do you mean, no?” Sloane asks. “This is your chance to get the guy you’ve always wanted. This should be a cakewalk for you.”

  I turn to her, my mouth hanging open but words only trying to form in my mind. How can she think this is a good idea? I’m inappropriately dressed. My hair is frizzing up from the humidity. I’m—I—“Sloane, we said no one that I already know. And, well, I know Ben Vasquez, so—well—he can’t be a meet-cute.”

  “Mia, you asked for this! Haven’t you stood in front of your mirror and practiced the once-in-a-lifetime conversation where you woo your prince of Pythagorean theorems with witty repartee? Yes, the man of your dreams is a math nerd and not that nice, in our honest opinions.” Sloane pauses to cringe. “However, he is the man of your dreams.”

  “Of my dreams, not reality!”

  Sloane closes her eyes and rests her fingers on her temples. She shakes her head and looks down at Gibson, and somehow they seem to have one of those private eye conversations that I never get to be part of.