The Oracle of Dating

by Allison van Diepen

  She crinkles her nose. “Why does it matter if we show up?”

  Like she doesn’t know. Time for a little ego-stroking—it is for a good cause.

  “Guys are always drooling over you, Brooke. If they know you’re going to be there, they’ll be lining up for a ticket.”

  She smiles. “What kind of guys are going to be there?”

  “Let’s put it this way—Chad Douglas is recruiting from the soccer team. And, personally, I think a soccer bod is better than a football bod.”

  Her eyes glaze over as she thinks of the possibilities. “I’m in. I’ll bring five girls with me. Maybe more.”

  “Perfect.”

  AROUND EIGHT O’CLOCK that night, an instant message pops up on my screen.

  Loveless23: Oracle?

  Oracle: Yes. I’m here.

  Loveless23: I read your blog on flirting and I don’t think I’m any good at it.

  Oracle: Like anything else, you can improve with practice.

  Loveless23: I don’t even think I want to learn how to flirt. I just want the person I like to know that I like her. But I don’t know how to do it.

  Oracle: Are you too shy to be direct and ask her out?

  Loveless23: Yeah. I can’t see doing that.

  Oracle: You could do it in a more subtle way. You could say you have two movie passes and your friend cancelled on you. And then see if she offers to join you.

  Loveless23: That’s not a bad idea. I doubt she’ll want to go with me, though.

  Oracle: Why do you say that? Are you picking up signals that she isn’t interested?

  Loveless23: I’m getting mixed signals. If she’s interested, she doesn’t know it yet. I don’t think she sees me as a possible boyfriend.

  Oracle: Why not? You must have some reason for saying that.

  Loveless23: Well, she’s really good-looking, for a start. She probably only goes out with GQ types. And she’s a few years older than me.

  Oracle: How much older?

  Loveless23: My mom’s age. No, I’m kidding. She’s a couple years older than me, I think. And she has more seniority at work. I just don’t think she really sees me. But I can’t be too straight with her about how I feel—I know it would be a mistake.

  Oracle: Why don’t you just Be?

  Loveless23: What does that mean?

  Oracle: Show this girl who you are. Show her that you’re funny and smart and compassionate (if you are those things). Then watch for signs that she’s noticing you. If you don’t get any, then it isn’t meant to be. If you do, then find the courage to ask her to go for a drink after work.

  Loveless23: What sort of signals am I looking for?

  Oracle: She’ll be looking at you more than she has to. And when you catch her, she’ll either smile deeply into your eyes, or look away.

  Loveless23: And if she doesn’t look my way at all?

  Oracle: Then somebody else will. Someone who will be appreciative of all you have to offer.

  Loveless23: I got you, Oracle. Thanks.

  Oracle: Good luck, Loveless23.

  Nice. Another five bucks in the Oracle’s shallow pocket.

  It’s refreshing to get a question from a guy for a change, especially one who’s wondering if a girl is interested in him. Usually it’s the other way around. Of the eight contacts I’ve had this week, half of them have been from girls wanting confirmation that a guy likes them. Those questions are always tricky, especially since my clients want one answer and one answer only. I ask them questions in order to assess the evidence: Does he go out of his way to talk to you? Do you chat with him online, and if so, who starts the conversation? Does he find ways to touch you when it’s not necessary? The problem is, the girls themselves aren’t a reliable source of information. They want the guy to like them, and so they present “evidence” to get me to confirm it, when really they’re reading too much into what the guy has done.

  All of this leaves me in a tight spot. If I tell these girls what they want to hear, they may be happy temporarily, but they might blame me if the guy turns out not to be interested. If I tell them that, based on the evidence, the odds are slim that the guy’s into them, they’ll probably never call me again. Most of the time, I have enough evidence to say the odds are fifty/fifty, and then I give them further strategies to discover the answer themselves.

  I move from the computer to my bed, careful to keep my music low in case there’s a bling signaling an instant message, or a ping signaling an e-mail.

  I’m aware that your bedroom says a lot about you. Mine says a lot of different things. There are no major color schemes. The walls are white. I have some pictures up of me and my friends, and postcards from my sister’s travels. The top of my dresser is devoted to jewelry and makeup, most of it lying out in the open instead of neatly arranged in the organizer I got last Christmas.

  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, s
o 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 anticipation, 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.

  five

  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.”

  “GUYS 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.

  THE 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.