I click the link and there’s a countdown to eleven o’clock. When the show comes on, it’s obvious that he’s using some voice enhancer thing so no one can tell who he is.
“Welcome to another night of All Talk, No Action. I’m your host, Dirty Dirk. I’m dark, I’m dangerous, and I’m downright dirty, so be warned that there’s parental advisory stickers slapped all over this.” Some vaguely familiar heavy metal blasts from the speakers.
Then Dirk’s back on. “You all have issues you want to share with the world, so let’s get to it. For our new listeners out there, you can shoot your questions, comments, and concerns to me whenev. Contact info’s on my website. For those of you who’ve been with me from the start, thanks for hanging in. Hope I’m not boring you too much.”
If he only knew. Does he have any idea how many people talk about his show every day? I even saw one kid passing around his iPod with the shows downloaded in case anyone missed the night before. Apparently, that was the night Dirk harshed something severe on how detention is unconstitutional.
“Here’s one from Hopeless in Hicksville. ‘Dirk, you gotta help me out, bro. I’m going crazy in this Podunk town. What do you suggest before I die of boredom?’ Yeah, that’s tough. We all feel you, dude. How many times can a person hang at the Notch and have it still be fun, right? Wait, don’t answer that.”
I like this Dirk guy. He’s real. And from the other e-mails and IMs he reads, it’s obvious that all of the kids writing in go to our school or at least live around here.
“Look, man,” Dirk goes. “We’re all sinking in the same boat here. We’re all bored and desperate and waiting for something to happen. Waiting for life to get better. Waiting for things to change. Waiting for that one person to finally notice us. We’re all waiting.
“But we also need to realize that we all have the power to make those changes for ourselves. Yeah, I’m the last one who should advertise about taking control of your life. I talk big and act like a dork most of the time. But it doesn’t stop me from hoping I can be different. We all can change the way things are. Maybe not as much as we want to, but we can at least make things better.”
I swear, it’s like he’s talking directly to me. How does he know what I’ve been dealing with? He makes it sound like I’m not the only one who feels so lost. And I already know I’ll be listening to him every night.
8
Sometimes when I feel anxious, I can focus on things like developing my photos or practicing violin or writing on my wall, and I have the power to calm myself down.
But not always.
Like today. It’s just one thing after another. So far I’ve had to endure (not necessarily in chronological order) the following atrocities:
1. My alarm didn’t go off. Something happened to it in the middle of the night. So this morning I had to rush through my shower, which meant that I couldn’t shave my armpits. That annoyed me more than it should have.
2. I left my English report at home. This would be the report that’s worth, like, half our grade for the marking period. Could it happen with some sketchy global homework? No. Of course not. It has to happen with a life-or-death major English report.
3. The most embarrassing thing happened in geometry. I thought I knew the answer to this superhard question and Mr. Wilson was saying how if someone answers it correctly they’ll get extra credit. But no one was raising their hand because it was too hard. So I raised my hand and I answered the question wrong. But that wasn’t the embarrassing part. The embarrassing part was when I got inspired with this false sense of confidence from being the only one who tried to answer the superhard question and then I totally spaced on the easiest question in the world after. Not only did I get it wrong, but my answer was so far out there that someone laughed at me.
4. At lunch, I sat on a piece of ham.
5. My pen ran out during the chem quiz and I didn’t have an extra one in my bag. I didn’t want to ask Nash for a pen because I’d have to turn around and it would totally look like I was cheating. So I tried to motion to the girl next to me if she had another pen I could borrow. But then Mrs. Hunter saw and she thought I was cheating. So she came over to my desk and I tried to tell her that I was just asking to borrow a pen but she wasn’t listening. She was all, “We can talk about this after class,” and she took my quiz away.
And, really, all I had to do was go up to Mrs. Hunter after and tell her what happened. But when the bell rang, all I wanted to do was leave. I didn’t even look at her as I walked right out the door. Which, of course, was stupid, since now she probably thinks that I really was cheating and that’s why I left so quickly.
But whatev.
At least I survived and I’m over at Nash’s house now. I’m liking it here more and more. I feel really comfortable, almost like it’s an extension of my house or something. So we have this routine now where I come over to his house every week to do our lab reports. But today, even this is less than perfect. Because it’s too stuffy in here.
“Can I open the window just the tiniest bit?” I go.
“Okay,” Nash says.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
Dang. He must really feel bad for me. I told him all about my horrific day. It’s so easy to talk to him. Sometimes it’s even easier to talk to Nash than Sterling. I mean, of course I can tell Sterling anything, but she’s usually preoccupied or doing five other things while I’m talking to her. With Nash, I can tell he’s really listening.
Nash goes over and opens the window. His room feels a lot better with fresh air in it. I wonder why he doesn’t know that.
I also wonder why there’s always socks on his floor. I’m like, “What is it with boys and socks?”
“You mean with leaving them around?”
“Yeah. What’s up with that?”
“I don’t know.” Nash glances around at his floor, where I’ve already noticed two stray socks. That don’t even match. “I never really thought about it.”
“But your hamper is right over there,” I inform him, gesturing toward the closet in case he doesn’t know.
“Um-hm. The floor is closer.”
“Wow.”
“We’re like a completely different species, right?”
“I never knew how serious it was.”
“Oh,” Nash says, “it’s serious.”
I suddenly get this glimpse of how Nash would be if he’d quit schlepping it all the time and got some style. And if he changed his attitude. He should really just relax and be more friendly. I mean, he’s nice to me and he always helps me in lab, but I’ve seen him interact with other people and he could definitely use some social tips.
There’s all these random computer parts and wires and mechanical-looking pieces of things stacked in one area of the floor. “What’s all that?” I ask.
“It’s for Dorkbot.”
“Did you just make that up?”
“No! It’s a robotics group.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. We do strange things with electricity. And there’s a competition every year where all the best projects are presented. Last year this guy invented a way to play music like a video game.”
“How?”
“You had to see it. He had these bubbles filled with music and . . . it’s hard to explain. It was wild.”
“It sounds cool.”
“It was. Hey, if I make it to the finals this spring, you can come with me.”
“Dorktastic!”
“But you’re not allowed to say that.”
“Deal. So what’s your project?”
“Oh, it’s way too early to know. There are several different ways I can go with it.”
“I can’t wait to see what you do.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course!”
We do our lab report for a while, listening to Arcade Fire and eating Twizzlers. Nash goes, “Can I ask you something?”
“What?” Did he read my mind before about bein
g in desperate need of a fashion overhaul?
“Actually, it’s more like . . . I need your advice. About something.”
“Okay.” Yes, you do need a whole new haircut and, yes, I can tell you exactly how it should look.
“It’s about . . .” Nash jiggles his leg up and down. I can’t believe he’s nervous about this. I mean, it’s no big deal. “There’s someone I might . . . like.”
“Oh.” That’s the last thing I ever thought he’d tell me.
“So . . . yeah. But I’m not exactly the most outgoing guy.”
That’s the understatement of the century. I’ve seen Nash talk to one girl at school besides me when it wasn’t for class-related reasons. And that was only because her chair leg was on his backpack strap. He’s always so shy, unless he’s helping someone. That’s why I still can’t figure out how he got the guts to ask me over for lab reports. I guess if it even remotely has to do with school, Nash isn’t nervous.
“You could say that,” I admit.
He nods.
“So you want me to . . . tell you what to do?”
“Ah . . . I’m just not sure what to do about it.”
“Does she know you like her?”
“No.”
“How do you know? Maybe she’s already picked up on your vibe.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who is it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“So I know her.”
“No comment.”
And that’s when it hits me. Is this Nash’s way of telling me he likes me? But he’s too shy to tell me directly so he’s hoping I’ll see through this thinly disguised attempt?
I go, “So . . . you’re too shy to tell her to her face, right?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, there are other ways to tell her without saying it.”
“You mean like . . . write her a letter?”
“Exactly.”
“Doesn’t that reek of seventh grade?”
“That’s why it works. It’s cute in a retro way. She’ll love it.”
“Really?”
“Definitely. I mean . . . depending on what you write.”
“What do you suggest?”
There’s no way I’m helping him write a love letter to me. How weird would that be? “Um . . . just, you know, be honest about how you feel. Tell her why you like her and stuff.”
“Hmm.” Nash thinks this over. “I guess you don’t want to help me write it or anything.”
“I think this is one of those things you just have to do on your own.”
Nash nods, still thinking. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
We go back to doing our homework, but now I can’t concentrate. What if he likes me? What am I going to do? There’s no way I could like him back. He’s so not my type. I have no idea whose type he even is. But I know for sure he’s not mine.
9
My aunt Katie is the coolest person I know. Even though she’s my mom’s sister, you would never know they’re related. While Mom is all quiet and contemplative, Aunt Katie is the complete opposite. She’s totally fun and spontaneous. She’ll be sitting at home watching a movie and the next thing you know she’s driving to New York because she has to see this trellis in Central Park that some characters were walking under, right that second.
Aunt Katie is a topiary designer. Which basically means that she gets paid serious money to cut people’s bushes into animal shapes. Plus, she owns her own company for topiary design and landscaping, so people actually work for her. Not that this makes it any easier to believe that she’s thirty-two, because she acts like she’s sixteen. But in a good way. She shops in the juniors section and even borrows my clothes sometimes.
“Okay,” Aunt Katie says. “What do you think of this one?”
I examine my laptop screen. “Hmm.”
“Be honest.”
“He’s cute, but . . .”
“But what?”
“It’s just . . . what’s that on his arm?”
Aunt Katie leans in closer to the screen. “Where?”
“Right there.” I point to this thing over his wrist that looks like a tattoo.
“Whoa.” She squints. “It looks like a damaged cartoon character, right?”
“Is that a Muppet Baby?”
“Um . . . yeah. Next!”
Aunt Katie joined eHarmony a few weeks ago. She’s sick of going out with guys who don’t want a serious relationship. They act all interested at first, but then they eventually tell her they don’t want to get serious. Which is ridiculous because Aunt Katie is a hottie. Plus, she’s totally sweet and interesting and smart and funny. I don’t get why guys don’t want to be with her. It has to be a problem they all have in common.
My parents met at jury duty. According to Dad, it was love at first sight. Mom took a little longer to realize this. They hit it off the first day they met, sitting in a room the whole time and talking because they never got selected to serve on the jury. So they never had to think about things like online dating. Not that it was even possible back in the day.
Aunt Katie clicks on the name OCTAVIO.
“Cool name,” I say sarcastically.
“Be nice.”
When Octavio’s picture comes up, I see a big problem right away.
“So?” she asks.
“I don’t think so.”
“What? Why not? I think he’s cute. And he’s a dentist.”
“That’s half the problem already. Dentists are sadists.”
“No, it means he has an actual career instead of living at home playing video games every night in the same room he grew up in.”
“He has no lips.”
“You’re talking crazy talk.”
“I’m serious! Look!”
Aunt Katie leans in again. “I see definite lippage.”
“Where?”
“Uh, where his mouth is?”
“Yeah, if you like fish mouth.”
“Fish mouth? What the heck is fish mouth?”
“What Octavio has.”
“No way.”
“How does he kiss with no lips? Like . . . what, he just presses up against the girl’s mouth and hopes for a suction effect?”
Aunt Katie clicks to close his picture. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re too picky?”
“Oh! So that’s why I’ve never had a boyfriend. Thanks, I get it now.”
She laughs. “Yeah, like you should have so many ex-boyfriends by the time you’re fifteen.”
I glance out my window at the river, which looks totally bored. It’s all flat and gray.
“I only need one of these guys to be the one,” Aunt Katie says, scrolling down her list.
“How many of them have you met?”
“Just three. But I have a good feeling about one of them. . . .” She clicks on the name BILL. When his picture comes up, I understand where the good feeling comes from.
I go, “He’s freaking gorgeous.”
“He looks even better in person.”
“Shut up.”
“Seriously.”
“How many dates have you guys had?”
“Two. But we’re going out again this weekend.”
“How tall is he?”
“Umm . . .” Aunt Katie scrolls back up to his stats. “Six one. And he actually is. Not like some of these other guys who say they’re six-whatever and then you meet them and they come up to your chin.”
“Go Bill.”
“Yeah. Well. We’ll see.”
“I thought you liked him.”
“I do. But I still have to go out with other guys.”
“Why?”
“I have to make sure he’s the right person for me. I have to see who else is out there, you know? And he’s probably seeing other people, too.”
“Isn’t that weird?”
“In a normal world, yeah. But wi
th this online dating stuff . . . it’s typical.”
“Weird.”
“It takes time to be sure of someone. And to be sure of yourself when you’re with them.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I’m with the wrong guy? I don’t feel like myself. I make irrational decisions.”
“Irrational decisions like . . . making a judgment about someone based on their appearance?”
“Yeah. Wait, no. Sometimes you can do that and it’s not irrational.”
“Like if someone has a serious case of fish mouth?”
“You know, there are other things to consider. Like personality? And how a guy treats you?”
“Okay, but what’s the point of all that if you’re not even attracted to him?”
“I hear you, but . . .” Aunt Katie scrolls down. “Sometimes attraction grows. Remember Campbell?”
How could I forget Campbell? The night Aunt Katie showed up with him for dinner I was like, This is a joke, right? Because Campbell was so not her type. He just wasn’t what you would call attractive. He was more like remotely passable. But Aunt Katie loved him. So my initial opinion of him gradually changed and I ended up thinking they were perfect for each other. They were together for a long time, almost two years.
The thing was, I liked Campbell. He was really funny. He’d make me laugh so hard that my stomach was killing me and my face hurt. And he’d always bring over a gift for me, like a Beanie Baby or a Slinky or one of those big lollipops with rainbow colors all swirled together. I’m still not sure why they broke up. Maybe Aunt Katie decided that she liked him more as a friend.
“But you guys broke up,” I say.
“I know. But it was still the best relationship I’ve ever had.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. And at first I wasn’t even attracted to him. But after a while, I thought he was so cute.”
I try to understand what she means. It’s a stretch. “So you’re saying that someone can become cuter over time?”
“Um-hm. But it’s not that they change. It’s that you change.” Aunt Katie shows me some more profiles. She wants to get married so badly. I can definitely relate. We’re both waiting for that one person who will make our waiting end.
Waiting for You Page 4
