by Gary Paulsen
“Kevin’s setting up speed dates with the cutest people from other schools at the cakewalk tonight. Pass it on.” By lunchtime, someone had even told me about the speed date/cakewalk that I couldn’t miss. Everyone was psyched.
I studied the laminated cakewalk instruction sheet. Basic info—numbers had been taped to the floor. People walked from one number to another while the music played. When the music stopped, the master of ceremonies, me, drew a number from a bowl, and the person with the winning number got the cake. Easy enough and plenty of room for improvement to suit my purposes.
What I decided to do was to have two concentric circles, one pink for girls and the other blue for boys. When the music played, the boys’ circle would move to the left, the girls’ circle to the right; when the music stopped, everyone had one minute to meet and talk to the person opposite them. From time to time, I’d call numbers and give away cakes to keep from getting stuck with a mountain of devil’s food.
It was a good day to be me. I’m sure everyone felt that way.
I got there early to bring the cakes to the room from the cafeteria refrigerator and set them on the display tables and tape down the colored circles. It didn’t take much work to put my brilliant plan into motion.
I had a line of customers out the door and down the hall as soon as the fair started. I was turning the music on and off and pulling numbers as fast as I could. I looked up and saw that Katie had arrived and had taken over handing out bakery stuff to the winners for me. I waved a thank-you to her and she nearly dropped a cake before turning away quickly.
Sparks flew all over the place. I had to be the most popular event at the whole fun fair. I’d never seen so many people in one room before. And everyone was having a good time and meeting new people except my buddies, who were standing at the side of the art room like the wall all of a sudden needed a lot of help to stay upright.
What is wrong with these guys? I thought. They can’t just stand there, they have to exert themselves, be a part of what’s going on around them. If it’s one thing I hate, it’s people who miss the obvious.
Tina walked into the room just as things were getting really crazy. “Hey, Kev, great event.” At least I think that’s what she said; the room was so loud that I couldn’t eavesdrop on my buddies Dash and Wheels, who were finally talking to the cute blondes from St. Agnes. How was I supposed to collect information about talking to girls?
At least I didn’t fall over or say something stupid.
And I’d watched Cash collect phone numbers from a ton of girls who went to different schools. What a flirt. Tina will thank me someday for setting up the cakewalk and showing her his true colors. If, of course, she even remembers him once we’re a couple.
The Scientific Mind Is Sometimes Clueless
pon reflection, the speed-dating thing on Friday night had been a horrible debacle—for me, at least. I’d been so busy that I hadn’t learned anything of value, and the face-to-face thing, for me if not for everyone else, hadn’t worked out. My buddies Dash and Wheels, though, had dates for Saturday night with the St. Agnes girls they’d met on numbers 25 and 16.
I hadn’t slept all night and was up really early Saturday morning, pacing around my bedroom. I called in sick to work because I knew I needed a new brilliant idea. I’ll be honest, I was starting to freak out.
I was wandering around my room, deep in thought, when I tripped over my computer cord.
I had it: Computer dating.
I was seeing the commercials on television all the time, so it had to work. Not that I wanted to meet anyone on the computer—I’d already met the girl of my dreams—but I could study a site and learn, because I needed help quick and what’s quicker than the Internet? Nothing.
I logged on to a site and started reading the questionnaire: “Where do you want to be in 5 years?” Dumb question—I want to be a freshman in college, and I can barely figure out where I’ll be five hours from now.
“Do you want children?” Uh no, ick. I’d made a mess of the flour baby project in social studies last term; I was supposed to pretend the sack of flour was a baby and never put it down, but I kept losing mine. I was clearly not father material, at least not at this time.
I scanned the rest of the questions, and all that did was make me more panicky than ever because I realized that if I didn’t land Tina now and lock her down on the forever-after thing, my future would be filled with serious questions about political and religious beliefs, my feelings about money and material possessions, and my goals and aspirations. Snore. I had to get Tina to be my girlfriend before she started wanting to know about all that boring stuff.
The dating site was the dumbest thing I’d done yet, and I was discouraged for a second. But then I remembered that not all experiments prove their hypotheses, and that frequently the results gained, although not what was expected, are still valuable. That must have been what had happened here. And the book about science said it was important to know when to abandon a faulty line of thinking. I shut down the computer, grabbed some leftover pizza from the fridge and headed off to pick up JC at Betsy’s house and play lacrosse. Nothing like whacking the crap out of your opposition with a stick to clear a guy’s head.
I had a great morning. My team got creamed, but it didn’t really matter because guys are so easy to get along with. You never have to worry about what they’re thinking or how they’re feeling. You just have to pass the ball and get out of the way.
JC was an awesome player—fast, didn’t hog the ball or try to make points when he should have been giving an assist. We had a blast. It was the first truly peaceful time I’d spent all week. I was bruised and battered after the game—it’s a rough sport and I felt like I’d been pummeled—but I was ready to go out there and try a new approach to winning Tina’s heart.
Because I’d seen that some of the guys had girlfriends on the sidelines and I wanted Tina to stand on the edge of the field and watch me play lacrosse. It would be so great, and I had a feeling deep in my gut that it was my destiny. I couldn’t give up now. No matter how discouraged I was, I had to press on. True scientists never, ever quit.
As I walked home from the lacrosse game, I faced a cold, hard truth: I still had no idea whatsoever what girls thought about guys and dating. Maybe the secret of figuring out romance wasn’t to study couples or guys alone or even to try to set up another girl on another date, but to get inside a girl’s head. It was time for me, Kevin Lucas Spencer, to get out there and ask direct questions. Maybe. Go directly to the source and speak to a real girl I actually know. A girl who knows everything and has answers to all the questions and a few that haven’t been asked yet.
I was going to ask Katie Knowles for help.
She’s frighteningly brilliant. The only reason I hadn’t gone to her again since lunch on Monday was that she doesn’t like me. Well, truth be told, she hates my stinking guts. I’d have to be a fool not to notice the way she squinched up her eyes real tight and wrinkled her nose like I smelled bad and looked right through me when I was near her. Except that I’d noticed, this past week, that she was starting to warm up to me.
We have a history of … unfortunate misunderstandings, and she holds a grudge. Well, actually, she feels I take advantage of her every time I can, and she isn’t wrong.
But this was different; I wasn’t going to try to get her to do anything, and she’d be flattered that I was turning to her for answers. People like to think you think they’re smart. And Katie really is. I’ve seen her stump teachers.
I texted her: “u free 4 a smoothie?”
She didn’t respond in the spirit in which I made the offer: “WHO IS THIS?”
Geez, even her texts sound bossy. But she probably didn’t have my number in her address book. However, that was about to change. I was going to learn about girls and put things right between Katie and me. I am a great multitasker.
I texted back: “Kev.” I left off the “duh.” “ill b rite over 2 get u.”
&
nbsp; Then I turned off my phone in case she was going to text back “NO NEVER.”
She looked nervous when she answered the door. I figured it was because she didn’t want her neighbors to see her with me. I almost offered to walk ten feet ahead of her so no one would think we were together. I’m a thoughtful guy.
We headed to the Juiceteria and I made a mental note: Next time ask for some sort of discount for bringing in all this business. Katie said thank you when I paid for her smoothie. Making peace is always a good idea.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn she was a little shy.
“I have feelings for someone and I don’t know what to do.” Best I just blurt out the truth so there would be no room for misunderstanding.
“You have feelings?”
“Yes.”
“For a girl?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Who else could I tell?”
“Oh …”
“I’m a little embarrassed because I don’t know what to say or do and … this girl … is so obviously better than me that I don’t even know where to start to tell her how amazing and smart and beautiful she is.”
“Oh.” Katie looked at me for a long moment, took a breath and then said, in a soft voice, “I think I understand your dilemma.”
“You do?”
“Yes … and I feel the same way.”
“You do?”
“I didn’t know until earlier this week when you came over to sit with Connie and me during lunch, but once you put it out there and I examined my own feelings, well, I guess if you can come clean, so can I.”
Whoa.
“What are you talking about?”
“You. Me.” She blushed and dropped her eyes. Oh no. “Us.”
She thinks we’re on a date?
She’s fallen for me?
How can this be possible?
Hunh.
I should have recognized that my charm could be overpowering. Also, I’d asked her out, picked her up at home and paid for her smoothie.
Okay. Be delicate, sensitive, pick the right words, let her down easy, show her how concerned and caring a guy I am.
“Oh, hey, hold on there, you’ve got this all wrong. I just meant to pick your brain because you’re the smartest—”
“Pick. My. Brain.” I’m sure there are surgical scalpels less pointed than Katie’s words.
“Uh, well, not exactly, I know that sounds a little harsh—”
“Not as harsh as using me. A habit of yours.”
“You’ve got me there.” I smiled, trying for charming self-deprecation.
“I should have known you were setting me up again.”
“No! Wait, I never meant—”
“You never mean anything, Kevin, that’s the problem.”
I opened my mouth, but she cut me off. “I was an idiot to forget that you always have ulterior motives.”
She got up so fast she bumped the table, knocking over both of our cups. She left and I sat there with a lapful of smoothies. Once again, I’d messed everything up. I don’t know how this keeps happening to me, but as Katie said, it’s become a habit.
Not my best one, either.
The Scientific Mind Could Learn a Lot from Markie
know that Auntie Buzz believes that divorce is a very special thing between a man and a woman and it should not be trifled with by outsiders, but I couldn’t help noticing that Markie’s parents didn’t seem so divorce-friendly all of a sudden.
They were sitting in the kitchen talking, instead of both clearing out of Markie’s house while I was babysitting Saturday afternoon.
After the scene in the Juiceteria with Katie, I’d slunk home, taken a shower and changed. I was feeling really down and was happy when Markie’s mom called, asking if I was free to babysit. I was looking forward to an afternoon with Markie. No matter what’s going on, he always makes me feel better.
It really is Markie’s house now; since his parents split up, they take turns moving in and out according to their custody schedule. They rented an apartment a few blocks away. When I got to the house that afternoon, Markie’s dad had just pulled up and Markie’s mom was about to leave—they both carried overnight bags—but they both looked like they had no place else better to go but weren’t about to send me home either. I guessed I could keep Markie occupied while they talked.
Markie’s parents.
Interesting.
That would be my next experiment: to reunite Markie’s parents! Granted, I’d never broken up with anyone and I wasn’t planning to ever break up with Tina once we got together, but this could be a good chance to collect some useful relationship information.
I wasn’t going to make the same mistake I’d made with my parents and try to orchestrate quality time. Markie’s parents looked happy enough just sitting at the table. But what if I helped to remind them of the good times? I could do that. I sat in their living room and tried to come up with a way to bring those old feelings back for them.
Markie was still talking about the Serengeti documentary. “… and then the dung beetle rolls up dung—the man on the movie said dung is feces, but it looked like poopies to me, Dutchdeefuddy. Some of them eat the dung, some bury it and some live in it. Ick.”
Markie.
Parents go all soft and mushy over their babies. Markie was a little too old now, and a whole lot too loud, and way too gross, to make his parents all sentimental. But there had to be baby pictures somewhere in the house. I am awesome at presentations. I have never gotten anything less than an A– when poster board is involved. So—bazinga! I’d make a poster of the life and times of Markie’s family. Guaranteed to melt his parents’ hearts.
“Markie!” He was sitting on the floor, drawing pictures of bugs and turds.
“What, Dutchdeefuddy?”
“Baby pictures of you, bud. Where are they?”
“In the basement. C’mon, I’ll show you. Can I help?”
“Counting on it, big guy, couldn’t do it without you.” He beamed and took my hand, leading me downstairs to a small room with a large table and an even larger collection of shoe boxes. Full of pictures. I started going through the boxes, which were dated and arranged in chronological order. Markie’s mother had apparently taken enough photographs of Markie that I could make a flip book of them and see him crawling across the living room floor, inch by inch. On the shelves behind the table were a couple dozen empty photo albums and about four cubic tons of colored paper, stickers, fancy scissors and something called “archival-quality” glue, all still in their packages. Clearly, Markie’s mom had intended to scrapbook Markie’s entire life. Why she didn’t just leave them on the computer and make a slide show as her screensaver like any normal twenty-first-century citizen, I’ll never know. But moms can be old-fashioned about “preserving memories.” I only know that phrase because there was an open book next to the shoe boxes, Preserving Memories for a Lifetime: Scrappin’ with Salley Sue Sullivan.
I’d pull a sampling of photos of happy times with Markie and his folks and make a poster, reminding them how a divorce would mess that up forever. I could use a flattened cardboard box as the poster board.
“Okay, let’s find some vacation pictures and holidays and special events.” Markie started pawing through the boxes next to me.
“Here.” Markie handed me a picture of him as a mini-toddler screaming bloody murder on his father’s lap; his face was all red and his mouth wide open midscream, and he was twisting out of his dad’s grip, trying to get away.
“Oh, um, really? You want this picture?”
“Yeah, it’s funny.”
“Okay, but try to find some pictures of you guys on vacation at the beach or in front of the Christmas tree. You know, something fun.”
“Here.” He thrust out a photo of him as a baby, sleeping in his crib with his butt in the air in that weird way babies do, sucking his
thumb.
“Kinda boring, isn’t it?”
“I look happy.” And, I thought, I’m sure your folks were happy you weren’t making any noise. Wise choice.
I kept searching through the boxes, starting to get a little frantic that I couldn’t find the quintessential pictures of good times.
“Here.” Markie was smiling at a picture of his parents sitting on deck chairs in the backyard. At least I think it was his parents; it was kind of hard to tell because their heads had been cropped off. “I took this.”
“Cool, headless zombie parents.” Markie’s eyes widened and I hurried to say: “Sorry, buddy, I didn’t mean that. It’s a great picture.”
He started bouncing up and down in that way that means he’s either really excited or I’m about to have to find him dry cargo pants. “Put some of my art with the pictures!”
“Couldn’t hurt; go get your stuff, Picasso, and let’s see what we can do.”
What was with these people? I had never seen a more boring collection of photos, and that included my Great-aunt Blanche’s daily pictures showing how her knee replacement scar healed. I was looking at a picture of Markie’s parents’ car when Markie trundled back downstairs with a cardboard box.
“Here’s my turkey that I made tracing my hand for Thanksgiving. See, my preschool teacher wrote all I told her I was thankful for on the finger-feathers: Mommy and Daddy, Dutchdeefuddy, saying the alphabet in burps, TV and the loud noise I make when I bang on my wagon with a shovel.”
“Now you’re getting what I’m looking for, Markie. Good job, pal.”
“I want this on the poster too.”
“What is it?” I looked at a ripped and crumpled piece of paper with some crayon scribbles on it. “It doesn’t look special.”
“Not everything special looks special,” he told me.
“What?” As usual, Markie was on to something.
“Sometimes the best things aren’t perfect. That’s what Miss Rita says at preschool. She says: ‘Don’t worry about doing things right, just have fun.’ ”
