How (Not) to Find a Boyfriend

by Allyson Valentine

  I am grateful to find the commons dimly lit and the music playing loudly enough that conversation will be close to impossible. People gather in little clusters around the tall, round café-style tables that line the edges of the room. The tables are covered in tablecloths that look like remnants from the drill team’s dresses, and in the center of each is a plastic trout anchoring a half-dozen helium balloons, purple and gold, of course.

  The long, rectangular food table sees a lot of action. It’s covered with standard party food—sandwich-y stuff, chips, faded carrot sticks with dip. There are tubs filled with assorted soft drinks, and the centerpiece is a cake in the shape of a giant fish. Someone has given the fish a sexual identity with a well-placed carrot stick and a couple of radishes.

  “The place looks nice,” shouts Mitch.

  I nod. It looks like the commons, disguised as a cheesy dance hall. Purple and gold streamers loop from the walls to a spot in the center of the ceiling where lights bounce off a mirrored disco ball.

  “Do you want to dance?” he yells.

  “No.”

  Just a few brave couples have ventured onto the makeshift wooden dance floor. Chelsey slow dances with her boyfriend even though the DJ is spinning a hip-hop tune. Beside them Frank, from my original lab table, dances with his date. They look very cute in color-coordinated tuxedos.

  “Let’s sit over there.” Mitch points and I follow him to a table near the food. “Punch?” he shouts, making a motion like he is drinking from a small cup. I nod, and sit by myself, watching groups of people arrive. Krista and Dex show up with Jake and his date. Krista’s hair has seen some serious beauty parlor time and looks like it has more hidden nuts and bolts than my corsage does. That said—she is stunning. The red corsage on her wrist matches not only her dress, but her shoes, her hair clips and the boutonniere pinned to Dex’s lapel.

  Jake, in a basic black tuxedo, could be the cover boy for Hot High School Football Player magazine. His date, who is pretty in an emaciated fashion-slave kind of way, is one of the freshmen I always see in his wake. Wearing a trancelike smile, she clings to Jake’s arm like a piece of lint. I watch people watching them and a pang of jealousy zaps me. That could have been me.

  Jake turns to say something to his date and sees me. Instead of flashing me the eager grin I’d have gotten from him a few weeks ago, he simply shakes his head. I drop my chin. As awful as I feel for myself, I’m glad for Jake that he’s with someone who truly wants to be with him.

  Over by the punch bowl, Mitch talks to Swordhands, then points back at me. Swordhands is with a mousy-looking girl from the fencing team. I should warn her about his invasive, coffee-flavored tongue.

  All at once I feel powerfully sorry for myself. What have I done? The Mitch date couldn’t possibly get any worse. After the Chelsey ordeal I am a cheerleading pariah with a PQ that has plummeted into negative numbers. And I’m no closer to Adam. If anything, I’ve driven him further away.

  The evening with Mitch drags on. Whenever anyone walks by our table, Mitch leans in close and laughs like I have just said something pithy and amusing. The kind of thing you might say to a guy you actually like. Highlights wanders past with her date and does a double take. A freshman from the yearbook committee stops and takes a picture—Mitch scootches in and plants his lips on my earlobe just before she snaps the photo.

  Gaak! Mitchell’s lips, his pale, disgusting lips, are touching my earlobe! I jerk my head away and grab an antibacterial wipe from my purse.

  “That’ll go right into the center spread,” he says, beaming, totally oblivious to the fact that I am practically scrubbing the skin off my earlobe.

  Two different guys from my French class stop by the table and ask if I would like to dance. Each time Mitch throws his arm around my shoulder. “She doesn’t like to dance.”

  I need a break. I slide out of my chair. “I’ve got to use the restroom.”

  “I’ll walk you there.”

  “I am fully capable of getting myself to and from the bathroom,” I insist.

  A look of concern flashes across his face. “You’d better come back.” He taps his watch. “This date isn’t over until eleven.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of leaving,” I say, dreaming of leaving.

  While I’m in the bathroom stall, a couple of girls come into the restroom to gossip and fix their makeup. I come out to wash my hands and find Becca and Gillian standing at the mirror. It’s like a scene from a bad teen novel. Gillian stops brushing her hair and gives me a frosty look. “Really hot date,” she says. Becca laughs and smooths on some berry-colored lip gloss. They’re still laughing as I leave.

  I take a long, circuitous route back to the table, finally cutting across the dance floor, which has gotten packed. I am literally run over by Jazmine when she spins into my path. I land, sprawled on the floor.

  “Oh, look, someone spilled something on the floor,” she says, then spins back into her boyfriend’s arms.

  Lying there, facedown, it’s like falling off the pedestal all over again, complete with the audible gasp of the crowd. Only this time, Krista doesn’t race to my aid, though I’m sure she sees me. Instead, Frank and his date scrape me off the floor. And when I get up, nobody claps.

  Mitch looks at his watch when I finally return. “That took seventeen minutes.”

  “I have my period,” I tell him.

  He flinches. “Oh. Do you, uh, need some more punch?” he asks, because everyone knows that girls who are menstruating need extra punch.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  He has just left the table when the DJ takes a break. The dance floor clears. Across the room Krista is on Dex’s lap. She sees me, says something to Dex and looks away. Jake peeks at me over Lint Girl’s shoulder. Can I possibly make it until eleven o’clock? I fold my arms on the table, rest my cheek on them and close my eyes.

  “Nora?”

  My eyelids drift open. I roll my head to one side.

  Adam, sitting one table over, points to the chair vacated by Mitch. “May I?”

  Adam. Is here. Adam Hood is here, at the dance?!

  I jerk upright.

  And he wants to come sit by me? Nora the Mitch Dater? Nora the Hamlet Paper Cheater? To quote the Bard from Act 1, Scene 2: “It is not, nor it cannot come to good.”

  What do I do? I look from him, with his warm, generous smile, to the empty chair, to the line for punch, which is huge. Mitch is at the end of the line chatting with some yearbook people. I lick my finger and smooth my eyebrows. I give my strapless dress a quick up-tug. I gesture toward the empty chair.

  “Of course.”

  Adam joins me. His hair is tucked back behind his ears with tapered waves that play peek-a-boo from behind his earlobes. Back in late August, when his skin glowed with a summer tan, I didn’t notice the three little freckles that line up to create a perfect isosceles triangle, cheek, cheek, chin. He’s freshly shaven and smells coconutty and clean. If Jake is the cover boy for Hot High School Football Player magazine, Adam is the cover boy for the magazine titled Hot Every Other Category of Guy.

  Black jacket with satin lapels, black pants with a side stripe in matching satin—I am mere inches from the luckiest tuxedo alive because it sits this close to his skin.

  “Wow. You look really pretty,” he says.

  I smile, grateful for his kindness. “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  He pinches his lapels. “Think I should buy one?”

  “Absolutely.” I watch my finger trace nervous circles on the tablecloth. Adam breaks the silence. “Are you having a nice time?”

  I consider. “Nice might be too strong a word.”

  He is intrigued. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I swallow, afraid to ask, but I have to. “Were you—were you at the game today?”

  His grin is sheepish. “Will you forgive me if I admit that I wasn’t?”

  My whole body exhales. “Forgiven,” I say. “Totally forgiven.”r />
  “Eric and I went to his house and played chess,” he says. “It’s not that I have anything against football, but that first game was a little—crazy.”

  “Not every guy is hounded by girls asking him to sign their foreheads,” I say.

  His blush is visible even in this dim light. “I think I’ve mentioned before—I don’t like crowds. I enjoyed the parade, though,” he says. “Did Joshie tell you I saw him there?”

  “He shared his Jolly Ranchers with me.”

  Adam smiles. His gaze drifts out to the dance floor. “I’d ask you to dance, but you already know I’m a pathetic dancer. Anyway, I would never drag you onto the dance floor without asking Jake’s permission.”

  I sit up straighter. “Jake?”

  “Yeah. You know, the big, burly football player I always see you with?” he says—half smile, full dimple.

  I am quiet. The fractional smile leaves Adam’s face. “Aren’t you and Jake—?”

  I look down at my lap. The roses at my waist are broken and bruised from my earlier fall. “No.”

  “I see.”

  That’s all he says. Unasked questions hang in the space between us. Was I going out with Jake but we broke up? And if I’m not here with Jake, then who am I here with? I choose to leave the unasked questions unanswered. Instead, for this brief blip of time, I pretend that I am here with Adam. That we started the evening with a fabulous dinner at a restaurant with booths, candles and gossipy waiters who tittered about young love at the very sight of us. That we arrived here in a limousine, and after the dance, we will go back to his house, which is conveniently empty because his mother, the oncologist, had to race out to perform an emergency cancer surgery and his father, the shrink, is out talking some heartsick girl off a bridge. All alone. Me and Adam. Adam and me.

  I glance up at him. If only it really was just the two of us, but I’m here with Mitch, and—wait, who is he here with? “So, I suspect you’re probably not here alone,” I say.

  When he shakes his head, his hair untucks from his ears, framing his beautiful face. “No. I wouldn’t come to something like this by myself. I knew how much Sarah wanted to come, and that she’d only come if she had a date. So here I am.”

  I am stuck. Sarah? He says her name like I would know who she is. Is she the little redhead who sits the next table over in biology lab? Or maybe the blonde in history who always wears pink? What would Tallulah say?

  “There she is.” He waves to someone over at the refreshments table. The Teapot, resplendent in acres of gauzy purple fabric, waves back.

  Sarah. Of course. This explains Adam’s purple cummerbund and tie, and the spray of purple and yellow freesia tucked into his lapel. Who but Adam would agree to be the Teapot’s date simply to be nice. Is that why he’s here now, sitting with me? Is he just being nice?

  But this is a question I cannot dwell on because the Teapot is not the only one who sees us. Mitch surges through the crowd, punch splashing out the sides of the two cups he’s carrying. He slams them onto the table and one tips over.

  “You’re in my seat.” He glares at Adam.

  Adam holds his hands up in surrender as he shifts to standing. “Whoa. Sorry. I was just saying hi.” He looks at me, confused.

  “‘Just saying hi,’” Mitch mimics him. He raises his voice. “You can just go say hi to someone else, pal. This is my date. You understand that?”

  Oh my god. Where is the high-volume DJ when you need him? People at nearby tables stare as Mitch erupts into a full-on tantrum.

  “You know, just because a girl is sitting by herself at a table doesn’t mean she’s available for every other guy to hit on.”

  “Calm down,” says Adam. “I wasn’t hitting on her.”

  “No? Not hitting on her? Then what do you call sitting two inches away from her face and making googly eyes at her? You think I didn’t see you? I saw you! She’s with me. Got that? So back off!”

  I have not seen behavior like this outside the checkout counter at the grocery store, where there is always a lollipop or candy bar involved. Mitch’s face goes crimson, and I fully expect him to flop onto the floor and pound it with his fists. Adam looks from Mitch to me, trying to figure out who is crazier, the guy having a fit or the girl who came to the dance with him.

  For the second time today I am completely and thoroughly embarrassed. Humiliated. Ashamed. And what’s more? I’m done. Done! I cannot put up with another second of Mitch’s mitchiness. I paid my dues. I came on a date with him, and now, the date is over. I rip the corsage off my dress, pins go flying, and I hurl the thing into the puddle of spilled punch.

  “We’re done!” My voice is low and deadly serious. “This date is officially over.”

  Mitch stabs at his watch. “It’s only ten eighteen. The date ends at eleven.”

  My arms are so rigid at my sides that they shake. “Wrong. The date ends now.”

  “Fine!” shouts Mitch. “Just go ahead and spend the rest of the dance with your little boyfriend. See if I care.”

  The Teapot is conspicuously quiet, keeping her distance. Adam speaks in a calm, collected voice. “I’m not her boyfriend.”

  “Oh-HO!” says Mitch. “But she wishes you were. That’s how this whole thing got started.”

  “Stop it!” I shriek. It’s like an accident scene. All around us, people gape over one another’s heads and shoulders, eager to witness the carnage.

  Mitch snarls. “The date was supposed to end at eleven. You broke the date; you broke the deal.”

  “The deal?” Adam looks to me for an explanation but I have none to offer. Could it make things any worse if I stuck my fingers in his ears and sang, “LA LA LA LA LA” to keep him from hearing what Mitch has to say?

  Mitch stabs his finger in my direction. “She agreed on a date if I would give her a copy of your schedule so she could switch into your classes.”

  I suspect Adam looked dumbfounded. I suspect the cheerleaders hovering nearby wondered how a loser like me ever made it onto the squad. I suspect Mitch wiped his hands on his jacket, happy to be rid of me. But I didn’t see any of it because I ran for the door.

  Fifteen

  OF ALL THE NIGHTS TO LEAVE home without my phone! I beeline to the office to call Mom for a rescue ride, but the office door is locked. I try to slink past the side doors leading to the commons, hoping I can find a phone in the library, but I’m stopped by the wood shop teacher, Mr. Schoonover. He’s a serial chaperone at school dances, and I find him kicked back in a chair by the door watching a movie on his phone.

  “Whoa, there. Slow down. Are you Nora?” he asks.

  “Um, yes, that’s me.”

  “A fella was just out here looking for ya. Hang on, I’ll go find him.” He presses his hands to his knees, preparing to push himself up.

  A fella? Mitch? Adam?

  “No!” I insist. “No—don’t go get him.”

  Still sitting, he takes in my red-rimmed eyes. My wet cheeks. He does a head-to-toe scan and stops at my waist. The waistband of Cherise’s dress is shredded where I tore off the corsage. Mr. Schoonover stares at the torn fabric and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Is everything okay?”

  “Not really.” Crap! What a time to start crying! “I need to call my mom.” I rub the wetness into my cheeks and swallow. “May I please borrow your phone?”

  His face reddens. “Did that boy hurt you?” he asks in a hushed tone. I assure him that any damage was nonphysical, and my own fault. He hands me his phone and waits with me outside until Mom shows up in her bathrobe.

  We drive in silence for a couple of minutes. “I guess it didn’t go so well with Mitch?”

  I shake my head and am soothed by the familiar smells of Mom’s car: curiously strong mints, leather cleaner, and the vanilla-scented cardboard pine tree that hangs from the rearview mirror. It has started to rain and the steady thwap-thwap-thwap of the windshield wipers helps to take the edge off.

  Mom, who has been respectfully quiet, asks, �
�Want to talk about it?”

  Another head shake.

  “Guys aren’t always all they’re cracked up to be,” she says. She quotes her favorite comedienne, Lizz Winstead: “I think, therefore I’m single.”

  It feels good to laugh a little bit.

  We stop at a light and she studies me. “You’re sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. I just want to go home and sleep.”

  Bill and Joshie are already in bed. Copernicus greets us at the door with a pair of Joshie’s socks in his mouth. It’s after eleven—my date with Mitch is officially over.

  Upstairs, I toss the dress into a heap on the floor. I climb into bed too tired to wash my face or brush my teeth, but lie awake because my brain is a television that plays the world’s worst reruns, over and over and over.

  Adam being sweet.

  Mitch having a tantrum.

  Adam looking concerned.

  Mitch blowing the whistle.

  Adam contemplating whether he needs to get a restraining order against me.

  In desperation I flip on the light and riffle through my book bag for reading material that will make the reruns stop. My hand settles on the chess book from Dad, and I am curious. Ben Franklin has plenty to say about how to plan your moves, but does he have any wisdom to share about what to do when things have totally fallen apart? I scan his essay and find

  We learn by Chess the habit of not being discouraged by present appearances in the state of our affairs, the habit of hoping for a favourable change, and that of persevering in the search of resources.

  Franklin says that no matter how crappy things seem, chess players should always

  Continue the contest to the last.

  In that weird state between asleep and awake I find myself on the giant chessboard painted on the gymnasium roof. It’s nighttime, and I’m dressed like a queen, in a crown and a salmon-pink gown with a bunch of radishes pinned to the waistband. I’m chased from square to square by a red-haired rook with no eyebrows. From the edge of the board I catch a glimpse of Benjamin Franklin dressed in purple and gold. He shakes a set of pom-poms and shouts a cheer: