The Downside of Being Up (8 page)

Well, it was a good relationship while it lasted, I thought, but now that I had just proven to be the biggest putzwad she'd ever met, I guess it was back to the Land of I-Have-No-Idea-How-to-Talk-to-Girls for another few hundred years.

Allison wrinkled her nose. I wondered if Guinness World Records had a category for the shortest relationship in middle school history.

A teacher walking down the hallway checked his cell phone. A girl with curly hair and glasses took a drink from a water fountain. Time stood completely still.

“Oh,” said Allison, unwrinkling her nose. “Then hi.”

“Or should I say, hi-hi?” she added.

“Hi-hi?” I asked, unsure of where she was going with this.

“You know, so that people feel hello-ed enough,” she told me. “Maybe we should just say hi-hi to each other instead of just hi, so that each of us feels hello-ed enough every time we see each other.”

“Good idea,” I said, my heart filling with hope. “I like it.”

She smiled again, hitting me with a thousand watts of super-teeth. I melted like a marshmallow in a campfire.

“Hi-hi,” she said, starting our conversation over from the top.

“Hi-hi,” I replied, and I realized I was smiling, too.

Gulp.
I was out of other things to say. It was like I had played my best card and miraculously it had worked. Now I was empty, totally and completely out of other stuff to talk about. Holy cow, I really didn't have any idea how to chat with a girl. How come school didn't offer classes on that?

Luckily, Allison picked up the slack.

“Were you going to ask me something?” she said.

“Um, yeah,” I stammered.

The thing I don't like about some of the girls at my school is that so many of the good-looking ones were snobbish and pretty much more concerned with their hair than anything else. But even though I'd only known Allison for about two weeks, she seemed different. Sure, she painted her fingernails and wore a lot of cool bracelets, but she didn't wear gobs of makeup, and I never saw her staring into one of those pocket mirrors that the other girls were always looking into.

Especially when there's only two minutes left in class. That's when you always see the pocket mirrors come out so that the bratty girls can make sure they look absolutely perfect in the halls.

Matter of fact, that's what gave me the idea last week to try the Pocket Mirror Test out on Allison.

See, Allison and I only had one class together, her dad's, so in order to run the Pocket Mirror Test, I had to find a spy. I chose Stephanie Teemer, a string-bean eighth grader who had really religious parents and a candy addiction. Sweets and sugary foods were all she ever ate, but her parents thought too many sweets were the path to the devil, so they made her give it up cold turkey. But since Stephanie had Allison in both her history and science class, and she was always on the lookout as to where she could score stuff like licorice and suckers and jelly beans, I thought I might be able to strike a deal to get the info I wanted.

Stephanie told me it would take six packs of Now and Laters, eight strawberry lollipops, two boxes of Hot Tamales and three packs of Mike and Ikes, plus a protractor, for her to do my dirty work.

I agreed, no problemo. Really, what did I care if she ate sugar nuggets for lunch? We met last Wednesday behind the basketball court.

“So what's she do when there's only two minutes left in class?” I asked Stephanie.

“You're not like a stalker, are you?” Stephanie was a full foot taller than I was.

I reached into the bag and held up a Giant Tootsie Roll, the kind that was as long as a table leg, and wiggled it in front of her face.

“Did I mention that I put a few little bonus treats into the bag?”

Stephanie looked down at the sack I was holding and licked her lips.

“Sometimes, she talks to a neighbor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And a few times I saw her copy down the homework assignment from the board.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“And once she sneezed.”

“Is that it?” I asked. “No pocket mirror?”

“Pocket mirror? What are you talking about? Now gimme the goods, a deal's a deal.” Stephanie grabbed the bag from me. “And don't ask me to do this anymore. It's creepy.”

“You sure there were no pocket mirrors?” I asked again.

“None,” she said as she ripped open a bag of Sour Patch Kids and began to chug. “No pocket mirrors at all.”

A minute later, her mouth was full of sugar. When the sour taste hit her tongue, Stephanie's eyes rolled back into her head like an alien.

“Mmmm,” she moaned.

That kid had issues, I thought. But my business with her was done. Allison had passed the Pocket Mirror Test.

Of course, I did the Pocket Mirror Test myself on Allison, but in math class. Her dad was the teacher, and since he was so strict, it made sense for her to behave. After all, if Sheriff Mustache couldn't control his own daughter, how was he ever gonna be able to control an entire room full of other people's kids?

Back in the school hallway, I looked into Allison's eyes. They were the prettiest green I'd ever seen.

“I was going to ask you . . . ,” I said.

The inside of my stomach felt like there was a game of hopscotch being played in my belly.

“I was going to ask you . . .” The words about the Big Dance were just so close. “I was gonna to ask you . . . um . . . about your math homework.”

“About my math homework?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Yeah, about your math homework. I just wanted to see if you, ya know, if you did it or maybe you needed any help with it or something?”

“Uh,” she replied. “You do know that my father is the math teacher, right?”

“Oh, of course, of course.” I tried to play it cool. “I just wanted to be sure that, you know, you felt like you had enough mathematical support just in case, you know, any mathematical challenges came your way. You know, mathematically, that is.”

Suddenly, I felt a sharp elbow in the back.

“Hey, boner boy, knock, knock.”

“Huh? What?” I turned around.

Oh no,
I thought.

“I said knock, knock, weenie lips.”

Nathan Ox pushed his giant chest right up against me. I swear that kid needed a bra. However, since Allison was standing right there, I figured I'd play along and try to act all cool.

“Okay,” I said as if Nathan and I were old friends. “Um, who's there?” I turned to Allison. “Nathan is such a kidder.”

She half smiled.

“Coco,” Nathan blurted.

Call it a hunch, but something told me I didn't really want to hear the second part of this joke. “Um . . .” I tried to remain composed. “Coco who, Nathan?”

I smiled at Allison.
No worries, I got this.

“Coco-NUTS!” he yelled, and then he punched me in my lima beans. I immediately folded over and turned blue.

“Have a nice trip to Planet Balls-in-Your-Throat, nut nose!” Nathan said with a laugh. Then he walked away.

Hunched over, I looked up at Allison and mustered up a grin.

“Yep, such a kidder.” My voice was so high it sounded as if I had just sucked down a balloon full of helium. “See ya.”

I shuffled away to go find a place where I could catch my breath. However, it was really tough to walk off in a cool-looking manner after my potatoes had just been mashed by the school butt-wipe.

Bing-bong
. Nutrition Break was over. Just like my chance with Allison.

I walked into my house feeling smaller than a tadpole. A tadpole with a boner.

Jeez, these things were relentless. Up, down. Up, down. Up, down. What in the world was a guy supposed to do?

“Bobby, I've decided that you need more discipline,” Dad said before I had even put my backpack down. Mom was nowhere to be found, and Dad was never the one home when I got back from school, so I knew something was up. “You can either wash the car or you can mow the lawn, but you cannot not wash the car and not mow the lawn. Make your play.”

Mom had put him up to this, no doubt. I readjusted the stiffy in my pants in a way that made it look like I was just reaching into my pocket to feel for a set of keys or something.

After all, I knew all the hide-your-woody tricks.

“Whatever you want, Dad,” I said.

“Now trust me,” my father said. “This is for your own good and you'll . . . Excuse me. What'd you say?”

“Doesn't matter.” I tossed my stuff down. “I'll do whatever. You choose.”

He studied me for a moment.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothin'.”

“Hey, slugger,” he said, softening. “Come on. What's up?”

He used to call me slugger all the time, back when we played baseball and did stuff together, but with him working so much and me developing a permanent case of erection-itis, well, he hadn't called me it in a long, long time.

And I can't say I missed it. Fact is, these days I sorta thought my dad was a goober.

However, I was desperate. But was I really desperate enough to seek help from my lame-o father?

“It's a girl,” I said.

I guess I was.

“A girl?” he replied.

“Yeah, a girl.”

He motioned toward the couch. “Come. Sit. Chat.”

Suddenly, I regretted saying anything.

“C'mon, slugger,” he repeated. “Sit down.”

I let out a sigh and trudged over to the couch.

“You're not gonna give me a birds-and-bees talk, are you?” I asked. “'Cause that would be, like, awkward.”

“Just sit down and tell me what's up.”

Dad loosened his tie and kicked off his shoes. He wore tan socks that perfectly matched his tan shirt.

I told him all about Allison. About my feelings for her. About how I had the tingles for her and about how cool she was and about how green her eyes were. And also about how I really wanted to ask her to the Big Dance but chickened out and now felt just so miserable and stupid and loserly.

I let it all out. Dad didn't interrupt once. It must have been a record length of silence for him.

“I can help you,” he said once I'd finished.

“You can?” I said.

“Yep, I can.” He sounded so confident and sure. Maybe my dad wasn't such a goober after all?

“Okay.”

“You see, Bobby, what you need to realize is that our family are second-place people. We're not the number ones in life. We do best when we play it safe. Take the conservative route. Don't stretch. If you don't expect too much in this world, you won't ever be too disappointed. The stuff of champions and victors, that's TV, that's not the Connor family.”

I looked at him sideways. He leaned forward to make sure he was being clear.

“The problem you're having is that you're a second-class guy chasing a first-class girl. Fix your expectations and you'll fix the problem.”

“Stay within your limits, Bobby. Know who you are and you'll avoid a whole lot of troubles in this world, son. That's how I picked your mom, you know. No stretching. No reaching. No head all up in the stars,” he said. “See, she and I are in the same category. We're both down here,” he said, holding his hand a little lower than his waist. “Does that make sense?”

“Um, yeah,” I stuttered.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, Dad. Um, thanks,” I said, standing up.

“Don't mention it, Bobby. Remember, aim low. Play conservative. Grab the stuff that's easily within your reach and let the rest of the junk go,” he said. “You get more of what you try for if you don't try for that much, if you know what I mean. It's a recipe for life that will take you far.”

“Yeah, Dad,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Don't mention it, slugger.”

Dad reclined in his chair. I could tell that he felt good about just having had a real man-to-man talk with his son. It seemed like he felt—what's the word?—satisfied.

I went straight to my room, closed my door and opened up the school's e-link phone directory. A moment later I dialed up Allison on video chat.

Yep, Dad's words had set me straight. I knew exactly what I needed to do.

“Hey, Allison,” I said when her face came on the computer screen.

It took a second for her to realize who I was.

“Don't you mean hi-hi?” she said with a thousand-watt smile once she saw it was me.

“Oh yeah, right,” I said. “Hi-hi. Look,” I began. “You know today when I saw you in the halls and asked about your math homework?”

“Uh-huh,” she answered.

“Well, I don't care about your stupid math homework. What I really wanted to do was ask you to the Big Dance, but I chickened out because I didn't have the guts,” I said. “But now I do have the guts, so I'm gonna tell you three things: One . . .” I took a deep breath. “I think you're beautiful. Two,” I continued, not letting her get in a word edgewise, “I think you're a really nice, really cool person. And three,” I added, not slowing down for anything, “you make me feel, I don't know, good on the inside when I see you in the halls or in class and stuff like that. I mean, it's like, I don't know, I just think you're special.”

I paused.

Maybe I was making a fool of myself? Maybe I was creating yet another embarrassing, shameful, every-kid-in-the-school-is-going-to-hear-about-this-and-laugh-at-me moment? Maybe tomorrow the entire universe would have yet another reason to snort, giggle and hoot at Bobby Connor.