The Loser's Guide to Life and Love (4 page)

I check myself out in the rearview mirror of Mom's Geo before I back out of the driveway and head for work.

“Domingo. Segunda-feira. Terça-feira.”
I try to say the days of the week with “suaveness” as well as “suavity.”

Do I look stupid? I put some gel in my hair after washing it this time, and then I slicked it back so that I would exude foreign-ness in general and Brazil-ness in particular. One way or the other, slick hair is definitely a new look for me, the boy who's as American as Velveeta cheese.

“What's up with your hair tonight, Ed?” Mom asked earlier as I floated into the kitchen wearing my newly polished wingtip shoes and grabbed a Capri Sun from the pantry.

“Yeah,” chimed in Maggie, who was squirting
strawberry syrup into a glass of milk. “What's up with your hair?”

“I'm trying something new,” I told them, bristling. “Can't anybody try something new around this house without mothers and sisters making a freaking federal case out of it?”

An idea for a scene from the yet-to-be-made movie of my life flashed through my mind.

Mom gave me a little hug. “I kind of like the old Ed. What was wrong with him?” She reached out and
touched my shining helmet of hair, after which she burst out laughing.

That's my mom for you—the World's Happiest Gal. Gershwin should write a snappy show tune about her. Too bad he's dead.

I adjust the Geo's rearview mirror and touch my hair one more time, praying like crazy that I don't look as stupid as I suspect I do. Then I slip the key in the ignition and turn on the engine.

Nothing.

I try again.

Nada.

Again.

Zip.

I check the lights and swear loudly. Somebody (okay, it was me) left them on, and now the battery is as dead as yesterday's roadkill. Dad, who's out of town, has the other car, and I need to be at work in fifteen minutes.

Ali will be there, watching to see if I make it on time.

I leap out of the car without bothering to shut the door, spring across our front lawn (ruining my newly polished wingtip shoes), and jump over the low boxwood hedge that divides our property from the O'Rourkes'. Whether he wants to or not, Quark is going to haul my sorry carcass to work.

In a flash I'm on the front porch, ringing Quark's doorbell. His dad answers and gives me an easy smile.

“Hey there, Ed,” he says.

Sometimes I wonder what Quark's dad must really and truly think about his only kid. Mr. O'Rourke was an All-American football player for Brigham Young University back in the days when Steve Young played there. He's still a big, athletic guy who looks a lot like Quark. That, however, is where the resemblance between father and son ends. Quark is a nerd, a geek, a dork.

Which I am too. Don't get me wrong. But at least I have the decency to recognize the fact. Quark, on the other hand, is completely oblivious to his own NQ (nerd quotient).

“Is Quark here?”

“He's out back, messing around with that telescope of his,” Mr. O'Rourke says with the tone of bewildered affection he always uses when he talks about Quark. He pushes open the door and invites me to walk through the house to the backyard.

Quark is looking through his telescope, even though it's still light outside.

I cut to the chase. “My car won't start. I gotta be there in fifteen minutes, or I'll get fired, Ali said. Can you take me?”

Quark doesn't answer immediately because answering immediately would show that you have some actual social skills.

Which Quark does not.

I don't mean to be unkind when I tell you this. I like Quark a lot. He and Scout are my best friends. It's just that Quark doesn't pay attention to all the little unwritten social rules that the rest of us do.

“Quark?”

He stands up to his full height. Watching Quark stand up is like watching the
Niña
, the
Pinta
, and the
Santa María
unfurl their mainsails. He's that tall.

“I heard you,” he says. “Let's go.”

 

I keep touching my hair on the way to work, still wondering if I look stupid. Although I am fixated on my hair at the moment, I do notice that Quark is performing what sounds like the drum solo from “Wipe Out” with his fingers on the steering wheel.

Okay. Guys all over America do this on a daily basis when they drive. It's written in the Handbook for American Guys that they must do drum solos on steering wheels whenever they get the chance.

But not Quark. Quark doesn't listen to music with drum solos. He listens to classical.

“What's up with you?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says.

I shrug and then throw him a question straight out of left field. “What do you know about Brazil these days, Quark?”

“I did a report on Brazil in the fifth grade,” Quark
says. “That was a few years ago, of course, but I suspect much of the information still pertains.”

“Dude! Lucky for me,” I say.

“Brazil,” begins Quark, “is a beautiful country full of rain forests that shelter a rich and varied bird population….”

 

When we pull into the Reel Life parking lot, Quark (the Brazilian bird expert) surprises me some more.

“I think I'll come inside and—you know—rent a DVD,” he says.

First the drum solo. Now this.

I'm pretty sure the last time Quark saw a movie was when he and I were kids and my mom took us to see
The Little Mermaid
at the old Villa Theater with her and Maggie. The experience put Quark off of movies for good. I think it also made him a little afraid of my mother. He gets that deer-in-the-headlights look whenever she says hello to him, like he's terrified she's going to stuff him in the trunk of her car and force him to watch
The Little Mermaid
again.

“A DVD, Quark?” I whistle as I crawl out of the car. “Wow!”

“So,” he says, slamming his door shut, “what do you recommend?”

What would
you
recommend to someone like Quark if you were me?

“Well, we have some very good documentaries,” I say.

Quark actually lets rip with a snort of contempt, which surprises me as much as the drum solo and the sudden interest in finding a good DVD. Quark is not a snorter by nature. One of the things I like best about Quark, in fact, is that he never snorts when I say something stupid. Which is often. Which is why I appreciate the way Quark usually lets my comments wash over him like waves on a beach.

“Are you okay?” I ask as we walk through the parking lot together. “You're pretty much not acting like yourself tonight.”

“I'm fine,” he says. “I just want to watch something else besides a documentary now and then. I
am
a human being, you know, Ed.”

I clutch my head as I stagger through the front door and bellow loudly (like the Elephant Man), “I'm a human being! I'm not an animal! I'M A HUMAN BEING!”

Startled, several Reel Life customers look up from the racks and stare. Quark blinks in confusion. T. Monroe purses his thin lips and shoots me a prissy look. Scout busts loose with a hearty laugh.

“Six o'clock on the money,” Ali says. “You're getting better, McIff.”

“Thanks,” I say quickly. Also respectfully. Without making eye contact.

I glance up at Quark to see if he enjoyed my impromptu Elephant Man monologue, but he isn't paying attention to me. He's way too busy looking at Scout, who's working with T. Monroe behind the front counter.

“Do you think it's a sin to accidentally swallow a fingernail you've bitten off when you're supposed to be fasting?” T. Monroe is asking Scout.

“T. Monroe is a Jesus freak,” I explain under my breath to Quark.

“Do not disrespect my man T. Monroe,” says Ali, suddenly materializing behind me and Quark. “He knows exactly who he is, and he keeps the rest of us honest.”

I mumble a hasty apology to Ali, while Quark keeps staring at Scout.

Actually, “staring” is putting it way, way, way too mildly. He is “gazing” at Scout as though she were the moon. Any minute now his eyeballs are gonna pop out and roll around the carpet.

“Scout,” I say, “you remember my neighbor, Quark.”

Scout smiles. “Sure. How are you, Quark?”

Quark stands rooted to the spot like the tallest tree in a forest of very tall trees. His mouth is slightly ajar, like the door of a large American car.

“Did you come to hang out with me and Ed, or can I actually help you find something?”

Quark talks like he's in a dream. “Yes. Thank you very much. Thank you very, very, very much, Scout.” He blushes—
blushes!
—when he says her name.

Scout gives a light shrug and a friendly smile. “No
problemo
. What kind of movies do you like?”

“Don't listen to him,” I volunteer. “He probably likes films with subtitles.”

Quark is the kind of guy who wouldn't mind reading to pass the time at a movie.

“I didn't ask you what Quark likes, Ed.” Scout frowns at me. “I asked Quark.” She bathes him in her best Employee-of-the-Month smile.

“I enjoy the so-called screwball comedies from the 1930s.” Quark says this in the exact same way a very bad actor says lines he has memorized (barely) for a very bad scene in a very bad movie. Naturally I do not believe him for a second. Screwball comedies? Please. This is clearly a term he's recently picked up while listening to NPR or surfing the 'net.

“Quark,” I say sternly. “Am I going to have to take you into the men's room and give you a swirlie? Don't stand there telling Scout you like screwball comedies. You're embarrassing yourself.”

“But I
love
screwball comedies,” Scout says, her entire countenance lighting up like a scoreboard at a soccer game. “
Topper, Bringing Up Baby, The Awful Truth
. Those are such incredibly great movies!”

“Yes,” says Quark the Liar. “I agree.”

“Which is your favorite?” Scout leans across the counter and glows at him.

“It would be difficult for me to say,” Quark muses.

“No kidding,” I say.

“I know what you mean.” Scout nods at Quark while ignoring me completely. “Although I pretty much love any film with Cary Grant in it.”

“Yes,” says Quark the Double Liar. “I agree. Cary Grant is ‘the man.'”

I groan. Do my ears deceive me?

“Hey!” Scout says, ignoring me still. “Maybe we could have a screwball comedy film festival. We could sit together in my basement, eating popcorn—the real kind, drenched in butter, not microwaved—and watch old movies for hours and hours.”

Quark's jaw unhinges again.

As for me, I just stand there in my frilly white Reel Life shirt, gaping at my two best friends. To tell you the truth, I feel like I'm watching an updated version of
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
set in Salt Lake City.

One of the really great things about Scout is that she is an Honorary Guy. She likes guy stuff, including guy movies. Whenever Ali and Scout and I have to close on a Saturday night, we'll put on a Jackie Chan flick, and Scout almost dies on the spot from pure cinematic happiness. She loves action movies. NOT screwball comedies from the 1930s.

Trust me on this one. I, Ed McIff, know Scout Arrington inside and out.

 

Quark hangs around for a good thirty minutes, shambling after Scout. If I didn't know Quark as well as I do, I'd almost say he has a thing for her.

Quark? Interested? Oh ha, frickety ha! Please don't make me laugh!

Quark finally makes a move to leave about the time a group of Trekkies dressed as their favorite characters walks through the door. Although Trekkies drive me crazy, I have to admit that the guy who's dressed as Worf looks pretty sharp. Maybe I could go as Worf to Ali's costume
ball and earn a little respect for a change.

“Dude,” I say to Worf. “Where'd you get your outfit?”

He answers me in a guttural language that sounds like the Orcs in
Lord of the Rings.

“He's speaking Klingon,” Captain Picard informs me. He turns to Worf and issues a crisp mandate. “As your commanding officer, I advise that you speak to him in his own language.”

Quark looks intrigued by this unexpected exchange between Reel Life customers, while Scout works hard to swallow a smile.

“That would be English,” I tell Worf.

“And also Brazilian,” Scout adds. “He's bilingual.”

“As am I,” Worf says. “I started teaching myself Klingon when I was in the fifth grade.”

“Impressive,” says Quark. Unlike me and Scout, he's serious.

“Everything you need to know about the language is online if you're interested,” says Worf. He turns to me. “You can rent an outfit at the Costume Shoppe on Thirty-third South, by the way.”