The Loser's Guide to Life and Love (7 page)

Quark? In love?

HOW CAN THIS BE POSSIBLE?

He's never been interested in someone before, and I can't say I blame him.

See, Quark and his father live by themselves because Quark's mother, who is UBER Lovely and Talented, left home when Quark and I were in the third grade. Why? She wanted to be an actress.

Oh. Excuse me.
Actor
.

Quark's mom really lays into people when they make that mistake.

Anyway, she was already an actor here, appearing in local television commercials and theatrical productions
in which she was always the star. Like if someone did
The Music Man
, for example, she was always the hot singing librarian.

The truth is Quark's mom has an amazingly sexy voice. I know this is kind of a sick thing to say about your best friend's mother. But it's true. Even when I was a little boy I used to like to hear her say stuff, even if it was just “Quentin! Don't wear your socks outside unless you have shoes on.”

Quark's mom wasn't all that happy in Salt Lake City, though. She wanted to be a professional actor, so she packed her bags and headed for New York City, where she (SURPRISE!) ended up getting a part in a well-known soap opera. I guess this is one of those real-life fairy tales. Quark's mom is Cinderella, and she gets to live happily ever after on the Upper West Side of Manhattan with her fluffy shih tzu named Prince Charming.

You might even know who she is, too, only I can't tell you her stage name because I have been forbidden to speak it by my own mother.

My mom hates Quark's mom, which is amazing given the fact that my mother is the original Gal with the Sunny Disposition. She laughs! She sings! She tells jokes! She does imitations! She tap-dances on the kitchen floor to liven things up, and she can still do a split, just like a Rockette! She loves everybody, even
crazy Tony down the street, who wears ski goggles in the summer and thinks aliens are trying to poison him and his one-eyed cat.

She liked Quark's mom once upon a time too. They used to jog together every morning. But then Quark's mom split.

“Why did Quark's mom go away?” I asked when it had finally become clear to me that Mrs. O'Rourke wasn't coming back home to take care of Quark. Mom and I were in the kitchen listening to the radio together. I was doing homework at the counter and Mom was peeling potatoes.

She put down her knife and looked at me hard. “She's in love, my sweet honey bunny, and when some people are in love, they think they're entitled to do whatever they want to do, no matter who they hurt.”

I scrunched up my face. “Who's Mrs. O'Rourke in love with?” I was still young enough to believe all parents were in love with each other.

“Herself,” Mom said with a tiny bitter smile. “She's in love with herself, Eddie.”

MORAL OF THIS STORY: If you don't want to be on my mother's Official Shit List, NEVER EVER WALK OUT ON YOUR KID!

Anyway, Quark changed after Mrs. O'Rourke moved to New York. He was always shy and smart, but he just got shyer and smarter, spending all of his free time reading
books and messing around on computers. Also, he stopped playing basketball with the other kids, even though he was tall and could knock back threes even then. He still doesn't play with other people—not even me—although I hear his backyard hoop ring when he thinks no one is around.

As for Mr. O'Rourke, he always has a girlfriend. Sometimes several. Once he had three girlfriends at the same time who were all named Ashley. What do you think the odds are of something like that happening? Nothing lasts for long, though. The girls called Ashley come and go.

See what I mean? It's not real hard to understand why Quark hasn't exactly been interested in inviting someone to the junior prom.

Until now…

“You like somebody, Quark? You really, really like somebody?” I ask, sliding him his copy of
Great Love Poems of the Western World
across the table so I won't be tempted to smack anyone else with it.

“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” Quark says, still smiling. “I'm in love. With Scout.”

“
My
Scout?” My voice cracks, just like I'm in the seventh grade starting puberty again.

Quark gives me a long, cool look. “Technically speaking, Ed, she isn't
your
Scout.”

“Of course she isn't
my
Scout. Earth to Quark,” I say, imitating Derek Zoolander. “I already knew that. Technically speaking, I'm trying to understand how you
can be in love with somebody you don't know.”

Quark gives me a dopey, lovestruck grin, which (trust me) is something you don't ever want to have to see for yourself. “I know how I
feel
, Ed.”

Coming from Quark, this smarmy bit of standard daytime television dialogue sounds simultaneously canned and weirdly sincere.

“Besides,” he says in a chipper voice, “you can fill me in on everything I need to know about Scout. What's her favorite thing to eat, for instance?”

“What? Are you planning to study her feeding habits, then jot your observations down in a lab book?” Even by my supremely low standards, I am being rude. I'm also oddly hostile.

Quark doesn't respond. He just looks bewildered—like a zoo giraffe that accidentally wakes up in the zebra cage and has no idea how he got there.

“I'm sorry, Quark,” I say, ashamed of myself. “Okay. Let's talk about Scout and food. The first thing you need to know is that Scout worships food, although you'd never know it to look at her.”

The way Scout loves to eat is a joy to behold. Just thinking about her tucking into a Hires Big H combo meal (burger, drink, fries, and special fry sauce) makes me smile.

Quark is looking at me hard. Without blinking, even. “Are
you
in love with Scout yourself, Ed?” he finally asks.

I blast out a laugh so loud it might actually register on the Quark Seismic-Laugh-o-Meter.

“Me? In love with Scout?” I shake my head, thinking of Ellie's hair in the moonlight. “And by the way, stop saying you're ‘in love.' Guys don't talk like that. You sound like a freaking idiot.”

Eager and willing to be my pupil in the Mysterious Ways of Love, Quark nods to show that he both hears and obeys.

“So. Back to Scout,” I say. “She's the greatest. Smart. Funny. She kicks butt all over the soccer field. And as per your original question, Quark, she can easily pack away more grub than any female on the face of the planet and not show it. Chicken wings. Pizza. Curly fries. And another thing about Scout…”

“She's here,” Quark whispers with widening eyes.

“What?” I feel dazed and confused.

“Scout is here. In the library.”

I turn around. Sure enough, Scout Arrington (now appearing in the flesh!) is glancing through a spinner rack full of paperbacks.

Thanks to my secret built-in Romance Radar, I can walk into virtually any library on the planet and head straight for the paperback romance section without having to humiliate myself by asking a librarian to point me in the right direction.

Today is no exception. Within mere minutes I find my way to the wire racks filled with romances, even though this is the first time I have ever set foot in the Foothill Branch Library.

Amazing, isn't it?

I start riffling through the novels. BINGO! I discover a truckload of books I have not yet read—
Seducing Cecilia, The Viscount's Dilemma
, and
Midsummer Madness
.
Whoo-hoo! I have hit the Romance Jackpot.

I pick up
Midsummer Madness
and read the flap copy.

“Scout?”

I look up with a start—and freeze. It's Ed and Quark WALKING STRAIGHT TOWARD ME.

“What's up, Scout?” Ed says with an easy smile that would ordinarily make me go weak in the knees with desire, if my knees weren't already going weak with fear because I've been caught reading romances in public.

I brazenly wave my novel beneath Ed's nose. “Ha! Get a load of this! I'm checking it out for my mom's great-aunt, who's like a billion years old. I guess there's just no accounting for taste.”

Ed takes the book from my hand and closely inspects the cover, which makes him shudder. Clearly he's been traumatized by the sight of Reginald Manwaring and Philomena Foxfire dancing in the garden WITHOUT a proper distance between them. Years and years from now, Ed will be having Regency romance cover flashbacks, and it will be all my fault.

Ed quickly hands off the book to Quark, who thumbs through it as though he's actually interested. Naturally,
this makes me take a second look at Quark, who raises his eyes and blushes a deep shade of salmon when he sees that I am watching him.

I know EXACTLY how he feels. I'd blush too if someone caught me reading a romance in public, which is why I reach out and give him a friendly little squeeze just to let him know I sympathize.

This time Quark blushes all the way to the roots of his hair.

Ed starts to make a little gargling sound. He snatches
Midsummer Madness
out of Quark's hands and starts whacking him with it.

“Quark!” he says. “Knock it off!”

I'm truly shocked. “Ed! YOU knock it off!”

Ed jams the book into my hand and storms out of the library without saying good-bye. Quark gives me a shy gorgeous smile, then follows Ed out the door.

Okay. I could actually be interested in Quark. I really could. Who knows? It might be fun to watch screwball comedies together. Someone who likes Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn in
Bringing Up Baby
might be the guy for me. There's only one problem, sadly.

I'm already all gone on his neighbor.

 

Ed calls me later.

“Two things,” he says. “First, I apologize for being rude in the library. Rudeness is a bad thing.”

“Poor Quark,” I say. “You really gotta stop smacking that boy around.”

Ed sighs in agreement, then tackles the second item on his agenda. “I'm serious about getting rid of this gut. Can I go to the gym with you?”

“Sure. I'm going tomorrow,” I say casually, but inside I am screaming yes! Finally! She shoots! She scores!

“Can Quark come too?” Ed asks. “He sort of invited himself when I told him that YOU were going to be there.”

“No problem.”

Like I say, I could have been interested….

I returned (alone) to the library to check out some of the books Scout's mother's great-aunt reads. Specifically, I checked out
The Ungovernable Governess, Daughter of the Distant Drums
, and
December Lady
. Then I took them home and read all three of them beneath the floodlight on the deck, where I usually observe the moon.

I thought these books, along with the poems I have been reading lately, would provide me with some useful insight. Instead, they've only confused me.

The women and men in these novels are clearly attracted to one another but they pretend to hate each other. Does this make sense? They stomp around England (usually, although one of the books takes place
in Belgium during the Napoleonic Wars), snorting and sniping and glaring at each other until the very end, when they fall into each other's arms and cover each other with kisses that “sear” their skin like “molten lava.”

Molten lava?

These people remind me of the characters on my mother's show, which I secretly watch sometimes, and they frustrate me equally as much. Such a waste of time! Energy! Emotional resources! Why won't these characters give honesty a try?

Honesty, if nothing else, has the virtue of being efficient.

Meanwhile, a restless wind blows and a pair of dragonflies tumble by.

A very a) toned and b) tanned girl wearing biking shorts that tastefully complement her black workout bra shouts a greeting at us over the din of the gym. A blond ponytail on the top of her head bobs as she gives us a huge smile.

“HI! I'M ERICA! AND I'M GOING TO BE YOUR PERSONAL FITNESS ADVISER TODAY! BECAUSE HERE AT BODY, INC., WE WANT TO HELP YOU HAVE THE BODY YOU WANT!”

“CAN I CHOOSE
ANY
BODY I WANT?” I shout back, as I spy a number of very fine female bodies I want and would be more than happy to choose from if given the opportunity.

Scout smacks me. Quark just blinks.

“ABSOLUTELY!” says Erica, her ponytail bobbing like she's starring in an episode of
I Dream of Jeannie.
“MY JOB AS YOUR PERSONAL FITNESS ADVISER IS TO HELP YOU DESIGN A SPECIFIC WORKOUT PROGRAM TAILORED TO MEET YOUR INDIVIDUAL NEEDS SO THAT YOU”—here she points at me and Quark, like she's Uncle Sam on a recruiting poster—“CAN GET THE BODY YOU WANT!”

“RIGHT ON!” Quark says earnestly.

I'm tempted to break Quark's jaw and wire it shut on the spot so he can't say anything for the rest of his life. “Quark! This is not the 1970s and you are not Shaft, which means you are not allowed to say ‘right on.'”

Quark may sound stupid, but at least he doesn't look stupid. Give him credit for that. I, on the other hand, look like the very definition of stupid. For starters, my legs are a dazzling shade of hairy white. If my lips didn't keep moving you'd think I was dead, my leg skin is so pale. Also, I'm wearing one of my mom's T-shirts, which I accidentally picked up and packed in my gym bag. So instead of wearing a manly-man T-shirt that says something like “Just do it,” I am wearing a girly-man T-shirt that says “Snap out of it!” I've got it on inside out, hoping and praying that people will think I am on the cutting edge of workout wear fashion for men.

“ERICA, SHOW THESE GUYS THE WEIGHT MACHINES WHILE I LIFT, OKAY?” Scout shouts.

Erica (otherwise known as Jeannie) happily bobs her ponytail and commands us (otherwise known as “Master” and “Roger”) to follow her. As we thread our way through a thicket of weight-lifting equipment, Quark looks back with naked longing at Scout, who's already at a bench, adjusting for the number of pounds she wants to start off with. I look back at her, too, and suddenly I feel very, very annoyed with Quark.

“Stop ogling her,” I snap at Quark, wondering when I started to use high-end verbs like “ogle.” “She isn't a piece of meat.”

“I am aware of that, Ed.” Quark bristles right before my eyes like he's a quaking aspen. “By the way, Ed, you're wearing your mother's shirt inside out.”

My spirits start to sink, not unlike the
Titanic
(starring Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio). If Quark—Quark the guy who once accidentally wore Batman pajamas to school in the second grade—has noticed what I'm wearing, then I'm screwed. No doubt about it. People will stare. They'll gawk. In fact, I feel a pair of eyes gawking at me right now.

I look up—and gasp.

There, hanging on the wall, is a life-sized photograph of Ali! He's cradling a huge silver trophy the size of a punch bowl in his arms, and he's staring straight down
at me. Or at least I think he is. As I've said before, it's hard to tell with those sunglasses.

The sight of Ali makes goose bumps pop up all over my arms. Damn! That guy sure does get around!

“IT'S MAJORLY IMPORTANT THAT YOU LEARN HOW TO LIFT CORRECTLY,” Erica informs us as she stops in front of a machine that looks like it might have been used as an instrument of torture during the Spanish Inquisition. “YOU DON'T WANT TO PULL YOUR GLUTES, DO YOU?”

“GLUTES?” I shout back.

“GLUTEUS MAXIMUS MUSCLES!” Erica trots out a little gymnasium Latin for our listening pleasure.

“I HATE IT WHEN I PULL MY GLUTES!” says Quark, getting into the spirit of things. He's rewarded by a face-melting smile from Erica. He smiles back.

Dude! It's so obvious. He's secretly practicing smiles for Scout.

I turn back to look at Scout again, completely forgetting to watch Erica demonstrate how to lift properly and thereby putting my glutes in peril.

Scout's lying back on the bench so that her curly hair flows over the sides, her feet planted on the ground. Some guy spots her as she lifts. Whenever he smiles at her, his chest muscles ripple.

“Who's that with Scout?” Quark wants to know, also forgetting to watch Erica the Glutemeister.

“Duh, Quark. How would I know? This is the first time I've been here.”

“HELLO!” Erica shouts at us cheerfully. She's jogging in place to keep her heart rate up while talking to us. “ARE WE PAYING ATTENTION? WE DON'T WANT TO HURT OURSELVES, DO WE?”

Quark drags his eyeballs off Scout. He looks so miserable that I actually feel sorry for him.

“Relax, Quark,” I say under my breath, while pretending to care what Erica is doing with the machine. “He has WAY too many muscles.”

“Really?”

I sense a clear and present opportunity to do some good to my fellow man.

“Women hate guys with that many muscles,” I say. “They look like narcissistic freaks.”

Quark gives this some thought.

“Then what kind of guys”—Quark does a quick mental search for the right phrase—“do chicks dig?” He gives a nervous little cough. “So to speak. If you know what I mean.”

Poor Quark. He should NEVER open his mouth in public. Especially now that he sounds like a refugee from the seventies. And especially now that he's not acting like himself. What's up with that?

“Girls like guys like you, Quark,” I say, getting back to the subject at hand.

Quark rolls his eyes in disbelief.

“I'm serious. They like guys who are nice looking. And smart.” I sigh a little. “And exceptionally tall.”

I hit the jackpot. Quark lights up like a big old slot machine, but only for a minute. Then he narrows his eyes and bores deep eye holes into me. “Are you making this up? How do you know?”

“Call me Herr Doktor Professor Love, Quark,” I urge him solemnly. “I know these things because I watch TV talk shows.”

Ha! And they say television is a waste of time!

Quark looks hopeful again. He shoots one last look of eternal, undying devotion at Scout and then turns his full attention to Erica aka Jeannie and her instrument of torture. I do the same. Still, for some reason, I'd like to go over there and punch out that smiley guy with the rippling stomach muscles who's helping Scout. It's pretty sick how he's just breathing all over her.

Why do I feel this way?

Because I'm like her big brother, Ben. I'm protective.

 

Actually, Quark and I ended up having a very decent time, once Erica and her bobbing ponytail stopped trying to get us to sign up as gym members. After she left, we lifted. We watched girls do some kickboxing. We had a juice thing with Scout at the juice-thing bar. In fact, my only bad moment occurred in the locker room, when we
were getting ready to leave.

Here's the thing. Guys have this special Y chromosome that makes them want to start snapping other guys in the rear with gym towels whenever they're in locker rooms. It's a proven fact. Eighth-grade males all across America have done science projects that demonstrate this to be the truth.

So. There I was.

In a locker room.

With a gym towel.

Facing Quark's backside.

I think you'll agree that this was a perfect opportunity. I was all alone in the end zone. Quickly I twirled my towel, whipping it into peak optimum snapping condition.

I set up like a quarterback in the pocket.

Yes!

Took aim.

Also yes!

And launched.

Yes again!

“WHAT THE…”

Okay. Fine. I admit it. I haven't engaged in serious towel play for a while and my aim was a little off, which is why I accidentally snapped the guy standing NEXT to Quark.

He turned to face me, and I noted with terrified
interest that it was ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER!

Just kidding.

The guy looked like Arnold S.

“I'm really sorry, man,” I said. And then I said the exact same words again for emphasis.

The locker room went completely silent. As I tried to remember everything I ever knew about the fine art of groveling, the False Arnold looked slowly from me to Quark to me again.

Then he smiled. “Fugeddaboutit. See you guys around.” The False Arnold slung a gym bag over his shoulder and left.

See us again? I sincerely hope not!
I thought, watching him go.

Pretty much the last thing I want to do in this life is come face-to-face with The Terminator again.