The Loser's Guide to Life and Love (8 page)

There are times when Ed is truly annoying.

Take today, for example. He accused me of ogling Scout while the three of us were at the gym together.

Naturally, I took offense. I do not “ogle.” I have never “ogled.” I am not an “ogler.” Once again, Ed (who thinks he knows everything) has gotten it all wrong.

I have a confession to make. Sometimes I actually fantasize about punching Ed in the nose, even though he is my best friend. Sometimes I lie in bed at night, thinking about how good it would feel to send Ed sprawling, especially on those days when he's more patronizing than usual.

POW!

Take
that
, Herr Professor Doktor Love!

Then I remember that afternoon in the third grade when I was still attending Uintah Elementary School with Ed.

I was only nine years old, but I was the best basketball player in the third AND fourth grades. I am not bragging when I say this. It's simply a cold, hard fact. I have always been able to recognize a cold, hard fact when I see one.

In fact, I was even better than some of the fifth graders. I was most certainly better than Tommy Knaphus.

I can still see how Tommy looked then, after all these years—his thin, chalk white face spattered with rust-red freckles, his thin, mean eyes, his thin, mean mouth.

Tommy hated that I could take him one-on-one. He hated the way his fifth-grade friends teased him about losing to me, a third grader.

One day, when I was slowly walking home alone—our teacher had made Ed stay late to clean out his desk when she discovered he had some moldy cheese slices in it—Tommy stepped out from behind a huge tree with peeling bark. He'd been waiting.

For me.

“Hey there,” he said.

I slowed down, not knowing if I should answer. I kept quiet. I always keep quiet, even when I don't want to.
Even when I want to join in the conversation around me and laugh and talk to people, just like everybody else does.

“Too good to talk to me, huh?” Tommy gave me a little shove. “That's real sweet coming from a kid whose mama just ran away from home.”

I froze.

“Do you know why she ran away?” Tommy shoved me again, harder this time. I rocked back on my heels and almost toppled over. “She ran away because her kid's such a stinkin' freak.” Tommy bleated out an ugly laugh.

“Shut up, moron!” Ed came running up behind us, his Ninja Turtles backpack bobbing up and down. He flew at Tommy, who was at least twice his size.

“You shut up, Tommy Knaphus! You hear me?”

Tommy's attention shifted from me to Ed. Ed slipped off the backpack and started clobbering Tommy with it.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Tommy casually threw Ed to the ground—no big deal—but Ed bounced back up like a rubber ball.

“That didn't hurt!” He yelled. Then he started swinging his backpack again.

This happened over and over. Tommy pushed Ed down. Ed bounced back and started up with Tommy again.

Me, I just stood there, hearing in my head what
Tommy had said about me and my mother.

Tommy walked away after a while. He probably got bored picking on third graders. After he left, Ed (whose nose was bleeding by then) turned to me and said, “We got him, Quark! He won't dare mess with us again!”

And he didn't. I didn't give Tommy Knaphus the chance. I stopped playing basketball at recess and when it came time in the fall to sign up for Junior Jazz basketball, I told Dad not to bother enrolling me.

I have never forgotten Ed's reaction that day, though. I've never forgotten the way he went after someone who was going after me.

As I have noted before in the pages of this lab book, I, Quentin Andrews O'Rourke, believe that kindness is important.

And I respect it when I see it.

“If you think you're seeing more dragonflies than usual in the Salt Lake Valley this summer, you're right—”

I flip off the breaking dragonfly story on the ten p.m. news and walk out to the backyard so I won't have to listen to Maggie and her girlfriends squealing upstairs. They're having a sleepover, and right now they're playing “Beauty Parlor,” which gives them an excuse to put “product” in one another's hair.

I settle into a patio chair and listen to Quark next door, banging shots off the board. Seriously. The guy's amazing. He
never
misses.

A hot, dry wind rustles through aspen leaves and makes me feel restless. Not bored restless. Just
restless
restless. Full of wanting. Wanting something. Anything. Everything.

The specifics vary, depending on the breeze.

Right now I'm thinking about something I usually try very hard NOT to think about. My so-called date with Stephanie Chandler. I can't help myself sometimes. A wind like this one stirs things up and makes me remember stuff I'd rather forget.

Okay. Let me state for the record that I FULLY understand Stephanie Chandler (don't worry about remembering her name—she won't be back for an encore) is WAY out of my league, so what happened was my own fault, in a way. I'm not a complete moron. I should have known better. I really should have. Stephanie sits on top of the high-school food chain, whereas I'm not even on it.

Still, for some incredible reason, I actually thought I had a chance with Stephanie. Maybe because she was my lab partner in chemistry. Maybe because she laughed at my jokes. Maybe because she smiled at me in the halls when she noticed me.

So I asked her out one day on impulse.

Did you just hear that? I, Ed McIff the Impulsive, actually asked Stephanie Chandler, the Girl Who Makes Male Knees Weaken with Desire, to go out with me.

It was at the end of class, right before the bell rang. I blurted out, “Stephaniedoyouwanttogotoamoviewith-
metonight?” She paused. Then she smiled and said sure, why not. So I (walking on air) said I'd call her after school.

Then Stephanie the Beautiful gathered up her books and left.

Later that day I casually told a pal to find someone to go to a movie with, because hey, STEPHANIE CHANDLER AND I would be by to pick them up at seven p.m. sharp!

Man, I really must have been on drugs that afternoon.

I started to get the feeling something was wrong when I called Stephanie after school to confirm times. No one answered the phone. I kept calling her house during breaks from intensive sessions of showering and shaving and making my hair perfect, as well as getting online and buying tickets in advance.

Still, no one answered. Ring, ring, go away. Call again some other day.

It was like all the people in her house were crouched around the caller ID so that the instant my name came up, they could all shout at each other, “FOR THE LOVE OF HEAVEN, DO NOT PICK UP THAT TELEPHONE!”

Finally, with ten minutes left (and counting) until seven, I understood that Stephanie the Desirable and I would not be going out together that night. Or any night.

As Ali would say, it just wasn't in the cards, baby. Different species should not date each other.

So here's what I did: I calmly got into my dad's Hyundai, picked up my friend and his date (by myself), and explained (also by myself) that Stephanie had called at the last minute to tell me she was sick.

Which, of course, was a load of completely nonbelievable crap.

But hey, I was a great sport. I ignored everyone's look of pity and went along to the movie, where I starred as the chaperone.

Later that night, Mom started up with me. Maybe Stephanie hadn't really heard me because the class was too noisy, she said. Maybe Stephanie misunderstood. Maybe there was a family emergency. Maybe her phone didn't work. Maybe she just forgot and then was too embarrassed to call.

Maybe, I said.

Mom finally left my bedroom, swearing like a hockey player under her breath. I'm pretty sure she wasn't swearing at me.

The next day at school Stephanie was her regular, beautiful, way-high-up-there-on-the-high-school-food-chain self. Full of false smiles. Like nothing had happened. Actually, nothing DID happen. That, I believe, would be the point here.

Generally speaking, I choose not to think about this
stuff. I'm sure you can understand my reasons.

It's just that on this restless,
wanting
sort of night, the thing I suddenly want the very most is to forget the sick wave of shame that washed over me when I hung up the phone for the last time and realized that I had been stood up.

“…University of Utah entymologist Dr. Elaine Clark says she can't really explain the sudden and mysterious appearance of so many dragonflies. She says it is as though they have flown into town on the wings of a strange wind…”

I turn off the evening news (a piece on dragonflies! Slow news day!) and catch sight of my fuzzy reflection in the vacant green of the television screen. I lift a coarse curl, then let it bounce to my shoulder.

I have worn my impossible hair this way—long and loose for years—and lately I've been wondering what I'd look like if I did something different to it. Cut it. Straighten it. Wear it up. Turn it into dreads. Dye it hot pink.

Only I'm too afraid to try something new.

That's me in a nutshell for you. I'm Scout Arrington and I'm afraid.

Surprised? After all, aren't I the one who steps up and wins big soccer games? The one who knocks back straight A's, even in scary subjects like calculus? The one who's involved in a billion trillion activities in school?

Okay. You win. It's true that I do these things. But only because I already know I won't fail.

That's an important point. Did you miss it?

I already know I won't fail!

How totally and completely lame is
that?

Let me tell you about this dream I have at least two or three times a year ever since I learned to swim. I dream that I am standing on the highest diving platform at the city pool and more than anything I want to jump into the beautiful blue water below. Only I don't. Because I'm afraid I'll do a belly flop and that all the people watching will laugh.

What if the whole world were full of people just like me? People who weren't willing to try something new because they might look stupid. Seriously, what kind of world would that even be? (ANSWER: less messy.)

But so what?
So what?

Meanwhile, I sit around NOT doing the things I think about doing.

Painting, for example.

Singing.

Making chocolate candy with rum and cherry centers at Christmas.

Dancing.

Flirting.

Writing love poems.

Kissing boys I choose to kiss.

Shouting to the whole world that I don't care what it thinks of me.

Changing my hair.

Disturbing the universe.

Eating a peach.

“Do I dare to eat a peach?” In the poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” that's the question asked by an old man who knows life is passing him by. (BTW, if you haven't read this poem yet, you will. Trust me. It's the kind of poem that makes English teachers salivate, just like Pavlov's dogs.)

I, however, hated the poem. Loathed it. Despised it. Especially the ending, where J. Alfred Prufrock says, “I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.”

On nights like these, when the breezes blow lonely through the trees, I know just how he feels.

Do you know what I want most? More than straight A's and soccer goals?

I. Want. To. Stop. Being. Afraid.

Swish!

Perfect release. Perfect arc. Perfect drop. Perfect shot through the hoop every single time. Sweet!

He doesn't make a big deal about it, but I know my father can't understand why a person (me, for example) would choose to play a team sport (basketball, for example) alone. Naturally he wouldn't understand something like that, because he is the quintessential team player. Football, basketball, and baseball in high school. Football in college. Pickup games of basketball now.

My father can golf like a dream, but he's indifferent to the game. Too much of an individual sport. Besides, golfers don't rough each other up while they're playing.
They don't throw each other to the ground and get grass stains all over their polo shirts, then cheerfully help each other up and slap each other on the behind after the round is over.

What my father doesn't understand is that if you're really good at something (like making baskets) and you don't have other people around to complicate things, you can achieve a sort of perfection. The game stays simple and clean and elegant when you're not playing with someone else.

Swish!

And it's another perfect, boring shot!

I snap up the ball on the bounce, dribble, and spin around. The wind blows, and suddenly I am distracted, even startled by the unexpected sight of dragonflies, dipping in the moonlight.

I go up for another shot and…miss!

I didn't just miss. I bricked.

As I chase after the wildly bouncing ball, I wonder with the back of my brain where all those dragonflies have come from. And suddenly I have an epiphany. Right there in the middle of the driveway. Right there in the middle of a summer night. I stop dead in my tracks and just let the basketball roll down the driveway and out into the street as something important becomes perfectly clear to me.

I now understand why I have been dissatisfied, and I
also realize what it is that I really want.

I want people coming at me, trying to put me off my shot.

I want to make a shot in spite of it.

I want heat.

I want dust.

I, Quentin Andrews O'Rourke,
want
complications.