Allison Diepen - The Oracle Of Dating

“What about that one?” Lauren points to a picture of a toddler on a beach. It’s cute but I know it’s not the one. There’s nothing in this magazine. As I close it, I see the picture on the cover.

“I’m doing this!”

I’ve seen this photograph before. It’s of an Afghan girl with piercing green eyes.

Jared glances at the picture and mutters, “Good luck with that.”

Could he be any more sarcastic? Lauren and I look at each other and shrug. I take the magazine back to my desk and get to work.

I start a sketch. Halfway through, I realize it looks like a Simpsons character, so I crumple it up and start again. I’m going to start with her face, then do the burka after.

I’ll never get an A on this. Maybe a D or a C if I’m lucky. My average will plummet, I’ll never get into college, and I’ll end up working at the Hellhole for the rest of my life. Maybe one day I’ll be manager, marry Jay the stoner, Afrim the meat man or Juan the stock boy, and my kids will grow up running the aisles. My breath escapes in a sigh. Jared must’ve heard it, because he comes up beside me. “How’s it going?”

Instinctively, my hands cover my drawing.

His mouth crooks. “Not so good, then?”

I reveal the sketch, daring a glance at him. “I’m not an artist.”

He frowns. “I see what you mean.”

My mouth drops open. He so didn’t say that!

“Well, you’ve got a few weeks to do something better,” he says.

“Are you going to help me?”

He leans against my desk, crossing his arms. “Are you going to pay me?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Fine. I’ll help you, anyway, if you don’t piss me off in the meantime.”

From any other person, I’d think it was a joke, but I’m not sure about Jared Stewart. He’s a cynic if there ever was one.

I meet his eyes. “More likely you would piss me off.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. I can tell he likes my answer.

SOME OF MY CLIENTS complain that they don’t know how to flirt, or they can’t recognize when someone is flirting with them. I can relate. Like today, I’m pretty sure Jared Stewart flirted with me, if only for a split-second. Or was I the one flirting with him? All I know is, I’m wasting far too much time thinking about it.

Time for a little flirting 101.

How to Flirt

The art of flirting is only perfected through practice. Your key tools are your smile and your eyes. First, walk into the room projecting openness and confidence, your lips turned up a little as if you’re pleased to be there. People notice others who are cheerful and gravitate toward them.

Scan the area for hotties. Don’t immediately focus on just one unless, unfortunately, there is just one in the whole room. (If so, you should find another party!) Try to catch his eye. When you do, look for two full seconds, smile and look away. There, you’ve been officially noticed. Talk to your friends, laugh and have a good time, and occasionally scan the vicinity to see if he’s looking your way. If so, make eye contact again.

Find a way to get closer to him. If he’s on the dance floor, it’s pretty easy. Just dance in his direction, keep up the eye contact and you’ll be dancing together in no time. If the object of your attraction isn’t on the dance floor, find a way to move to his end of the room without being too obvious. If he is standing near the bar/refreshment table, go up to get a drink–don’t bring a friend because that will make it difficult for him to talk to you. Look around and be approachable. Give him a smile and say hi.

When you start talking, it doesn’t matter what you say as much as how you say it. It’s okay if the conversation is a little mundane at first (“Crowded in here, huh?”) as long as you’re interacting. Go with the flow of the conversation–hopefully it will lead to something interesting after the initial awkwardness. Use body language to show your interest–nod at appropriate times, react to what he’s saying, touch his forearm if you can fit it in naturally …

You can take it from there. Good luck!

The Oracle

“EEK!” I YANK my foot out of the whirling footbath.

The Chinese lady giving me the pedicure smiles. “Yo’ feet sensitive.”

Viv giggles. “Aren’t you used to it by now, Kayla?”

I twitch as the lady scrubs my foot. “I’ll never be.”

Oh, the price of vanity. Well, despite my ticklishness problem, this fifteen-dollar mani and pedi can’t be beat.

I look over at Viv. She has shoulder-length black hair with the healthy bounce of a Nutrisse model. Her best feature is her wide-set liquid-black eyes and thick dark lashes that don’t even need mascara. She’s so pretty, and she hasn’t even kissed a guy. What a travesty!

It’s all her parents’ fault. They forbid her to even think about going out with a guy who isn’t Indian. Problem is, the only Indian guy Viv was ever interested in moved away last year, leaving her prospects martini dry. (I love that expression. Tracey’s friend Corinne uses it all the time to refer to her hair or her bank account.)

Enter Max McIver, a cute guy with spiky brown hair who’s in her A.P. History class. It’s obvious to everyone that they’re into each other and that they’d make the perfect couple. He seems mature for his age, so I think he’s a good bet for Viv’s first relationship. Funny and easygoing, Max is just the right candidate to show our beloved Viv a good time.

“I saw you and Max flirting in the hall today. He’s cute, don’t you think?”

She glares at me. Whoa, venom! It’s total proof that she’s hiding her affection for him.

“He’s just a friend. I’m not interested.”

“Come on, Viv. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know. But I don’t want him, Kayla. You know I only like brown boys.”

I wonder if she’s saying that to remind me or to convince herself. Either way, I’m not going to argue.

She turns to me. “Do you think Ryan is gay?”

“Where’d that come from?”

“Everybody’s saying he is.”

“He says he isn’t.”

“But, Kayla, he wants to be a fashion designer! My brother says that’s totally gay.”

The Chinese woman doing my feet sputters on laughter and starts talking a mile a minute with the woman doing Viv’s feet. Are they laughing at our conversation? I’ll never know.

“Ryan says he isn’t gay, Viv. I didn’t ask him—one day he just said it. So I believe him.”

“All right. I believe him, too.”

“And does it matter if he is? I mean, who cares? My mom will do his wedding either way.”

When the pedicures are finished, we waddle over to the other end of the salon in our flip-flops and sit down for manicures. Viv decides to make her nails a shade lighter than her pedicure. My color-of-the-season is guava and I remain faithful.

“Hopefully our nails will last until your birthday,” she says.

My birthday is on September 27th, two weeks and two days away, not that I’m counting. “I doubt the mani will last, but I can always come back for a touch-up.”

“You may have to. Ryan is planning your birthday and he says we all have to look our best. He says it’s a requirement.”

“That’s hilarious. I can’t wait.”

“Any gift requests?”

“Oh, come on. You know I don’t want anything.”

“You come on. As if we won’t get you anything.”

It’s a good point. We’re pretty good gift givers in our group. Our gifts aren’t expensive, but they’re always creative.

“I can’t believe we’re getting all these assignments already,” she says.

“You’ll do great. You always do.”

“Probably, but I hate working so hard.”