Okay, I feel a little guilty.

I’m totally supposed to be doing my math homework right now. But who can concentrate on logarithms when it’s 100 degrees outside on a glorious Saturday afternoon, and besides, it’s much more fun to close my eyes and think about Glenn. He was seriously checking me out in English Lit on Thursday, and the guy is sooo hot. What I could do with him! Well... I guess I’m really not SURE what I could do with him, since I’ve never actually, like, done stuff... but I have a good imagination.

So I’m relaxing and smiling, and calculus and school are the furthest things from my mind, except that I’m thinking that the shower stalls in the girls gym would be really cool to have sex in, and wondering what it would be like to have sex all slippery and wet, and since Glenn’s a swimmer I totally know what he looks like when he’s just out of the pool. All slick and sleek. And actually, I guess school is figuring pretty heavily into this little daydream after all.

Then I hear the shuffle of feet. I lift my shades and squint up, already formulating a quick lie to explain why I’m not working on Problem #7456 in my calculus book like I swore I would. Except it’s Justin, not my mom.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hey,” I say back, rather coolly. I don’t think I’m done being mad at him yet.

“Nobody answered the door, so I just came around back.”

“Uh huh. Well, Dad’s at that conference, and Mom had to go into work for a few hours today.”

“Conference?”

“In Atlanta. Which you would know about if you hadn’t been avoiding me all week!”

Yeah, I’m really not done being mad at him yet.

But he shuffles his feet some more, and sticks his hands in his pockets, and he just looks so pitiful that I feel my anger slowly melting.

“So?”

“So...” Justin paces to the pool, then whirls to face me. “I’m sorry, Daph. I didn’t know what to say to you. I was just... such a cocky little shit. And then Brian... it was...” He scrubs a hand over his face. “What was I thinking? That I could just walk back there and he’d just sweep me up and--”

“I thought you said he loved you!”

“He did! He does! It’s just... he’s... it’s confusing.” Justin’s face crumples and he rubs a hand absently over his eyes. “Fucking allergies,” he mutters under his breath, and the remainder of my anger over being ignored all week drifts away. He just looks so lost, so alone.

“Come on.” I pull myself up from the chaise, toss my sunglasses aside, grab his arm, and drag him toward the house. “There’s vodka and leftovers, and my mom won’t be home for hours. We’ll fortify, and then you can tell me all about it.”

We end up back at the swimming pool, Justin with his feet dangling in the water, me sending one of the remote control boats in endless loops through the deep end, both of us trading a cigarette back and forth as we bake under the sun.

“He said that’s all I was to him. Just a fuck,” Justin repeats for the tenth time.

“That’s a shitty thing to say,” I sympathize. Again.

“And that he doesn’t want to see me anymore.”

Okay, so I know Mom always says that I’m a nurturer. That’s part of the reason she wants me to go into psychology or psychiatry, never mind that I’m leaning more towards general practice. And I agree that I want to make things better, and I’m a pretty good listener. But there comes a time when empathy can only go so far, and it’s time to get proactive.

Justin’s had enough of a pity party. I set the remote aside and figuratively roll up my sleeves.

“When my last boyfriend dumped me,” I tell him, “I didn’t hang around feeling sorry for myself. I went out and got a new one.”

He boggles at me. He actually boggles. “When did you have a boyfriend, third grade?”

“Last summer,” I tell him. Which is totally a lie, unless drooling and giggling over one of your fellow camp counsellors constitutes having a boyfriend. But for the purposes of Operation Get Justin Back On Track, I need a former boyfriend, and I am not above lying to achieve my goals.

He looks hurt. “You never told me.”

“I’m telling you now,” I say pointedly, throwing his words back at him. Hah. Even though the whole boyfriend thing is a sham, I feel vindicated. “You should have seen how jealous he got! You can do the same thing. Show that Brian. Go back down there tonight. Pick up some hot, hunky guy. You’re not exactly a troll, you know.”

It’s a pretty traditional plan, the whole “make your ex jealous” thing, and even though I’ve never actually done it, I’m fairly confident that it’ll work. It’s at least better than sitting around inhaling toxic fumes and moaning ‘woe is me’ endlessly.

I can almost see the wheels spinning in Justin’s head as he thinks it over. He’s never been one to just kick back and give up, so what is taking him so long to realize this is the most brilliant idea ever?

“Would you come with me?”

Oh maaan. I giggle. I can’t help it. “What if some lesbo tries to pick me up? I wouldn’t know what to do! Although... I do like Melissa Etheridge a LOT. Do you think that means anything?”

Justin laughs, and teases me, and I end up tossing him in the pool. I’ve missed his laugh. And because I’m making the supreme sacrifice of giving up my Saturday night -- and the excitement of working on my calculus homework, but he doesn’t have to know that -- to hold his hand on Liberty Avenue, I’m able to convince him to spend the afternoon shopping with me, so I can get a fantastic new outfit for the evening. I even manage to get him to try on a shirt, a button-down that shimmers in the light.

I watch him standing outside the dressing room, checking himself out in the mirror, smoothing the shirt over his chest, and I can almost see the confidence sliding back over his skin in fresh layers.