Charlie Joe Jackson's Guide to Planet Girl (3 page)

This book was different than those two, though.
A Communication Guide for Boys and Girls
was one of those “how to be a better person” books that grown-ups were always reading. I wasn't really all that interested in how to be a better person, to be honest with you. I was completely satisfied with the person I was. Except for the girls thing.

So there I was, in the way, way back of the library, trying to get through the second chapter—Shy Is Not a Dirty Word—when I felt someone breathing over my shoulder. I turned around, and Emory was standing there. Emory was the kid from California who had swooped in and asked Eliza Collins to go out with him, even though the new kid asking out the prettiest girl breaks pretty much every rule in the middle school handbook.

The last thing I wanted was for him to see me reading a book on how to talk to girls—especially a chapter on shyness.

I stuffed the book into my backpack.

“What are you reading?” Emory asked.

“Some boring book.”

Emory raised his eyebrows. “I heard you don't read
any
books. Ever.”

“I don't. This is … to win a bet.”

“Dude, I don't care if you read a whole library of books,” he said. “I got other things on my mind.”

“Like what?”

“Nah, I don't want to bother you with it,” Emory said, even though he was pulling up a chair as he said it.

“It's cool.” I was happy to hear about another guy's problems. It would probably make me feel a little better.

“This Eliza thing … it's freaking me out a little bit.”

“Huh? What Eliza thing?”

Emory sighed a long, stressed-out, it's-hard-going-out-with-the-pretty-girl sigh. “Well, ever since we became boyfriend and girlfriend, it's like she's doing me this big favor,” he explained. “I have to agree with everything she says, I have to laugh at all her jokes even when they're not that funny, she's the one who decides when and where we hang out—it's less like I'm her boyfriend and more like I'm her pet.”

Pets! I immediately thought of Moose and Coco (my dogs) and how cute they were. But then I realized that they had nothing to do with this conversation.

“Dude,” I said, trying to sound as California cool as possible. “That sounds like a major bummer.”

“You know it, dude,” Emory said. He sounded way more California cool than me, which made sense, since he was actually
from
California. “I just wish I knew how to talk to her about it. Saying stuff to girls can be such a nightmare.”

Hey, wait a second.

“I know a thing or two about girls,” I said. “Maybe I can help you out.”

Emory looked confused. “Huh?”

“Hold on a second, I need to check something.”

I turned my back on Emory, fished the book out of my backpack, flipped around until I found the page I was looking for, quickly scanned two paragraphs, then closed the book and put it back in my pack. All in about eighteen seconds.

“Dude, what was that about?” Emory asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Then, totally casually, I added, “You know, uh, maybe you should try just, like, talking directly to her. Sometimes it's good to be direct with girls, even if it's a hard subject.” I closed my eyes, trying to remember the rest. “And when you're saying something they don't want to hear, say it really calmly and quietly. That way, because you're being so low-key about it, she'll get defensive and start a fight.”

Emory looked confused. “Huh?”

Oooops.

“I mean,
won't
get defensive and start a fight.”

“Hmm,” Emory said.

“It's true,” I said. “Remember—it's more important to whisper wisdom than it is to shout nonsense.”

Emory sat back in his chair and scratched his head for a while. Finally, he nodded.

“Dude, you are one smart dude,” he said.

“Thanks, dude,” I said.

Emory fist-bumped me, California style, and walked away. On his way out, he passed another kid and said, “Hey, that Charlie Joe is one smart dude.”

I smiled.

Okay fine
, I said to myself.

Maybe I'll read the rest of the book after all.

 

A Communication Guide for Boys and Girls

21

Spend as much time asking questions as you do answering them.

*   *   *

It is natural to be more interested in yourself than in anyone else. But you must always make an effort to pay attention to the person you're talking to. Be curious about his or her life, ask questions about his or her daily activities, and show a real interest in his or her answers.

Remember, you are having a CONVERSATION, not a MONOLOGUE.

 

5

At lunch,
I had my second customer.

Big Phil Manning.

“Hey, Phil,” I said, as he lumbered up to me. Phil was the strongest kid in our grade. He was voted “Most likely to become a mixed martial arts champion” in our yearbook. And the crazy thing was, he was going out with Celia Barbarossa, the fragile flute player who looked like she would lose a fight with a flower. But they'd happily been boyfriend and girlfriend for over two years, and we all assumed that we'd be going to their wedding some day.

Which is why I almost spit out a fish stick when Phil said, “I got girl trouble.”

“Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” Phil said. When he plopped down next to me with a THUNK! I could swear I felt the entire cafeteria shift just a little bit. “Girl trouble.”

“What kind of girl trouble?”

“It's a long story. But Emory said you were the guy to talk to.”

I scanned the room looking for Emory, but he was nowhere to be found. I didn't know whether to be mad or grateful. Sure, it was nice to be known as an expert on romance. But what if I gave Phil bad advice? It was entirely possible he'd pick me up and throw me like a football, all the way up to Canada.

“Um, I don't know about that,” I said. “But … uh … what's the problem?”

Phil was about to say something when Pete and Timmy came up behind us and tossed their empty potato chip bags on my tray, for no other reason than to be annoying, which is as good a reason as any in middle school.

“Hey, can you throw those out for us?” Pete said.

“Yeah, that'd be sweet, Charlie Joe,” Timmy added.

Phil stood up. “We're having a private conversation,” he said, in his low voice.

I don't think I've ever seen two middle school kids scurry away faster.

Phil sat back down. “Where was I? Oh, yeah. So, Celia and me, we're like really into each other, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But…” Phil stopped and scrunched up his face, as if what he was about to say caused him intense pain. “I think that as I get older and school gets harder and with football and everything, I think that maybe having a girlfriend might be too much of a distraction, you know? But I don't know if I should say anything to Celia.”

“Huh,” I said, which is probably not what a certified romanticologist would say.

As Phil stared at me—even his eyes had muscles—I broke out in a slight sweat. “So?” he pleaded. “What do you think?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Come on, Charlie Joe! I've been worrying about this for like, forever! You gotta help me!”

Oh, jeez.

I closed my eyes, trying to think. In my mind, I went over the most recent pages of the book that I'd read, searching for something that would help. Do I say the same thing to Phil that I said to Emory? Do I try to come up with something new? Do I—

Suddenly I had it.

“Well, Phil,” I said. “If there's one thing I know, it's that girls like to be treated as equals.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if this is a concern of yours, it might also be a concern of hers.”

Phil frowned. “Huh,” he said. “So what you're saying is, I should ask her if she's worried that I'm worried that having a girlfriend might get too distracting?”

“No,” I said. “You should ask her if she's worried that having a boyfriend will be too distracting for
her
.”

Phil didn't look too thrilled by that idea.

“I doubt she is,” I said quickly. “But you never know. Just ask her. Then you can tell her that you're a little nervous about it, and see what she says. You guys can figure it out for sure. Seriously, it's no biggie. Once you talk about it you'll be fine.”

Phil nodded, and I leaned in for the big finish. “Remember,” I added thoughtfully, “it's a conversation, not a monologue.”

Phil stared at me for about ten seconds without blinking. “Holy moly, Emory was right,” he finally said. Then he slapped me on the back, which I was pretty sure would leave a mark. “You're a genius, Charlie Joe, anyone ever tell you that?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“Well, you are. I gotta go find Celia.”

He got up and left, which was my cue to leave, too. If Phil's conversation with Celia didn't go well, I sure as heck didn't want to be there to find out.

 

6

It turned out
I had nothing to worry about.

Phil's conversation with Celia went REALLY well.

So did Emory's conversation with Eliza.

And the next thing I knew, I'd become the school's go-to guy on every boy-girl problem that came up.

It usually happened at lunch and recess; I'd be sitting there, minding my own business, when some kid would come up to me with that look in his eye: a combination of nervousness, embarrassment, and desperation.

“Take a seat,” I'd say. And they would.

Timmy started calling me “The Love Doctor.” He had a point. I should have opened an office and charged by the hour. I would have made way more money than I did with that whole dog-walking thing. (Don't ask.)

I had no idea there were so many different kinds of boy-girl problems in middle school! But the funny thing was, most of them had nothing to do with boys and girls who were actually boyfriend and girlfriend. Usually, it had to do with some guy who liked a girl but was too shy to say so; or sometimes, some kid had heard that a girl liked him, but he didn't know how to tell the girl that he didn't like her back. My advice to these people almost always boiled down to a simple sentence that was on page twenty-four of the book:

A quick conversation is better than a lifetime of regret.

They would nod thoughtfully, just like Phil did, and go try their luck at being honest.

It was kind of fun being the school love guru, to tell you the truth. By the time I finished reading
A Communication Guide for Boys and Girls
a week later—hold your applause, please—it seemed like even the teachers were ready to ask me for dating advice. There was no romantic problem I couldn't solve.

Except one.

 

7

“Got a minute?”

I was coming out of drama class, on my way to P.E. where I would be busy avoiding participating in gymnastics, when she cornered me.

Hannah Spivero.

Now, Hannah and I go way back. I first met her in kindergarten, but I didn't actually develop a crush on her until, oh, let's see … about two hours later. But the good news is, the crush didn't last that long. Only about seven years.

So yeah, let's just say that I spent a lot of days, weeks, months, and years waiting for Hannah to come up to me and say, “Got a minute?”

So when it actually happened, what did I say?

“Not really.”

She looked shocked, for good reason. “What do you mean, not really?”

“I mean, if I'm not out on that balance beam in the next four minutes, Mr. Radonski is going to make me do laps for the next four hours.”