Charisma by Jeanne Ryan Page A

eyes, he struts off.
    I examine my torso as if that’ll provide an explanation for his sudden interest. But my wardrobe makeover didn’t include the pool employee orange one-piece. I put a hand to my long ponytail. Nothing special today, not even makeup, unless you count the attractive streak of zinc oxide on my nose. Have I led him on somehow? Nah, I barely glanced his way. Maybe I’m sending out anticipatory pheromones for tonight.
    After my pool watch, it’s time for snack-bar duty. I rub at the side of my head, which has begun to throb, and take a calming breath before sidling next to Camilla, my coworker. After a few moments, the headache subsides.
    Normally, a gathering this chatty and numerous is grounds for hyperventilating, but instead I greet a boy from my swim class who’d asked if I was a mermaid. I smile as if selling Sour-Sliders and Cookie-Clusters is my land-based dream. He grins back. Soon I’m making jokes with him and his sister as well as the kids behind them. The effortless laughter continues throughout the line, taking on a comfortable rhythm, as if the give-and-take with the crowd feeds something within me.
    Smiling big, I say hi to a guy named Alex from AP math. His barely whiskered jaw drops open, and for a change I’m not the one blushing.
    As he hands me his money, he whispers, “Has anyone ever told you they’d like to calculate the area under your curves?”
    I jolt back. Ewww, is he flirting with calculus jokes? “Uh, seriously? If you leave right now, I won’t tell anyone what you just said. Here’s your Praline Petticoat Parfait.”
    He slinks off, leering over his shoulder. Guess I’m bringing out the best and worst in people today. Still, it’s a worthwhile trade, given the rest of the customers stay away from geeky come-ons.
    At four p.m., I step lightly to my car, praying the easy flow of the day will continue into the evening. It’s hard not to speed home.
    When I get there, Mom announces she’s taking Sammy to the warehouse store for a shopping trip, which always includes a belly full of high-fat samples and pizza that she hopes will stick to his bones. I make a sandwich for dinner and click through my phone. Chloe has another video clip up. Wow, that makes three. But she doesn’t limit them to her own news. Apparently, a guy named Sebastian, who she met at Nova Genetics, had a successful audition today for a local dance company and advanced to the next level of the admissions process. I play the video Chloe posted.
    The footage is grainy, but those leaps and pirouettes are amazing. There’s even a congratulatory comment under the video from that obnoxious guy Shane. Boy, it hasn’t taken him long to connect to Chloe’s universe.
    Curious as to whether Shane’s bad-boy talk was all for show with the teen group, with an extra performance for me, I check out his page. It blasts my eyes with a flurry of Shane photos over a banner that reads: Guess what, ladies? I’m available and accepting applications for my next girlfriends. Satisfaction guaranteed. Send photos and numbers.
    I squint. What the hell?
    Even more surprising are the number of photos posted to his page as part of the “selection” process, which began the day before. He’s received a dozen replies from non-crazy -looking, non-desperate-looking girls, who share shots of themselves in party dresses, bikinis, and everything in between. It’s like that TV show where multiple women compete for one guy, and the winner gets to be in a failed relationship.
    I shake my head in wonder and get ready to hang out with a guy way better than Shane or any TV stud.
    Jack’s old-school enough to pick me up, and his silver Ford arrives at six thirty exactly. Deep breaths. Charisma might make it possible for me to go on a date, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy. With wobbly knees, I open the front door.
    I hold on to the