As horrible as it will be to see Chris and Lindsay together in the stands at the game Saturday, it’s nothing compared to the torture of imagining what they’re doing together Friday night.

They’re out on their first date. Chris told me they were going to dinner at Ford’s Fish Shack and the latest Bradley Cooper movie. Meanwhile, I’m sitting at home trying to keep myself occupied, earbuds cranked up to full blast, playing game after mind-numbing game of Angry Birds. I name every pig Lindsay.

Has he kissed her yet? Blam. Is he kissing her right now? Blam. Does he have his arm around her? Are they sharing popcorn? Are they going to sit all the way through to the end of the credits and make fun of the minor roles such as “Girl #3 in Bathroom Scene” like Chris and I always do? Blam, blam, blam.

Partway through level four, my bedroom door flies open. “Lexi!” My mother looks ticked, sort of like Matilda just before one of her egg-shooting rampages.

I rip out my earbuds. “Don’t you ever knock?”

“I did. Twice.”

“What is it?”

She gives me her watch-your-tone glare. “I was just going through our shared files. You have some explaining to do.”

Uh oh. Did I accidentally upload one of my Boyfriend Whisperer folders? Or maybe my financials? I take a deep breath and steady my voice. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” She steps into my room, hands on her hips. “You haven’t updated your stats sheet in almost three weeks.”

“Oh, right.” I hope she can’t hear the relief in my voice. “Sorry, Mom. I’ll get to it this weekend.” I point to my temple. “It’s all up here.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m not so sure you have anything up there these days.” She walks over and bends down to scrutinize me. “You’re not doing drugs, are you?”

“What? No. Mom, it’s a stupid spreadsheet. I’ll take care of it.”

She shakes her head. “Your stats are anything but stupid. Where do you think you’d be without them?”

I nod vaguely and say nothing. As soon as she shuts my door, I stick the earbuds back in and fire up another game. Where do I think I’d be without them? What’s that supposed to mean? Where does she think I’d be without them?

Since my first basketball game in the sixth grade, I have scored exactly 543 points in regulation. That includes eighty-eight free throws, 184 two-point shots, and twenty-nine three-pointers. I know this because of my stats sheet—an Excel spreadsheet I’m supposed to update after every game. It automatically calculates my shot percentages, my year-over-year improvements, and the differential between my actuals and my goals.

Without it, where would I be?