times.
“Kill me now.” I’m not really a beautiful, sacred-space kind of person. I’m more a glass-and-chrome, wire-me-and-leave-me-alone, I-like-my-personal-space kind of girl.
“Suicide pact.” Adam looks as horrified as I feel.
“We’ll get to expressing ourselves using the media of your choice, but first we must release the creative spirits in each of us. Let’s push the desks back and make a circle in the middle of theroom.” She snaps her fingers and we all jump. “Hearts, please trust me.”
I am so screwed. I have trust issues with doped-up grannies who use words like “spirits” and “hearts.” I should work on that.
I walk into history ready to have Ms. Whoptommy kick the dope smoke out of my brain. There’s no way I didn’t inhale for the entire period of art. I think the drug dog must be dealing on the side not to notice Ms. DaVoe’s digs.
My glance settles on my usual desk. There’s a rose on it. My feet slow. Wrong desk? And then it hits me. It’s the right desk.
Stephen’s sitting in his seat, turned toward me, trying to sneak a peek at my face without being obvious.
He did not. Oh my Goddess, you have to be kidding me. Holy-Mother-of-a-Young-Girl’s fantasy, there is a red rose on my desk. I can’t believe it.
“Congratulations.” Ms. Whoptommy twitches in the general direction of the rose like it pains her for me to receive any tokens of affection.
“For me?” Of course I have to say that. “Thank you.” On our eight-week anniversary and everything. Maybe the bad kissing can be balanced out by gift giving. No. Not really.
Stephen blushes. I’ve never seen him blush. It could be the glare Ms. Whoptommy is shooting at him. “You—well, you know, eight weeks,” he stammers. Then he mouths “anniversary” to me, like clearly I read lips better than I understand spoken word.
Anniversary. Wow. I have an anniversary. Maybe I should have given him something. But how was I supposed to know that wecelebrated weeks? I mean, who celebrates weeks? I didn’t think guys could handle remembering wedding dates, let alone serious-dating-exclusivity-hanging-out-hooking-up dates. What to say? What to say?
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Thanks.” I’m not supposed to say “I love you,” am I? I mean, am I? What if I am? Do I love him? How do you know?
How in the world am I supposed to know?
Can’t breathe.
Can’t breathe.
Must breathe.
Air. Need air.
Love. Do I love him?
No, I don’t. I don’t think I do.
Here’s the deal. I don’t believe I could fall in love with such a bad kisser. Oh, wouldn’t that be the best? It’s so me. I fall in love with the world’s worst lover and he’ll be my soul mate. I will be destined to lots of time on my back without any moaning.
At least, not real moaning. Maybe that’s what they mean by faking it.
What if good lovers are rare and the bad ones are ubiquitous? Can you learn how to be a good lover like learning how to play the piano? Is it an acquired skill, or is it heredity? Like blue eyes or left-handedness. Why don’t they teach us the useful crap?
He’s waiting. Looking at me. Expecting something. What does he want from me? “How are you today?”
“Good. You?” Again with the peering. My dentist spends less time staring at my mouth.
“Real good.”
Real good?
What am I, the Dairy Council’s new campaign?
Got good? Real good
.
“Okay, students. Focus, please. Some of us came here today to learn something.” Ms. Whoptommy pauses to give me a scathing glare. She’s insanely good at glaring.
“Someone didn’t eat her oat bran this morning.” I don’t actually say that out loud. Only think it. Wait. No. I look around. The shock and awe on everyone’s face pretty much confirm that I said it out loud. Ms. Whoptommy is ruining my rosy moment.
“See me after class.” She clicks her wicked-fake orange fingernails on my desk.
My anniversary will also be known as the day I got expelled from high school.
I
“Kill me now.” I’m not really a beautiful, sacred-space kind of person. I’m more a glass-and-chrome, wire-me-and-leave-me-alone, I-like-my-personal-space kind of girl.
“Suicide pact.” Adam looks as horrified as I feel.
“We’ll get to expressing ourselves using the media of your choice, but first we must release the creative spirits in each of us. Let’s push the desks back and make a circle in the middle of theroom.” She snaps her fingers and we all jump. “Hearts, please trust me.”
I am so screwed. I have trust issues with doped-up grannies who use words like “spirits” and “hearts.” I should work on that.
I walk into history ready to have Ms. Whoptommy kick the dope smoke out of my brain. There’s no way I didn’t inhale for the entire period of art. I think the drug dog must be dealing on the side not to notice Ms. DaVoe’s digs.
My glance settles on my usual desk. There’s a rose on it. My feet slow. Wrong desk? And then it hits me. It’s the right desk.
Stephen’s sitting in his seat, turned toward me, trying to sneak a peek at my face without being obvious.
He did not. Oh my Goddess, you have to be kidding me. Holy-Mother-of-a-Young-Girl’s fantasy, there is a red rose on my desk. I can’t believe it.
“Congratulations.” Ms. Whoptommy twitches in the general direction of the rose like it pains her for me to receive any tokens of affection.
“For me?” Of course I have to say that. “Thank you.” On our eight-week anniversary and everything. Maybe the bad kissing can be balanced out by gift giving. No. Not really.
Stephen blushes. I’ve never seen him blush. It could be the glare Ms. Whoptommy is shooting at him. “You—well, you know, eight weeks,” he stammers. Then he mouths “anniversary” to me, like clearly I read lips better than I understand spoken word.
Anniversary. Wow. I have an anniversary. Maybe I should have given him something. But how was I supposed to know that wecelebrated weeks? I mean, who celebrates weeks? I didn’t think guys could handle remembering wedding dates, let alone serious-dating-exclusivity-hanging-out-hooking-up dates. What to say? What to say?
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Thanks.” I’m not supposed to say “I love you,” am I? I mean, am I? What if I am? Do I love him? How do you know?
How in the world am I supposed to know?
Can’t breathe.
Can’t breathe.
Must breathe.
Air. Need air.
Love. Do I love him?
No, I don’t. I don’t think I do.
Here’s the deal. I don’t believe I could fall in love with such a bad kisser. Oh, wouldn’t that be the best? It’s so me. I fall in love with the world’s worst lover and he’ll be my soul mate. I will be destined to lots of time on my back without any moaning.
At least, not real moaning. Maybe that’s what they mean by faking it.
What if good lovers are rare and the bad ones are ubiquitous? Can you learn how to be a good lover like learning how to play the piano? Is it an acquired skill, or is it heredity? Like blue eyes or left-handedness. Why don’t they teach us the useful crap?
He’s waiting. Looking at me. Expecting something. What does he want from me? “How are you today?”
“Good. You?” Again with the peering. My dentist spends less time staring at my mouth.
“Real good.”
Real good?
What am I, the Dairy Council’s new campaign?
Got good? Real good
.
“Okay, students. Focus, please. Some of us came here today to learn something.” Ms. Whoptommy pauses to give me a scathing glare. She’s insanely good at glaring.
“Someone didn’t eat her oat bran this morning.” I don’t actually say that out loud. Only think it. Wait. No. I look around. The shock and awe on everyone’s face pretty much confirm that I said it out loud. Ms. Whoptommy is ruining my rosy moment.
“See me after class.” She clicks her wicked-fake orange fingernails on my desk.
My anniversary will also be known as the day I got expelled from high school.
I
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