I
lived
on my desk. Almost everything that mattered was over there.
“Paul,” my mother said in a half-pleading, half-warning tone.
The floor squeaked and creaked under me, but I barely noticed. My hand was reaching out for the framed picture of Sarah and me that sat next to the keyboard. It was melted and crinkled and distorted. I almost wanted to cry when I saw it. It was the final nail in the coffin. Not only had I lost the girl, I’d lost the only photographic proof I had that the girl had ever been mine.
Maybe I could get some of those pictures Naho Nakasaki had taken for the yearbook at the last Holiday Ball meeting. Maybe she still had the negatives. If I could just get my hands on—
But then, what did it matter? Sarah had dumped me, right? Why did I want to remember what I couldn’t have?
“Come on, honey,” my mother said, stepping up next to me and putting her hands on my shoulders. “You can sleep in the den downstairs tonight and tomorrow we’ll figure out how to fix this mess.”
“Okay,” I said in a daze.
I didn’t want to be here anymore, anyway. It was too depressing. Ripped posters hung from their tacks, the totem pole from our trip to Arizona was tipped over and broken in half, my soccer uniform lay dirty and scorched atop my collapsing hamper. That morning I’d woken up all happy-go-lucky in this very room, and now it was destroyed. Just like I had been that afternoon by Sarah.
It would’ve been almost poetic if it hadn’t sucked so very, very badly.
As I turned to go, I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. There, on the sopping wet floor, trampled and ripped and deteriorating, was a crushed silver Fortunoff bag.
“No,” I said under my breath.
I dropped to the ground, tossing the frame aside, and picked up the bag. The whole bottom fell out, landing with a wet
thwack
on top of a twisted piece of fabric that used to be my favorite boxers. I sifted through the mottled paper and found the receipt, now nothing but a gobbed-up spitball. When I tried to unfold it, it disintegrated in my hands. Sitting in my pocket was a piece of jewelry intended for the girl I loved who could not care less about me. A piece of jewelry that I couldn’t afford. And I was stuck with it for the rest of my life.
I couldn’t have been more screwed.
“Wicked cool!” Marcus Seiler said, stepping into my bedroom. He pulled the hood on his sweatshirt up to cover his gelled hair against the cold, then bobbed his head as he surveyed the damage. He sniffed and made a disgusted face. “It stinks in here, man.”
Yeah, dude. That would be because of the massive
fire.
“I know,” I told him.
“Did you take pictures yet?” Matt Viola asked as he hovered by the door. He looked at the floor warily and decided not to take the risk of actually entering the destruction zone.
“Didn’t think of that,” I told them, resisting the urge to punch something. Didn’t they get that this sucked? They were acting like I’d torched the room myself—for fun. They might be my friends, but sometimes they weren’t all that bright.
“You totally should,” Matt said.
Yeah,
I thought.
I’ll get right on that.
There was a rumble and a crash in my closet and Marcus jumped halfway across the room.
“What the heck was that?” he asked.
“Squirrel,” I replied. “He moved in sometime last night. Scared the crap out of me this morning when I came up to get my cell.”
“Cool,” Matt said. “Get a picture of that, too.”
Marcus and I just looked at him for a second; then Marc clapped. “We’re making a Mickey-D’s run,” he said. “Wanna come?”
“No thanks,” I said as I followed them back downstairs. I hadn’t told them about Sarah yet and if they stayed here for five minutes longer, I knew they were going to ask about her. I wasn’t ready to deal with questions and the obvious comments. (“But
dude,
she’s so
hot
! ” As if I didn’t know.)
I let the guys out through
lived
on my desk. Almost everything that mattered was over there.
“Paul,” my mother said in a half-pleading, half-warning tone.
The floor squeaked and creaked under me, but I barely noticed. My hand was reaching out for the framed picture of Sarah and me that sat next to the keyboard. It was melted and crinkled and distorted. I almost wanted to cry when I saw it. It was the final nail in the coffin. Not only had I lost the girl, I’d lost the only photographic proof I had that the girl had ever been mine.
Maybe I could get some of those pictures Naho Nakasaki had taken for the yearbook at the last Holiday Ball meeting. Maybe she still had the negatives. If I could just get my hands on—
But then, what did it matter? Sarah had dumped me, right? Why did I want to remember what I couldn’t have?
“Come on, honey,” my mother said, stepping up next to me and putting her hands on my shoulders. “You can sleep in the den downstairs tonight and tomorrow we’ll figure out how to fix this mess.”
“Okay,” I said in a daze.
I didn’t want to be here anymore, anyway. It was too depressing. Ripped posters hung from their tacks, the totem pole from our trip to Arizona was tipped over and broken in half, my soccer uniform lay dirty and scorched atop my collapsing hamper. That morning I’d woken up all happy-go-lucky in this very room, and now it was destroyed. Just like I had been that afternoon by Sarah.
It would’ve been almost poetic if it hadn’t sucked so very, very badly.
As I turned to go, I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. There, on the sopping wet floor, trampled and ripped and deteriorating, was a crushed silver Fortunoff bag.
“No,” I said under my breath.
I dropped to the ground, tossing the frame aside, and picked up the bag. The whole bottom fell out, landing with a wet
thwack
on top of a twisted piece of fabric that used to be my favorite boxers. I sifted through the mottled paper and found the receipt, now nothing but a gobbed-up spitball. When I tried to unfold it, it disintegrated in my hands. Sitting in my pocket was a piece of jewelry intended for the girl I loved who could not care less about me. A piece of jewelry that I couldn’t afford. And I was stuck with it for the rest of my life.
I couldn’t have been more screwed.
“Wicked cool!” Marcus Seiler said, stepping into my bedroom. He pulled the hood on his sweatshirt up to cover his gelled hair against the cold, then bobbed his head as he surveyed the damage. He sniffed and made a disgusted face. “It stinks in here, man.”
Yeah, dude. That would be because of the massive
fire.
“I know,” I told him.
“Did you take pictures yet?” Matt Viola asked as he hovered by the door. He looked at the floor warily and decided not to take the risk of actually entering the destruction zone.
“Didn’t think of that,” I told them, resisting the urge to punch something. Didn’t they get that this sucked? They were acting like I’d torched the room myself—for fun. They might be my friends, but sometimes they weren’t all that bright.
“You totally should,” Matt said.
Yeah,
I thought.
I’ll get right on that.
There was a rumble and a crash in my closet and Marcus jumped halfway across the room.
“What the heck was that?” he asked.
“Squirrel,” I replied. “He moved in sometime last night. Scared the crap out of me this morning when I came up to get my cell.”
“Cool,” Matt said. “Get a picture of that, too.”
Marcus and I just looked at him for a second; then Marc clapped. “We’re making a Mickey-D’s run,” he said. “Wanna come?”
“No thanks,” I said as I followed them back downstairs. I hadn’t told them about Sarah yet and if they stayed here for five minutes longer, I knew they were going to ask about her. I wasn’t ready to deal with questions and the obvious comments. (“But
dude,
she’s so
hot
! ” As if I didn’t know.)
I let the guys out through
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