that much of a nerd. Though Duke said that when he was in high school, Shakespeare’s sonnets and half a bottle of wine helped him score the first time. Cool.
I said I wanted to impress Gina with my sensitivity. I go, “She’s in my class so she got to hear my report. Maybe I blew her away.” Duke told me to take the road not taken, to ask her out. When I told him she’s dating this dumb 11th grade jock, he just put his shaky hand on my shoulder and said, “She doesn’t care about sensitive.”
Friday, November 12
Gina looked so beautiful today. She was the 5th girl to do a Sylvia Plath poem, but hers was the best. She wore this long skirt with birds on it and a soft pink sweater and a little braid in her hair. I’m crazy about her. I didn’t really get the poem though. Something about a dead Nazi.
All the girls talked about how Sylvia Plath died by putting her head in the oven. I don’t understand that either. How could she have kept her head in there? Wouldn’t you pull it out at the last minute? Did she get burned to death, or was there like a breathing problem? Why didn’t she pick an easier way to go, for instance a quick bullet through the head or at least an overdose of Valium?
Saturday, November 13
Called Gina this morning to congratulate her on her poetry report. Wanted to tell her how pretty she looked in the pink sweater, but instead said, “You sound really knowledgeable about poetic structure.” Lame.
I was hoping she’d say something about my poem. Like what a sensitive guy I must be. So sensitive she just knew I’d be a good boyfriend or at least boyfriend material. All she said was, “Why did Nate choke so bad on his report?”
I don’t know. I never would have suspected. Not from a guy ballsy enough to show me his dirty playing cards that day in the crapeteria when he didn’t know anything about me. And he doesn’t seem to have a problem picking up girls.
I tried to answer Gina in a sensitive way. I actually said, “Poetry may be daunting to some people.” Daunting. The vocab of Captain Sensitive.
But she interrupted me with an important announcement about the Incredible Hunk. He asked her to the Snowball. Supposedly, he’s really sweet because the Snowball is more than a month away. And his face looked really sweet when he invited her. And he gave her this sweet kiss when she said yes. I bet he already rented a motel room.
Sunday, November 14
Dad took me to see the new James Bond flick. Just me and him. In a TV movie, we’d be all huggy and apologetic and form a deep father-son connection. But we just pretended like the whole fight never happened.
It was one of the quietest nights of my life. We have absolutely nothing to say to each other. It was so pathetic I even started missing The Thighmaster.
I need to figure out how to get Dad to like me. The only idea I can think of is joining a sports team. Something real macho. Obviously I’m not cut out for wrestling. And it’s too late for football this year, thank God. I could try basketball.
Wait, I hate basketball. I mean, I love watching basketball on TV or whatever and reading about it in the newspaper. But I hate actually playing basketball. I hate playing any sports. Except bowling and channel surfing.
What’s better? Staying after school most days aiming balls into a basket while you sweat like a pig and people jab you with their elbows? Or sitting in a car with someone in total silence who’s your own dad but can’t stand you?
At least when he teaches me to drive, we’ll have something to talk about.
Monday, November 15
Tonight started off weird right from the beginning. Dr. Vermin called, and I said, “My mom’s watering the backyard,” and he goes, “I wanted to speak to you, Mike.” I’m thinking, Why did I have to answer the phone? I was so happy on the couch with my Fritos, watching the aliens from Planet Genius on Jeopardy .
He was at the bowling alley. It was so noisy I could barely hear him.
I said I wanted to impress Gina with my sensitivity. I go, “She’s in my class so she got to hear my report. Maybe I blew her away.” Duke told me to take the road not taken, to ask her out. When I told him she’s dating this dumb 11th grade jock, he just put his shaky hand on my shoulder and said, “She doesn’t care about sensitive.”
Friday, November 12
Gina looked so beautiful today. She was the 5th girl to do a Sylvia Plath poem, but hers was the best. She wore this long skirt with birds on it and a soft pink sweater and a little braid in her hair. I’m crazy about her. I didn’t really get the poem though. Something about a dead Nazi.
All the girls talked about how Sylvia Plath died by putting her head in the oven. I don’t understand that either. How could she have kept her head in there? Wouldn’t you pull it out at the last minute? Did she get burned to death, or was there like a breathing problem? Why didn’t she pick an easier way to go, for instance a quick bullet through the head or at least an overdose of Valium?
Saturday, November 13
Called Gina this morning to congratulate her on her poetry report. Wanted to tell her how pretty she looked in the pink sweater, but instead said, “You sound really knowledgeable about poetic structure.” Lame.
I was hoping she’d say something about my poem. Like what a sensitive guy I must be. So sensitive she just knew I’d be a good boyfriend or at least boyfriend material. All she said was, “Why did Nate choke so bad on his report?”
I don’t know. I never would have suspected. Not from a guy ballsy enough to show me his dirty playing cards that day in the crapeteria when he didn’t know anything about me. And he doesn’t seem to have a problem picking up girls.
I tried to answer Gina in a sensitive way. I actually said, “Poetry may be daunting to some people.” Daunting. The vocab of Captain Sensitive.
But she interrupted me with an important announcement about the Incredible Hunk. He asked her to the Snowball. Supposedly, he’s really sweet because the Snowball is more than a month away. And his face looked really sweet when he invited her. And he gave her this sweet kiss when she said yes. I bet he already rented a motel room.
Sunday, November 14
Dad took me to see the new James Bond flick. Just me and him. In a TV movie, we’d be all huggy and apologetic and form a deep father-son connection. But we just pretended like the whole fight never happened.
It was one of the quietest nights of my life. We have absolutely nothing to say to each other. It was so pathetic I even started missing The Thighmaster.
I need to figure out how to get Dad to like me. The only idea I can think of is joining a sports team. Something real macho. Obviously I’m not cut out for wrestling. And it’s too late for football this year, thank God. I could try basketball.
Wait, I hate basketball. I mean, I love watching basketball on TV or whatever and reading about it in the newspaper. But I hate actually playing basketball. I hate playing any sports. Except bowling and channel surfing.
What’s better? Staying after school most days aiming balls into a basket while you sweat like a pig and people jab you with their elbows? Or sitting in a car with someone in total silence who’s your own dad but can’t stand you?
At least when he teaches me to drive, we’ll have something to talk about.
Monday, November 15
Tonight started off weird right from the beginning. Dr. Vermin called, and I said, “My mom’s watering the backyard,” and he goes, “I wanted to speak to you, Mike.” I’m thinking, Why did I have to answer the phone? I was so happy on the couch with my Fritos, watching the aliens from Planet Genius on Jeopardy .
He was at the bowling alley. It was so noisy I could barely hear him.