Liars and Losers Like Us(6)
At home in my bedroom, I jump into sweatpants and peel off my wet-pitted Elvis shirt. Talking to Sean and dodging Chip can have that effect. My whole drive home from school was me pep-talking myself into longer breaths and a million repetitions of “just relax.”
Bummer of the day had to have been Sean Mills saying “too bad.” I don’t want him feeling sorry for me. He almost made it sound like if we got on court together, we’d have been hanging out, eating pizza, and engaging in secret Prom activities. But being around Jane and Molly and their clique would’ve been awkward. And I’d have to fake like hell that it wasn’t. It’s probably for the best that my name wasn’t called.
I once read or heard Oprah talking about being nominated for an award years ago. She was so stressed about how she looked that she didn’t want to get up in front of everyone. I can’t remember if she won and she was embarrassed about winning or if she lost and was relieved she didn’t have to be on stage in the end. Either way, I know what she meant. I’m fairly confident this year about my looks, but sometimes I still feel like my best isn’t good enough. Girls on Prom Court like Molly and Jane look like they stepped off the set of the latest teen movie. Getting my braces pried off last year and accepting that my hip bones will never shrink did cut down on mirror critiquing time, but it didn’t do much to bump up my social rank at school.
Sean’s face flashes in my head so I grab my backpack and fish out my notebook to make sure his phone number is still there. It’s slightly smudged but still legible: Sean 612–555-8000.
I snap a picture of it and message it to Kallie.
This actually overrides the whole “sorry you weren’t nominated” bit. Sean giving me his number means something. Guys don’t go around giving their numbers to girls they want to be friends with. Not guys like him. Nope. A voice and smile like his are not hard up for a study partner with no credentials other than “seat behind you” stalking. If only I was cool enough to wait until Monday to see if he says anything about me not calling him, but I don’t have that type of willpower.
To text or not to text. Texting in a situation like this is usually something I’d avoid since there’s always the chance my words will come off the wrong way and I’ll be in a mess until I construct forty more lines to explain myself. It can be a time suck. Sometimes it’s the chicken shit way to go. So that’s why I might text. I’m worried about my voice quavering on the phone and don’t want Sean to hear my nerves.
I pull the phone to my ear and pretend to call: “Hey Sean, it’s Bree. From class. Hughes, Bree Hughes.” Then I get carried away. “Yes, Bree with dark brown hair and blue-gray eyes. Five foot five and a quarter. I like shows and movies about zombies but serial killer movies freak me out. And you’ve never seen it, but I have a Massachusetts-shaped birthmark on my stomach and some cellulite on my thighs. Language Arts is my favorite class but your neck is very distracting. Sorry, but it’s true. And now you know that, you might as well know that I’ve been passive aggressively stalking you this whole semester …”
Buzzzz. My text alert goes off and I jump, hoping it’s Sean. Oh, wait. He’s the one who gave me his number. I check the screen.
KALLIE VATE.
Call him now! That’s WAY better than Prom Court. But still SORRY u didn’t get in!!!! : ( Thx for nominating me tho LUV U. I’ll call u tmrw!
An out-of-nowhere rock drop feeling assaults me, from the top to the bottom of my gut. My best friend feels sorry for me, too. Ugh. And, as usual, she’s hanging with Todd tonight. Weekends are so much easier when your best friend is single or you have your own boyfriend. Chip was the last guy I dated. And since that turned out so shitty, I haven’t been actively searching for a replacement. Just dreaming of one. If I can step it up a notch, maybe Sean could be the next guy.
It’s probably time to follow Kallie’s advice and call him before I overthink myself right into Monday. Sean’s number stares back at me as I suck in a deep breath while reciting his digits in my head. I tap them into my phone and then do a half-dancy jumping jack to get myself into “operation call hot guy” mode. It rings twice and I hope for voicemail while my nerves kick harder. Fourth ring and yes. Voicemail.
“It’s Sean—say something important or funny.” BEEEEEP.
His deep drawl followed by a superfast beep throws me off and I almost hang up. But I can’t. I have to leave a message or he might wait for me to call back. Or he won’t see my missed call. Or he might not know it was me and think I’m some salesperson trying to sell printer ink or pet insurance.
“Hi Sean, this is Bree. From Language Arts and um, Bree Hughes, so I was calling since my notes, um, because you have my—” And then I do something beyond stupid. I’m so nervous that I decide to re-do my message and hope to God his phone has that option like most voicemails do. So, I tap the star button key but nothing happens. Just air. I hit the pound sign. Still nothing. Oh Shit. I can’t hang up because that would be totally lame, so out of desperation I drop the phone then pick it back up. The cat clock on my wall grins at me like I’m a total idiot. “Omigod I’m so sorry, my cat just jumped in my lap and knocked the phone out of my hand. Sorry! Anyways, as I was saying it’s Bree from Language Arts and you have my notes so if—”
BEEEEEP. An automated robot lady says “Thank you” and hangs up on me.