Tell Me Three Things(2)
not just sperm but sweaty lacrosse sperm.
I’d avoid the meat loaf too, just to be on the safe side. in fact, stay out of the cafeteria altogether. that shit will give you salmonella.
To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
From: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
Subject: Will send my bank account details ASAP.
who are you?
To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
Subject: and copy of birth certificate & driver’s license, please.
nope. not going to happen.
To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
From: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
Subject: And, of course, you need my social security number too, right?
Fine. But tell me this at least: what’s up with the lack of capital letters? Your shift key broken?
To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
Subject: and height and weight, please
terminally lazy.
To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
From: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
Subject: NOW you’re getting personal.
Lazy and verbose. Interesting combo. And yet you do take the time to capitalize proper nouns?
To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
Subject: and mother’s maiden name
I’m not a complete philistine.
To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
From: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
Subject: Lazy, verbose, AND nosy
“Philistine” is a big word for a teenage guy.
To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
Subject: lazy, verbose, nosy, and…handsome
that’s not the only thing that’s…whew. caught myself from making the obvious joke just in time. you totally set me up, and I almost blew it.
To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
From: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
Subject: Lazy, verbose, nosy, handsome, and…modest
That’s what she said.
See, that’s the thing with email. I’d never say something like that in person. Crude. Suggestive. Like I am the kind of girl who could pull off that kind of joke. Who, face to face with an actual member of the male species, would know how to flirt, and flip my hair, and, if it came to it, know how to do much more than kiss. (For the record, I do know how to kiss. I’m not saying I’d ace an AP exam on the subject or, you know, win Olympic gold, but I’m pretty sure I’m not awful. I know this purely by way of comparison. Adam Kravitz. Ninth grade. Him: all slobber and angry, rhythmic tongue, like a zombie trying to eat my head. Me: all-too-willing participant, with three days of face chafing.)
Email is much like an ADD diagnosis. Guaranteed extra time on the test. In real life, I constantly rework conversations after the fact in my head, edit them until I’ve perfected my witty, lighthearted, effortless banter—all the stuff that seems to come naturally to other girls. A waste of time, of course, because by then I’m way too late. In the Venn diagram of my life, my imagined personality and my real personality have never converged. Over email and text, though, I am given those few additional beats I need to be the better, edited version of myself. To be that girl in the glorious intersection.
I should be more careful. I realize that now. That’s what she said. Really? Can’t decide if I sound like a frat boy or a slut; either way, I don’t sound like me. More importantly, I have no idea who I am writing to. Unlikely that SN truly is some do-gooder who feels sorry for the new girl. Or better yet, a secret admirer. Because of course that’s straight where my brain went, the result of a lifetime of devouring too many romantic comedies and reading too many improbable books. Why do you think I kissed Adam Kravitz? He was my neighbor back in Chicago. What better story is there than the girl who discovers that true love has been waiting right next door all along? Of course, my neighbor turned out to be a zombie with carbonated saliva, but no matter. Live and learn.
Surely SN is a cruel joke. He’s probably not even a he. Just a mean girl preying on the weak. Because let’s face it: I am weak. Possibly even pathetic. I lied. I don’t have a black belt in karate. I am not tough. Until last month, I thought I was. I really did. Life threw its punches, I got shat on, but I took it in the mouth, to mix my metaphors. Or not. Sometimes it felt just like getting shat on in the mouth. My only point of pride: no one saw me cry. And then I became the new girl at WVHS, in this weird area called the Valley, which is in Los Angeles but not in Los Angeles or something like that, and I ended up here because my dad married this rich lady who smells like fancy almonds, and juice costs twelve dollars here, and I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
I am as lost and confused and alone as I have ever been. No, high school will never be a time I look back on fondly. My mom once told me that the world is divided into two kinds of people: the ones who love their high school years and the ones who spend the next decade recovering from them. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, she said.