Opposite of Always(19)
I am not popular, but I am not unpopular. I am squarely in the middle. Meaning, your attendance will draw little to no fanfare, because people rarely notice me. I am largely obscure.
In case any of the above was unclear, what I am attempting to say is: Will you go to prom with me, Kate?
Please (print out and) circle: YES/NO/MAYBE
Best,
JK
PS While this will no doubt further remind you of my high-school-dom, aka I still live at home with my parents and as such am forced to abide by their rules, I would like to inform you that I am currently sentenced to community service. The community is my neighbor. The service is dog doody. And sadly, that’s no typo. Yes, doody, not duty. I’ll explain when I see you.
Anyway.
Please email me back soon, though, because otherwise I may die.
That is all.
* * *
Dear Jack,
I (mostly) like to follow instructions. Therefore, as you might imagine, I was super stoked to print out your last email, circle my decision, and then— Well, that was the part where things went south.
You see, I do not have your mailing address.
Sooooooo—
My only choice was to save your email as a PDF file, open a PDF editor, circle my answer using one of their highlighter options, save the file again, upload it to my email, and then send it back to you. Hence, the attachment. I know, I know, we’re taught to be mistrustful of attachments. But please do not be afraid to open it, as it does not contain any malware and/or explosions. To my knowledge. At least at the time of me sending you this email. I cannot be held responsible for any alterations that might’ve happened after I hit Send.
I will tell you this. I am not overtly opposed to dances, even the high school variety. But I am opposed to dancing. Rather, my body is. Contrary to stereotype, not all black people are born with incredible rhythm and timing. Most of what I do on the dance floor is a sad variation of the two-step, and even then I lose count. So, please keep this in mind when (and if) you extend any future invitations involving you, me, and music.
Also, it sucks about your community service. But perhaps you can use this time to reflect on what led you down this criminal path (I’m guessing it has something to do with visiting me in your mom’s car??) and how you can regain your footing as a doody-ful citizen. I feel as though that would be a constructive use of your time, considering your propensity for breaking the rules. The car thing plus your reckless abandon of cereal-eating etiquette—you totally finished the last of the milk, dude!
Okay, I have to end this because as I am writing you I am not studying, and not studying, while fun, is grade cyanide.
All Best,
Kate
PS Did you know your initials spell JK? I bet you didn’t. (JK!) [File attached: YesNoMaybe.pdf—scanned with no viruses detected]
I download Kate’s attachment and this is what I find:
* * *
In case any of the above was unclear, what I am attempting to say is: Will you go to prom with me, Kate?
Please (print out and) circle: YES/NO/MAYBE
* * *
How Not to Be So Alone in This World
Although my parents are disappointed in me (no, not in you, honey—in your actions. We love you, Jackie Bear) and despite my well-documented probationary status, they still let Franny sleep over on Friday. No, this is not the mixed signals mistake that parents sometimes make—when they tell you one thing but then almost immediately contradict themselves—rather, it’s because Franny’s grandma works nights every other weekend, and for the last few years, whenever he’s wanted, Mom and Dad have let him crash at our house, no questions asked. This weekend is no exception. And I’m grateful for his company.
Probation isn’t terrible (cut grass, scoop poop, stay out of trouble), but add the fact that I have a terrible case of Kate-on-the-brain, and that I can’t shake her MAYBE and all of its possible meanings from my head, and, well, any distraction is welcome.
As always, Franny insists we eat dinner with my parents. In the dining room.
“You know how I feel about eating in kitchens,” Franny says.
“I know, I know. But eating in the kitchen is, like, convenient. You know, because the food is already there.”
“Kitchens are cool, man, but it’s called the dining room for a reason. It’s begging for us to dine in it.”
I’ve heard this argument before. But I think the real reason Franny’s infatuated with the dining room is because his abuela refuses to let anyone within a hundred feet of theirs, the table and chairs literally zipped in protective plastic.
I know when I’m beat. “Fine, man. Whatever. Dining room it is.”
Franny smiles. “I knew you’d see it my way.” He sniffs the air. “Bro, you need a shower. Like, bad.”
I groan. “I had to clean up Ms. Nolan’s yard today. I’ve never seen so much dog crap in my life.”
“Do the crime, pay the time, bro.”
“Whatever. How’s Abuela?”
Franny shrugs. “Working her ass off, as usual.”
“Yeah.”
“I worry about her. She’s healthy and all that, but I wish I could do more, you know?” Abuela’s raised him since he was nine. I’m lucky, though, he’s always saying. A lot of kids in my hood don’t even have one person they can count on.