P.S. I Like You(21)

“No.”

“Exactly. Earlier there was a big, huge food chunk right here.” She pointed at her front tooth. “And nobody told me. Nobody. Oh wait, Mark told me after I’d been talking to him for five minutes.”

I laughed.

“You would’ve told me, right? Tricia should have told me. It’s girl code. I think Tricia likes Mark, too. That’s the problem here.”

“Maybe she didn’t see the food.”

“Lil, people on the space station saw this chunk of food. It was massive. And right on my front tooth.”

“That was rude of the people on the space station not to tell you about it.”

“Ha-ha.”

“He probably thought it was funny,” I said.

Ashley groaned. “That’s exactly what he thought. That’s why this is a nightmare. If you want a romantic relationship with a guy, first he has to find you mysterious, then intriguing, then funny. In that order. If it’s in any different order, you are forever labeled friend.”

I frowned. “That’s an interesting theory.”

“Tried and proven. And the funny has to be intentional. None of this making a fool of yourself business.”

Huh. Maybe that’s why I’d never had a romantic relationship. I was always making a fool of myself.

Ashley rolled off her bed, crawled forward, and sat on the floor with her back facing me. “Braid my hair. I want it to be wavy tomorrow. Plus, it will make me feel better.”

“You’re so needy.” Sometimes, it felt like Ashley was the younger sister.

“Please? I’ll straighten yours for you.”

“Get me a brush.”

She hopped up and walked out of the room.

I looked at my notebook. “We’ll never have enough alone time together, will we?” I asked it with a sigh. “It’s as if people are trying to keep us apart.”

My sister came back in swinging a hairbrush like a pendulum between her thumb and forefinger, a straightener tucked under her other arm. “Who are you talking to?”

“Myself.”

“You do that a lot.”

“I know. I’m the only one who understands me.”

Ashley threw the brush at me, narrowly missing my leg, then plugged in the straightener and positioned herself on the floor by my bed. I begrudgingly closed my notebook.

My sister had long, beautiful hair. It was the same color as mine, but unlike my crazy waves, hers was perfectly straight.

“People spend a lot of time to make their hair look exactly like yours,” I said as I ran a brush through it.

“And people spend just as much time to make their hair look like yours.”

“I guess everyone wants what they don’t have.”

As if I had been making a statement about her love life, Ashley said, “Boys suck.”

“Amen,” I said.

Ashley tipped her head back. “What? You’re agreeing with me? Spill.”

“You want to feel better about your supposedly embarrassing situation that in reality happens to everyone?” I asked.

“Not everyone.”

“Everyone at some point or another has had food in their teeth. But I bet your pet rabbit has never peed on your date’s foot.”

Ashley laughed.

“Yeah … exactly,” I said.

Ashley didn’t stop laughing. She put her forehead to her knees, causing me to let go of the braid.

“Keep on laughing,” I said.

“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She sat back and I separated her hair again and began to braid when she broke out into laughter again.

“I’m not braiding your hair anymore,” I announced, sitting back.

“No, no, no,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

I gathered her hair. Two minutes passed, then she said, “Do you call him Pee Foot now?” and burst into laughter.

I let go of her hair and shoved her. “You’re a brat.”

She stood and let out a happy sigh. “Your stories are the best, Lil. Your social life is so funny. Thanks for making me feel better.” With that she left the room.

“Yes, that’s me, the girl whose social life makes everyone feel better about theirs,” I said to nobody.

I yanked the straightener’s cord out of the wall, turning it off, and then picked up my notebook. I flipped to the back and titled the last page: Suspects. I didn’t have that sad of a social life. I had a fun and perfectly normal relationship with an anonymous pen pal. Okay, so an anonymous pen pal didn’t exactly sound normal, but I would ignore that fact. Maybe it was time to figure out who he was.





“Mrs. Clark, did you have rules when you were dating?”

I was beginning to wonder if I was the only girl in the world who didn’t have dating rules, and if this was part of my problem. I was sitting at a desk in the main office fulfilling my aide duties, which today consisted of transferring the handwritten sign-out sheet from the day before into the computer.

Mrs. Clark looked up from her computer. She was about my mom’s age, and pretty, with long blonde hair and glasses. I could almost picture her as a teenager. Almost.

“Rules?” Mrs. Clark asked, furrowing her brow.

“You know, like ‘be mysterious but not too mysterious,’ ‘don’t laugh at your date,’ things like that.”