Not My Type This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

June 23, 2011
The weather was bleak that day. I remember this clearly because he leaned over in 4th period Pre-Calculus class to comment on the matter. That was the first time we had spoken about something other than the typical, yes or no questions like “Do you have an extra pen I can borrow?”

I glanced out the window in a nonchalant manner, trying to act like I had more important things on my mind than our conversation. This is where I made my first mistake.

He was not the kind of person that would let me sit there and act like I was at the top of some social hierarchy that he had somehow landed at the bottom of. He searched for my gaze - no, hunted for my gaze - as I tried my best to divert my eyes toward the dimly-lit window.

Outside, I could see the painted autumn leaves swirling in a wave of wind underneath the charcoal sky. They moved in rhythm with each other, as if someone held them on a fishing line- whipping and walloping through the air. They moved so naturally, so freely. I wished extra hard just then, to be a leaf moving carelessly in the sky and not the brown-haired girl I was, sitting in a metal desk listening to a bald man drone on about hyperbola.

“Don’t you think so?” He reiterated to me slowly, like I spoke a foreign language.

Some would say Jameson Woodall was not “my type” in any sense of the phrase. And frankly, I get uncomfortable when people try to comment on what or whom “my type” is. What does that even mean? Just because he was not obnoxiously stuck on himself, and did not play some sort of contact sport could not possibly mean that he was off-limits. Did his lacking in those areas mean that his pale, blue eyes were a complete waste of recessive genetics?

These same blue eyes were fixated on my piqued expression at the very moment when those thoughts ran through my mind. They were not the kind of eyes that people make a fuss over, or the kind that win ‘Best Eyes’ in the senior superlatives section of the yearbook, but when they were focused directly on you- there was no way on earth you could not help but notice them.

I found myself staring dumb-founded at him, as the cliché question concerning the weather lingered like a leper in the air. Jameson did not seem to mind that I had not answered the actual question, only annoyed at the fact that I had tried to act unhindered by his feeble stab at conversation. He probably assumed I was similar to the girls I was usually spotted with at school, or on the weekends at parties. One of those girls that were too good to even look his way and be polite enough to make a civil attempt at small talk.

I did not consider myself to be one of those girls.

“Yeah, weather like this always makes me tired.” I quietly offered, laying my head down onto my creaky, metal desk to illustrate my point.

I am not sure why people always do that- lay their head on their desks, I mean. It is not very comfortable and usually the position looks extremely awkward to the person sitting behind you. I suddenly became aware of what I must have looked like, gawkily slouched over my desk, so I sat up and continued to stare out the window with only slight disinterest.

The scenery outside had not changed. The colors were still hues of gold and scarlet, and the dreary sky still hung above everything, like an unwanted house guest who refuses to leave.

Satisfied with himself for even getting a response out of me, Jameson just sat in his chair with a content expression and the corner of his lips slightly upturned.

And for some strange reason, I almost wish he would have said something back.


The demeanor of the classroom held a grim feeling, as our aged teacher continued to write all over the white board, his raspy voice almost diminished by all the chatter of the students seated in the matching desks around him. I spotted two girls in the far corner who had scooted their desks close together, so that they could converse in hushed whispers.

A pair of eyes, which had been encoded with a tacky, purple eye shadow and black liner, wandered over in my direction. Her mouth moved swiftly, to reveal a gap tooth underneath her full lips. I wondered what she was saying and if it was about me. Good or bad?

She was probably talking about how I had been the only one of my friends not to be nominated for Homecoming Court. It was speculated that my ex-boyfriend, Tyler Rahn, had been the one sabotaging the votes by telling everyone I was trying to nominate myself. At the time, I laughed it off. Even boys were so petty. It was not until after the door to my bedroom had closed that I decided to wallow in that embarrassment.

I tend to worry a lot about what people think about me. I believe I get a lot of that paranoia from my close friends, whose main concerns at this point in their lives are who is going to ask them to prom, and what would be appropriate to wear to a rap concert.

People actually really like my friends, in theory. They are popular in the typical, teen melodrama sort of way, where they are all decently attractive and are all on Homecoming Court every single year. The only catch is, people do not actually like them. They like the idea of them. My school is large enough, so that people do not really know them personally. The audience gets whatever beautiful façade my friends pass on as reality. What they do not know about these people, is that Paige is cheating on her boyfriend of two years and that Candace has an eating disorder.

Now before I pass on the impression that I am some homely misanthrope, let me just say that I love my life. At most given times, at least. Sometimes I just get tired of friends who create drama over whose driving to the basketball game, or dating guys whose idea of spending time together is inviting you to his friend’s party to get drunk.

“Can someone tell me the correct definition of an asymptote? Without looking in your book, please.” Mr. Kurtz cleared his throat as he skimmed the classroom, his pale gaze shielded by his thick-rimmed glasses.

Although my thoughts had been else where, my hand shot up. I am not particularly smart, but when it comes to definitions and meanings- I was untouchable.

“It is a line that a given function approaches, but never crosses.” I stated simply from the back corner of the classroom.

I love words. Most people do not. I am not going to say that texting and instant messenger completely ruined man kind’s capability of having a normal conversation, but frankly- it did. Making a guy I like actually call me on the phone just to talk has become like trying to get my dad to realize that people do not tuck their polo shirts in anymore. It just does not happen.

With these small complaints in my mind, my thoughts kept spinning around back to the idea, or the possibility, of Jameson- who at this very moment still sat about five feet away from me. Maybe he likes books. Maybe he enjoys a nice conversation about 9/11 conspiracy theories here and there. Maybe he is against partying, and other things that cause you to end up with empty memories of blurred events and people.

His hair was not the dark color I preferred. His body was not tall and stocky like a football player. His face did not resemble a celebrity or anyone of interest. He possessed absolutely nothing that I wanted, and yet- he was ideal.

My mind ran wild as I considered all the possibilities of this new relationship I had superficially created in my imagination. I began to contemplate witty things I could say just then, so that he would ask me to hang out.

I considered lying and randomly mentioning that I love The Black Keys, only because I overheard him talk about their concert one time to the kid that sat behind him. It would only be a white lie, like telling someone that you miss them only because they said it first.

Completely harmless.

Before I could even open my mouth to speak, the bell rang to signal that class was over. The sound infuriated me. Jameson was paying attention to the time, so his stuff was already neatly packed up and he was heading out of the classroom. I quickly scampered to collect my things and followed him into the crowded hallway.

I was so determined to make something happen between us right then, it took me a moment to notice the girl with dark hair that had looped herself around his waist and kissed him on the cheek.

Maybe he really was not my type after all.

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This article has 2 comments. Post your own now!

Katie F. said...
Jul. 6, 2011 at 2:46 pm
This is so good. I love the use of language and how it ends :) Also what you said about how its a white lie to tell someone you miss them only because they it first was brilliant
boomchicka said...
Jul. 6, 2011 at 2:03 pm
i LOVED this! my favorite line was when you said "they like they idea of them." when referring to her friends. that is really true.. i've just never heard it phrased like that before.
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