Name, Number, and a Message

January 13, 2012
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My friends nudge me and nod their heads toward him. I turn around and smile a little. I don’t know why they think I don’t see him. I’m all too aware of his presence. Suddenly, I analyze every little thing I do. They way I walk, they things I talk about with my friends, the people I talk to. It makes it difficult to do anything, but I can’t help it. I know that it most likely doesn’t look natural, but it’s hard to act natural anytime he’s around.

I want him to like me so much. But how will he like me if I don’t even talk to him? I’m way too afraid to. I’ll either say something stupid, or smile too much, or choke. I hope he doesn’t know I like him. I’m desperately trying to control everything.

We go and sit in the bleachers. I’m right in front of him. He talks to the other girls around me, so I have an excuse to steal glances at him. For the hundredth time I wonder, “Why isn’t every girl in school falling all over him?” He’s smart, funny, gorgeous, popular; I suddenly feel drained of confidence. Why would he notice me when I’m surrounded by beautiful, popular girls? The teacher starts calling attendance, and I run the word through my mind. “Here!” That’s all I have to say, but with him sitting right there it’s difficult to think straight.

As my name is called I feel like he’s breathing down my neck. I swallow and call out, “Here,” assuring that my presence is known. Not that I think he cares all that much. We all erupt into a silent, buzzing chatter as the teacher turns on several boring videos that will leave us educated in nothing by the end of class except the latest gossip, a new high score on our iPods, or just some random giggling and messing around. This would be the perfect time to start up a conversation. So why don’t I? I’m a chicken that’s why.

The class is all that I expected it to be. By the end, we are all tired and stiff from sitting in the uncomfortable bleachers, and antsy to get to the next class. Finally dismissed, the gym erupts into much louder chatter and the sounds of backpacks being slung around and feet stomping off. I am one of the last ones to stand up to leave, when I suddenly feel someone grabbing my hand.

I can tell that the hand around mine is large and strong, and I turn around to find that it is, indeed, who I didn’t even dare hope for it to be. It’s him. He whips out a pen from his pocket and scribbles something on my hand. He stares at me for a moment, his hand still around my wrist. He shoots me a half smile and a mysterious wink, then strolls off. I unfold my now sweaty hand and stifle a squeal.

On the palm of my hand is his name, phone number, and a messily scrawled, “Call me sometime.”

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