Her, Him, and the Receptionist | Teen Ink

Her, Him, and the Receptionist MAG

January 13, 2009
By SamanthaS BRONZE, Encino, California
SamanthaS BRONZE, Encino, California
1 article 0 photos 370 comments

Our daily jog together. At least I like to think of it as our jog. It’s not like we actually run together, but in close proximity in separate universes.

It is hard to remember the days when we did not run together. My elliptical jogs right behind his treadmill and always keeps up. It would have been so easy to say hi the first time. But with each passing day, it has gotten harder and harder, and now impossible. We have had occasional looks back and forth, but those were probably coincidences. Of course I ­always look at him. As for the times his glance met mine, perhaps something else called his gaze. And I’m way too shy to budge from my routine to approach confirmed rejection. Why can’t he just make the move? I know, that’s a funny one. Look at him and then look at me – especially without makeup!

I don’t turn red from exercising, but I do blush when I’m nervous or embarrassed. So my cover story would be that my redness is from my heavy-duty workouts. After all, I am at the gym. I’m struggling to keep up with myself. My mind is going faster than the elliptical. My fervent fears, my neurotic nerves, my taxing trepidations, my angry anxieties whirling through my brain. Now I’m really dizzy.

Even he has flaws. It’s not like I think he’s perfect or anything. How could he be perfect with shoes that smell like that? He comes close to perfection. And his feet come close to me as he lifts them on the treadmill upwind of my elliptical. Just as my iPod advances to the next song, a wave of toxic air per­meates my nostrils. “Tell me how I’m supposed to breathe with no air? Can’t live, can’t breathe with no air … If you ain’t here I just can’t breathe. There’s no air, no air,” sings Jordin Sparks. Whew, how can I breathe in this air? Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Ahh. How can toxic air be refreshing? But amid these toxins, there is some sweetness. I can just sense it; I have that tingling feeling in my nostrils.

It’s hard for me to hold back a little smile. I can’t get away from it this time. It draws me closer. The occasional silent connection I have with him is worth the foul air I endure. I must be high on either the stench or endorphins, because I don’t believe in drugs. I am exercising longer than usual. I am pumped. I am not getting tired. Exercise is a healthy form of procrastination for what I might do next.

The elliptical bars are sandwiched ­between my palms and my fingers. I am pushing on them with all my strength. Just as I alternately push and pull on the levers – left, right, left, right – my strength to contact him alternates with my fear of rejection. Our closeness has been on a meta­phorical treadmill – no matter how hard I try, no ­matter how fast I run, we don’t get any closer. The counteracting forces of acceptance and rejection are pulling on me equally. I am in equilibrium. I am moving at a constant velocity on the elliptical, but I can’t get myself to move toward him. Physics. Echhh!

I try to look cute in my gym clothes, but it’s hard. The mirror tells me I look fat and ugly. Those are the only things the mirror ever tells me, besides red hair, freckles, Raggedy Anne.

My pink good-luck sweatband hasn’t brought me any luck. I’m going to go buy some new colored ones. I’m getting kind of sick of pink. People must think I wear the same sweaty headband every day, but I have dozens of them from that sale at Costco. I know that’s what he’s thinking when he turns around: freak, loser.

Droplets of sweat drip down my face, ravaging my pores and burning the roots of my confidence. But he gives me a feeling all over my body just by looking at him. So I know it’s worth it.

The odor burns my nostrils, but I can’t resist. I tiptoe into the hallway outside the men’s locker room; one hand holding the heart-shaped Post-It, the other plugging my nose. I see them resting on the wooden bench, right where he left them after “our” jog, laces untied and tongues forming obtuse angles. Why are they here? My hands are shaking and my legs are trembling, but I bite the corner of my lip and stick the note face up in the heel of his right shoe.

I am leaving the gym and I can’t stop thinking about him. Still. I hope he feels the same. But he won’t. I hope he will call. But he won’t. It’s been seven minutes since I put my note in his shoe and put my heart on the waiting list for rejection.

I enter my apartment and begin pacing. It’s been an hour and three minutes. I shouldn’t have done it. He doesn’t like me. It’s ­going to be awkward. No way. I’m not giving in. I’m not going to change my workout routine. But it will be hard to look at him tomorrow. I hope he saw the note before he put his shoes on. If not, I hope the ink doesn’t smear.

***

There she is. I could set my watch by her if I had one. Same gym. Same time. Same workout. Same as me. She never misses a day. I don’t think I ever will either. My mom and dad are both kind of, I don’t want to say chubby, but yeah, they are. I can’t let that happen to me. But I have another reason too.

Crack. Crack. My neck always cracks when I turn my head swiftly to check the clock behind me. At first this was a pain, but then I saw her. When I realized I got to look at her every time I turned to check the time, my neck strain didn’t bother me. I must be discreet. I love looking at her, but I don’t want her to know that her beauty keeps me staring. At least not quite yet. I’m not a stalker, just shy. I want to talk to her. I want to go up to her. But what if she thinks I’m just hitting on her? I’m really interested in knowing her. How is she supposed to tell the difference?

What a cutie. She’s just my type: tall, slender, and I can tell her skin is smooth. The cutest freckles. Milk chocolate eyes. Her gorgeous, wavy red hair is tied is back in a ponytail and she wears a pink headband. She must love pink. She should, it’s her color. Her hair sways with every step. Thank you, pink headband – not a hair is blocking my view of her face.

What I like most is that she doesn’t act like she is beautiful. She doesn’t know how nervous she makes me. She doesn’t know the grace she exudes. She has a story to tell. I want to hear it. But I’m afraid to ask her. Wimpy, maybe. Intimidated, definitely. I feel like I’ve watched the same Candid Camera episode 5,500 times. My failed attempt keeps replaying in my head. With every day that I say nothing, she’s more and more likely to think I’m either gay or I need a watch.

I want to know her name. Seeing her every day for weeks, I refer to her as Pink Headband. How pathetic. I have to know her name. At least for now, it would be easier to ask the receptionist for Pink Headband’s name than to ask her. At least if she refuses, it won’t be as humiliating as a no from Pink Headband.

So I make my way to the desk. I say excuse me to the nerdy girl behind the counter. I have caught her staring at me in the past, but the one time I actually want her attention, she’s preoccupied. I’m the only person here. The phone is resting comfortably on its hook. But she is talking to someone or something nonetheless. I sigh. I’m getting impatient. I feel like I’m hailing a taxi. Waving and waving, and they just drive by. Same with her. I’m waving and that freak seems to be talking to her stapler. Finally I get her ­attention. I ask. She answers. I write “Molly” on the envelope containing my note to the woman I used to know as Pink Headband. I ask the ­receptionist to please give it to her.

As I sit on the bench outside the men’s locker room, I fight my urge to chicken out and retrieve the envelope. I bolt into the locker room to take a shower. The hot water is soothing. Shoot! I left my shoes on the bench. Not to worry. Who would want to steal those smelly old things?

Realizing I must have left my cell phone in my car, I get dressed quickly, jump into my shoes, and leave. I don’t want to miss her call.

***

I hate working at this place. Why do I work here? I need out. I need a work out. I’m so funny. I always laugh at my own jokes. Ha ha ha, snort, snort.

All day I inhale air tainted with the smell of sweat. And no, it’s not me doing the sweating. Oh, here comes Mr. “I’m so much better than you that I won’t respond when you greet me.” I scrunch my nose to push up my glasses, the way I always do when my hands are busy. He’s headed right toward me. It seems like he needs to ask me something. This will be a first. How will he do this and still keep his perfect record of never saying a word to me? Of course, it must be so hard to say “good evening” to someone who has just said it to you.

I can feel my nervous twitch starting up again. My top lip is moving diagonally; my invisible enemy has strung a thread through my lip with his needle. I try to yank it in the other direction, back into place, but it won’t budge.

The name of the girl in the pink headband? Uhhh. The girl in the pink headband! If she’s wearing her pink one today, it must be either Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday. Gross. But apparently he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. How sweet. For once he is nice and it is hard to hate him. He writes “Molly” on the envelope and hands it to me. Sure I’ll give it to Molly, all right.

He heads for the locker room; he is out of sight, but he sure isn’t out of my mind. Neither is the favor he asked of me. He wants me to give the envelope to Molly. Sure I will. I’ll be as good at giving this to Molly as he is at responding when I say hello. Actually, better because now my paper shredder’s name is Molly. Molly loves envelopes. She’ll fall bin over wheels!

***

Is there something in my shoe?



Similar Articles

JOIN THE DISCUSSION

This article has 1778 comments.


Nikki said...
on Apr. 7 2011 at 1:16 am
me 2 for chapter 2

Nikki said...
on Apr. 7 2011 at 1:14 am
Reluctantly I decided to share that a friend pointed out that I thought it was a naughty story and i still read it.  But I was not at all disappointed - i really was pleasantly surprised.  

on Apr. 6 2011 at 6:32 pm
dreamer11 BRONZE, Plano, Texas
1 article 0 photos 21 comments

Favorite Quote:
Twenty years from now, it won't matter what kind of shoes you wore, how expensive your jeans were, or how you your hair looked. What will matter is what you learned and how you used it. -Unknown

This is amazing! I love it and hope you will continue to write more

on Apr. 6 2011 at 11:26 am
hiddensecretsx, Baton Rouge, Louisiana
0 articles 0 photos 1 comment
I like this <3 :)

Nikki said...
on Apr. 6 2011 at 12:41 am
Because of the title i thought this was a naughty story.  I was so pleasantly surprised.  This is GREAT.  Please post your next chapter.

on Apr. 5 2011 at 10:54 am
brookbaker BRONZE, Mustang, Oklahoma
4 articles 0 photos 4 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Love like you've never been hurt"
"You are what i never knew I always wanted." -Fools Rush In
"Absence makes the hear grow fonder."
"Do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always got."
"Cease the day."

Oh my, I Love this story!

You are nothing short of an amazing writer, I'm still on the edge of my seat, waiting for another chapter to unfold!!


on Apr. 4 2011 at 8:29 pm
JustBelieve SILVER,
7 articles 0 photos 5 comments

Favorite Quote:
"A time will come when you think everything is done.....that will be the beginning."

love the story 
but now i want to know what happens to the people :)

on Apr. 4 2011 at 8:02 am
everything_shane BRONZE, Manila, Florida
2 articles 0 photos 9 comments

Favorite Quote:
Don't rush things. Good things will come to those who wait.

nice story

caedanse said...
on Apr. 3 2011 at 6:01 pm
caedanse, Springfield, Ohio
0 articles 0 photos 20 comments
Adorable and ironic~ really made me smile.

on Apr. 3 2011 at 5:29 pm
ZalphaNeko GOLD, Plantation, Florida
17 articles 5 photos 16 comments
okay, i wouldnt actually become friends with her, her sarcasm is just really amusing. i found it funny thats all. im not saying that what she did was right or anything. lol

Maggie said...
on Apr. 3 2011 at 4:05 pm
How about if you decide what type of book it should be?  Sorry if I crossed the line by saying what kind of book it should be.  Whatever kind, I think it could  be great.

Maggie said...
on Apr. 3 2011 at 4:00 pm
Fantastic story.  You had me from the beginning and I beg you for more.  Scanning a bunch of the comments, everyone wants you to write more. This could be a wonderful book and romantic comedy/drama.

Maggie said...
on Apr. 3 2011 at 3:57 pm
Seriously?  Are you saying that you would shred the note or something else? Would it be for jealousy or because the guy was a jerk to you or because you like to mess with peoples heads or ???

C.M.L. BRONZE said...
on Apr. 3 2011 at 1:16 am
C.M.L. BRONZE, San Jose, California
3 articles 4 photos 22 comments

Favorite Quote:
wobbledy wobbledy wa wobble wobble

Wow, nice plot. I liked how you incorporated all three of their perspectives-nice touch. c:

on Apr. 2 2011 at 11:35 pm
brittany roman, Kissimmee, Florida
0 articles 0 photos 2 comments
i Wish ir went on Longer

marei2331 said...
on Mar. 29 2011 at 3:52 pm
marei2331, Lubbock, Texas
0 articles 0 photos 71 comments

Favorite Quote:
For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others, for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness, and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone.

Amazing! it's so believeable. All of their thoughts and everything. It's great! I'm so happy that your #1 :) Good job!

on Mar. 28 2011 at 4:51 pm
ZalphaNeko GOLD, Plantation, Florida
17 articles 5 photos 16 comments
And I mean, the recepcionist. Lol. I forgot to mention that.

on Mar. 28 2011 at 4:49 pm
ZalphaNeko GOLD, Plantation, Florida
17 articles 5 photos 16 comments
This is really good. I really like the protagonist. You really convegy her feelings well. I bet if she were real, she and I would be friends.

Laura said...
on Mar. 27 2011 at 11:41 am
If I were to beg, I would say . . . .   (my cliffhangers are not as clever as Samantha's.)

Laura said...
on Mar. 27 2011 at 11:40 am
I have not said anything in quite a while about begging for chapter 2 and I am not going to beg now . . . . . . . . .