Live On

I’m reading a book at my desk at school when this happens:

Doucheguy: Reading is stupid.

Me: Go away

Doucheguy: You’re a nerd

Me: Ha ha ha ha ha, your thick

My friend turns around and says to me (jokingly) : Omigod Lea,  your so posh.

Coolest best friend moment ever.

I step out of the dressing room. She is still sitting at the desk, she doesn’t see me or at least she pretends not to. She is so beautiful, silky pitch black hair cut into a short choppy bob. Dark grey-blue eyes. Perfect smooth pale skin and a simple rhinestone nose piercing.

“Do these trousers make my butt look big?” I ask, clearly joking. The trousers were constricting on my legs, but hey, it was worth it. She’ll think I’m funny and it was worth the uncomfortable feeling.

Somehow I have to get her attention, she not like the other girls. She’s not screaming and fangirling all over the place. She sits in front of me, peacefully frowning at her iPhone. I watched her earlier as she scrolled through the various songs, she had everything on their from Beyoncé to Black Veil Brides, but there was a surprising lack of one direction. Which pained me deeply.

She looks up at me;  her face is apathetic and unamused. She pulls out an ear bud.

“They’re on backwards,” she states flatly and then refocuses her attention on her phone.

That was not the reaction I was hoping for.  She didn’t even laugh. I guess it’s not going to happen and I give up.  I waddle back into the dressing room and redress in my original clothes.

Why didn’t she care? Why didn’t she notice me? I feel a bit vain thinking this, but I famous, she should be asking for my autograph and begging me to give her my number. But that was what made her so interesting; she didn’t want anything from me, just for me to leave her alone. I’m not sure whether I love or hate it.

As I walk back out of the dressing room again, I pretend to put on the same act; and ignore her too. Perhaps that will spark her interest. I can play hard-to-get too.

“Your number?”  she says blankly as I pass by her, yet she still doesn’t look up. She stoically chews her spearmint gum, and twists her Target employee label pin, that is stuck through her red t-shirt. Her name has been scratched away, but a beautifully drawn Sharpie rose takes its place.

“Pardon?” I ask.

“Your number. I need it,” she says glancing up at me.

Bingo. I had done it. Playing hard to get had done the trick.

“A bit sudden, “I say, “but alright.”

I stanch up a notepad from the table and a pen, and quickly jot down my cell-phone number.

I toss it on the desk in front of her.

She raises and eyebrow at it and then presses a button on the iPhone ; I hear her music’s volume increase.

“I meant your dressing room number,” she states, “The little plastic card with number three on it, that I gave to you earlier.”

Darn, now I just look stupid. Well, at least she cared enough to remember that my card had a number three on it. That had to count for something.

I dig in my pockets in hopes to find the accursed little card. It isn’t there.

“One second,” I say. I dart back into the dress room. I must look like such a fool.

I find the little plastic card, on the bench of my stall. The large bold black three stares back up at me.

Hopeless, utterly hopeless I tell myself. There are thousands of girls out there dying to date you. This girl is no more special.

 But she is and I know it.

I walk back out, and hand the card to her. I hope she’ll say thanks, at least.

Instead, I do, and she raises her eyebrow again. Total facepalm on my behalf.

I walk down the tiled floor away from her, I’m never going to see again, but that’s not important. I try to convince myself. Then I remember she has my cell number.  A twinge of hope sparks in my chest. Maybe.

I quickly duck behind the nearest rack and peer through it at her.

I watch as she glances down at the desk, she picks up the notepad, shrugs, and tears off the top page.

She removes her phones case and fold up the piece of paper and places it on the back of her phones. She secure it in place with the case.

“Yes,” I sigh to myself.

“Excuse me!” demands a voice behind me.

A very taken-aback looking grandmother stands behind me.

I’ve been hiding behind the women’s bra rack.

But I don’t care, that girl was going to be mine.