I keep staring at the ceiling. The last rays of the sun peek through the slits in the half-opened blinds, shining on a cobweb in the corner. If Mom spots it, she’ll make me clean the whole room.
Mom…
Don’t get carried away.
Slacking off won’t change anything. Besides, I should be studying.
I get out of bed, sit down at the pine table and switch on the light. I fish out my literature stuff from the bag. Maths is the most urgent, but I have an essay due tomorrow.- and at least I like that class. I open my textbook to page ninety-five to reread the poem before analyzing it.
He touches my face.
My eyes wander over the lines in vain, by the time I get to the end of the sentence, I’ve forgotten the beginning.
Never mind, I’ve read it enough times, maybe I can do it by heart. I rip a page out of spiral notebook, my ballpoint pen clicks in my hand.
His eyes melt into mine.
I write down a few words.
It’s all right. Breathe slowly, deeply.
The memory tingles. Tantalizingly distant, out of reach.
See you tomorrow.
He smiled. Like he was looking forward to it.
Who would fuck a pig?
The ink runs off the tip of the pen. I pick it up, then press the end of the sentence with such force that the paper punctures, the metal tip makes a small crater in the wood of the desk. Tears fall on the writing, dissolving the letters.
He doesn’t even need me for That. And he’ll figure that out as soon as he thinks about it a bit, or when he reaches under my baggy sweater. Why fool myself? He can have anybody. The longer I drag this out, the more embarrassing the situation becomes.
He seemed genuinely happy when I asked for a second date.
Asked? I demanded.
Next time, let’s make it fifteen. – What else could he have said? Of course he accepted.
Out of courtesy.
Out of grace.
I don’t need pity.
He brought my library card after me, even though he could have mailed it to me.
It happened to be on my way home.
Who knows how long he waited for me in front of the school. He asked me out for coffee and brought me home. Why?
Why would he do that?
Could Mom be wrong? What if he really does like me?
I imagine his tall, elegant figure, the scent of his perfume, the feel of his muscles under his turtleneck, his hair that even the wind can’t muss.
Come on… How many people do I want to disappoint?
It’s one thing to think about fucking a pig, but actually doing is another thing.
He’d regret it.
I’d better put an end to this right now. Maybe I can retain some of my dignity. And save his.
I pick up my phone and open Facebook to find him, and cancel tomorrow on account of graduation and all the studying.
Devin… – my fingers shake so hard I mispell twice. What was his name again?
He introduced himself, extended his hand.
His skin on mine…
Vicarosi? Wizarody?
Oh, my God, I didn’t even memorize his name!
I go to the library’s website, but they still haven’t updated the staff list. I return to FB to see if I can find him among the library’s followers.
Nothing.
I just type Devin into the search bar.
Lots of hits.
An icy wave washes over me – I won’t be able to message him.
Which means I have no choice but to go and tell him straight to his face.
Just like Mom did to me…
I imagine us sitting by the window and telling him that none of this makes sense. His black eyes widen in shock, his cheeks turning a shade of pink, just like when I made that ambiguous comment about the blond bad boys.
No, no way. I couldn’t do it.
I can’t go. Tomorrow I’m going out the back gate of the school. Yeah, that’s for the best. If he finds out by waiting and waiting… but I’m not coming. And I’m never going to the library again.
I stare at my phone and search for ROTA Championship to seek solace in Metamorph’s match, but the title that pops up only makes my heart clench even more:
“After a crushing defeat, Anonymous Four replaced Metamorph for the second game.”