Waiting.


I shiver, and glance at the clock. It reads 5:32 in blaring, neon green digits. I sigh, grinning. You’ll be hopping into your car, sweaty from playing 2 hours of intense basketball. I can picture you, your hair damp with the gatorade that your buddies poured on you, as a reward for a good game. Your skin would be moist, sweat clinging to it like the tight sweaters that every girl in the school wears...to impress you. Your eyes would be back to their normal gray, instead of the stormy, fiery, silver they are when you’re immersed in a basketball game. I can just picture your business-suit clad mom drilling you on how you shouldn’t wipe your hands on the just-reupholstered-black-leather-seats. You will be getting your phone from your backpack now, entering in the password to unlock it, and checking your messages. Perfect. My fingers fly across the keys of my phone. I growl in frustration when I realize I made a mistake. Fingers moving like lightning, I make sure every word is perfect. Then, I read the text over and over. My eyes start to sting from staring at the bright, artificial light for so long. I blink ferociously, thumb hovering over the send button. This is the moment I dread. A million thoughts swarm into my brain, stinging my mind over and over. Soon, I feel numb and unconfident. Will he think I’m desperate? Should I wait until he texts me? But he’ll never text me! Do I tease him? Or compliment him? I sigh. Finally, in a moment of sheer courage, I press the small, green send button. I squeeze my eyes shut, and fling the phone onto my bed. I make sure my volume is set on high, and casually walk out of the room as if I don’t care. After 5 minutes I can’t stand it. I race back through my door, decorated with a large pink M for Molly. I hold my breath and flip open my phone. Nothing. In the corner reads, “No new messages.” A little bit of my confidence is gnawed away by doubt and fear of rejection. Then, I lie on my bed, and do the only thing I can. Wait.

* * * * *



I cringe as I stare at the figure looking back at me from the mirror. I trace my features on the glass, lingering on my bulbous nose and thick glasses. I groan. This is definitely not the face that any girl would long for. Especially Molly Anderson. My spine tingles just when I whisper her name. Molly. Her name feels like honey sliding down my throat. But she doesn’t like me. She adores that brainless, basketball-obsessed jock, Mike. I caught her staring at him the other day, and I could almost see the hot pink love rays shooting from her eyes during algebra. My hands clench into fists as I replay the scene again and again in my mind. Then, I take a deep breath, and rearrange the row of just-sharpened pencils on my immaculate desk. I collapse into my swivel chair, and slide over to my bookshelf. My finger slides down the spines of algebra textbooks, logic puzzle workbooks, and binders labeled “Calculus” and “Trigonometry”. I close my eyes and run my fingers along my large collection of math books. I cringe, when I hear a little voice in my head say, “Molly Anderson will never love you. She would never love a math nerd. Never.” I shake my head violently, and open my eyes. My finger has landed on the 8th grade yearbook. I pull it off the bookshelf, and blow the thin layer of dust off the top. I take a deep breath and flip it open to Mr. Sanchez’s homeroom. A small smile starts to form on my face as I see my 8th grade self. Long, twig limbs, enough acne for my whole class, and neon orange braces. Then I see Her. She looks as beautiful as ever. Her buttery blond waves of hair are in an intricate side braid, which reaches down to her rib cage. Her teeth are perfect and laser-whitened, courtesy of Mr. Anderson’s wallet, and her eyes are still that hypnotizing chocolate brown. As I scan and scrutinize the other members of my homeroom, and linger on the girls, I realize none of them have the same raw beauty that she does. Then I see Him. Mike Williams. His curly blond hair and serious, gray eyes give him that Abercrombie model look. I stare in envy, and my hand automatically goes to my bushy, dark brown hedge of hair. Then I look at my muddy brown eyes, and my skinny, muscle deprived legs, the pale color of milk. Sighing, I pick up my phone. I send her an innocent message that reads, “Hey if u need help w/ math hw im always free.” But I’m really telling her that I love her. Then, I flop down on my couch, and wait.

* * * * *

“BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!” I scramble to my desk, grabbing my phone. I fumble with it and finally get it open. I moan in frustration. It’s just what’s-his-name, asking if I need help with math. As usual. I write, “Its ok im good 4 now thnx 4 askng tho.” But just as I am about to press send, I remember the D- I got yesterday in algebra. I wince, and then rewrite my message. Unhappily, I press the send button. Just afterwards, I hear the screech of my phone. I sigh, and trudge over, ready to reply to him as nicely as possible. But when I check my phone, its from Mike. I smile, and type away.

* * * * *

SHE SAID YES!