I clutch my phone to my chest. Oh Lord Baby Jesus. What did I do? I need to talk to Amanda. I can’t believe I told her my feelings were hurt—when I had no right to even have hurt feelings to begin with! And Malik.
I take a deep breath and hold the phone out in front of me as I click on my message thread with Malik.
ME: no party for me :(
MALIK: Oh ok. Did something just come up? You seemed excited the other night.
ME: I was excited but were you is the real question
MALIK: I don’t get it. Did I do something wrong?
ME: if being cute and wearing your stupid pennies in your stupid loafers and always having a kissable face is wrongthen yes you do all the things wrong mister sir
I roll over onto my side and pull the blankets over my head. With my face pressed deep into my pillow, I scream as loud as I can. The world is a cruel, cruel place. And what’s even worse is that those were only the first few in a very long series of messages. After a few more screams, I emerge from my blankets with my hair even more mussed than it was to begin with.
I inhale for two deep breaths, taking my time to exhale each time. My breath is truly unpleasant.
MALIK: Wow. Well, this party would be a whole lot better if you were here. That’s for sure.
MALIK: And I think you’re cute, too. And pretty and basically every synonym for pretty.
I gasp, and the rush of air actually hurts the wounds on my gums, but holy cannoli! Did Malik say that? And he wasn’t even doped up on painkillers. He was just regular Malik, sitting around at his birthday party full of people, telling me I’m pretty.
ME: well if that’s true you could’ve kissed my face after the dance and not just pretended like it never happened you weirdo
I pump my fist into the air. “You go, girl!” I say, my voice no louder than a stage whisper. It’s like I’m reading a really good book—the kind that makes you feel like you’ve swallowed fireflies—except this time I’m the main character of the book. I’m the love interest! I’m the girl who gets the guy! And girls like me? You don’t find us in fairy tales or on the covers of romance novels.
Slowly I can feel myself shaking away whatever bit of embarrassment and shame I’m still clinging to.
MALIK: Would you believe me if I said I was shy?
ME: would you believe me if I said I believe you but that it’s still a dumb reason
MALIK: I better get back to this party. I wish you were here. My sisters are driving me crazy and my mom keeps asking for you.
ME: well maybe if you get better about kissing my face, we can celebrate your birthday together next year
MALIK: I like that possibility.
ME: how many cotton balls can you fit in your mouth? However many it is I can beat you.
MALIK: Challenge accepted.
I hold my phone to my chest. My lungs are swelling and I’m scared they might just burst. In a small way, I feel like a fraud. An imposter. I’m not that girl. I can’t even find it in me to tell my mom about broadcast journalism camp. I’m not the kind of girl who would just message Malik and tell him to kiss me.
But I did that. I was that girl. For a short, drug-induced time, I was that brave girl I’ve wished to be for so long. And I’m embarrassed—a little horrified, even—but that girl knew what she wanted and she took it. I remember my talk with Callie yesterday afternoon. “Why should I have to sit around and wait for him to be brave enough?” I said that. Just yesterday.
So maybe that girl who sent all those text messages last night—good and bad—is me after all.
Without me to corral the troops on Saturday night, our slumber party at Ellen’s house was postponed until next weekend. Secretly, I was pleased, because fear of missing out is a real thing and I suffer from stage four.
On Monday morning, Uncle Vernon goes in early to open up the gym, so I can sleep in a little bit before going back to school. If this is the kind of special treatment that having wisdom teeth removed affords me, I’ll take it.
Even though I’ve already ruined my perfect attendance for the year, I pull myself out of bed. I’ve gone through my prescription of serious painkillers and am only on a regimen of Tylenol now, but Mom still insists on driving me to school.
When I inherited Mom’s minivan, she and Dad agreed it was time for her to get her dream car: a champagne-colored Volvo. They had to drive five and a half hours for the closest Volvo dealership, but between the safety ratings and the buttery-leather interior, I think it’s safe to say that my mom might leave all her worldly possessions to this car instead of me.
Mom is wearing one of her matching-set velour tracksuits with a pair of her Cloudwalker Deluxe tennis shoes, because after she drops me off, she will kick off her morning routine with a trip to Cinch It!—the women’s-only circuit gym located in the mall and wedged between the only two plus-size stores in Clover City. (Both of which should be called Old and So Old You Might as Well Be Dead. Thank goodness for online shopping.) And after hertrip to the gym, Mom will power walk with her girlfriends to the food court, where they’ll each get their own personally formulated smoothie at Juice Monster, with the perfect cocktail of vitamin boosters, fiber, and protein powder.
