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Authors: Daria Snadowsky
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arthritis, so she needs to take it easy.‖
Then why are we walking her in the first place?
―Oh no! Poor thing.‖
When we finally arrive back at his house, Wes lets the dog in and says he‘d better drive me home so he can rest up for the meet tomorrow. If I hear the words ―meet‖ or ―track‖ one more time I think I‘m going to scream. I‘m so aggravated the last thing I want to do before I get out of his car is give him our good night hug, but I do. It‘s the tightest and longest one so far.
―See you at the meet tomorrow, Dom.‖
―Yeah. See you tomorrow.‖ I pause. ―Hey, Wes?‖
―Yeah?‖
I like you, Wes. Soooo much. Could you like me that way too? If so, stop giving me mixed signals and kiss me!
―What is it, Dom?‖
―Um, you know, sleep well, and knock ‘em dead tomorrow.‖
A month ago it would have been my dream just to be in his bedroom watching a movie, but now it‘s torture because I want so much more. It‘s like my entire conscious state has been reduced to this toxic blend of hope and uncertainty. I hate that I have to act cool and almost pretend I don‘t like him when in fact I do, because, God forbid, I might come across as desperate for affection or a little clingy, which everyone should know are perfectly natural human behaviors, after all.
Ugh!
11
M om has a PTA meeting the last Friday of February, so Dad and I are on our own for dinner. I feel distracted because Wes hasn‘t e-mailed me in two days, and my hope of ever getting together with him is at an all-time low. I know Wes is busy with his track schedule and he can‘t always e-mail me back within twenty-four hours, but the fact that he‘s not even taking the trouble to text me a quick hello is just further proof he‘s not interested. As if I needed any more proof.
Adding insult to injury, Dad orders up Chinese from the vegetarian place I know Wes likes. The dinner conversation isn‘t helping my mood, although for once Dad‘s not his usual loud, swearing self.
―So, Dom, I‘ve been meaning to ask you for a while now, did that Wes boy do anything special for you on Valentine‘s Day?‖
―‗That Wes boy‘? It‘s Wes, Dad.‖ I push the rice around with my fork. ―And why would he do something? It‘s not like we‘re dating or anything.‖
After dinner I start writing my English paper on Emily Dickinson, but I keep thinking about what Dad said. Wes didn‘t even mention Valentine‘s in his e-mail that day. I was so disappointed. I‘m still disappointed.
I try again to concentrate on my paper, but every word I read or write reminds me in some twisted, far-fetched way of Wes. ―Parallel structure‖ makes me think of his perfect coordination as he runs. So does ―onomatopoeia.‖ I swear I can hear the whisper of his sneakers slamming into the asphalt every time I speak his name. Gersh-Win-Gersh-Win-Gersh-Win-Gersh-Win.
I hold up my right hand and examine my mood ring, which Wes won for me at Skee-Ball when I tagged along with the track team at the arcade last week. Well, technically he didn‘t win it for me.
He won it, and then he gave it to me because he didn‘t want it for himself. However, at least half the track team was there, which included eleven girls, so it must mean something that Wes chose to unload it on me rather than some other girl. The only explanation he gave was ―I don‘t do jewelry.‖
My writer‘s block is pretty insurmountable at this point, so I shut down my computer and collapse on my bed. Then I imagine Wes at a meet jumping hurdles and tripping over one of them…and tearing a ligament or two…and having to drop out of track…which would free up his evenings…which maybe he‘d choose to spend with me. Wes told me he had tripped over a hurdle before, back in tenth grade. That‘s how he got that little scar under his eye. It‘s possible he could trip again. Am I evil for having these thoughts?
I consider calling Amy to complain, but then I
Then why are we walking her in the first place?
―Oh no! Poor thing.‖
When we finally arrive back at his house, Wes lets the dog in and says he‘d better drive me home so he can rest up for the meet tomorrow. If I hear the words ―meet‖ or ―track‖ one more time I think I‘m going to scream. I‘m so aggravated the last thing I want to do before I get out of his car is give him our good night hug, but I do. It‘s the tightest and longest one so far.
―See you at the meet tomorrow, Dom.‖
―Yeah. See you tomorrow.‖ I pause. ―Hey, Wes?‖
―Yeah?‖
I like you, Wes. Soooo much. Could you like me that way too? If so, stop giving me mixed signals and kiss me!
―What is it, Dom?‖
―Um, you know, sleep well, and knock ‘em dead tomorrow.‖
A month ago it would have been my dream just to be in his bedroom watching a movie, but now it‘s torture because I want so much more. It‘s like my entire conscious state has been reduced to this toxic blend of hope and uncertainty. I hate that I have to act cool and almost pretend I don‘t like him when in fact I do, because, God forbid, I might come across as desperate for affection or a little clingy, which everyone should know are perfectly natural human behaviors, after all.
Ugh!
11
M om has a PTA meeting the last Friday of February, so Dad and I are on our own for dinner. I feel distracted because Wes hasn‘t e-mailed me in two days, and my hope of ever getting together with him is at an all-time low. I know Wes is busy with his track schedule and he can‘t always e-mail me back within twenty-four hours, but the fact that he‘s not even taking the trouble to text me a quick hello is just further proof he‘s not interested. As if I needed any more proof.
Adding insult to injury, Dad orders up Chinese from the vegetarian place I know Wes likes. The dinner conversation isn‘t helping my mood, although for once Dad‘s not his usual loud, swearing self.
―So, Dom, I‘ve been meaning to ask you for a while now, did that Wes boy do anything special for you on Valentine‘s Day?‖
―‗That Wes boy‘? It‘s Wes, Dad.‖ I push the rice around with my fork. ―And why would he do something? It‘s not like we‘re dating or anything.‖
After dinner I start writing my English paper on Emily Dickinson, but I keep thinking about what Dad said. Wes didn‘t even mention Valentine‘s in his e-mail that day. I was so disappointed. I‘m still disappointed.
I try again to concentrate on my paper, but every word I read or write reminds me in some twisted, far-fetched way of Wes. ―Parallel structure‖ makes me think of his perfect coordination as he runs. So does ―onomatopoeia.‖ I swear I can hear the whisper of his sneakers slamming into the asphalt every time I speak his name. Gersh-Win-Gersh-Win-Gersh-Win-Gersh-Win.
I hold up my right hand and examine my mood ring, which Wes won for me at Skee-Ball when I tagged along with the track team at the arcade last week. Well, technically he didn‘t win it for me.
He won it, and then he gave it to me because he didn‘t want it for himself. However, at least half the track team was there, which included eleven girls, so it must mean something that Wes chose to unload it on me rather than some other girl. The only explanation he gave was ―I don‘t do jewelry.‖
My writer‘s block is pretty insurmountable at this point, so I shut down my computer and collapse on my bed. Then I imagine Wes at a meet jumping hurdles and tripping over one of them…and tearing a ligament or two…and having to drop out of track…which would free up his evenings…which maybe he‘d choose to spend with me. Wes told me he had tripped over a hurdle before, back in tenth grade. That‘s how he got that little scar under his eye. It‘s possible he could trip again. Am I evil for having these thoughts?
I consider calling Amy to complain, but then I
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