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Authors: Lucy Lacefield
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down the street to the stadium. It’s sure to be open and people still around, at least until the sun starts to really set. I’ll run until I tire myself. What studying I don’t get done tonight, I’ll do around classes tomorrow.
13
shay
I’m a stupid girl.
He ran into me—he showed up to apologize—and I’m standing here again. . . waiting for what?
It’s 7:02, there’s a person sitting on the bench, buses are filtering past, people are moving about getting to their offices early; I’m sure to meet with students before classes start. And I’m lingering before I go in, here way earlier than I need to be, and there’s no sign of him.
My insides are quaking with every anxiety of wanting to see his face again. It could be just that though—he was a decent guy. I look down at my watch, 7:05. I stay looking at the glass faceplate, feeling too embarrassed and ashamed of my thoughts to look up and move in haste getting inside, in case someone detects me. My eyes are filling with tears and the numbers on my watch become cloudy. No one near me out here could know my private thoughts, but I know, and I feel foolish.
I slowly lower my wrist to my side, trying to accept my misunderstanding of things, and lift my head to walk up and indoors. As I do, I see someone a little taller, much further down the sidewalk at the crest of the hill.
It’s him .
Tears fill my eyes again as my emotions overtake me. Be calm, think. I have about one minute before he gets here to gather myself. Maybe he wasn’t intending to see me; it’s past 7:00.
Think.
I’m shaken. For the first time I have to decide between. . . exposing me . . . a little of what I’m feeling by just being here. . . or succumbing to my fears and fleeing. I risk being rejected. . . I know this, that’s part of it. . . I’ve never known this nervousness that’s tormenting me with each second that passes. If I do rush inside, and he did want me here, he’ll think I’m avoiding him.
Stay placed. . . stay placed . . .
dane
Look up. . .
See me.
I move a little faster weaving through people.
About fifty more feet— don’t go inside.
That goddamned paper for my first class! I couldn’t get out the door right when I wanted to.
Her back’s turned now—she hasn’t seen me yet.
. . . Twenty feet . . .
“Shay,” I say quietly not to startle her. She turns around. “ Oh. . . hey. . . what’s wrong? ” I see what’s wrong—she didn’t think I was coming. She wanted to be here just as much as I did. I want to bring her close to me and hold her in my arms. “Would you want to go for a walk?”
“Yes.”
I place my hand in the small of her back, guiding us through people until we get to a place less congested on the sidewalk; she doesn’t resist.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” I can see from the side her face lightening and there’s no need for explanation from either of us.
We walk in silence for a couple of minutes.
“Have you ever been to a Yale track meet?” I ask now that I’ve steadied my mind.
“I haven’t. . .”
“Would you be interested in coming to one—this Saturday, well, part of one. The events last most of the day, but my heats are in the early afternoon?” I offer. Knowing what I just did spontaneously and maybe too soon. It doesn’t have to be a real first date, just an outing — school outing, in some sort—not putting pressure on her. I thought about it late last night. Coach Malloy will be there; he’ll have one of my two athlete’s passes, and I’d sure like her to have the other one. “It’s against Harvard.” I don’t know why I said that, or why it would make a difference. It’s just now that I’ve asked her, her quietness makes me nervous.
“Yes, I know. . . I’ll come.”
“Good.” I want to reach for her hand and turn her to me and tell her how I can’t get her out of my mind these last days, and how happy I feel just being near her.
13
shay
I’m a stupid girl.
He ran into me—he showed up to apologize—and I’m standing here again. . . waiting for what?
It’s 7:02, there’s a person sitting on the bench, buses are filtering past, people are moving about getting to their offices early; I’m sure to meet with students before classes start. And I’m lingering before I go in, here way earlier than I need to be, and there’s no sign of him.
My insides are quaking with every anxiety of wanting to see his face again. It could be just that though—he was a decent guy. I look down at my watch, 7:05. I stay looking at the glass faceplate, feeling too embarrassed and ashamed of my thoughts to look up and move in haste getting inside, in case someone detects me. My eyes are filling with tears and the numbers on my watch become cloudy. No one near me out here could know my private thoughts, but I know, and I feel foolish.
I slowly lower my wrist to my side, trying to accept my misunderstanding of things, and lift my head to walk up and indoors. As I do, I see someone a little taller, much further down the sidewalk at the crest of the hill.
It’s him .
Tears fill my eyes again as my emotions overtake me. Be calm, think. I have about one minute before he gets here to gather myself. Maybe he wasn’t intending to see me; it’s past 7:00.
Think.
I’m shaken. For the first time I have to decide between. . . exposing me . . . a little of what I’m feeling by just being here. . . or succumbing to my fears and fleeing. I risk being rejected. . . I know this, that’s part of it. . . I’ve never known this nervousness that’s tormenting me with each second that passes. If I do rush inside, and he did want me here, he’ll think I’m avoiding him.
Stay placed. . . stay placed . . .
dane
Look up. . .
See me.
I move a little faster weaving through people.
About fifty more feet— don’t go inside.
That goddamned paper for my first class! I couldn’t get out the door right when I wanted to.
Her back’s turned now—she hasn’t seen me yet.
. . . Twenty feet . . .
“Shay,” I say quietly not to startle her. She turns around. “ Oh. . . hey. . . what’s wrong? ” I see what’s wrong—she didn’t think I was coming. She wanted to be here just as much as I did. I want to bring her close to me and hold her in my arms. “Would you want to go for a walk?”
“Yes.”
I place my hand in the small of her back, guiding us through people until we get to a place less congested on the sidewalk; she doesn’t resist.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” I can see from the side her face lightening and there’s no need for explanation from either of us.
We walk in silence for a couple of minutes.
“Have you ever been to a Yale track meet?” I ask now that I’ve steadied my mind.
“I haven’t. . .”
“Would you be interested in coming to one—this Saturday, well, part of one. The events last most of the day, but my heats are in the early afternoon?” I offer. Knowing what I just did spontaneously and maybe too soon. It doesn’t have to be a real first date, just an outing — school outing, in some sort—not putting pressure on her. I thought about it late last night. Coach Malloy will be there; he’ll have one of my two athlete’s passes, and I’d sure like her to have the other one. “It’s against Harvard.” I don’t know why I said that, or why it would make a difference. It’s just now that I’ve asked her, her quietness makes me nervous.
“Yes, I know. . . I’ll come.”
“Good.” I want to reach for her hand and turn her to me and tell her how I can’t get her out of my mind these last days, and how happy I feel just being near her.
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