bodily fluids seem to find the humor in this situation.
“Damn, Gwen, are you okay?” His voice is a lot smoother in person, when it’s not distorted by the crackle of the phone. I still can’t bring myself to look at him, but I feel his hand on the sleeve of my blouse. He gently tugs me toward an empty bench and sits me down. “What happened?”
I’m still holding on to my pants for dear life. When I sit, I let them go and, saying a prayer of thanks for my having worn a loose, flowy shirt with lots of extra material, billow my blouse out in front of me so that my undies don’t show. Then I stare at my lap, trying to muster up the courage to peek at him. Meanwhile, I feel my temperature rising, the back of my neck burning as if it’s against an open flame. I don’t think I can live if I see disappointment in his face. Finally, I do it. I look up.
Just for a second.
And it’s him, but not him. Not the Wish I knew way back when. The eyes are the same shape, the nose, too, but everything else is foreign. I’ve seen this Wish in pictures, but pictures never convey a whole person. He has more definition to his jawline, light stubble on his chin, and a perfectly even California tan. His skin is exquisite—it almost looks airbrushed—which is weird considering that when he left four years ago, he was already starting to get acne. Now he looks like he doesn’t even have pores. Maybe if I squint just right, I can see past the golden aura surrounding him. Maybe, somewhere, I can find the geeky boy from elementary school. Please?
“I got … mauled,” I say, pointing to my face. I’m about to point to my stomach and my problem there, but I stop myself. Do I really want him looking at my stomach? “And, um, having a wardrobe malfunction.”
“Do you need stitches?” he asks. “Here. Let me see.”
A couple of guys from his group, who were gawking at the whole sordid incident, turn away. One slaps him on the back and says, “See you, man.” Wish gives a nod, gently places his hand on the bloody tissue clamped onto my face, then puts a finger on my chin. I flinch; his touch feels like a red-hot poker. “Ouch.”
He quickly removes his hand and gives me a sheepish look. “Oh. Sorry.”
People begin to filter through the doors, and I still can’t look at him. I look up, at one of the downspouts coming off the roof of the school. It is badly in need of repair and obviously very exciting. Then I look at his shirt. It’s a long-sleeved black oxford, buttoned all the way up to the neck. Since it’s still eighty degrees out, that’s kind of weird, but who am I to talk about weirdness? He’s sitting beside me, so close, looking at the scratch on my face, but I can’t look any higher than the collar of his shirt. Why can’t I look at him?
“It’s stopped bleeding,” he says, crumpling the tissue in his hand. “As for the wardrobe malfunction …”
“I have shorts in my gym locker,” I say, eyes fastened on the dingy gray brickwork outside the building. “I can get them after homeroom.”
“You have a shirt, too?” he asks, his finger moving toward me. At first I think he’s going to touch me with his red-hot-poker fingers, which will likely make me pee my pants, but instead he just points at my arm, where a couple of quarter-sized bloodstains are already starting to turn brown on my white blouse.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Okay, then. Cool. Everything else okay? What’s up with your eye?”
I think one of them might be twitching from the stress. Great, I look totally insane; I might as well wear my backpack on my head and start bock-bock-bocking like a chicken and complete the picture. I blink. “Nothing.”
“It’s good to see you,” he says brightly. “Finally.”
“Oh, I know,” I say, even though I’m really not doing much “seeing” of him. “I …”
He moves closer to me, maybe coming in for a hug. It nearly makes me jump off the bench. This is all incredibly weird. I slide off
“Damn, Gwen, are you okay?” His voice is a lot smoother in person, when it’s not distorted by the crackle of the phone. I still can’t bring myself to look at him, but I feel his hand on the sleeve of my blouse. He gently tugs me toward an empty bench and sits me down. “What happened?”
I’m still holding on to my pants for dear life. When I sit, I let them go and, saying a prayer of thanks for my having worn a loose, flowy shirt with lots of extra material, billow my blouse out in front of me so that my undies don’t show. Then I stare at my lap, trying to muster up the courage to peek at him. Meanwhile, I feel my temperature rising, the back of my neck burning as if it’s against an open flame. I don’t think I can live if I see disappointment in his face. Finally, I do it. I look up.
Just for a second.
And it’s him, but not him. Not the Wish I knew way back when. The eyes are the same shape, the nose, too, but everything else is foreign. I’ve seen this Wish in pictures, but pictures never convey a whole person. He has more definition to his jawline, light stubble on his chin, and a perfectly even California tan. His skin is exquisite—it almost looks airbrushed—which is weird considering that when he left four years ago, he was already starting to get acne. Now he looks like he doesn’t even have pores. Maybe if I squint just right, I can see past the golden aura surrounding him. Maybe, somewhere, I can find the geeky boy from elementary school. Please?
“I got … mauled,” I say, pointing to my face. I’m about to point to my stomach and my problem there, but I stop myself. Do I really want him looking at my stomach? “And, um, having a wardrobe malfunction.”
“Do you need stitches?” he asks. “Here. Let me see.”
A couple of guys from his group, who were gawking at the whole sordid incident, turn away. One slaps him on the back and says, “See you, man.” Wish gives a nod, gently places his hand on the bloody tissue clamped onto my face, then puts a finger on my chin. I flinch; his touch feels like a red-hot poker. “Ouch.”
He quickly removes his hand and gives me a sheepish look. “Oh. Sorry.”
People begin to filter through the doors, and I still can’t look at him. I look up, at one of the downspouts coming off the roof of the school. It is badly in need of repair and obviously very exciting. Then I look at his shirt. It’s a long-sleeved black oxford, buttoned all the way up to the neck. Since it’s still eighty degrees out, that’s kind of weird, but who am I to talk about weirdness? He’s sitting beside me, so close, looking at the scratch on my face, but I can’t look any higher than the collar of his shirt. Why can’t I look at him?
“It’s stopped bleeding,” he says, crumpling the tissue in his hand. “As for the wardrobe malfunction …”
“I have shorts in my gym locker,” I say, eyes fastened on the dingy gray brickwork outside the building. “I can get them after homeroom.”
“You have a shirt, too?” he asks, his finger moving toward me. At first I think he’s going to touch me with his red-hot-poker fingers, which will likely make me pee my pants, but instead he just points at my arm, where a couple of quarter-sized bloodstains are already starting to turn brown on my white blouse.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Okay, then. Cool. Everything else okay? What’s up with your eye?”
I think one of them might be twitching from the stress. Great, I look totally insane; I might as well wear my backpack on my head and start bock-bock-bocking like a chicken and complete the picture. I blink. “Nothing.”
“It’s good to see you,” he says brightly. “Finally.”
“Oh, I know,” I say, even though I’m really not doing much “seeing” of him. “I …”
He moves closer to me, maybe coming in for a hug. It nearly makes me jump off the bench. This is all incredibly weird. I slide off
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