He was a senior. The senior every underclass girl wanted. They all fawned over his hair, they swooned whenever he opened his mouth in class, they practically worshipped the ground he walked on.
Every girl loved him.
Every girl except me.
I wasn't a freshman, sohpmore, junoir. I was a senior, just like he was. I knew all of his tricks. There wasn't a single thing he could do to trick me. We'd been in class together since kindergarten, and I learned his tricks early.
The way he'd 'bake' cookies for the teacher, this was way back in elementary school, and then conviently forget his homework the next day, and the cookies had been just so sweet that the teacher gave him a hundred percent on the assignment anyway.
The way, in middle school, he'd forget to buy poster board or colored pencils or Kleenex and tell the teacher that he meant to, but his mom was sick and couldn't drive him to the store.
The way he'd tell an un-suspecting freshman that his date had dumped him right before homecoming and that he wanted to show her up by going to the dance with someone even prettier than she was.
He didn't know I knew his tricks.
He assumed that I fell under his spell, just like everyone else.
He thought wrong.
She was the only one who didn't fall under my spell. The only one who had enough will-power to look the other way when I batted my eyelashes and asked for a teeny little favor. The only girl I had ever been partnered with for a project that made me do half of all the work.
I knew she could see right through me. I always knew she could.
Some people wear their heart on their sleeve.
Her heart was in her eyes.
Mostly her eyes showed disgust when I saw them, and I didn't blame her. I made myself sick sometimes, too.
Her eyes shone with venom when she'd spit insults at me.
Fag
Idiot
Stupid
Klutz
Pedophile
She was right.
My buddies told me not to worry.
So one girl didn't fall for you, they'd say, you got the rest of the school under the famous Pete Wentz spell.
But they didn't understand.
She was the girl I wanted.
The only girl I wanted.
And it made me sick to see her with someone else.
But what could I do?
And then it hit me.
It hit me like a deer colliding with the windsheild of my brother's Toyota.
Change.
He changed. Like that. One day he was Peter Wentz, douche bag extrodinaire.
Then, he wasn't.
I first noticed this in the art hallway. Mr. Phelps had granted me a pass to the nurse, mistaking my tears of teenaged heart-break for getting devoloping solution in my eyes.
I took what I could get.
And as I sat under the water fountian, digging through my bag for a tissue and Make Up Remover, someone sat down next to me.
They wrapped their arm around me.
They whispered that it would be okay.
And I cried harder, thinking it must be a sign of the apocolypse, Peter Wentz being nice to me.
And I wanted to shy away from his touch, to scream at him to leave me alone.
But he was so warm.
And I was so cold.
She whispered that she loved me.
I replied that I loved her more.
And then she started to cry.
Andy, I begged, don't cry. She lifted her head, and her lips met with mine for the breifest of moments.
You idiot, she said, her tone still hushed.
These are tears of joy.
Tears of joy, I thought. That just may be the most profound thing I've ever heard.
And we kissed again.
.restults
heck yes, no quotation marks.
rate/message/c-box
